Youth and Non-Violence in Africa’s Fragile Contexts 3031131649, 9783031131646

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Youth and Non-Violence in Africa’s Fragile Contexts Edited by Akin Iwilade Tarila Marclint Ebiede

Youth and Non-Violence in Africa’s Fragile Contexts

Akin Iwilade · Tarila Marclint Ebiede Editors

Youth and Non-Violence in Africa’s Fragile Contexts

Editors Akin Iwilade University of Edinburgh Edinburgh, UK

Tarila Marclint Ebiede KU Leuven Leuven, Belgium

ISBN 978-3-031-13164-6 ISBN 978-3-031-13165-3 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13165-3 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Contents

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Introduction: A Theory of Youth and (Non)Violence Akin Iwilade

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Staying Away from Arms? The Non-violent Trajectories of Youth in Times of Conflict in the Central African Republic Jonna Both, Crépin Marius Mouguia, Wilfried Vianney Poukoule, Marie-Louise Tchissikombre, and Catherina Wilson

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Youth and ‘Everyday Peace’ in the City of Jos, Nigeria Marjoke Oosterom

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Young People Resisting Violence in Northeast Nigeria Chitra Nagarajan

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‘Good Boys, Gone Bad’: Navigating Youth Mobilisation and Gender in Post-Conflict Sierra Leone Ross Wignall

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The Nonviolent Qeerroo Movement and Political Changes in Ethiopia Zekarias Beshah Abebe

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Youth and Non-violent Resistance: #ThisFlag Movement in Zimbabwe Simbarashe Gukurume

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Ushahidi’s Nonviolent Technological Impact in Kenya’s 2008 Post-Election Violence Toyin Ajao

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Index

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Editors and Contributors

About the Editors Akin Iwilade is lecturer in African Studies at the University of Edinburgh. His research focusses on the anthropology of youth and draws on an interdisciplinary theoretical toolbox to ask how this category maps itself onto material and social realities; how they construct and evade discipline; and how they imagine their place in life, death and in the in-betweens. Tarila Marclint Ebiede is an adjunct professor in International Affairs at the Brussels School of Governance and a research associate at the Centre for Research on Peace and Development, KU Leuven, Belgium. He holds a Ph.D. in Social Sciences from KU Leuven, Belgium (2018), a Master of Science in Political and Administrative Studies from the University of Port Harcourt, Nigeria (2010) and a Bachelor of Science in Political Science from Niger Delta University, Nigeria (2006). His teaching is mainly focussed on Africa’s International Relations and Politics. His research interests focus on political violence, intra-state armed conflict, peacebuilding, youth, local governance and African politics. He is particularly interested in the long-term socio-political consequences of violence conflicts, especially the reintegration of ex-combatants, on people and communities. He is also interested in understanding how youth influence the political and governance processes in societies that have been

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affected by violent conflicts. His research has been funded by the European Union Marie Curie fund for Sustainable Peacebuilding, Matasa MasterCard Fellowship, American Political Science Association (APSA) and Centre for African Studies at the University of Edinburgh.

List of Contributors Abebe Zekarias Beshah is a training and research coordinator at Amani Africa, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Ajao Toyin is known as Moon Goddess in healing spaces. She engages the world as a freethinker, globetrotter, storyteller, public scholar, feminist activist, holistic researcher and creative healing practitioner. She founded and leads iAfrika, an organisation that advances peace education and healing culture in Africa. She is an African Leadership Centre’s (ALC) alumna and Research Associate. She is a former NextGen-SSRC, Andrew Melon Foundation and ALC doctoral grantee. She holds a Ph.D. in Political Science from the University of Pretoria, where she majored in conflict transformation and new media. She also holds an M.A. in Conflict, Security and Development from King’s College London, and a BSc Accounting from Obafemi Awolowo University. Both Jonna is an anthropologist with research experience in Uganda, Chad and the Central African Republic (CAR). She completed a Ph.D. at the Amsterdam Institute for Social Science Research (AISSR) with a research project focussing on youth in the aftermath of conflict in North Western Uganda. As a post-doc thereafter she led a project at the African Studies Centre Leiden (ASCL) on the demobilisation of children and youth in the CAR entitled “Being young in times of conflict in the Central African Republic” (2016–2018), approaching the topic from both a contemporary and a more historical perspective. Since 2018 she works as a researcher at Rutgers, an NGO working in The Netherlands and abroad to advance young people’s sexual and reproductive health and rights. At Rutgers her work focusses on sexual and gender-based violence and (safe) abortion. Gukurume Simbarashe is a social scientist working at the intersections of Sociology and Social Anthropology and is a senior lecturer at Sol Plaatje University in the Department of Social Sciences (Sociology). He holds a Ph.D. from the University of Cape Town (UCT), South Africa and an

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M.Sc. in Sociology and Social Anthropology as well as a B.Sc. in Sociology from the University of Zimbabwe. He is interested in questions around youth, informality, livelihoods, displacement, money, religiosity, social and political movements and other forms of youth’s everyday lives in contexts of protracted socio-economic and political crisis. He has been a recipient of the Matasa Network Fellowship award, IDS (University of Sussex), the Harry Frank Guggenheim Young African Scholars award, the SSRC Research award, the African Peace Building Network (APN) individual grant, and the Academy for African Urban Diversity (AAUD) award among other awards. He is also a Salzburg Global Seminar fellow. His recent publications appear in the International Journal of Transitional Justice, African Affairs, African Identities, Journal of Southern African Studies, Political Psychology and the Extractive Industries and Society among other journals. Mouguia Crépin Marius is a Ph.D. candidate in history at Leiden University (The Netherlands). He also teaches at the department of anthropology at the University of Bangui (Central African Republic). He took part in the ASCL research “Being young in times of conflict in the Central African Republic”. In his Ph.D. he builds on this research with children and youth in times of conflict in CAR. Other research interests of Crépin include environmental issues and sustainable development. In addition to academic research, he has worked with different international humanitarian NGOs in CAR, carrying out research on emergencies, early conflict recovery and development. Nagarajan Chitra is a conflict and human rights researcher, practitioner and activist. She focuses on conflict analysis, climate security, defending human rights, peacebuilding and protection of civilians. She works with and for civilians, supporting them to analyse threats and act to mitigate them towards the better protection of themselves and others. She integrates feminist principles and methodologies as well as disability and social inclusion throughout her work. She is a co-editor of She Called Me Woman: Nigeria’s Queer Women Speak, published by Cassava Republic Press in 2018. She has been working across conflict-affected northern Nigeria and the Lake Chad Basin since 2013. Oosterom Marjoke is a research fellow in the Power and Popular research cluster at the Institute of Development Studies, Sussex. She holds

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a Ph.D. from IDS and has a background in comparative politics and development studies. Her research concentrates on how experiences of violence and conflict affect forms of agency, citizenship and everyday politics and governance. Her specific expertise is on youth politics and youth agency in response to insecurity and violence, and politics in the informal economy. She has been involved in consultancy work for policymakers and international NGOs that fund and implement governance and youth-focussed interventions in fragile and conflict-affected settings. Poukoule Wilfried Vianney holds a research master’s degree in anthropology, obtained at the University of Bangui (Central African Republic). He has carried out his research in the field of child protection and particularly focussed on child victims of accusations of witchcraft, and violence against children in the context of armed conflict in the North-Central part of the CAR. He acted as a student researcher in the ASCL research project entitled “Being young in times of conflict in the Central African Republic”. He has been employed in international NGOs as a supervisor in centres that receive child victims of the crises in the Ouaka (CentralEastern CAR), and as a facilitator of the committee for social cohesion, protection and prevention of victims of gender-based violence (GBV) and sexual violence (SV) in Bangui. He is currently working for the international NGO Concern in the central-western part of the Central African Republic. Tchissikombre Marie-Louise holds a research master’s degree in anthropology from the University of Bangui (Central African Republic). During her M.A. she acted as a student researcher in the ASCL research project entitled “Being young in times of conflict in the Central African Republic”. Within the framework of this study, she conducted her M.A. research on the “Mechanisms for demobilisation and reintegration of girls associated with armed forces and groups” in eastern Central African Republic. Thereafter she was engaged in data collection with the Central African Institute of Statistics and Economic and Social Studies (ICASEES), she has also conducted research for humanitarian organisations (DRC, MSF), UN agencies (UNICEF) and governmental institutions in CAR with multiple angles of intervention: the Expanded Programme on Immunisation (EPI), victims of sexual violence and surveys related to the health of displaced persons.

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Wignall Ross is an experienced youth worker and researcher who currently works for the Social Anthropology dept at Oxford Brookes. His doctoral research focussed on the Young Men’s Christian Association (YMCA), exploring the intersection of morality, faith and the gendered body as modes of youth self-actualisation in the UK and The Gambia, West Africa. More recently, he has specialised in youth employment and education transitions in sub-Saharan Africa with a particular focus on disenfranchised young women in Sierra Leone. He has used a variety of innovative methods including participatory and arts-based methods, digital story-telling and action research. Wilson Catherina is an ethnographer with research experience in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), the Central African Republic (CAR) and Tanzania. She completed a Ph.D. that focussed on the nexus of mobility and conflict between CAR and DRC at the Institute for History, Leiden University (The Netherlands). From 2016 to 2018, she took part in a project at the African Studies Centre Leiden (ASCL) on the demobilisation of children and youth in the CAR entitled “Being young in times of conflict in the Central African Republic”. From 2019 to 2022, under the “Transnational Figurations of Displacement” (TRAFIG) project, and together with DIGNITY Kwanza (a Tanzanian NGO), she looked at the mobility and connectivity among Congolese and Burundian refugees in urban Tanzania. In addition to mobility, conflict and refugee studies, her work focusses on urban popular culture, identity and youth languages. She is particularly interested in exploring the interconnection of different ways of producing knowledge as well as decolonial practices in research methodology.

CHAPTER 1

Introduction: A Theory of Youth and (Non)Violence Akin Iwilade

Reflecting on the violence on black bodies in the United States, Judith Butler (2020, p. 4) noted that all that mattered for the infliction of fatal judgement was for the ‘target to be figured as a threat’, or ‘a vessel of real or actual violence’. In many ways, the very idea of youth, and the challenges associated with how to understand their public engagement, follows a similar logic. In this logic, the society’s primal terror of being unsettled is inscribed on the active bodies of youth. The result is that being youth evinces universal panics derived not necessarily from any specific action of young bodies, but rather from the broader fear that marginal(ised) social groups will challenge the disciplinary foundations of society and inevitably rupture the established rhythms of power. These panics settle on examples across the postcolony and in the marginalised spaces of the metropole to highlight the violence of youth and the

A. Iwilade (B) University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh, United Kingdom e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 A. Iwilade and T. M. Ebiede (eds.), Youth and Non-Violence in Africa’s Fragile Contexts, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13165-3_1

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profoundly consequential ways in which that violence is reshaping political and social relations. Examples of violent youth themed groups like MEND in Nigeria’s oil delta (Iwilade, 2017), the RUF in Sierra Leone (Gberie, 2005), the Mungiki in Kenya (Kagwanja, 2003; Rasmussen & Frederiksen, 2010), and the West Side boys in Liberia (Käihkö, 2017) are highlighted as evidence of this tendency of youth to disrupt social life. It is remarkable how even the routine sociality of youth, that is the very boisterousness of being young, is also implicated in this universe of suspicion and fear, with lively youth cultures not conceptualised as inevitable and/or even useful products of material relations, but rather as urgent dangers to cultural production and social stability (Tsika, 2014). These moral panics notwithstanding, it is difficult to successfully challenge the notion that youth are driven as much by the will to stability as they are by the will to disruption. These two pressures are also not necessarily mutually exclusive, and they indicate that violence is not a natural or inevitable outcome of the politics of youth. This is so because even in the most brutal of conflicts, it is not uncommon to find youth who employ non-violent tactical agency as a tool to navigate the precarious environments they live in. Conflict research unfortunately often ignores this category (Krause, 2018), focusing instead on those directly involved in violence or those who can be framed as victims of violence (see for instance Abbink & Kessel, 2005; Ukeje & Iwilade, 2012). Our goal in this book is to draw on empirical evidence from across Africa to demonstrate the dynamic place of non-violence in the politics of African states and to highlight, in particular, how violent contexts sometimes offer the most consequential demonstration of the politics of non-violence within the youth universe. In this regard, we seek to show how the collapse of social order, rather than demonstrating the legitimacy of moral panics about youth, can actually offer unique insights into the everydayness of peacemaking within violent contexts. The various empirical chapters collectively and individually answer the following key questions: Why and how does non-violence become a viable approach in conditions of violent social breakdown? How do non-violent youth participate in violent conflicts? What social infrastructures facilitate the emergence of non-violent youth groups in societies experiencing violent conflicts? How does the imagination and framing of risk, and the politics of the self around which these risks are understood, interact in these contexts? What factors sustain non-violent youth groups in societies experiencing violent conflicts?

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In order to effectively frame the varied explorations of non-violent youth politics in this book, this introduction offers a broad theoretical reflection on the different ways we might understand the politics of (non)violence, the infrastructures through which that politics is expressed and the place of youth in it all. This is presented in two main sections. The first asks whether one mis-understands non-violence by assuming that it is produced by material relationships that are somehow separate from those that produce violence, or by treating violence and non-violence as emerging out of different social motivations? It argues that understanding the politics of non-violence requires a critical engagement with how systems of social organisation inextricably link violence to non-violence and that doing this allows us to better recognise the agentic impulses that underpin non-violent action and to think through its profoundly political goals. The second section then looks beyond the infrastructures of social action to ask how actors calculate their choices and animate agency. How does the youthscape frame the question of choice and in what ways does the youthful imagination itself contribute to how that choice is understood? How are the choices made in violent contexts materially different from those being made in the ambling routineness of everyday peace? And how are these choices refracted by the youth identity and unto preconstituted norms of peacemaking? It also explores how everyday acts of resilience can be conceptualised as non-violence and vice versa, and the important ways in which non-violence can be a profound act of political engagement even when it does not directly reference the violence of political life. Perhaps a useful entry-point to a discussion of the politics of nonviolent youth in Africa is to explore how both non-violence and violence are essentially products of the same productive relations—whether material, cultural, or social. In this regard, in order to locate how people make choices about the nature of their engagement with uncertain contexts, we could focus not so much on their motivations or abilities, but on the systems of organising available to them and how they deploy those. In short, to understand youth politics, we need to first understand youth itself and to do this within its collectivity. In previous work on Nigeria’s Niger Delta, I argued that: “At the start of any sustained engagement with young people in the Niger Delta, it quickly becomes apparent that ‘youth’ is an active concept. To be a ‘youth’ within conflict contexts, your concept of ‘youth’ needs to be active in the sense that it is constantly navigating the unstable

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urban spaces, circulating within what Maira and Soep (2005) called ‘youthscapes’ and/or participating in the many grey (often violent) activities through which life acquires meaning in the neighbourhood. By constructing youth as a verb, the concept becomes intertwined with connotations of agency as well as of responsibility. It places the idea of being ‘youth’ in a social struggle (often, but not always, generational) that ultimately means that it is a social space into which individuals cannot seek inclusion except through groups” (Iwilade, 2020, p. 4). This description of the youth-person is relevant to how we might think of the lives of youth in violent contexts. It suggests that youth has meaning to the extent that it exists within the collective, but that collective is itself constantly being (re)negotiated and (re)organised in response to cues from the bewildering universe of experiences from which young people imagine and locate life. This idea of youth as necessarily plural does not deny the value of the individual or of how the self can exist in a seductively self-contained hub of feelings, motivations, imaginations, and aspirations. Yet, imaginations of the self are inevitably structured by the material universe within which life unfurls, and through which meaning is extracted from everyday experiences. If youth is plural, then how is that plurality animated? How, for instance, does youthness become political? or how does it produce (non)violent action? These questions invite us to explore how the pluralities of youth come to be or, if you will, what infrastructures organise youth in this way? A first consideration in this regard would be to explore why young people tend to build collectives or to socialise in socially ‘distinct’ subcultures? Simply put, why is youth plural? There are no obvious answers to this question, but the rich literature on peasant organising offers insight into how and why marginalised individuals tend to collectivise agency in profoundly powerful ways. In a 1994 article Theda Skopcol argues, for instance, that to understand ‘what makes peasants revolutionary’, one needs to focus not just on peasant organisation per se, but to extend the gaze towards the wider material relations that structure social relationships in specific ways, and which impose systematic exclusion on individuals which can then only be overcome through networks of solidarity. In short, Skopcol’s argument is that peasants become revolutionary not simply because they are excluded but because their exclusion is directly linked to the competition (and accumulation) occurring within the dominant strata. In her words: ‘during all the centuries of peasant existence from ancient to modern times, the forms of revolt open to

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peasants, as well as the political results conceivably achievable by peasant protests, have been powerfully shaped by the stakes of political struggles, domestic and inter- societal, going on within the ranks of the dominant strata. Peasant revolutions are not at all an exception to this enduring truth. They are, indeed, its fullest and most modern expression’ (Skopcol, 1994, p. 236). Now, to track back to my point about youth organising, one might use peasant marginalisation as a metaphor to represent the othering of youth that I described earlier in this introduction and thus argue that youth collectivises—or if you will; youth is plural; not because of the marginalisation of individual young persons, but because excluding youth is not merely a product of material relations but is indeed central to how society’s dominant forces understand power. This leads us to the notion of a universal moral panic about youth and to Judith Butler’s point about the requirement for targets of social exclusion and violence to simply ‘be figured as a threat’, or ‘a vessel of real or actual violence’. What I am suggesting here is that youth is plural not because it is a natural instinct of the young, but because plurality is the only viable option through which they can confront the universal moral panic that structures their relationship with the state. Two chapters in this volume, Toyin Ajao (on Ushahidi in Kenya) and Simbarashe Gurukume (on #ThisFlag in Zimbabwe), highlight how youth construct collective identities using social media precisely because there is hardly any other viable tool through which they can confront powerful forces that control the state and which routinely deploy violence to confront resistance to its power. Proceeding from the question of why youth is plural is the related question of how youth actually pluralises? This question invites us to think about the forms of organising through which the need for solidarity is animated; to think of the infrastructures that allow young persons to become groups and thus impact on and/or circulate within violent contexts. The interesting scholarly debate about assemblages as a mode of thinking about complex social relations offers us one way to look at this question (see for instance Marcus & Saka, 2006; McFarlane & Anderson, 2011; Rankin, 2011). Through this lens, we are able to conceptualise youth identities in ways that account both for pull as well as push factors. The imagery of molecules in which individual atoms— themselves made up of protons—are connected by chemical bonds is a useful way to imagine how youth assemblages are structured. Here, the individual would be a proton, drawn to similar protons by a universe of

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material experiences and, to follow Theda Skopcol’s (1994) nudging, the pressurising impact of wider political–economic marginalisations. These individuals then bind together in groups as atoms, sharing experiences, developing resilience, and co-producing agentic social action which allows them to live through the precarities of violence. These atoms (groups) are autonomous, or at least can be, but they are also connected by loose but resilient linkages (the chemical bonds), creating molecular level assemblages around which the notion of youthness is constantly being constructed and negotiated. This discussion of youth pluralities is of course not exhaustive, but it does offer us enough to begin to think about the limits of a conceptualisation of violence and non-violence as if they spring from different material wellsprings. The pluralising of youth, expressed both as meaning and as an organising form, highlights the importance of social life in framing how people respond to the peaceful everyday as well as to the disruptions of violent conflict. To proceed from a view that violence and non-violence emerge from different or separate material conditions is to deny the resilient continuity of social ties and the important ways in which they can survive and strengthen in response to the abjections of violent conflict. The youth assemblages and networks of support that exist therefore are not necessarily instantly reinvented when peace is ruptured by the outbreak of violence. Studies of youth militia provide compelling evidence that violent groups tend to emerge from pre-existing social ties and tend to be sustained by actively tapping into these ties. For instance, the Revolutionary United Front in Sierra leone, one of the most brutal violent groups in Africa in the 1990s, emerged out of a network of radical students who resented the corruption and exclusion of the Sierra Leonean political and business elite. This group mobilised around this core network and grew by tapping into the expansive connections poor students had across society (Gberie, 2005). This is very similar to what Abebe (this volume) was highlighting when describing how the Qeeroo movement in Ethiopia was formed. The point I am making here is that social ties do not automatically melt away simply because there has been a rupture in the rhythmic everyday of society, rather, they tend to become the fulcrums upon which people develop strategies for making sense of and for navigating that rupture. If this is true, then it is apparent that in order to understand non-violence one must recognise that the

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same systems of organising that animate violence are implicated in peacemaking, the difference being in whether actors calculate their chances as being better served by peace or by violence. These calculations are continually being renegotiated and adapted to the realities of the social context, thus producing rational responses that have an equal chance of being violent or non-violent. Wilson, Mouguia, and Both (this volume) make a similar argument when they note that what matters is not being or not-being violent as qualities inherent to specific people; it is rather about violence and young people’s responses to and engagement with violent situations which are at least partly influenced by ‘situational and temporal’ dimensions. What they suggest is that both violence and nonviolence are possible and can be produced by the same actors, but that what makes the difference is how they respond to situational and temporal cues. Drawing from deliberate non-violent actions by young men in the Central African Republic (CAR), they show how childhood experiences and relationships were key to their choosing non-violence as a strategy for making sense of and navigating the difficult conditions of wartime CAR., but perhaps more importantly, how the same actors shift between violence and non-violence, thereby highlighting the co-location of these organising systems. This case demonstrates the argument being made here about the resilience of pre-conflict networks and how they can produce either of violence or non-violence. Ahluwalia et al. (2007, p. 1) agrees with this point when noting that there is a continuum that links violence to non-violence, thereby suggesting that they can emerge from similar organising structures. Landon Hancock’s (2017) work on so called ‘zones of peace’ goes even further to suggest that while the same organising systems can be producing of violence and/or non-violence, it is perhaps more important to focus on how one can actually be pursued in order to produce the other. Specifically, Hancock (2017) argues that collective organising in times of conflict sometimes means the deployment of violent tools to create, construct, defend, and enforce zones of peace. This is a strong argument in support of the approach we have taken here that in order to understand non-violence, it is important to not discount the way it can emerge from the same organising structures that produce violence. Marjoke Oosterom’s chapter in this volume explores arguments similar to those that interested Hancock (2017) through detailed interviews which show how vigilantism, a notoriously violent system of public order in Nigeria, is deployed as a tool for the enforcement of everyday peace.

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Oosterom’s chapter highlights the resilience and continuities in the social systems through which life is organised and shows how they are able to survive the rupture of violent conflict and even get deployed in the service of peace. If systems of organising survive violent disruptions to the so-called rhythms of everyday life, what then is the place of agency in this milieu? How does the youth imagination imagine non-violence especially within masculine contexts where the vision of the rugged man (Pratten, 2007) is so central to the framing of youthness? How does being non-violent interact with this image of youth? Is non-violence better conceptualised as youthful agency or as resignation? Or perhaps it is a conflict version of Hickey’s (2010) concept of adverse incorporation when he was trying to understand why poor people participate in informal markets? Many studies of violent contexts have grappled with the important question of everyday agency (Iwilade, 2020; MacGinty, 2014; Olsen & Beek, 2016). Scholars recognise that violent conflict is profoundly disruptive and imposes huge levels of stress on social life—from its governing norms to its distribution logics for everything from governmentality to food. But, there is also a recognition that systems do carry on resiliently (Krause, 2018) and that within those resilient systems, individuals and groups make choices that allow them to adapt, but also, crucially, that allow them to actually shape the conflict universe in meaningful ways (see Marjoke Oosterom this volume). It is this agentic shaping of the conflict universe, this resilient adaptability, that we are primarily interested in here. In a detailed ethnographic account of a young woman’s navigation of precarious economic and social life in 1970s West Africa, Chernoff (2003) provides a compelling case for how young people can extract power from conditions in which they are so apparently disadvantaged. In the life of Hawa, a semi-professional prostitute, he shows the extraordinary ability to read social cues, to calculate options and to frame it all within optics that can survive in that liminal space between formality and informality, between legality and illegality and, perhaps most importantly, between normatively acceptable and otherwise. In a similar account, but this one set within a conflict context and therefore even more relevant for my argument here, Mats Utas (2003) explores the social navigation of violence by young women who must survive wartime Liberia. In that book, Utas highlights the constraints that violence imposes on the choices that young people have but nevertheless argues that the decision to participate in the conflict economy, to adapt to its governing logics and to socialise within

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its rules, represent tactical agency for which we must account if we are to fully understand how actors relate to violence. Utas’ (2003) work is part of a growing list of scholars who have identified the power of everyday resilience in the development of coping mechanisms that help people survive and live through violence, but which also shape the dynamics of conflict in profoundly consequential ways (Ahluwalia et al., 2007; Krause, 2018). Much of the literature on conflict resilience tends to focus on a collective model that highlights how groups retain, manage, and develop social ties and governing logics that are then deployed to support adaptation (Cassar et al., 2013; Folke, 2016; Lahai & Ware, 2020; Young & Jacobson, 2013). Both et al. (this volume) in contrast highlight the way individual biographies can generate shared life experiences that become non-violent action. The literature, on resilience, is largely focussed on the post-conflict period and hardly references the role that resilience actually plays in agentic nonviolence. Drawing from climate adaptation literature, others like Jana Krause (2018, p. 63), however, argue that the availability of a social memory of previous violence makes it more likely for communities to recognise the early signs of civilian mobilisation for violence and to effectively deploy non-violent strategies to avoid escalation or involvement. Krause’s point is that resilience is not simply how people cope with violence, but that the making of the choice to be non-violent is fundamentally a product of effective existing social resilience structures and institutions. In short, non-violence is itself resilience. Krause (2018, p. 64) goes further to describe non-violence as the result of a deliberate process of non-escalation and adaptation. It is important to note that conceptualising non-violence as an act of resilience does not suggest that it is somehow reflective of political apathy. In fact, according to Ahluwalia et al. (2007), non-violence is not political apathy. Instead, they argue that: ‘Whether the avoidance of violence in a particular context is related to scepticism regarding its effectiveness or to moral inhibitions, non-violence is clearly not to be identified with mere passivity’ (Ahluwalia et al., 2007, p. 2). All of the chapters in this volume highlight the agentic choices that are being by young people across multiple conflict contexts and on different levels of the conflict spectrum. These choices have translated into the deployment of pre-existing social ties, tools, institutions, and norms to that have allowed for a non-violent approach that is not only usually effective in helping them cope with the precarity of violent conflict, but

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also, in many cases allows them to actually fundamentally shape the course of politics and everyday life. Collectively, this volume offers an empirically grounded look at the way youth navigate violence, how they make meaning of violence and how they use non-violence to affect the politics. The first chapter by Both et al. explores the violence in CAR. Contrasting the popular image of youth in the country, which tends to be violent and irrational, they draw on life histories of young people to highlight the valiant attempts to stay out of violence and to show the many different pathways through which youth are able to do this. They highlight three key categories of engagement with violent conflict: ‘staying and becoming involved, staying and not becoming involved but living in a besieged context, or fleeing and therewith escaping violence’. By drawing on how youth move fluidly between these categories, they show that a more detailed and nuanced examination of life choices highlights the limit of the simple binary of violence and non-violence, through which social life in conflict contexts is often understood. In particular, this chapter makes a case for recognising the ‘situational and temporal’ dimensions of these choices and how they are calculated in socially complex ways. The next chapter by Marjoke Oosterom highlights how systems of violence can be repurposed for non-violence, thereby demonstrating why it is important to recognise how violence and non-violence can emerge from the very same organising frameworks. Drawing on fieldwork in the volatile city of Jos in central Nigeria, Oosterom explores the non-violent role that a notoriously violent public order formation—the vigilante— plays in constructing zones of peace around the city. Highlighting the ambiguity that surrounds what is violent and non-violent (and therefore who is violent or non-violent) in contexts such as these, Oosterom makes a powerful case for agency that is filtered in situational dimensions. Oosterom’s chapter is also particularly useful as an entry into the everydayness of non-violence and peace, showing that non-violence flows from pre-existing organising systems and must be recognised as such. Analysing the often unacknowledged peacebuilding activities of young people across the Boko Haram ravaged North East of Nigeria, Chitra Nagarajan’s chapter discusses the challenge of hyper visibility and of invisibility in how youth agency in the region is understood. Nagarajan’s chapter draws on qualitative fieldwork to show the many different pathways through which youth engage with what is a difficult and precarious region of Nigeria. The chapter underlines the point made earlier here

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about how social systems of organising can produce either of violence or non-violence and all of the grey areas in between. The chapter highlights particular ways in which identities like gender frame the experiences of violence and/or non-violence and the agentic choices open to youth in this regard. Ross Wignall’s chapter which follows looks at the period immediately after large-scale violence has subsided to show how youth craft everyday survival from what is often a dangerous and precarious post-war period. Drawing on qualitative fieldwork in Sierra Leone and on social navigation theory, Wignall draws a link between post-war reconstruction and the Ebola outbreak and highlights why youth needs to be seen as ‘dynamic but flawed agents of peace’. Highlighting the ambiguous social positions that young men tend to occupy in the post-war period—being the focus of peacebuilding projects as well as embedded within the violent systems of power that need to be disassembled—Wignall, like many of the chapters in this volume, demonstrates the important role those pre-existing social systems play in generating violence or non-violence. The next three chapters explore social media use as a tool of nonviolent resistance in different contexts. Zekarias Beshah Abebe provides a compelling argument for the deliberate deployment of non-violence as a strategy of political engagement in the chapter on the Qeerroo movement in Ethiopia. Highlighting the intellectual foundations of the movement as outlined by one of its leaders Jawar Mohammed, Abebe argues that in the face of a violent state, a conscious choice was made to delegitimise violent repression by resisting through non-violent means. This is remarkable given the history of violent rebellion in Ethiopia and the overarching instability of the state on account of this. Abebe notes the important role that the social media space played in enabling this strategy and in facilitating the imagination of revolution that allowed for avoiding violent engagement with the state. Simbarashe Gukurume’s chapter explores similar themes in its detailed discussion of the #ThisFlag movement in Zimbabwe. Gukurume argues that in the face of a very brutal and unrelenting violent state response, the youth-driven protests stayed non-violent and deployed social media as a very effective and dynamic organising tool. The ripples from this non-violent protest as well as splits within the ruling ZANU-PF significantly accelerated the delegitimsation of the Mugabe government and is in part responsible for the bloodless coup that overthrew it. Toyin Ajao’s chapter highlights the role of youth led group, Ushahidi in managing post-election violence in Kenya

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in 2008. Drawing on qualitative interview data, Ajao highlights how the Ushahidi platform not only effectively became an early warning system for violence which raised the stakes for purveyors, but also how it forced a reconsideration of the narrative of the violent youth in the context of Kenya’s volatile electoral politics. Ajao also highlights the important ways in which technology can be a double edged sword and once again brings to light in empirical terms, the arguments that have been made about the co-location of violence and non-violence and what role systems of social organising play in this.

References Abbink, J. (2005). Being young in Africa: The politics of despair and renewal. In J. Abbink, & I. Kessel (Eds.), Vanguard or Vandals: Youth, Politics, and Conflict in Africa (pp. 1–36). Brill. Abbink, J., & Kessel, I. van. (Eds.) (2005). Vanguard or vandals: Youth, politics, and conflict in Africa, Brill. Ahluwalia, P., Bethlehem, L., & Ginio, R. (2007). Introduction: Unsettling violence. In P. Ahluwalia, L. Bethlehem, & R. Ginio (Eds.). Violence and non-violence in Africa. Routledge. Baletti, B., Johnson, T. M., & Wolford, W. (2008). “Late mobilization”: Transnational peasant networks and grassroots organizing in Brazil and South Africa. Journal of Agrarian Change, 8(2–3), 290–314. https://doi.org/10. 1111/j.1471-0366.2008.00171.x Butler, J. (2020). Judith butler: The force of nonviolence: An ethico-political bind. Verso. Cassar, A., Grosjean, P., & Whitt, S. (2013). Legacies of violence: Trust and market development. Journal of Economic Growth (Boston, Mass.), 18(3), 285– 318. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10887-013-9091-3 Chernoff, J. (2003). Hustling is not stealing : Stories of an African bar girl. University of Chicago Press. Folke, C. (2016). Resilience (Republished). Ecology and Society, 21(4), 44. Gberie, L. (2005). A dirty war in West Africa: The RUF and the destruction of Sierra Leone. Indiana University Press. Hancock, L. E. (2017). Agency & peacebuilding: The promise of local zones of peace. Peacebuilding, 5(3), 255–269. https://doi.org/10.1080/21647259. 2016.1253604 Hickey S. (2010). The government of chronic poverty: From exclusion to citizenship? The Journal of Development Studies, 46(7), 1139–1155. https://doi. org/10.1080/00220388.2010.487100

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Iwilade, A. (2017). Slipping through the net: Everyday agency of youth and the politics of amnesty in Nigeria’s Niger Delta (2009–2015). Journal of Contemporary African Studies, 35(3), 266–283. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 02589001.2017.1339867 Iwilade, A. (2020). Everyday agency and centred marginality: Being “youth” in the oil-rich Niger Delta of Nigeria. Ateliers D’anthropologie, 47 , 1–15. Kagwanja, P. (2003). Facing mount Kenya or facing Mecca? The Mungiki, Ethnic violence and the politics of the Moi succession in Kenya, 1987–2002. African Affairs (London), 102(406), 25–49. https://doi.org/10.1093/oxf ordjournals.afraf.a138810 Käihkö, I. (2017). Liberia Incorporated: Military contracting, cohesion and inclusion in Charles Taylor’s Liberia. Conflict, Security & Development, 17 (1), 53–72. Krause, J. (2018). Resilient communities: Non-violence and civilian agency in communal war. Cambridge University Press. Lahai, J. & Ware, H. (2020). Governance and societal adaptation in Fragile states. In John Idriss Lahai, Helen Ware (Eds.), (1st ed.). Springer International Publishing. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40134-4 Mac Ginty, R. (2014). Everyday peace: Bottom-up and local agency in conflictaffected societies. Security Dialogue, 45(6), 548–564. https://doi.org/10. 1177/0967010614550899 Maira, S., & Soep, E. (2005). Youthscapes: The popular, the national, the global. University of Pennsylvania Press. Marcus, G. E., & Saka, E. (2006). Assemblage. Theory, Culture and Society, 23(2–3), 101–106. Masson, D., & Beaulieu Bastien, E. (2021). The relational dynamics of becoming popular feminist subjects: The world march of women and rural/peasant women’s organizing in Brazil in the 2000s. Latin American Perspectives, 48(5), 42–58. https://doi.org/10.1177/0094582X211015171 McFarlane, C., & Anderson, B. (2011). Thinking with assemblage. Area, 43(2), 162–164. Olsen, W., & Beek, W. E. A. v. (2016). Evil in Africa: Encounters with the everyday foreword. Indiana University Press. Pratten, D. (2007). The ‘rugged life’: Youth and violence in Southern Nigeria. In P. Ahluwalia, L. Bethleham, & R. Ginio (Eds.), Violence and Non-violence in Africa (pp. 84–104). Routledge. Rankin, K. N. (2011). Assemblage and the politics of thick description. City, 15(5), 563–569. Rasmussen, J., & Frederiksen, B. F. (2010). Mungiki as youth movement: Revolution, gender and generational politics in Nairobi, Kenya. Young (Stockholm, Sweden), 18(3), 301–319. https://doi.org/10.1177/110330881001800304

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Skocpol, T. (1994). What makes peasants revolutionary? In Social Revolutions in the Modern World (pp. 213–239). Cambridge University Press. https://doi. org/10.1017/CBO9781139173834.010 Tsika, N. (2014). “Be wary of working boys”: The cultural production of queer youth in today’s West Africa. In C. Pullen (Ed.), Queer Youth and Media Cultures (pp. 239–250). Palgrave Macmillan UK. Ukeje, C. U., & Iwilade, A. (2012). A farewell to innocence African youth and violence in the twenty-first century. International Journal of Conflict and Violence, 6(2), 338–350. Utas, M. (2003). Sweet battlefields: Youth and the Liberian Civil War. Uppsala University Dissertations in Cultural Anthropology, Vol. 1. p. 288. ISBN 91506-1677-3. Young, H., & Jacobsen, K. (2013). No way back? Adaptation and urbanization of IDP livelihoods in the Darfur region of Sudan. Development and Change, 44(1), 125–145. https://doi.org/10.1111/dech.12003

CHAPTER 2

Staying Away from Arms? The Non-violent Trajectories of Youth in Times of Conflict in the Central African Republic Jonna Both, Crépin Marius Mouguia, Wilfried Vianney Poukoule, Marie-Louise Tchissikombre, and Catherina Wilson

Introduction The predominant images of youth that emerge from the Central African Republic (CAR) are those of young people armed with traditional weapons and amulets or in military fatigue, enmeshed in violent practices.

The authors are listed in alphabetical order. J. Both Rutgers, Utrecht, The Netherlands C. M. Mouguia Leiden University, Leiden, The Netherlands C. M. Mouguia · W. V. Poukoule · M.-L. Tchissikombre University of Bangui, Bangui, Central African Republic © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 A. Iwilade and T. M. Ebiede (eds.), Youth and Non-Violence in Africa’s Fragile Contexts, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13165-3_2

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The purpose of this chapter is, by contrast, to focus on young people who tried to avoid violent mobilisation during war. We analyse why and how they made an effort to stay away from arms during the 2012-present conflict in the Central African Republic. In many contexts of conflict, it seems young people’s options fall under three types of pathways: becoming involved in violence (either by “choice” or by forced recruitment) (1) or not becoming involved, most likely by keeping a low profile while navigating the difficulties of living in a volatile and violent context (2), or fleeing (to internally displaced person [IDP] camps or across borders) (3). The first option leads to violent pathways, well studied by scholars (Cakaj, 2016; Utas, 2005; Vigh, 2006), the second and third leading to non-violent pathways. Especially the second pathway has so far been less examined (Sommers, 2015). Through a detailed portrayal of the lives of a handful of young people from the Central African Republic who tried to stay out of armed violence, we aim to nuance and broaden the understanding of the non-violent trajectories available to youth in situations of conflict. We emphasise the need for understanding the relationship between youth and violence in these contexts as complex. This relationship is not fixed but evolves as conflict flares up, takes root, and normalises, while young people simultaneously acquire knowledge and experience. It is therefore not about being or not-being violent as qualities inherent to specific young people; it is rather about young people’s responses to, engagement with, and learning about violent contexts as influenced by its situational and temporal dimensions. Understanding those who navigate away from arms better can “offer unique insights into the everydayness of peacemaking within violent contexts” (Iwilade, Chapter 1). Different authors argue that, even before the 2013 crisis, violence permeated everyday life in the Central African Republic—whether armed violence (Vinck & Pham, 2010) or more ordinary forms of violence like witchcraft accusations and public persecutions (Cimpriˇc, 2014; Lallau, C. Wilson (B) Human Geography, Radboud University, Nijmegen, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected]

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2015; Lombard & Batianga-Kinzi, 2015). The prevalence of violent repertoires in the CAR has often been traced back to the experiences with slave-raiding (Both et al., 2020; Cordell, 2012; Lombard & BatiangaKinzi, 2015). The violent terror and atrocities that accompanied the exploitation sought by the concessionary companies that had the free hand on the territory in the early twentieth century, followed by the installation of colonial administration, subsequently exposed the country’s inhabitants to extraordinary violence and repression, while equally leading to armed resistance movements in the early twentieth century (Van Walraven, 2019). The period around independence and the postcolonial era came with their own political turmoil and violent eruptions of conflict following different coups d’etat and interference of warlords from neighbouring countries. In such a context, where layers upon layers of duress are sedimented within the social and political fabric of society, this is likely to affect individuals. Duress carves its way through time by an accumulation of choiceless decisions that in themselves contribute to new hardship (De Bruijn & Both, 2018). Altogether, according to Lombard and Batianga-Kinzi (2015), the country’s violent history makes that violence was already deeply informing the social substrate before the latest violent episode of country-wide armed violence that involved the Seleka and Anti-Balaka armed groups. In magnitude, however, this latest period of conflict involved “greater numbers of violent actors than ever before” (Lombard, 2016, p. 179). The media portrayed the conflicts that erupted since the Seleka marched up to the capital Bangui in late 2012, and its subsequent developments, as if almost no one in the country escaped becoming involved in enacting violence. At the very least, this portrayal in the international media contributed to an image of a violent country with inherently violent people and of revenge being the main motivator for violence’s excessiveness (Ceriana Mayneri, 2014).1 Young people have been the main protagonist of this war. In the imagery reaching the outside world, they often appeared in creative-bush war fatigues and adorned with exotic charms (Daniels, 2013), or practising with wooden guns in Bokassa’s ruined palace in Berengo (BBC, 8 February 2014). Several researchers have criticised the media-portrayal of the 2013–2014 conflict, in which the focus laid on religious hatred and, also, cannibalism (Ceriana Mayneri, 1 Emphasis on religious leaders preaching reconciliation has, however, also received quite some media attention, especially around the Pope Francis’ visit in 2015.

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2014; Debos, 2016; Lombard, 2016, ch. 6; Wilson, 2019, ch. 2). But no one has thus far critically addressed the question related to youth: Were they indeed so easily drawn into violence? Was the media-portrayal realistic? Was there indeed no choice for young people but to become involved in armed violence? It is true that in the run up to the Seleka takeover, many youth in the CAR felt marginalised as a result of the failures of earlier disarmament, demobilisation, and reintegration (DDR) promises (Lombard, 2016) and because President Bozizé’s government did little to encourage a feeling of inclusion for people not belonging to his own Gbaya ethnic group. Many young people had been denied access to the army for example, a much hoped for path towards work, entitlement, and dignity (Lombard, 2016). Their dream to join the national army (FACA) fell apart; despite announcements of large-scale recruitment, many of them were never selected even after paying official fees (and bribes), which caused public outrage about corruption and ethnic favouritism (Both & Mouguia, 2017; Lombard, 2016). In response, many of these youngsters joined the Seleka rebellion in their march to Bangui, assuming they would form the new national army after ousting president Bozizé. Another 1300 youth allegedly joined the Seleka during the first month they were in power (Daily Mail, 10 June 2015). Joining the Seleka was thus seen as a viable alternative to the army they had been excluded from, but also as a way out of despair, a means of accessing more security, and for some as an opportunity to loot or settle personal scores. The later Anti-Balaka groups that came up also capitalised on the presence of marginalised youths and especially on young people with scores to settle, based on their experiences with the brutality of the Seleka forces. The large numbers of youth joining armed groups seem to suggest that this was the only option, yet their visibility in the everyday scholarly and popular imagination obscures the fact that many young people in the CAR actually did not become involved in armed groups. Lombard (2016) describes how “the frustrated and aggrieved youth were a minority […] but they were a noisy one”; they attracted much attention (p. 262). Other researchers too have warned for the emphasis on violent youth, while the majority of young people do not become engaged in armed violence. As Sommers (2015) writes “what we are afraid of is infrequently present in ordinary youth lives. Advancement (or efforts to advance) without violence is the norm” (p. 38).

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While in this chapter we zoom in on young people engaging in nonviolent pathways through conflict, the analytical lenses developed to study children and youth engaging in armed conflict are valuable here as well. In the uncertainty of armed conflict, young people are suggested to employ forms of social navigation that build on war as a terrain of volatile possibility (Utas, 2005; Vigh, 2006, 2008). Social navigation entails seeking to “construct a path through a socio-political environment in constant disfiguration and reconfiguration” and explains the “tactics and praxis of agents seeking to make the best of social turmoil beyond their control” (Vigh, 2006, p. 236). Especially for youth with limited prospects, who are facing situations of chronic crisis, and experience feeling stuck, social navigation may lead to joining armed groups, sometimes shifting from one to the other, as the volatile socio-political terrain of war changes over time (Debos, 2016; Vigh, 2006). Limited attention has been geared towards young people trying to stay away from armed violence in those same contexts. We can assume they employ the same type of tactics, as most of what happens in their surroundings remains out of their control and they are only able to respond in the best possible way. However, within these limitations, many young people still do manage to carve out non-violent pathways, steering them away from armed groups, and there is much to learn from their experiences. Key to understanding their experience is the fact that youth, like childhood, is a particularly formative life stage. Acknowledging the need for a dynamic understanding of young people and more longitudinal perspective guides our analytical framework in which we aim to understand young people’s unfolding capacities, learning, reflections, and relating in tandem with an ever-changing environment. We argue that the relation between young people and violence can, for example, change during conflict or its aftermath, not just because violent engagement is no longer a viable tactic, but also because young people become more experienced with conflict and can consciously opt out. Or, because of being aware of the lure of grasping conflict opportunities from the start, they actively steer away from it and flee. Non-violent pathways are therefore not linear and evolve over time. Hence, the study of non-violent pathways is complex. We illustrate this with various case studies of youth in the CAR, or abroad as refugees in Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). The case studies discussed in this chapter represent different pathways, or trajectories, of being or becoming a nonviolent youth in the CAR. After a section on the methods we employed

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during our research, we will turn to three case studies, which will be discussed in light of the literature, before getting to the conclusion.

Methodology This chapter is based on empirical data collected—with interruptions— from 2013 to 2018 that combines two multi-sited projects: The first, focussing in children and youth in violent contexts, took place in different locations inside the CAR: the capital Bangui, and the smaller towns of Paoua, Kaga Bandoro, and Bria in the country’s North and centre. The second followed the trajectories of CAR refugees, who fled violence in their country, crossed the border, and found refuge in Kinshasa. Wanting to steer away from stereotypical images of child soldiers and vulnerable refugees and to better grasp the realities of young people, both projects followed a similar ethnographic approach centred around collecting biographical narratives (De Bruijn, 2017). As such, we all employed a flexible methodology open to improvisation that included recurring interviews and informal conversations, (participant) observation, home visits, interviews with relatives (when possible), and visual methods. Inspired by the “following strategy” (Schapendonk & Steel, 2014), we followed-up with people over time, first physically, visiting them in different locations and, later also from a distance, keeping contact by phone and through social media. Our presence over time in the field (returning regularly, or even living in the field for some of us) allowed us to obtain a dynamic understanding of young people as not fixed in time and place, but as mobile and adapting to changing (violent) contexts. This is particularly important in the study of youth. Young people are often wrongly portrayed as rather static in their behaviour and thought, for research is conducted at a particular point in time and not much longitudinal research with youth has been conducted (for an important exception see Van Stapele, 2015). However, researchers have argued that youth should be seen as both being and becoming (Vigh, 2006, p. 35). They may be young, but age with every day passing. In the process, they become more experienced, obtain more knowledge and skills to deal with a certain situation. It is this process in particular, one that became more visible by following young people over a more extended period of time, that we focus on in this article. In addition to our methodology, our positionality, too, ultimately informed the data we collected. “Positionality”, as defined by García, “is

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a critical understanding of the role a scholar’s background and current (socially constructed and perceived) position in the world plays in the production of academic knowledge” (García, 2014). Some aspects of positionality, such as gender, race, class, and cultural background, are ascribed (Holmes, 2020). Others are in constant change (Rowe, 2014). Location in time and space are never fixed, and personal views evolve. Positionality is, hence, in constant change and always socially negotiated. Together, we, the authors of this chapter (a team of three women and two men; and three Centrafricain(e)s and two Western Europeans), combine, among others, different gender, as well as emic and etic perspectives. The closer a researcher is positioned to the participants, the more likely there are common expectations, intentions, and power equity (Rowe, 2014). Marius’, Marie-Louise’s and Wilfried’s closeness to the field was important in contextualising and analysing the stories told by the youth and in maintaining contacts. Their positionality, however, needs to be deconstructed beyond their nationality. Centrafricains living in Bangui do not share the same realities as the participants living in the interior. Marius, for instance, felt “dépaysé” (out of place) in Paoua among young Northerners. He did not speak the local vernacular and sensed people sometimes mistrusted him because, even as a Centrafricain, Marius was not part of the community. For Jonna and Catherina, two Western schooled researchers, escaping relationships imbued in power differences (including those with the Centrafricain colleagues), was more challenging. Being aware of and openly discussing these differences was a first step. Creating the possibility for alternative (and non-written) publications as well as acknowledging joint authorship is another step. We also fully acknowledge that ethnographic data is co-produced by researchers and research participants (Pels et al., 2018; Wilson, 2019, ch. 3). We believe that a humanistic approach (which is at the base of the biographical method), that invests, where possible, in long-term relationships and friendships can overcome, even if not fully do away with, unequal knowledge structures and facilitate closeness between people from divergent backgrounds. Lastly, a note on trust. In times of conflict or in its aftermath, people may not always be completely open about what happened to them or how they acted in the recent past. Especially when that past was tumultuous and forced people to take many difficult decisions, exposing them to many traumatic events. While we were surprised by the openness of many of our research participants, to gather a complete biographical narrative in a context in which insecurity influenced the possibilities of fieldwork

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for all of us (in the domains of duration in the field, location, safety, trust, and mistrust), is just impossible. Participants can be apprehensive of having a researcher in their midst; some of the Central African refugees in Kinshasa, for instance, assumed that Catherina worked undercover for the UNHCR (for a similar example see also Clark-Kazak, 2011). The refugees’ doubts and mistrust revealed a complicated relationship between them and the humanitarian agencies, including deep-felt frustrations and anxieties vis-à-vis unfulfilled promises (Both & Reis, 2014). At the same time, others were remarkably open. Different explanations are possible. In our research, in fact, quite some former youth combatants in the CAR were explicit about the violence they had committed themselves. Some had a lot of trust in the Central African colleagues in our team, allowing them to open up. Others were clearly proud of the fact that they had stood at the side of the Anti-Balaka “liberators” that had freed Bangui. For yet others, there was perhaps a need to testify and get something off their chest. In general, we felt we had open and honest conversations most of the time. This may be partly explained by the situationality that is at play when people place “[violent] act[s] as emergent from within a situation rather than the agent” (Vigh, 2006, p. 228). Situationality allows for distinguishing between what was permissible in times of war versus what is normal behaviour. In general, however, one can never know a person and his or her motivations fully. Furthermore, within the limitations of a book chapter, it remains a challenge to do full justice to our informants’ complete stories and voices. Notwithstanding the shortcomings, we did the best in our capacities to represent these case studies, in all their complexity, indicating ambiguities when they emerged.

Case Studies Case Study 1. Being Non-violent “By Nature” Our first case touches upon the experiences of a young man in Paoua; a city in the north-west of the Central African Republic where recurrent conflict is rampant. In other parts of the country, youth from Paoua are seen as extremely violent because violence has taken an almost cyclical pace in the region, often involving young people in various armed groups. However, during our field research, it appeared that despite the dominant experience with conflict, there are young people who refused to take part in armed violence. This is the case of a young man called Siméon. In the

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following paragraphs, we describe parts of his life story. We focus on his earlier experience around 2005, after Bozizé ousted President Patassé,2 a native of the town of Paoua, by coup d’état. The establishment of the rebel group Popular Army for the Restoration of Democracy (APRD), whose origin is ascribed to the ousted president and his family, triggered retaliatory attacks of the Green Berets (Bozizé’s presidential guard) who wrecked great havoc in the region (HRW, 2007). According to Siméon (39 years old when we met him), it was these abuses towards the inhabitants of Paoua that drove young people to revolt and establish the armed group. Although he himself was abused, i.e. tortured “for no reason”, this did not make Siméon take part in violence, nor did he try to take revenge, as was the case for other young people we interviewed. Neither has Siméon integrated the armed groups that have emerged in this North-Western region in response to the Seleka’s violence. Because he experienced various armed conflicts, we asked Siméon which of them impressed him the most. He told us: Almost all recent conflicts. Starting with the seizure of power by Bozizé [in 2003]. I have lived here since the time of the abuses caused by Ngaïkossé,3 that is to say, from the takeover by Bozizé in 2003 until now. It is true that during that time I was still living with my parents. And you know, I did not move during the conflict and two school years were declared null and void [schools were closed] here in Paoua.

When we asked him how life on a daily basis in the city during that period was, Siméon continued: During that time life was very, very difficult. When it was announced that “Ngaïkossé was arriving!” [with his men], everybody hurriedly took refuge in the bush; even here in the city of Paoua. And I did the same. But I too was a victim. One day they caught me in the neighbourhood and took me

2 President Patassé was in power between 1993 and 2003. In this period, he faced various mutinies and coup-attempts. President Bozizé ruled the country between 2003 and 2013. 3 Captain Ngaïkossé, nicknamed “the butcher of Paoua”, is an officer of the Central African Armed Forces (FACA). Being close to President Bozizé, he was leading a detachment of the presidential guard which is known for the abuses carried out on the civilian population in the region of Paoua in 2005 (MINUSCA, 2017).

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to their camp, the place currently housing the MINUSCA.4 They tortured me with a bludgeon and in the end, they took a sickle with which they wounded me badly.

Siméon never really understood why he was tortured that way. Here is what he said when asked why they did this to him: For no reason at all! It’s just because I’m a youth from Paoua; that’s all. At that time, all the young people of Paoua had these types of problems. And I was 28 years old. You can still see the scars of the ropes with which they tied me up. Here are the marks of the blows they inflicted on me; I still have on my back eight scars that are from that time. [...]. When I left the camp, I was almost dead. As there were no health centres, there was no place where I could be treated. So, they had to bring me to Chad where I was treated with traditional medicine. [...] After three months of treatment, as I had recovered a bit and some wounds began to heal, I decided to return to Paoua. And the person who helped me most at that time was Mr. Gbangouma.5 He was the very person who was the perpetrator of the tortures that I had suffered. Fortunately, he was going out with my cousin. When I arrived, she introduced me to him. And I knew it was him who had tortured me. But when he asked me, I did not say exactly what had happened to me and I did not tell him that he was in fact my torturer. I did as if my problem was due to something else. He therefore took the initiative to buy medicine for my treatment. It was very difficult during that period.

The experiences with abuse by Siméon go beyond comprehension. It could have motivated him to take up arms by joining the ARPD and therefore to engage in violence, against the green berets, but he did not. Joining the ARPD in revenge was perhaps hard because of his lesser physical health after being tortured, but retaliation seemed possible as his torturer was very close to his cousin. How come that despite the atrocities he suffered, Siméon did not take revenge, as did many people who joined 4 The United Nations Multidimensional Integrated Stabilisation Mission in the Central African Republic, established since 2014. 5 Koudemon, known by the nickname of “Gbangouma”, also close to Bozizé, operated in Paoua along Ngaïkossé. Both are accused of supporting the Anti-Balaka (MINUSCA, 2017).

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the rebellion, and, instead, stayed away from violence? Siméon himself explained it by referring to his non-violent “nature” or personality. When asked if he had ever entered an armed group, he shared: ... I never had the intention to harm others. And personally, since my earliest childhood, I do not know how to fight. Even boxing someone, I cannot. Since school, maybe I forgot that I did it while I was in CI or CP [first classes of primary school], but in any case, I do not remember engaging in any such act.

His life was seriously disrupted by this experience. Siméon no longer had the strength to continue his brick-making activity that earned him a living to support himself and his family. Instead, he found work as a guard for international NGOs established in the city at that time. And later through another NGO, he followed training to become a drilling technician which allowed him to get his life back on track. Siméon also became a youth leader, leading many young people who, like him, refrained from violence and were focused on social and economic progress. Unlike them, quite a lot of other young people from Paoua have recently joined the Revolution and Justice (RJ) and Anti-Balaka groups, in order to defend themselves, as they say, against the atrocities of the (ex-)Seleka. From Siméon’s example it appears not all young people living amid violence followed violent pathways despite the fact they were brutally persecuted because of being inhabitants of Paoua. Case Study 2. From Violence to Non-violence In order to complicate our reading of the relationship between young people and violence, the following case study is illustrative. It portrays part of the life of Merveille, who, in order to escape violence, abuse and poverty at home, joined an armed group, the Seleka, when they took over Bangui in March 2013. Merveille (21 at the time of the interview) grew up in Bangui. She explained how her life took a drastic turn when she was in school, and her father passed away. Lacking support to buy the necessities for primary school in the absence of her father and seeing her dream to become a nurse fall apart, she fell for a young man who offered to help her financially. She soon became pregnant, for which she was brutally assaulted by her three elder brothers. Merveille was undressed, beaten up, and thrown water upon, until she promised

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to show her brothers her boyfriend’s home.6 They made her walk naked and even after resolving she should stay with the husband’s family and a relative of his suggested taking her to a hospital, Merveille’s brothers insisted that she would not bathe or dress before going to the hospital. Merveille became a mother very young; she was only 14 but claimed that the relationship with her husband was good until she was pregnant with her third child and things turned sour. She went back to her mother’s home to give birth. The despair she faced as a young mother abandoned by her husband during her third pregnancy, forcing her to go back home, eventually pushed Merveille to look for work and the best option at the time was to ‘sign-up’ for armed rebellion. The Seleka had just overtaken Bangui and were looking for new recruits. While many youngsters hoped for a job in the new army of the self-proclaimed President Djotodia (see Both & Mouguia, 2017), the move made by Merveille was one of despair, as she narrated: I went there alone based on a personal decision, since I had children with my husband, and he abandoned me for another woman. That’s why I decided to look for work to become someone tomorrow to take care of my children.

Merveille’s ideas about work—the work of arms—are hard to grasp and may turn our perception of why some youngsters joined the Seleka upside down; joining for “work” is not automatically how people commonly interpret the joining of an armed group. In Merveille’s case, it seems not to be a choice for violence, but a choice for a respectable job in the army that motivates her. When she was severely maltreated in the Seleka training camp at Berengo, Merveille held on to this idea of “work”. After receiving 15 lashes and being tied up with hands and feet behind her back for 14 h long, she told us she considered for a while to run away: The next day, I had the idea to run away and go home; but I told myself that I came looking for work to take care of my children, so I will continue. Even if it’s about dying in training, I’m going to die. That’s how I stayed there until I returned to Bangui. 6 Explaining this violence, a research team member later shared the following about the type of violence Merveille had to endure: “If someone has already known a man, [the idea is that] you have to hit her hard, shave her head, including the pubic hair…. beat her up until … so that’s the kind of violence that Merveille has seen…”.

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In her short life span, Merveille encountered significant violence. She spoke of being part of a group of 50 women, out of whom 5 did not survive the harsh training in the camp. By the time the training was completed, and they moved to Bangui, Djotodia was soon pressured to disband the Seleka forces that brought him to power (including Seleka’s new recruits), after months and months of meting out uncontrollable violence and plunder in Bangui and elsewhere in the CAR. In the end, Merveille’s wish for work therefore did not come through. With the violent counterattacks by Anti-Balaka groups since December 2013, the Seleka forces that remained in Bangui were soon confined to specific territories. In fact, many Seleka who came from upcountry, and those who were Muslim, fled upcountry. Others fled to Chad, Cameroon, and both Congo’s or went into hiding. Yet others were confined to three former military camps in Bangui. At some point, after a long and difficult stay in these camps, where food rations provided by MINUSCA were often insufficient and irregular, the ex-Seleka in these camps (as part of the DDR programme) had to express interest for either integration into the national army or a civil life with some money promised to support their reintegration. Merveille and her new husband whom she met in the camp and with whom she had an additional two children chose the latter and in 2017 still waited for the money promised to them to rebuild a life outside the camp. With the promised money, they hoped to run a small business to feed their family of five. Her husband had already started trading in onions. The eldest child was eight years old in 2017 but had never been to school, something that deeply worried Merveille. To not miss out on the promised money, they held “one foot in the camp”: while Merveille left Camp Béal (one of the 3 camps in Bangui) during her fifth pregnancy and settled with her children in the neighbourhood again, she visited Camp Béal at least once a week to catch up with any food rations and distributed them if needed. This had been her task in the camp before. Merveille’s kind neighbour suggested that Merveille was easily able to go back to her neighbourhood because she never committed any wrong to someone there while engaged with the Seleka. Her case and that of her husband shows that moving out of armed violence is not impossible and at the same time shows that violence and non-violence are complexly linked.

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Case Study 3. Escaping Violence Across the Border By looking at Francis’ trajectory, who fled Bangui during the height of the crisis, we will discuss in this section in what way fleeing conflict is an alternative to engaging in armed violence. We met Francis, 33 years old, in Kinshasa in 2014. Despite his height and imposing appearance, Francis was calm, had a gentle posture, and spoke with a smooth and somewhat feminine voice. The son of one of Bangui’s chef de quartier (neighbourhood chief), Francis is well educated and known in his neighbourhood. Before the crisis, he was active in the import and leasing of vehicles; he was also politically involved in president’s François Bozizé’s Kwa Na Kwa (KNK) party. When the Seleka rebel coalition ousted Bozizé in March 2013, Francis felt at risk. Next to the physical threat, Francis’ decision for leaving was made on a menace of psychological order. He explained repeatedly that the sound of gunshots could “change a man’s mind”, forcing one to become an actor in violence. Similarly to Siméon, as discussed above, Francis did not see himself as inherently violent, but certainly at risk of being drawn to violence. Therefore, the best option was to leave. Francis left Bangui in mid-2013, a couple of months after the Seleka had taken power. He crossed the Ubangi River into north-western DR Congo and took refuge in the Mole refugee camp, situated in the Congolese Sud-Ubangi district, for some months. Located 35 km from Bangui, the Mole camp housed a high density of urbanites. Set in a rural area with little amenities, the refugee camp stood in stark contrast to the bustling atmosphere of Bangui, its urban infrastructure and heterogeneous population. For students in particular, Mole did not offer opportunities, but became a site of stuckedness, in short, a place to leave behind (Kassaï, 2020; Wilson Janssens, 2018). Nevertheless, in contrast to other CAR refugees, Francis did not remember his time at the camp with bitterness. He even spoke jovially about it, stressing the central role he had played among the refugees, as well as his good relationships with the humanitarians that frequented the camp. The pictures on his mobile phone served as proof of these relationships. Thanks to his good knowledge of French, he explained, Francis often mediated and translated between the camp authorities and the refugees. He had forged for himself a broker position, not unlike the one his father had in Bangui.

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According to Francis, the refugees in the camp were encouraged to find relatives that could support them anywhere in the world. Francis capitalised on this opportunity and contacted a family member in France. He asked his brother in France to send him an official invitation letter to start his visa application procedure once he arrived in Kinshasa. Francis diligently collected all the documents he needed for this application; all but the “refugees’ passport”, or the Titre de Voyage Conventionnel (TVC). Francis did not worry about it, he had a good relationship with the camp authorities in Mole, why would that be any different in Kinshasa? The UNHCR there would certainly help him out, he thought. Francis planned his trip to Kinshasa well and openly, and he obtained all the needed documents legalising his movement out of the camp. Francis travelled by road to Gemena, the main city in the area, from there he flew on to Kinshasa, which felt as a stepping stone in his envisioned trajectory towards Northern hemispheres. Once in Kinshasa, Francis shared a studio, divided by a curtain to form two rooms, with his cousin, his cousin’s wife and their two children. When we met him, the invitation letter his brother in France sent him had just expired, and he had been unable to obtain a passport, let alone a visa. Francis felt deeply frustrated and emphasised that he was tired of waiting. He would spend his days thinking, pondering, worrying, and smoking. Francis had written letters to the UNHCR and the local Commission Nationale pour les Réfugiés (CNR) pleading to speed up the procedure. To his surprise, the UNHCR in Kinshasa seemed to be distant and even inaccessible to the refugees. Francis therefore desperately turned to other NGOs for help. It was all to no avail, and like other refugees in Kinshasa, Francis continued to feel stuck and have his time wasted by others (Lucht, 2012). It seemed he had no choice but to resign, as the passport, a real “casse-tête” (headache) did not work out. In July 2014, gunshots were fired in the Tshatshi military camp, close to Francis’ house, in what was a supposedly failed mini coup d’état (Radio Okapi, 2014). Hearing the gunfire brought back bad memories and Francis felt disturbed: why was he forced to hear fire shots even in refuge? It was precisely this sound that prompted him to leave his country, as he explained: The code of the weapon, I heard it so often where I was that I don’t need it, I don’t need that. Because it can change a person. What I saw there,

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you can become someone else. It is better to be at a place where I cannot hear it any longer and that would help me, I would then know what to do next.

Francis ended up leaving Kinshasa in February 2015. Partly defeated, he crossed the Congo River to Brazzaville, and his cousin and family would soon follow him. We saw him on the day before his departure, and he was happy. Once on the other bank, he soon managed to find a job as a truck driver between Brazzaville and Pointe Noire. On Facebook he seemed to be doing well and certainly less stuck—at least he was driving trucks on the road.

Discussion The case studies above give insight into various types of non-violent pathways that were embarked upon by young people in the midst of violence in the CAR. The first case study of Siméon illustrates one important characteristic of some non-violent youngsters that live in violent contexts; they refer to their non-violent nature or personality as explaining their nonengagement in violence. This finding was echoed by some of our other research participants, like Josué, who explained his staying away from arms by referring to a childhood experience in which he opted out of a scouting group because of violence being stimulated against its members, and who explained about his family: I have my father who was a soldier. He is already retired now… I have my elder brother who is a lieutenant with the FACA. And I have another elder brother who is a corporal. For me I have chosen another route! We were not born FACA… […] and what is more, I don’t like force. And I don’t even want to be in contact with weapons. I am afraid of weapons. How can I become a soldier? No, I don’t think so. It is not my career.

While their reflections are convincing and powerful, we have some reason to worry about both research participants’ claims of being non-violent. It all depends on the definition of violence one uses, but Siméon did hang out with young men linked to Anti-Balaka as we noticed when we would meet and observe him after working hours. While the extremely tense conditions in Paoua probably made it impossible not to have friends who were linked to armed groups, the engagement with these youth

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nevertheless blurs his non-violent stance a little. Although claiming to be non-violent himself, this may still imply tolerating the violence used by others. Likewise, Josué was not judging Anti-Balaka violence against Muslims in his neighbourhood in which some of his peers had been involved. It may be extremely naïve from the outside to believe that one can stay away from taking sides in violent conflict if one lives in the midst of it or in its immediate aftermath. Hence, what does being a non-violent youth in such a context mean exactly? It is really hard not to become a complicit bystander in contexts of armed violence (Dolan, 2009). The same is true for Francis in a way. In Bangui, before his flight and our portrayal of him as a non-violent youth, he was a member of Bozizé’s political party KNK which was enmeshed in structural violence in terms of corruption, fraud, and ethnic favouritism.7 The second case study pushes this question—of what it means exactly to be a non-violent youth in a violent context?—a little further; it examines whether violent youth can become non-violent again? In general, scholars are pessimistic about the future perspectives for young people who have joined armed groups (see for example van der Haer & Böhmolt, 2016). But we found interesting evidence stating the contrary. Merveille, for instance, experienced violence from a young age. To start with, she grew up in a context of armed violence; in addition to this, as a girl, she underwent gender-based violence (GBV), which unfortunately in the CAR is not an exception. In a way the reasons for violence against girls for engaging in sexual practices before marriage are comparable to the rationales and emotions behind popular punishment; i.e. the “physical violence enacted against the suspected disrupters of the precarious social order, chiefly witches, thieves and adulterers” (Lombard, 2016, p. 192). In the case of Merveille, her closest relatives committed gendered violence against her. Lombard and Batianga-Kinzi (2015) interpret the violence intended to manage threats and to take punishment into one’s own hands in the absence of a functioning judiciary system as forerunners to the intensity of violence that occurred during and after the Seleka-takeover. This is to say that in the heavily deprived conditions in the CAR, people who are faced with many forms of insecurity and a lack of social order make sure to do everything to maintain those few fragments of order

7 Francis is not Gbaya, the ethnic group to which Bozizé belongs, but Gbanziri. He held, however, close personal ties to someone in KNK.

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and security that are still in place. Controlling (young) women’s sexuality and, thereby, preserving family status can be considered as part of this endeavour. Merveille’s experience with GBV equally reminds us that studies of wartime violence should not focus solely on armed groups but must also address other existing practices of violence. In the end, Merveille’s attraction to an armed group is a way of trying to escape being a victim of violence; leaving behind the poverty that befalls her when her marriage is no longer functioning; and dealing with the violence of being a single mother without resources, in other words dealing with a gendered form of stuckedness. Moving back home would make her dependent on her brothers who were not supportive of her. As the work Merveille hoped for when joining the Seleka did not come about, her choice falls under “flawed navigation” (Vigh, 2006, p. 226); instead, she underwent very cruel treatment during the training. When the opportunity to choose arose anew, Merveille opted for a “civilian” life. Based on the available options and judging from her previous military experiences, she declined reintegrating in the army under the DDR programme. Like Merveille, several former young combatants we followed declined remobilisation too. This shows that even if young people have been violent participants in an armed group, it does not mean they are forever lost to violence. On the contrary, based on their experience and reflection, they might become “non-violent youths”, even against the odds. Landry (19 years old), a formerly violent combatant, explained his “conversion” to non-violence: In the beginning when the Seleka invaded the city they [family members, neighbours] encouraged the young ones [to join Anti Balaka], because the Seleka made them suffer. But when we made the Seleka move into PK 5, afterwards they called us thugs, bandits, looters. Those types of words frustrate us. [...] If the war resumes … those who took refuge are not animals; they are also human. Me too, I can go into exile to … to let the armed settle their story.

Landry shows how the changing social–political tide (families and neighbours no longer being supportive of Anti-Balaka) influenced his reflection and subsequent “conversion” to non-violence. In fact, Landry severed ties with his former rebel leaders, when the latter tried to reassemble excombatants during the resurgence of inter-communal tension in Bangui in April–May 2018 (Both, 2018). Reflecting on his decision, Landry

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shared with us that if the possibility to engage in armed violence was to present itself again, he would flee instead. Is fleeing the only way to avoid becoming actively involved in violence (such as Merveille and Landry), or becoming a victim and potential complicit bystander (such as Siméon and Josué)? Landry suggests so, and Francis, whom we discussed in the third study case, seems to confirm this narrative. It was not his own participation in violence that steered Francis away from violence, but rather closely observing how people in his surrounding responded to armed violence when it erupted. Fearing the potentiality that witnessing violence might draw him to take up arms was the final drop that made Francis flee. This experience is based on reflection and learning as well. Moussa, an energetic and big-mouthed man of 28 years old who had been involved in violent conflict in 2013, also fled. Like Francis, Moussa found refuge in Kinshasa albeit his trajectory followed a different route. Having converted to Islam not long before the conflict, Moussa joined the Seleka in 2013 and started working as one of Nourredine Adam’s8 drivers. Somewhat differently than for Merveille, joining the Seleka for Moussa was a desperate move to escape failure and, perhaps, boredom. But in early 2014, after the Anti-Balaka entered Bangui, brutally avenging the atrocities committed by the Seleka, a majority of Bangui’s Muslim population fled, so did Moussa. In contrast to many of his mates in combat, who fled to Cameroon and Chad, and considering he had family in Kinshasa, Moussa fled Southwards, but did not take the route through the refugee camp. Instead of crossing the river, Moussa boarded on a boat in Bangui in the direction of Brazzaville and disembarked in Maluku, one of Kinshasa’s main ports on the Congo River’s left bank. Moussa did not have a hard time adapting to the city. He learned Lingala fast and shared a spacious studio with just his cousin who found him a job in the public security sector. Moussa even told us that he managed to obtain Congolese nationality, even if we never understood how, as he openly boasted with his refugee ID too. While Moussa fled his country to escape potential reprisals for joining the Seleka, refuge turned him into a nonviolent actor. In a way, his move was an act of self-demobilisation. It must be noted, nevertheless, that in other cases, fleeing is considered a violent strategy. Throughout history, politico-military groups have been successfully formed outside a country’s borders only to return thereafter.

8 A feared and infamous Seleka leader.

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Examples in Central Africa abound but fall beyond the scope of this chapter.

Conclusion Moving away from a discourse primarily focused on violent youth in the CAR, in this chapter we analysed the non-violent pathways youth identify in conflict ridden settings. These pathways are meaningful and represent common ways in which young people navigate terrains of war and duress. Essential to the pathways described in this chapter’s case studies are the notions of learning and self-reflection; capacities that young people develop as they grow older and build up experiences with armed violence. We identified three pathways: First, we have seen that some youngsters showed confidence that it would be against their nature to take part in armed conflicts. This is remarkable for youngsters having grown up in extremely violent times and hopeful from an ontological point of view. It points to the fact that the actions and personalities of youth growing up in conflict should not be essentialised as violent. Second, other youth learned that it is better to avoid being close to gunshots. Aware of (or having experienced before) the way one’s proximity to warfare makes it hard to refrain from using violence, they refused to become part of such a change and consciously fled from it instead. Third, youth who had previously engaged in armed groups proved they can opt for non-violence thereafter, even when their surroundings remain highly volatile, and war looms on the horizon. These youngsters, too, changed paths through reflection and learning. The three pathways are encouraging. They allow us to see young people in countries like the Central African Republic from a different and more nuanced point of view: as active contributors to peace, rather than being only fully indulged in (mediatised) violence. The relationship between youth and armed violence in violent contexts, however, is complex and always subject to change. The lines between violence and non-violence, furthermore, are oftentimes blurred. By acknowledging these blurry lines between violence in war and peace, or in war and interwar in the CAR, we recommend to further investigate the potentiality of young people’s conscious engagement with non-violence and therewith their contributions to peace in times of conflict. Acknowledgements This chapter is based on data collected under two projects: “Being young in times of duress in the Central African Republic” (2016–2018)

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commissioned by UNICEF Netherlands and financed by the Dutch National Lottery (Nationale Postcode Loterij) and “Connecting in Times of Duress: Understanding Communication and Conflict in Middle Africa’s Mobile Margins” (2012–2019) funded by the Dutch Research Council NWO (W 01.70.600.001). We are first and foremost indebted to, and inspired by, the young research participants who shared their experiences with us. Our gratitude goes to Prof. dr. Mirjam De Bruijn (Leiden University), Dr. Jean Bruno Ngouflo (Université de Bangui), and independent filmmaker Sjoerd Sijsma, all of whom closely collaborated in this project. We would also like to thank the editors and reviewers of this book for their constructive comments.

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Wilson, C. (2019). Conflict (Im)Mobiles: Biographies of mobility along the Ubangi river in Central Africa. Universiteit Leiden. https://openaccess.leiden univ.nl/handle/1887/77742 Wilson Janssens, M. C. (2018). Spatial mobility and social becoming: The journeys of four Central African Students in Congo-Kinshasa. Geoforum. https:// doi.org/10.1016/j.geoforum.2018.05.018

CHAPTER 3

Youth and ‘Everyday Peace’ in the City of Jos, Nigeria Marjoke Oosterom

Introduction A growing literature on everyday youth activism emphasises the constructive role that young people can play in their communities. Yet, few studies are situated in conflict-affected settings (Agbiboa, 2015; Berents & McEvoy-Levy, 2015). This chapter explores the agency of youth living in the city of Jos, the capital of Plateau State in Nigeria’s Middle Belt region. Until the mid-1990s, the city of Jos and Plateau State at large were relatively peaceful. Since then, the state has been repeatedly affected by ethnoreligious violence between so called ‘indigene’ and ‘non-indigene’ groups (Higazi, 2008; HRW, 2009, 2013; Saye, 2012). Several major outbreaks of violence have occurred between 1994 and 2010, during which many lost their lives and houses and properties were destroyed. Smaller and larger incidents of violence have continued to occur frequently across Plateau State over the last decade, resulting in

M. Oosterom (B) Institute of Development Studies, University of Sussex, Brighton, UK e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 A. Iwilade and T. M. Ebiede (eds.), Youth and Non-Violence in Africa’s Fragile Contexts, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13165-3_3

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many conflict-related fatalities (Raleigh et al., 2010). In this context, it is important to understand how young people contribute to peace. The research conducted for this chapter asked young men and women how they contributed to peace in their neighbourhoods in Jos. It uses the concept of ‘everyday peace’ for the analysis of youth agency, thus focusing on ‘everyday actions’ aimed at building community relations and bridging community divisions. The concept of ‘ambiguous agency’ (Bordonaro & Payne, 2012) is used to discuss the tensions around youth engagement in vigilantism. Vigilante groups exist in many parts of Nigeria and are deeply controversial. They are associated with conducting violence themselves and are overall considered a risk to longterm security (Agbiboa, 2018; Gore & Pratten, 2003; Higazi, 2008, 2016; Meagher, 2007; Pratten, 2006, 2008). There is, however, little attention for the perceptions of young vigilante members themselves concerning their role in furthering security without using violence. Exploring youth reflections on vigilantism helps to understand the tensions between (potentially) violent and nonviolent agency in a conflict setting like Jos. Qualitative research for this chapter was conducted in the city of Jos between November 2016 and March 2017, only a few years after the 2014 bombings in Jos that were claimed by the insurgent group known as Boko Haram, which at the time had deepened mistrust between Christian and Muslim groups. The findings challenge the dichotomy that is prevalent in debates on youth, which tends to portray them as either inherently peaceful or violent, as peacemakers or troublemakers (Durham, 2004; Honwana, 2005; Honwana & De Boeck, 2005). Many young people in Jos are engaging in subtle, everyday actions aimed at improving interethnic relations: they are ‘peacemakers’ but not in the activist sense the dichotomy suggests. Rather, conscious of the existing divisions they integrate tactics to bridge divides in everyday social interactions. Those who have joined vigilante groups justify their participation by referring to the absence of effective justice, law and order institutions and simmering inter-group tensions. Their accounts demonstrate how pursuing non-violence is in their view embedded in their everyday policing work. Hence, the conflict setting has shaped their understanding of agency, violence and nonviolence, as they see vigilantism compatible with peace action, despite public perceptions of vigilante groups as potentially violent. This chapter is organised as follows. The first section reviews existing scholarship on ‘everyday peace’, which underpins the chapter’s focus on

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youth agency in violent contexts and ‘ambiguous agency’. The subsequent section elaborates the context in which the ethno-religious violence has occurred. The subsequent section presents the qualitative methodology used in the study. The empirical sections first analyse how insecurity is experienced by youth in Jos and their everyday actions for peace in nurturing social relationships. The final section presents the findings on youth vigilantism and shows that some youth frame their actions as a contribution to peace beyond fighting crime. In their perspective, they help improve interethnic relationships in non-violent ways by mitigating rumours and de-escalating tensions through local dialogue. Their accounts underscore ambiguity of agency, showing how they pursue peace through non-violent strategies while part of vigilante.

Youth, Non-violence and Everyday Peace The dominant discourse in international development reflects ongoing, polarised narratives around youth which see them as ‘makers or breakers’, ‘vandals or vanguard’ (Abbink & Van Kessel, 2005; Honwana & De Boeck, 2005). However, in most settings the majority of youth does not engage in violence when faced with adversity (Sommers, 2015). There is mixed and sometimes contradictory evidence for a direct, linear relationship between youth ‘bulges’, youth unemployment and participation in violence (Cramer, 2010; Dowd, 2017; Izzi, 2013). While a notion of ‘violent youth’ continues to dominate policy discourse, a counter-narrative on young people’s positive contribution to peacebuilding is gaining prominence in both international policy and academia (Berents & McEvoy-Levy, 2015; Özerdem & Podder, 2015; UNFPA, 2018; Williams, 2016). Such contributions highlight that youth are not powerless, but social agents. With this, emerged a focus on youth action and participation. Since formal state institutions and channels for political participation are often remotely present in young people’s lives, various scholars have emphasised the importance of the ‘everyday’ forms of participation in (post)conflict settings, which are often informal (Azmi et al., 2013; Berents & McEvoy-Levy, 2015; Kurtenbach & Pawelz, 2015; Oosterom et al., 2019; Podder, 2015; Schnabel & Tabyshalieva, 2013). The lack of youth engagement with formal institutions has often been misunderstood

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as ‘apathy’, while this might reflect a preference for alternative modes of engagement in reality, or the downright rejection of such institutions and also the politicians and bureaucrats, whom they see as self-centred and corrupt (Habashi, 2017; Jeffrey & Dyson, 2014, 2016; Resnick, 2019). Turner’s study of youth in South Africa (2015), for instance, showed that youth act as brokers between communities and the state, explicitly critiquing formal state actors and customary leadership, and ‘modelling’ new forms of politics as part of their critique. Hence, a focus on the everyday, informal ways in which youth take on public issues enables a more nuanced and holistic understanding of the relationship between youth, their society and the state (Lister, 2007; Wood, 2014; Wood, 2017). The concept of the everyday has emerged in the peacebuilding literature as ‘everyday peace’, where it refers to forms of social practice enacted by people affected by conflict, which can constitute a foundation for peace (Berents, 2015; Berents & McEvoy-Levy, 2015; Mac Ginty’s, 2014). Examples of everyday peace actions in a context of intergroup conflict include everyday social action and practices that are aimed at rebuilding and nurturing interactions across divisions, responding to rumours and tensions before they escalate, and even negotiating with local powerholders (Berents, 2015; Oosterom et al., 2019). Krause (2019) underlines the gendered nature of these actions. This chapter uses the concept of everyday peace to focus on the informal ways in which young people take action in response to insecurity and violence outside of formal state-led processes, while they might still encounter the state while doing so. Yet there is a weak understanding of everyday forms of youth agency in conflict-affected settings. Due to the complex challenges and uncertainties in conflict-affected settings, it is often believed that youth can only deploy ‘tactical agency’ that focuses on immediate needs, rather than ‘strategic agency’ for long-term strategic goals (Honwana, 2005; Seymour, 2014; Vigh, 2006). However, through a focus on the everyday, Berents and McEvoy-Levy (2015, pp. 117–118) argue that young people’s survival strategies can include strategic political action and thus influence local political process and promote peace. Podder (2015) recognises that youth usually operate from socially marginal positions, but are nonetheless able to strategically navigate tensions and divisions between social groups. Berents and McEvoy-Levy (2015, p. 117) note that young people’s ‘survival strategies are also often political actions engaged in conflict transformation processes ’, and ‘political activism can be a survival strategy, and

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creative livelihood making in informal economies … can also be understood as political activism’ (Ibid, p. 118). They are often strongly aware of the potential political risks and implications of their actions in the given conflict environment (Azmi et al., 2013; Oosterom et al., 2019). It is, however, important not to romanticise youth activism and take note of more ambiguous actions and effects (Bordonaro & Payne, 2012; Seymour, 2012, 2014). Youth may manage to survive, but often they need to choose between sup-optimal pathways and make choices that are potentially harmful to their own health and wellbeing (Ibid). ‘Ambiguous agency’ thus refers to the agency of children and youth that, in ordinary circumstances, would not fit with the normative conceptualisation adults have of the kind of agency appropriate for youth, according to existing social orders, moral and ethical frameworks, and the spaces where this should take place (Bordonaro & Payne, 2012). Examples include engagement in sex work as livelihood, or opting into patronage relationships to get by (Seymour, 2014). Other studies have demonstrated that youth activism may unintentionally reproduce or even widen divisions between better-off and more marginalised groups (Jeffrey & Dyson, 2014, 2016). Young male activists have been seen to reinforce patriarchal gender relations and sexual norms through their activism, and police and discipline what they considered deviant and immoral behaviour (Crossouard & Dunne, 2015; Jeffrey & Dyson, 2014, 2016). A focus on youth agency cannot ignore the challenging politics in conflict settings. For instance, in Sierra Leone, youth actions were aimed at escaping adult control and patrimonialism, but some youth associations still became enmeshed with patronage networks (Boersch Supan, 2012; Fanthorpe & Maconachie, 2010). Finally, acknowledging how diverse a youth population is, it cannot be assumed that young people can always overcome deep social and ethnic divisions (Oosterom et al., 2019). In this study, ambiguous agency is visible in youth participation in vigilantism: groups that are potentially violent, while youth vigilante regard themselves as contributing to peace. Having discussed agency in relation to ‘everyday peace’ and ambiguous ‘agency’, the next section turns to the context of youth agency and violence in Jos, Nigeria.

Violence and Insecurity in the City of Jos, Nigeria Nigeria’s Middle Belt has witnessed recurring unrest over several decades, often at critical junctures, such as elections (Angerbrandt, 2018; Krause,

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2011; Madueke, 2018; Ostien, 2009). According to records of violence between 2000 and 2018, Plateau State witnessed the second-highest levels of political violence and conflict-related fatalities in Nigeria (see Oosterom et al., 2021; Raleigh et al., 2010). The city of Jos is one of the worst-affected locations, where more than 4000 people were killed in cycles of violence between 2001 and 2010 (HRW, 2013). At the heart of the conflict is the issue of identity and indigeneity and differentiated experiences of citizenship for those groups that are not considered ‘indigenous’ to a state even if such groups have lived there for generations. This issue is endemic to all of Nigeria, but in Middle Belt states in particular it has led to violence (Angerbrandt, 2015). In Plateau State, the conflict involves communities who are the formally recognised indigene of the state and predominantly Christian and those that are considered ‘settler’ or non-indigene groups, and these are predominantly Hausa-Fulani and Muslim, who migrated to the region more recently.1 The Constitution of Nigeria grants relatively more rights to those who belong to ‘indigene’ groups, contributing to deep divisions (Krause, 2011; Ostien, 2009; Saye, 2012). Specific issues and events have become major sources of tension. Appointments to public office and local government elections, for instance, led to the violence of 2001 and 2008. Also, the issuing of ‘indigeneity cards’ by local governments has become contentious. Since clear guidelines and criteria for deciding over who is indigenous are lacking, the issue of ‘indigeneity cards’ has produced further tensions in Jos, and especially Hausa-Fulani groups feel they are being discriminated in the process of applying for these certificates (Krause, 2011, p. 25; Saye, 2012, p. 3). Indigene groups have preferential access to government jobs, education, land and development funds, which has resulted to experiences of inequality among the ‘settler’ groups (Krause, 2011; Ostien, 2009, p. 4; Saye, 2012). Yet while referred to as ‘settlers’, many have lived in Plateau State for many generations, and in Jos, and many have repeatedly claimed to be among the original inhabitants (Krause, 2011, p. 24). Violence has targeted mosques and churches and religious leaders. It has manifested in riots, massacres and reprisal

1 Indigene’ groups include Afizere, Anaguta and Berom communities; see Madueke (2018) for a fuller discussion. Hausa and Fulani communities have separate histories and languages, but are often linked in Nigeria. The ‘settler’ communities stress they are ‘Jasawa’ as they have developed their own distinctive identity among the wider HausaFulani, through which they emphasise that they, too, belong in Jos (Ostien, 2009, p. 9).

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attacks, and burning of markets and property (Krause, 2011). Plateau State has, over time, created new boundaries and smaller subnational units in an attempt to diffuse conflict, with limited success (Angerbrandt, 2015). The tensions between indigene and settler identities have reinforced other ethnic and religious identities, which play a role in cementing the divisions and animosity between groups (Saye, 2012; Krause, 2011, pp. 31–32). Jos has also been impacted by the terrorist attacks by Jam¯a’at Ahl asSunnah lid-Da’wah wa’l-Jih¯ad, which means ‘Group of People of Sunnah for Preaching and Jihad’, popularly known as Boko Haram. Since 2009, an estimated 20,000 people have been killed as the result of the insurgency in eight years (Angerbrandt, 2018). Over 2, 6 million people have been displaced, of which the vast majority within Nigeria (Ibid). Plateau State has dealt with the influx of large numbers of internally displaced Nigerians from the Boko Haram-affected areas, which has put further pressure on resources and interethnic relationships. Bombings in Jos in 2010 and 2012 were linked to Boko Haram (Dowd, 2016; Onuoha, 2014). Boko Haram explicitly claimed responsibility for two bomb blasts in Jos in 2014, which killed more than a hundred people.2 It appears that the insurgency had caused a deepening of mistrust between Christian and Muslim groups (Krause, 2019; see also Onapajo & Usman, 2015).

Youth, Violence and Vigilantism in Nigeria There are strong narratives about the significant involvement of young people, especially young males, in the many different violent conflicts in Nigeria (Omeje, 2005), including Plateau State (Higazi, 2008, 2016; Krause, 2017, 2019). Forms of violence range from militia groups and youth movements in the Niger Delta such as Movement for the Emancipation of Niger Delta (MEND) and Ijaw Youth Council (IYC) and vigilante groups in South Eastern Nigeria (Accord, 2013). Scholars have, however, argued against essentialising young men as inherently violent and point at the real and subjective sense of exclusion from Nigeria’s political institutions, from economic opportunities and exclusion in the social sphere (Ginifer & Ismail, 2005; Iwilade, 2019). Also in the case of violence in Jos, narratives about how ‘the youth’ went out to join riots 2 See http://forums.ssrc.org/kujenga-amani/2014/05/21/insurgents-and-terror-injos-nigeria-where-next/#.WDXANXlvgc8. Accessed 10.10.2018.

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and violent groups are prevalent in the literature (Higazi, 2008, 2016; Krause, 2017, 2019). Yet, many did not engage in violent riots, and here too, many try to build social relationships (Krause, 2019; Scacco, 2021). Also, youth engagement in vigilantism in Plateau state has received attention. Vigilantism is a nation-wide phenomenon in Nigeria, although it takes different forms in different parts of the country (Gore & Pratten, 2003). Much as vigilante groups are meant to offer security, they have equally been associated with involvement in violence and thus form a security challenge in itself. In some neighbourhoods of Jos, vigilante groups have used ‘jungle justice’ and excessive violence when handling criminals (Krause, 2019, p. 1478). At the same time, the state has strongly relied on the involvement of young people the Civilian Joint Task Force; vigilante groups active in the counter-insurgency against Boko Haram (Agbiboa, 2018). Studies point out that vigilantism and militia violence are part of political economies and have long historical roots (Meagher, 2007; Pratten, 2008). Rather than depicting youth, and especially young males, as inherently violent one thus needs to take into account structural and historical factors that drive the emergence of vigilante groups. The endorsement of vigilante groups in several Nigerian states has provided them with a semi-formal status, and they collaborate with the military and police (Agbiboa, 2018; Angerbrandt, 2018; Higazi, 2016, p. 376).3 Nigeria’s National Assembly has passed an act to establish the Vigilante Group of Nigeria (VGN)4 which will formalise this nation-wide group. In Plateau State, the government allowed vigilante groups to identify and arrest suspects of crime in 2013, but they should hand them over to the police immediately.5 These measures could improve their accountability and coordination with the state and possibly reduce their excessive use of force. When operating within the law, vigilantism could be non-violent and extend law and order. Nonetheless they tend to be viewed as an impending security risk (Angerbrandt, 2018). The literature on Jos city and Plateau State has shown how vigilantism developed from community policing, to responding to the conflict 3 See https://theconversation.com/vigilantism-is-flourishing-in-nigeria-with-official-sup port-86867. Accessed 05.12.2018. 4 See the Act online at http://nass.gov.ng/document/download/8449. Accessed 29.11.2018. 5 See www.premiumtimesng.com/regional/nnorth-east/123555-nigerian-police-grantplateau-vigilante-power-to-arrest-suspected-criminals.html. Accessed 05.12.2018.

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(Krause, 2017, 2019). Higazi’s (2008) in-depth analysis of vigilantism in Plateau State shows how many groups initially had members from different ethnic and religious backgrounds, but divided along ethnic lines following the 2001 violence in Jos. Before the crisis, their primary objective was to protect local communities against crime. Afterwards, their role shifted from fighting crime to surveillance of ethnic and religious ‘others’ and to protecting communities against attacks from opposing groups or militias. They also prohibited community members to start relationships with members from opposing groups (Ibid). Krause (2019) explains how some vigilante groups protected their own neighbourhoods, but were involved in attacks elsewhere. This chapter adds to these debates by demonstrating how vigilantisms, from a youth perspective, may also be used for non-violence.

Research Focus and Methodology The existing literature has thus strongly focused on the participation of young people in violence and protests, while their engagement in everyday peacebuilding activities has received limited attention. This chapter is based on a study that aimed to show how youth contribute to peace through formal and informal channels, which was commissioned by Plan International UK. In addition to the case study in Jos city, the study was conducted in Sierra Leone (see Wignall, this volume) and Myanmar (see Oosterom, forthcoming). Fieldwork in Nigeria was carried out between October 2016 and January 2017 by Dr. Zahrah Nesbitt-Ahmed, then researcher at the Institute of Development Studies (IDS), Dr. Chris Kwaja (University of Jos) and four youth researchers identified through the network of a civil society organisation. The youth researchers received thorough training in the key concepts, research ethics and methods and were supported and supervised by Dr. Kwaja during the process. The team conducted 12 focus group discussions (FGDs), which were split evenly based on gender, age bracket (14–19, and 20–25) and religion (youth belonging to Muslim and Christian groups). The team also conducted 32 in-depth interviews with youth from different neighbourhoods in Jos, members of vigilante groups and representatives from civil society and state government departments. The neighbourhoods included in the study were Jos North, Jos South, Dadin Kowa, Utan and Kwanan Shagari. Jos has been unevenly affected

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by past episodes of violence, and some areas are considered more vulnerable than others (Krause, 2011, 2017). The neighbourhood Dadin Kowa has stood out for being less affected, despite it being potentially vulnerable to violence due its ethnic composition and socio-economic status (Ibid). Krause’s work demonstrates this is likely to be the outcome of how the roles played by religious leaders, their civic agency and networks to youth and vigilante groups. The current study did not aim to explain differences across neighbourhoods in terms of how vigilante groups operate, but focused solely on their perceptions of their roles.

Youth and Everyday Peace Actions in Jos At the time of research in 2016, only a few years after the Jos bombings attributed to Boko Haram, it became clear that the Boko Haram insurgency had put interethnic relationships under further pressure. As an Islamist group, the actions by Boko Haram confirmed existing prejudice of Muslims as violent people and jihadis. Participants reported that many Jos residents believed that members of Boko Haram might ‘hide’ in Jos and that Hausa-Fulani in Jos would somehow support and aid the group. The comment of one participant illustrates this mistrust, saying: ‘… you don’t know whether the next person, … the next neighbour is a terrorist or not’.6 Although respondents recognised that Boko Haram had attacked churches as well as mosques, it was clear that the insurgency strengthened suspicion of particularly Muslim communities, and some indicated this could increase the risk of violence escalating. Some Muslim youth in particular narrated how the deepening mistrust had put friendships with their Christian friends under pressure and had sometimes even broken a friendship, and they expressed both frustration and disappointment about this. Apart from their physical security, young people were deeply concerned about how mistrust due to Boko Haram had a negative impact on finding or securing livelihood activities. Following previous crises in Jos, many people had moved away from neighbourhoods where they had formed an ethnic minority to places where their group constituted a majority, leading to increased segregation in the city (Krause, 2011, 2017). In a climate of increased distrust, youth felt there were fewer places

6 FGD men 18–25, Utan.

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to go in order to trade or find paid work. For instance, this young man said: ‘I feel insecure. Even the shoe shiners are not coming to our area to look for daily bread [to earn money] and they are scared. The Christians cannot go and buy bread in Dadin Kowa.’ Given that the government had officially acknowledged that the country was in recession in July 2016 and that youth unemployment had been a major challenge for the country for years,7 it is not surprising that youth emphasised the impact the deepening distrust between groups had on their livelihoods. One young Muslim shopkeeper from Dadin Kowa explained what happened to him in the wake of the bombings: I was deserted actually. That is what happened. I was deserted because one of my customers was then telling me, though she was smiling but […], she was telling me she would not be given me money anymore, for she is scared I might buy weapons and supply to ‘my’ Boko Haram members. Some [customers] ran away, some went with my money, some accused me of trying to play a kind of cheating game.

A young female clothes seller from Jos North explains how tensions interfered with her business, while she was trying to maintain relationships with Christian people: One thing I know is that the Christian customers who usually come here have stopped coming. Our business went down a bit since the tension made it difficult for Christians to come here. It has been long since I mingled with people from the other religion. Most of the people here in the market and the ones around the place I reside are Muslims. Though, I have customers in the market that are Christians. I speak with them on the phone and we always ask ourselves what is happening. When something good happens such as childbirth or wedding we are happy together. When something like death happen, we console one another. It is not easy for us to mingle with each other and be free. Even when some of my Christian customers do come here to buy things, there are many people (Muslims) here in the market who insult them because they don’t trust or like Christians. It means that, even if you want to mingle freely, there

7 ‘Nigeria: Economy Is in Recession, Will Turn the Corner by September—Govt.’ 22.07.2016 www.allafrica.com/stories/201607220147.html. ‘Nigerian economy slips into recession’. BBC News 30.08.2016 http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-37228741.

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might be people from your group and people from the other group who are disagree with this kind of mingling.8

Some Muslim youth actively tried to alter misconceptions of Islam and of Muslims as Boko Haram-supporters. One young man explained: In other regions of Nigeria and here, they think that the insurgency is perpetrated by the Hausa- Fulani themselves. I am trying to secure my region, and ensure that people will have the right perceptions. I am looking at how I can contribute in changing the perception of those who think that… because I am Hausa-Fulani they think I am one of those [Boko Haram] who perpetrate it.

One young man from Dadin Kowa explained this could sometimes be a frustrating experience: I happen to be a Muslim, so no matter how hard when this thing started, I tried to convince my Christian friends and the people in my communities that this thing is not about Islam, is never about Islam. Because there is no quotation or any verse in the Quran that says you should kill somebody just because you do not share the same faith or religion. I have been trying to explain this to the people within my vicinity about how this thing is, but is not going through [people don’t listen]… Why? Because I am a Muslim!

These quotes illustrate the perceptions and also actions undertaken by the wider group of research participants, identified in this study. Many individual young men and women find it their plight to respect the other and promote tolerance, in order to rebuild trust. Both Muslim and Christian youth narrated how they were purposefully developing social relationships with young people belonging to different religions. They expressed this as ‘trying to mingle’ and do this in different ways: particularly by going to each other’s weddings and mourning together in funerals, and to participate in Christmas and Sallah festivities. They talked about having to convince their parents and other relatives to do so. Those with access to phones used them to communicate to members from different ethic/religious groups in those areas where they did not feel safe to go to. These attempts at being deliberately social and connecting to 8 Female shopkeeper, age 23, Jos North.

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‘the other’ with respect constitute an important form of ‘everyday peace’ action. One Christian young man explained how he used his business to create solidarity. He ran a ‘viewing centre’: a venue to watch movies. While he had initially established this business as livelihood activity, he then decided to use it tactically for building inter-group relationships. He made an effort to advertise to both Muslim and Christian communities in his neighbourhood, creating a space for Muslims and Christians to interact, and uses the time after the movies to have discussions about living together peacefully. At times, he had tried to pick up on ‘rumours’ that he felt might pose a risk to stability and hoped that discussing and discrediting these rumours would help mitigate the risks. Other participants narrated they deliberately continued to use services and buy goods from people who belong to different ethnic groups. Unpacking the motivations behind economic transactions in everyday life thus showed intentions to rebuild trust. The findings demonstrate how young people were actively engaging in and using everyday social interactions to establish relationships with people from different ethnic groups, an important manifestation of ‘everyday peace’. In those interactions, some deliberately tried to contribute to de-escalation of tensions, in a context where discourses, the news and rumours often function to cement ethnic divisions. Rather than very visible forms of activism, these actions are subtle and tactical and embedded in everyday social interactions and in ordinary spaces like educational institutions and markets. Youth have continued to engage in such everyday peace actions throughout periods of increased tensions.

Vigilantism: Ambiguous Agency and Security from Below While most youth will live their lives and engage in the kind of social interactions discussed above, some decide to join vigilante groups. The controversies about vigilantism are well-documented, highlighting the lack of accountability for their excessive use of force, arbitrary arrests and extortion (Agbiboa, 2018; Angerbrandt, 2018; Gore & Pratten, 2003). Rarely, perceptions of vigilante members themselves are documented. This section analyses how youth perceive their participation in vigilante as contributions to peace and the conditions under which they have come to justify their actions.

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Vigilante groups have youth and adult members, and youth should in principle be 18 years old before they join. Vigilante groups are organised in units, with a ward divided in several units. Groups have hierarchical leadership structures with commanders, who assign tasks and give orders, and liaise between the group and the police. A commander is assisted by officers acting as supervisors to the members of the group who patrol the area. Groups also have public relation officers and administrators. In terms of gender balance, members are more likely to be male, but female members do exist. Male and female vigilantes emphasised it is important to have female members, as they can approach women who are ‘roaming around’ at night. One female, Muslim vigilante explained that the fact that her brother was part of the vigilante group helped her to negotiate her participation with her parents: He [brother] asked if I am interested [to join]. I said yes. Though, I did not know what the reaction of my parents would be. When I approached them through my brother, they agreed to allow me. The condition they gave us was that I should always be with my brother for my own safety. (…) My main motivation for joining the vigilante was contribute in fighting crime in my community. I don’t consider this kind of job is strictly for men or boys alone. Most of my female friends say I am doing the work of men. They are wrong. Peace and security is not for men alone. Since females are also involved in crime, females can also be involved in fighting the crime.9

Another female vigilante said she joined because there was a ‘lack of females in the vigilante process’ and got involved when the vigilante had intervened in a dispute between two women and had taken them to their office, and needed a female to handle the case. She also said that cases like ‘homosexuality, debt, gossip and all such quarrels among women do not need the interference of men’,10 which suggest not just a gendered division of labour but also shows the role of vigilante in enforcing a certain morality. Both male and female vigilante members interviewed spoke of the wish to protect families and their properties in their neighbourhoods in a context of high levels of crime. They emphasised theft and burglary, armed robbery (especially mobile phones), sexual harassment and rape 9 Interview, female vigilante member, 22 years old and Muslim, Kwanan Shagari, Jos. 10 Interview, female vigilante member, 22 years old and Muslim, Jos North.

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and drug abuse. When asked about women’s security needs, vigilante stressed that they had successfully mitigated instances of sexual harassment and rape by patrolling the streets at night. One 35 year-old vigilante commander explained he joined a vigilante immediately after the 2001 violence, in order to contribute to peace. Many vigilante interviewed talked about their motivation to contribute to peace, influenced by their own experiences of insecurity: I joined the vigilante because the community I lived in is full of crime and I don’t want to be part of it. So I decided to join in order to help to fight crime and maintain peace in the community. What motivated me to join is that I saw some important people in the vigilante and I was impressed by those people, so they motivated me a lot. Most importantly, I joined the vigilante to maintain peace in our community because I want a society free from crime. (…) To join the vigilante is to contribute meaningfully while seeking effective development in a quest to impact positively in the life and future of the nation, generation born and unborn. I also see it as service to humanity.11

Respondents in this study said that their participation in a vigilante is not paid. In some areas, a fixed amount is collected from community members on a monthly basis, whereas in other groups depend on irregular financial support and in-kind donations such as rain coats, torch lights and batteries. Some groups also collect money for emergency situations, like when a resident needs to be taken to the hospital or police station. Participants of the focus group discussions made no objection to contributing to the vigilantes, because they felt it was a necessity to have them around. State officials recognise the centrality of vigilantes in fighting crime in terms of identifying cases and suspects, as long as they respect the boundaries between police work and vigilante work. One academic interviewed argued that the only way the police can maintain and restore its legitimacy is by collaborating with the vigilante groups.12 Local government authorities have tried to regulate the actions of vigilante groups and seek to foster collaboration between the groups and police. Possibly because all interviews took place in Jos, with more police presence, the study found a certain level of coordination between police and vigilante groups. One 11 Male vigilante member, 25 years old and Christian, Dadin Kowa. 12 Interview, academic in Peace & Conflict Studies, University of Jos, Jos, Nigeria.

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commander explicitly stated it was his responsibility to ensure that the vigilante activities were ‘in line with the constitution and the law’,13 and others commented that the vigilantes are answerable to the local government through the commanders. All members interviewed were aware they needed to report all cases to the police and refer cases that were not at their level of authority. For instance, this young man said: ‘We also settle disputes when the need arises and we only go to the station when the dispute is beyond us to handle’,14 and this young female vigilante said: ‘As you know, we are not allowed to prosecute. The police are the ones who prosecute criminals. Our job is to stop the criminals or arrest them.’15 A vigilante from Dadin Kowa elaborated: Once we notice any security threat in our community we immediately alert the police. We have their contact number which we use to call on them in terms of emergency and any other thing that will help to bring peace in the community. The Police are very important in our work, we both complement each other. Once we notice any criminal activities in our community, we alert them and they come and we show them where the criminals are. And if a case is reported to the Police from our community, they alert us to help to cross check and if possible assist them in rounding up the criminals because we know them, they live among us in the same community with their collaborators outside.16

Other vigilante members complained about the lack of recognition from police officers and financial support from local governments. They claim that the police and local government entirely rely on vigilante for intelligence as they know the neighbourhoods so well, but they still do not receive enough recognition: All agencies find it difficult to coordinate or co-operate with us, for instance the police coordinates or relates directly with the vigilante, but when they see a vigilante taking a case to them they don’t handle them. The constable on duty begins to interrogate the vigilante members: “Where is this case from? How? Why did you hold him? Did you see him?” As if he is trying to

13 Male commander of vigilante group, age 35 and Muslim, Jos North. 14 Male vigilante member, Dadin Kowa. 15 Female member of vigilante, age 22 and Muslim. 16 Male member of vigilante group, Dadin Kowa.

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intimidate the vigilante member. And if you get a drug addict or victim [of crime], when you call law enforcement agency they tell you they can’t come, thus rendering you useless.17

Higazi’s (2008, 2016) work has demonstrated how vigilante and ethnic militias in Plateau State play a role in protecting their communities and managing interethnic relations. The findings from the present study suggest that vigilante see a role for themselves in resolving disputes, especially when these occurred between members of different ethnic groups to avoid escalation into violence. Non-vigilante members explained that both the prevalence of crime and interethnic tensions justified the activities of vigilante groups. These quotes are from a male and female vigilante member, respectively: In fact it is very necessary to have a vigilante in this area, because is a mixed community and the security in terms of [number of police at the] police station is not enough. The police cannot effectively checkmate [control] crime because they are few in number. So the vigilante have to complement the police because these are youths from n the area that know virtually all the hideouts for criminals and the people that live in that area. It is also necessary to have a vigilante because it reduces the rate of crime and to also promote peace and unity among community members. (…) The biggest objective of the vigilante is to reduce high rate of crimes like drugs, stealing, rape cases etc., and to ensure peaceful coexistence among various groups and religion, and to fight crime and protect life’s and property.18 The vigilante is necessary because it brings about co-corporation in the community. Law and order is maintained in the streets. There are no more bad boys roaming up and down looking for what to steal or who to harass. To maintain peace and order, and also to be free to relate and mingle with each other in the community without any fear of being killed, or that anything bad will happen to you. I think basically is for security purpose, to have peace where we live.19

Vigilante members themselves emphasised various aspects of their work that were important for preventing interethnic tensions from escalating. 17 Male member of vigilante group, Christian, Utan. 18 Male vigilante member, Dadin Kowa. 19 Female vigilante member, Jos North.

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First of all, they highlighted the importance of being seen to be in service of both religious communities. Mixed membership of the group was therefore important, which they considered successful inter-religious collaboration as well as a mechanism to sustain peaceful relationships in the neighbourhood: The mixed nature of the vigilante group of Nigeria is that in vigilante no ethnic, no religion is consider but only one Nigeria in common as the main reason of being part of the group to make sure peace and security is achieved.20

In coordination with police stations, vigilante groups were present around churches and mosques on days of service to deter people planning attacks or disturbing prayers and service. They were also called upon for religious processions and events. To one police officer interviewed, this was partly a pragmatic consideration, because to maintain public order it was helpful to have many people on the ground, both police and vigilante. To vigilante members it was more than this: they felt it was instrumental in guarding peaceful relationships as both Christians and Muslims felt protected. Since the vigilante group has members of both religions, the public would see that Christians and Muslims worked together in protecting each other’s buildings and ceremonies. According to the youth vigilante members, the visible presence of both Muslim and Christian vigilante groups at the religious events for both communities could counter prejudice. In the words of one young vigilante member: Once there is any special program in the Church or Mosque the vigilante are invited to protect the people. It is very important to note that the vigilante that goes to protect the Church comprises of both Muslims and Christians and same applies to protecting a Mosque.21 We have addressed rumour mongering. When you see Muslim vigilante member in a Christian community on a Sunday protecting your neighbourhood you will have a rethink about intentions, then in a Friday you will have the Christian vigilante mounting a barricade protecting your own Mosque. There you will also know that they are there for you and then

20 Male commander of vigilante group, age 35 and Muslim, Jos North. 21 Male vigilante member, Dadin Kowa.

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you have a rethink. So in that regard, I must say that vigilante groups have been able to checkmate such events and to a large extent put things in order, especially in the area of peace and conflict resolution.22

These findings demonstrate how the youth vigilante see their work as important to maintaining non-violence in their communities in everyday ways, by addressing rumours and initiating dialogue. And considering the participation in the vigilante group was voluntary, at least for the youth interviewed, and the extent of coordination between the groups and the police, the actions of the youth vigilante could be considered a potential contribution to law enforcement in Jos. Secondly, in addition to trying to influence public perceptions of interethnic collaboration, the vigilante reported a range of actions through which they intervened in managing interethnic relations relatively more directly. In the community meetings called by vigilante groups to report about their activities, they would discuss the issue of inter-religious relationships: The people are advised to forget their ethnic differences and support the vigilantes so that the community will be safe and free from crime. So far so good, we have been able to achieve that. (…) We organize meetings where all members of the community are invited to listen to the report of the vigilante on what has been happening in the community. These meetings are held on a monthly basis. (…) The most important impact of the involvement of the vigilantes is that the vigilantes are seen as neutral during conflict or settlement of disputes. That is why the level of confidence on the vigilantes by the community is very high. We always ensure that all the different groups participate in the activities of the vigilantes too.23

Some vigilante groups reported they had organised social events to bring Christian and Muslim youth together, like sports games, and organised collective street-cleaning campaigns, again to unite Christian and Muslim youth to contribute to their community. Further, several vigilante members explained they are specifically called in to ‘settle disputes’. When probed, they explained these disputes could easily have developed into inter-religious tensions, and they thus play a role in an early response:

22 Male vigilante member, Utan. 23 Female vigilante member, 22 and Muslim, Kwanan Shagari.

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Well sometimes if there are misunderstanding and its beginning to raise tension, when we come, we try to dialogue with the people and talk to the people of how important it to live in peace, no matter your religion or your ethnicity the important thing is that we are all human beings and we should love one another.24

A 25-year-old male member of a vigilante group in Dadin Kowa explained that each time a major incident happens anywhere in Jos, the vigilante responded to prevent violence in the area: Here in Dadin Kowa we have both Christians and Muslims brothers living together in peace. Once there is any tension in Jos town, we the youth - both Christians and Muslims vigilante - use to call for an emergency meeting in order to prevent the crises reaching our area. We normally meet at the Youth centre here at Dadin Kowa. There are a lot of tensions that show up its head at Dadin Kowa. After the September 7th 2001 Jos crisis, the vigilante in Dadin Kowa were able to manage the tension by making sure it did not degenerate into violent conflict. Another tension we had at Dadin kowa was as a result of main market burning down in Jos. It created a lot of tension in Dadin Kowa. Thanks to the quick intervention of the vigilante group that comprises of both Christians and Muslims, we were able to manage the tension. Same applies to when the bomb blast at Yantaya happened. It was done by members of the Boko Haram, but we were able to ensure that it did not degenerate into conflict in Dadin Kowa.25

While the vigilante is an organised entity and the youth joining the groups are ‘mobilised’, they all considered this is form of non-violent mobilisation. Their emphasis on brokering dialogues between groups when tensions are on the rise illustrates their understanding of ‘everyday peace’ action: while the primary task of the vigilante would be crime mitigation, the youth considered it their responsibility to respond to tensions and try prevent inter-group violence. Vigilante youth spoke of an increased feelings of self-esteem, of ‘being somebody’ and sense of pride for doing something for the community. They felt appreciated and respected by their community. Long-serving 24 Male member of vigilante, Utan. 25 Male member of vigilante group, Dadin Kowa.

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members had developed leadership skills and had learnt to engage with authority figures like the police and religious leaders. The way in which they talk about their own work is telling: The vigilante group has brought peace between Muslim and the Christians, where the Christians couldn’t enter an area before, because of fear of being killed; now, he or she is free to enter and come out free and safe. Likewise the Muslims, they can go to a Christian dominated area and be free and safe. We do everything together, both groups.26 The vigilante has help in the reduction of crime such as rape case, handset snatching including theft. They also help in building people’s confidence and promotion of unity among people. Its biggest achievement is the settlement of dispute amongst people within the neighbourhood; they served as an intermediary amongst the people by ensuring that we have a free crime environment and a better society at large.27

Obviously, vigilante groups do not operate in isolation from other social and political actors in communities. Krause (2017) explained in detail how religious leaders and community leaders play a pivotal role in de-escalating tensions, coordinating with other leaders and youth groups. Indeed the vigilante youth said to rely a great deal on religious leaders for information and advice and as a channel to pass information to the wider community. They also reported that religious leaders were supportive of the vigilante as a result of their involvement in offering security around churches and mosques, and vigilante members themselves appreciated how they work together: The Church and Mosque play significant role in assisting the vigilante, whenever we go to them for assistance their doors are always open no matter how little it may be, they always extend hands of fellowship to us when the need arises. They help in providing torch lights for us and also give us financial assistance, and give us some necessary advice.28

26 Female member of vigilante, Jos South. 27 Male member of vigilante, Dadin Kowa. 28 Male vigilante member, Dadin Kowa.

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However, experiences with vigilantism were not univocally positive. Vigilante groups ‘missed the mark’ in various ways. Groups had overstepped their boundaries when arresting individuals and engaging in extra-judicial punishment, like beating, before handing them over to the police, or did not hand them over at all. Some considered the fees asked by the groups too high.29 Although some mechanisms for upward accountability to the police and local government, as well as downward to the community in meetings, were in place, these were largely informal and not always used. It was certainly questionable how and to what extent less influential members of the community could negotiate the power of vigilante and hold them accountable. Among vigilante themselves there was some recognition of these challenges, but they felt this was down to some individuals rather than a systemic issue, and something that could be dealt with through strong commanders. One female vigilante explained risks for misconduct, but was still largely optimistic of the ability of the groups to control this: As we patrol the community, our leaders monitor us. With this, you don’t have cases of vigilante members misbehaving. Unlike before, some vigilante members were caught taking drugs and extorting money from some members of the community. (…) You still have people in the communities who want to take advantage of their relationship with some members of the vigilantes to do what is wrong. If this act is not monitored very well, then some of the vigilante members will be involved in all sorts of bad things in the community.30

Further, certain norms and values guiding their work were detrimental to some. Stopping people on the street at night was experienced as harassment and intimidating, especially by women. Groups were enforcing a particular morality, for instance through dress-code and restrictions on mobility for women, and the monitoring of cases of homosexuality as mentioned above. These challenges may not come as a surprise, given the existing scholarship that has documented the ambiguous and violent roles played by vigilante groups. Nonetheless, the findings shed some light on youth perspectives that often go unnoticed. Overall, it was clear that youth vigilante felt strongly about their role in the community in terms 29 Woman, age 23 and Muslim, Low Cost. 30 Female member of vigilante, Kwanan Shagari.

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of contributing to law and order and to peaceful relationships. They felt these outcomes outweighed the negatives of a ‘few misbehaving individuals’. Vigilante members themselves emphasised how the group offer an avenue for youth to gain respect and do something positive for the community.

Conclusion This chapter has discussed the everyday actions of youth living in Jos in response to the insecurity they experience as the result of inter-group tensions. It has shown how seemingly ordinary actions in everyday life can be deliberate attempts to promote trust, understanding and collaboration between different ethnic and religious groups in the city. A focus on the everyday, through exploring people’s motivations and intentions, thus helps to reveal how certain mundane acts are, in fact, deliberate though subtle strategies for building peace (Berents & McEvoy-Levy, 2015). With regards to youth engagement in vigilantism, the tension between their motivations to contribute to peace and the knowledge that vigilante groups can also conduct clandestine and violent actions, reflects ambiguous agency (Bordonaro & Payne, 2012). While recognising that some vigilante do not join with the right intentions, the youth vigilante that were interviewed felt they contribute to peace and thus justified their engagement. While working within the law and coordinating with police forces, their activities could be viewed as furthering law and order in nonviolent ways. The confidence with which they speak about their work demonstrates how the experiences of insecurity and conflict shape their understanding of agency: joining a group became an obvious thing to do in this setting, even if it might also engage in clandestine actions. This resonates with Berents’ (2015) conceptualisation of embodied everyday peace, which recognizes the experiences of those living in violent circumstances and the ‘experience can be a legitimising practice’ (Ibid, p.195). In this case youth perceptions of social reality and the absence of alternative solutions motivates their actions within vigilantism. However, Higazi’s (2008) study has shown that such good intentions might shift again when actual crisis erupts. At the time of research, the youth were convinced of their roles and saw the vigilante as avenue for non-violent action and contribution to peace.

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CHAPTER 4

Young People Resisting Violence in Northeast Nigeria Chitra Nagarajan

Introduction Discussions over a decade of violent conflict in northeast Nigeria have both hyper-visibilised and invisibilised young people. They are the focus of moral and security concern. A persistent narrative among politicians, analysts, media outlets, and conflict-affected communities themselves is that youth (seen primarily as young men), especially those who are not in regular paid employment, are ticking time bombs susceptible to recruitment into armed groups. This narrative stereotypes (unemployed) young men, increases the stigma they face, and ignores the ways young women, almost uniformly presented either as victims of abductions and other forms of violence and devoid of agency or susceptible to immoral behaviour such as sex outside of marriage, express their frustration and marginalisation. It also occludes the realities of many young people who choose not to be violent but are engaged in peace building activities.

C. Nagarajan (B) Berlin, Germany e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 A. Iwilade and T. M. Ebiede (eds.), Youth and Non-Violence in Africa’s Fragile Contexts, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13165-3_4

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Crucially, young people are missing from these discussions. If they participate, their involvement is often tokenistic not meaningful, and they are rarely enabled to present their realities and perspectives in a way that challenges hierarchies around age, gender, and other axes of power and exclusion. This chapter, based on in-depth qualitative research with young people living through violence in northeast Nigeria over six years, aims to serve as a corrective. After giving an overview of the context and the gap between narratives and realities as pertain to young people, this chapter argues that discussions around young people and violence often fall into a false binary of violent vs non-violent that misses the realities of young people’s lives. It does so through case studies of young people who have at some point been involved in armed opposition groups and community militias.

The Conflict in Northeast Nigeria and the Lake Chad Basin Northeast Nigeria has been experiencing conflict and violence for over a decade. Twenty years ago, Mohammed Yusuf, an Islamic scholar, started preaching in Maiduguri, the capital of Borno in Nigeria’s northeast. He protested the corruption and inequality produced by state structures, said modern ‘western’ education, democracy, and government employment were religiously forbidden, and called for a return to a ‘purer’, more Islamic way of life (Thurston, 2017). Yusuf was doing so against a backdrop of increasing sectarianism and fundamentalism, a crowded religious marketplace, and rising religious fragmentation (Ostien, 2018). He garnered substantial support among a population disenchanted with Nigeria’s fledgling democracy and the failed institution of sharia codes, and his followers became known as the yan mallan (followers of the religious teacher) or the yan yusufiyya (Thurston, 2016). Mustapha (2015) traces five inter-related factors required to understand the group: religious doctrines; poverty and inequality (vertical and horizontal); the political context of post 1999 electoral competition; personal agency of those involved; and the geographical and international context. Disaffection by the pace of reinvigoration of sharia code implementation promised by the state Governor led to transformation of the sect, particularly after the wounding of members following a confrontation with police officers in July 2009 (Mustapha, 2015). This incident caused escalation of tensions between the group and the state, leading

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to attacks against churches, police stations, and Christians, the injuring and killing of hundreds of yan yusufiyya by security agents, and the extrajudicial execution of Yusuf by state security forces (Walker, 2016). After these deaths, surviving group members fled Maiduguri. The group started calling itself Jam¯a’at ahl al-Sunnah li’l-Da’wah wa’l-Jih¯ad (JASDJ), committed to the propagation of Islam and the teachings of Prophet Mohammed through proselytisation and jihad, under its new leader, Abubakar Shekau. The Hausa language media started calling them ‘boko haram’ given this was one of their chants during mass gatherings. JASDJ returned to Maiduguri and started engaging in targeted killings of security agents, community leaders instrumental to identification and arrest of its members and clerics who preached against their ideology. It was pushed out of Maiduguri, largely due to the actions of the yan gora, a community militia that emerged after declaration of a State of Emergency in the North East in 2013 (Nagarajan, 2018a, 2018b). JASDJ went on to occupy and capture much of the territory of Borno state and some territory of neighbouring Adamawa and Yobe states and become increasingly active in border areas of Cameroon, Chad, and Niger. Over time, JASDJ’s ideology, tactics, and strategy evolved to become increasingly violent. They started detonating bombs including through the use of people carrying explosive devices1 and engaging in widespread forced recruitment, kidnapping and violence against women and girls (VAWG) including sexual violence and forced marriage (Amnesty International, 2015). The Multi-National Joint Task Force (MNJTF), drawn from the armies of Cameroon, Chad, Niger, and Nigeria, working together with community militias, recovered some areas between 2014 and 2015. In 2016, Shekau pledged allegiance to Islamic State (IS) only for IS to declare Abu Musab al Barnawi as the leader of their West African Province. The group, always with competing factions, split into two distinct groups. Shekau continued to lead JASDJ while al Barnawi, supported by Mohammed ‘Mamman’ Nur, led a separate group: alDawla al-Isl¯amiyya—Wil¯ayat Gharb Ifr¯ıqiy¯a (translated as Islamic State West Africa Province or ISWAP). ISWAP and JASDJ took different approaches to civilian harm and interactions with community (Mahmood, 2016),with ISWAP seeking to move away from indiscriminate targeting of 1 The term ‘suicide bombers’ is often used to describe such incidents. This chapter will not use this term as the degree of agency of the people involved, many of whom are drugged or children while others have full awareness of their actions, is unclear.

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and violence against civilians towards focus on security agents and linked civilians. ISWAP have returned food stolen and women and girls abducted by JASDJ fighters to villages. Its objective was to focus on security agents and linked civilians rather than the indiscriminate targeting of civilians. However, the current picture is more complex. According to Damaturu and Maiduguri-based analysts interviewed in August 2019, both groups have fragmented and split to some extent, with commanders and factions operating independently, particularly after the killings of Nur by group members and the institution of new leadership on the orders of Islamic State. In June 2021, ISWAP confirmed the killing of Abubakar Shekau, the leader of JASDJ, on the orders of the interim leader of the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (Burke, 2021). At the time of writing, the implications of this event are still developing. Many people associated with JASDJ are surrendering (Maclean & Alfa, 2021), while others, particularly those in Niger, launch attacks on ISWAP. Over a decade of violent conflict had led, as of March 2020, to 7.9 million people in need of live saving assistance, including 3.2 million people living in host communities, 1.9 million internally displaced people, 2.1 million children under five years of age, and 900,000 people with disabilities (United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs, 2020). These figures include 2.5 million girls, 2.2 million boys, 1.7 million women, and 1.5 million men. Civilian harm has been committed by all parties to the conflict. In addition to harm committed by armed opposition groups (AOGs) themselves, Nigerian security forces and the community militias have been implicated in human rights violations, incidental civilian harm in the course of military operations, and failure to protect civilians from harm committed by other actors (Nagarajan, 2018a). Inaccurate and oversimplified links are often made between increased (poor) youth populations, high unemployment or underemployment, and violence. Poor youth are seen as a source of worry and potential threat with ‘idle youth’ seen as ticking time bombs, ready to be explode, or ‘ready recruits’ for criminals and armed movements. These narratives persist in Nigeria and indeed worldwide despite the proliferation of evidence that shows no link between youth unemployment and likelihood to participate in violence globally. A global research review found no evidence on the effect of creating jobs on stability for conflict-affected countries (Holmes et al., 2013). In countries as diverse as Afghanistan and Somalia, support for armed opposition groups did not decrease as young

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people gained employment (Mercy Corps, 2015). Indeed, research finds young people become involved in violence, not because they are poor or without employment but as a result of anger due to injustice, heightened by state failure, corruption, discrimination, and abuse by security agencies (Mercy Corps, 2015). Within the Lake Chad basin conflict, one group of young people in particular have become scapegoats: the almajirai. These young men and boys, enrolled in traditional Quranic schools following itinerant preachers and often begging for a living, are commonly spoken of as ‘foot soldiers’ and easy recruits into armed opposition groups. This viewpoint is best exemplified in a Newsweek article written by Wole Soyinka (2012), poet, playwright, writer, and Nobel Laureate. He conflated the almajirai with AOG fighters, writing that the ‘butchers of Nigeria,’ through the almajiranci system, have ‘been deliberately bred, nurtured, sheltered, rendered pliant, obedient to only one line of command, ready to be unleashed at the rest of society.’ Many Nigerian politicians also make simplistic links between the almajiranci system, criminality, and involvement in violent fundamentalist groups, with some states going so far as to ban begging to rid their streets of almajirai children (Premium Times, 2016; Vanguard, 2018). However, as Hoechner (2015) notes, there is no systematic evidence to substantiate these claims and ‘little differentiates the almajirai from other poor undereducated youths from rural households.’ She writes that it has become convenient to accuse this group of young men and boys who are at the bottom of social and status hierarchies, lack economic and cultural resources, do not have powerful protectors to speak for them, experience widespread prejudice and stigma, and are unable to refute unjustified accusations (Hoechner, 2015). These accounts of at risk, potentially dangerous, and easily mobilised youth contrast with ways young women are pictured. Indeed, the strong association between ‘youth’ and violence has led to ‘youth’ becoming shorthand for young, able-bodied men, thereby ignoring the marginalisation and disenfranchisement all young women and young men with disabilities can experience. Gendered norms and stereotypes influence the ways that young women and men are seen in northeast Nigeria. While young men and boys are characterised as active agents and perpetrators in the conflict, not least by security forces whose default position is that of suspicion, young women and girls tend to be assumed to be helpless disempowered victims unable to make decisions and denied of any agency (Nagarajan, 2018b). Meanwhile, young people with disabilities tend to be

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viewed with pity and seen as being incapable of being involved in violence (Jerry et al., 2015). These narratives need to be seen in the context of shifts in intergenerational relations. Previously, a social and familial contract existed between generations with younger people offering respect to older people whose roles were to assist them towards adulthood through advice, guidance, and material support (Nagarajan, 2016). This reciprocal relationship is no longer the case with young people complaining that their elders do not reliably play this role (Nagarajan, 2016). Conflict has heightened these dynamics, but they have longer antecedents. Nigeria saw increasing corruption and materialism but decreasing economic prospects and livelihoods from the 1980s onwards due to the structural adjustment programme, states’ budgetary problems, population growth, urbanisation, and political changes (International Crisis Group, 2017). These factors led to a shift in values and socio-economic relations in communities which negatively affected inter-generational rapport. During this time, according to Hassana Waziri Ibrahim,a lecturer at the University of Maiduguri,2 ‘People started seeing money as an authority’ within families and communities with people not questioning sources of income, families prioritising the views of those with money regardless of age, and elders collecting their share of money from politicians in exchange for their support and silence in the face of wrongdoing (Interview with Hassana Waziri Ibrahim, 2019).She characterised elders, particularly community leaders, as ‘falling prey to the attractions of these material things… [and making it seem that] you preferred the money than the respect. Since you preferred the money, why should they continue giving you the respect?’ (Interview with Hassana Waziri Ibrahim, 2019). At the same time, not only was inequality increasing but those further impoverished were increasingly finding it difficult to provide for their children who saw the ways in which children of the elite benefited from their parents’ money and connections. These realities affected social cohesion with economic impoverishment, lack of options to succeed in life, and perceived injustice driving grievances and creating spaces of dissent for young people. Indeed, these dynamics formed some of the root causes of the conflict. Many in Maiduguri see the conflict as, in part, a youth revolt, particularly in the early days. They believe that young people 2 Ms Ibrahim is also head of the University of Maiduguri Muslim Women’s Association and works with young women mediators and male and female gang members.

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wanted leadership and influence, which was purposefully withheld by local community leaders, politicians, or government officials, while wealth and inequality levels steadily rose and the spread of technology and globalisation showed the lavish lives people lived in the country and beyond. Mohammed Yusuf provided space for young people to express anger and fed off this frustration. Political, economic, and social transformation linked to the years of violent conflict in the region have further deteriorated family and community relations. During 2016 research, respondents spoke of a breakdown in inter-generational relations with younger people complaining of poor parenting, lack of care and love, and girls’ wishes being ignored when they were forced into marriage and older people speaking of lack of respect from younger generations (Nagarajan, 2016). Not only have many young people become separated from their families and struggle to survive alone, but older people, particularly those in positions of power such as community leaders, have shown themselves as impotent to prevent violence and unable to provide for their families (Nagarajan, 2017). Many people in all communities in which I have engaged in research and programming interventions from 2013 to 2019 have spoken of their anger against community leaders, mostly older men who are appointed to positions of community leadership. Often, this anger is linked to perceptions of biased decision-making and diversion of humanitarian assistance and development interventions. Many respondents spoke of how these community leaders would use their influence to ensure that food, non-food items and cash for work, skills acquisition and livelihood opportunities went to themselves, their relatives, and members of their ethnic and/ or religious group rather than to the benefit of the whole community and those in need (Nagarajan, 2017). At the same time, many young people have been engaged in committing violence or protecting families and communities and experience the heightened power that comes with these roles (Nagarajan, 2016, 2018a, 2018b). As Hassana Waziri Ibrahim said, ‘There is like a sense of ‘the younger ones have grown wings.’ After all, you are trying to pose some power or some authority over me and yet you cannot protect my interests. There is nothing you do for me. So, they no longer give them that kind of respect as they have realised you are just an elder in name but you are not doing anything.’ (Interview with Hassana Waziri Ibrahim, 2019).

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False Binaries: The Violence to Peace Spectrum As described above, much of the policy and media attention in conflict affected settings, northeast Nigeria included, falls on young people’s current involvement in or future propensity for violence, whether this be in gangs or criminality, political thuggery for politicians, or as members of armed groups. While these types of violence do take place in the region and are serious causes for concern, the realities, challenges, and experiences of young people, particularly young women, not engaged in violence are under-examined, except for the possibility these frustrations may drive involvement in violence. Yet, a binary classification of young people in conflict affected settings as either peaceful or violent is too simplistic an understanding of the roles young people play in northeast Nigeria. Rather than being classified as ‘violent’ or ‘non-violent,’ young people in northeast Nigeria fall along a spectrum between violent and peaceful. Their position along that spectrum is dynamic and can vary across their lifetime. Some factors that determine this (changing) position include their material realities and prospects; peer group influence; stimulus from others outside their peer group; their analysis of society, motivation to change societal realities and action they see as most effective to bring this change about; and personal inclination. At every stage along this spectrum, young people can be, in part, motivated to act in the interests of what they perceive to be positive social change, including through committing violence to bring this change about. Their position may change over time, with young people making conscious decisions to either disengage from violence or to perpetrate it depending on changes in their external environment or internal thinking. This chapter will now turn to examine this fluidity through using two case studies. The first case study looks at young people who become associated with AOGs, specifically JASDJ and ISWAP. It is based on qualitative research I conducted in Maiduguri in February 2018. Interviews were conducted with 22 people (12 women and 10 men), 15 of whom (8 women and 7 men) were aged between 18 and 35 and were or continue to be ideologically aligned with AOGs. The additional 7 people (4 women and 3 men) interviewed gave valuable insights that helped place discussions with young people with ideological alignment with AOGs in context. The second case study looks at young people who join and form community militias against these AOGs in the name of protecting their communities. It is drawn from 64 qualitative interviews (29 women and

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35 men) with both young people involved in community militias and civilian members of their communities. I conducted these interviews in Bama, Biu, Damboa, Dikwa, Hawul, Kaga, Maiduguri, and Monguno LGAs in Borno state between December 2017 and November 2018. This case study also draws from interactions with civilians, community militia members, government officials, security agents, non-governmental organisations (NGOs), and UN agencies since 2013. The young people in both case studies defy neat categories of violent and peaceful, changing their position over time.

Young People Associated with Armed Opposition Groups Young people, both women and men, take paths to involvement with AOGs that defy neat categories of ‘voluntary’ and ‘forced’ rather falling on a spectrum between free will and force spanning being abducted, coerced, pressured, circumstantially motivated, and intrinsically motivated (Mercy Corps, 2016). My study focused only on young people who had been, to some extent and at some time, intrinsically motivated. While motivations were and continue to be complex and multi-faceted, these young people joined, in part, due to their unhappiness with societal corruption, inequality, and immorality, combatting which they felt justified some level of force and violence. Yet, the violence and human rights abuses committed by group members were a significant reason many of them left the group, even if they continued to be committed to its ideals.3 Levels of agency varied across the time of association with AOGs. For example, some respondents had been forced to join but later on became convinced converts who talked about how they enjoyed their time in the daula (religious community) and felt fully committed to the cause. Key themes in journeys to association involved the persuasive quality of preaching, desire for adventure and excitement, family dynamics, and feelings of solidarity and love. Respondents were motivated by narratives used by AOG members that stressed that ‘society had gone bad,’ noting immorality in terms of injustice, corruption, inequality, women’s behaviour and dressing, adultery and fornication, and stealing and cheating, and all acts they felt were forbidden by Islam.

3 This case study discusses research findings presented in Nagarajan (2018b).

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They focused particularly on the behaviour of women and girls, portrayed as the indicator of how far society had fallen. While women’s freedoms were limited even beforehand, they were further circumscribed with the advent of AOGs. This restriction was viewed positively by respondents. For example, BK (man) said, They are trying to make the society better…. when they come, what they were preaching was that women should not even go to farm and labour in the farm so women should stop going to the farm, women should dress well, women should cover themselves so another man does not see them except their husbands.

Preaching as to the perpetration of injustice, corruption, and inequality by government officials, security agents, and community leaders had receptive audiences. Respondents were aware of promises made by politicians during elections campaigns that were never fulfilled, extrajudicial killings committed by security agencies, the use of political violence to gain power, diversion of state funds to fill personal coffers, and how money could buy impunity. BE (man) said this: You go and suffer in the farm to grow your crops. After harvest, someone can just cut them away and nobody will do justice to you. When they catch you, they take you to where the authorities are but we see them coming back to do the same thing again. Only the lawans and bulamas are here. If you do the wrong thing, you are taken to the bulama, the bulama ties you up but when your people come, they give him money and he will let you go.

Having a group in their society pointing out this immorality and injustice and calling on them to be part of the solution was powerful for young people who felt they had little voice, power, or influence in society beforehand. BE (man) echoed what many respondents said about how they joined the AOGs as they wished to transform society to become more just, moral and equal: Before they came, I always just sit down and lament over the bad things happening... I don’t have a say. I’m just a small child... What can I do? I was a helpless child lamenting over the atrocities happening in your society and you can’t do anything because you don’t have a say. Then you saw

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someone coming in with power and wanting to change it. The right thing to do is to follow.

Young women, in particular, were also swayed by the promise of access to religious education and knowledge and being part of transforming society, not available to them under traditional patriarchal norms. Here, it is important to recall that violence can take direct, structural, and cultural forms (Galtung, 1969). Although common understanding of violence can be limited to direct violence, i.e. the use of physical force, such as killing, torture, beating, and rape or verbal abuse such as threats or humiliation, this form of violence is the direct manifestation of conditions and realities created by structural and cultural violence and, in turn, often strengthens and reinforces them. Structural violence refers to the injustice, inequality, and exploitation that lead to different life opportunities and outcomes based on age, socio-economic class, ethnicity, disability, gender, location, religion, and other factors. Cultural violence describes the attitudes and beliefs that justify this structural violence and make it seem natural and legitimate. These three forms of violence interact in mutually reinforcing ways. One of many drivers for young people in northeast Nigeria joining these groups was to counter the direct, cultural, and structural forms of violence they experienced, particularly those linked to age hierarchies. Respondents spoke of having a sense of purpose and possibility while they were with AOGs. They felt they were living in an ideal society with a strong sense of community and family. They said they were treated well and that food, other items, and services were available. They strongly valued the centrality of religious observance and study. They took pride in the skills they gained and the actions they had taken in furtherance of the group’s objectives. They clearly felt a sense of purpose, power, and working towards a common good, the transformation of society, that had been missing in their lives beforehand. For example, AD (woman) spoke with pride about how she persuaded others to join by displaying the religious knowledge she had learned and the exemplary life she led: ‘Many would tell us, is this your kind of life, we too will join. This is how we attract them to our circle and they will join us. We really influenced many women to join.’ Despite these positive elements, many respondents came to disassociate themselves from the group. While reasons including missing family members and worrying about their own safety, strong elements behind

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disassociation were unhappiness with how AOGs operated in practice. For women who had joined to participate in bringing desired social change about, finding life in the group to be even more restrictive than mainstream society led to frustration. As AF (woman) said, At that time, I know what I can do. If I am allowed to come out, I can teach people as I was taught. But these boys do not allow you to go out and reach the communities. I wasn’t allowed to go out and given the chance. Among we women, many wanted to go out and also teach but as women we are not allowed to go out. That even frustrates us.

Some young women started to find ways to leave the group once they realised that this initial promise would not be fulfilled. Respondents also noted the hypocrisy and injustice in which the group engaged. Examples cited included stealing property and abducting young people. Many respondents were deeply unhappy at the violence perpetrated. Almost all respondents spoke of the sanctions and killings they observed against both daula and non-daula members. Although some of them had been taught Islam requires one to kill in jihad and the active preaching done to make followers see the need for and justice in sanctions and killings, respondents were unable to reconcile this ‘Islamic injunction’ with their own personal reactions. Moreover, respondents spoke not only about the violence husbands perpetrated against wives within the group but that violence against women and girls seen as ‘defiant’ was sanctioned, required, and perpetrated by the community at large. Infractions could range from mentioning her parents to plotting an escape. As AA (woman), who ended up leaving the group, said, ‘I am perfectly aligned to them. There is nothing of theirs that I dislike except that slaughtering of human beings and when I witnessed it, it makes me not sleep for several days.’ All respondents talked about their desire for peace when asked about their wishes for the future. Having participated actively in an armed group that engages in violence, they want fighting between AOGs and Nigerian security forces to stop so they can return to their homes. AA (woman) said how much she wanted ‘peace [to] reign in our society so that we leave this misery that we are living in IDP camps and go back to our communities to live a peaceful life.’ Most respondents despaired of future prospects and felt powerless and despondent to effect any change. One of the respondents talked about, having tried to change society by joining

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JASDJ but finding out he was misled, he had no idea how society could ever change. AI (woman) felt she could not do anything because of lack of skills saying, ‘What they taught me before is not real preaching but mischief and this is all I have learned so I can’t do it.’ Still, a small number of respondents were focused on ending the conflict and improving people’s conditions. BC (man) continues to be engaged in preaching and calling those he knew from his time in the group who are still members to refrain from violence. BJ (man) is already engaged in trying to support others who leave AOGs saying, If someone should come out from that enclave today, since I have come out for long, I know how to talk to the person and then change his mindset. So I can tell him certain things that will console him and then forget about them.

He believes this to be an important task to both help the people involved to reintegrate into society and mitigate any potential re-recruitment and continuation of violence. This case study demonstrates the ways in which young people can be drawn towards participation in violent groups as the only means they believe is available to them to combat the corruption, inequality, and immorality in their societies. It also shows how some young people, despite believing in the cause, can choose to disassociate themselves and instead, engage in reaching out to end the violence.

Young People Associated with Community Militias Northeast Nigeria has a long history of community-based protection, vigilante, or militia groups. In many places, kungiyar maharba or hunters who were skilled in the use of bows and arrows and later guns defended their communities from attack. The colonial state relied on local leaders to suppress dissent, mobilise labour, and collect taxes, including through the use of local forces not linked to colonial security structures (International Crisis Group, 2017).Community-based protection groups tend to develop during times of heightened insecurity in the absence of state security structures to protect civilians. For example, levels of criminality and banditry intensified in the 1980s during a time of declining living standards, slow wage growth, wildly erratic inflation and reduced economic prospects linked to the structural adjustment programme,

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states’ budgetary problems, population growth, urbanisation, political changes, and increasing corruption and materialism (Vivekananda et al., 2019). In response, groups of hunters, a pre-existing livelihood occupation group linked to community leadership structures, tasked some of their members with conducting community patrols at night and along roads used to go to market. Over time, these sub-groups became known as the yan banga, and some of them became part of the Vigilante Group of Nigeria, a national body bringing together such groups across the nation.4 Two decades later, members of Jam¯a’at ahl al-Sunnah li’l-Da’wah wa’l-Jih¯ad (JASDJ) were engaging in targeted assassinations of those who opposed them or reported their identities while security forces treated everyone, particularly young men, as JASDJ members. Security agents engaged in mass arrests, reprisal attacks, and extra judicial killings, pointing to failure to identify those living in communities who were part of JASDJ as evidence of sympathies with the group at the very least. Trapped between these two forces, communities in many parts of Borno formed self-protection groups. In Maiduguri, the yan gora, commonly described as a ‘child of necessity,’ were instrumental in chasing JASDJ out of the city into more rural areas. As a man from Gwoza LGA said, ‘We came to realise there was reluctance or weakness on the side of the government so [we] decided to come up with this. We have come to realise [that we] have to protect ourselves.’ The Nigerian military asked them to take this (successful) model to communities outside Maiduguri to work with pre-existing groups there. Some yan gora members also took part in operations with the military and other security agencies, fighting to recover territories captured by JASDJ fighters. One woman, speaking the feelings of many at the time, said, ‘When they came in, we celebrated them as heroes.’ Many respondents spoke about how everyone in the community was a member of these community militias in the early days, undertaking patrols, apprehending those suspected of being part of JASDJ, and gathering intelligence. However, those active in the groups are primarily younger members of communities, and ‘youth participation in the CJTF reflects one of the new avenues by which they can garner influence and respect as the CJTF and its members have power and are invited to

4 This case study discusses research findings presented in Nagarajan (2018a, 2020).

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discussions in a way that young people outside this affiliation are not’ (Nagarajan, 2017). While young women are active in these groups in many communities and play important and crucial roles, for example, in screening women and girls suspected of carrying bombs for detonation and gathering intelligence as well as taking part in active fighting, these groups tend to be dominated by young men. Young people with disabilities (women and men) also participate in these groups, for example, in taking on responsibilities when able-bodied members go out on operations and playing important roles in dispute resolution. Nevertheless, most civilian respondents credit these groups for bringing back some measure of security to their communities. They see them as crucial in collecting and sharing information including on current risks and what civilians can do to protect themselves. They are proactive in investigating reports received from community members. Given they are closely integrated into community life, they serve as the bridge between security agencies and civilian communities, passing on security and intelligence. Soldiers said talking with women militia members as one of the main ways they interact with women in the community given the absence of women soldiers, civilian women’s fears of approaching soldiers, and norms limiting such interactions. Given the discourse about these groups has tended to focus on their security roles (ICG, 2017), it is important to remember that they also pursue a range of non-violent strategies to improve the situation of their communities. Nevertheless, community militias do also play key security roles, checking civilians coming into camps and settlements for internally displaced persons (IDPs), doing security scans and body searches and going on joint patrols with soldiers. They operate checkpoints into and around communities and screen people coming into areas to ensure they are not carrying explosives and are not associated with AOGs. These measures have reduced numbers of AOG fighters in communities as well as the incidence of bomb blasts and attacks. Checkpoints and patrols have stopped people with explosive devices before detonation or enabled detonation in a way that has minimised civilian casualties. They have helped people escape violence and reach safety. They have also taken part in military operations and provided security for government officials and politicians to visit newly recaptured areas to plan the re-establishment of civilian authority and government services. Civilians also credit them with providing security to enable daily life, for example, by accompanying farmers when they go to farms or

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community members when they go to collect firewood. They assisted communities in other ways, whether this was transporting women to health facilities for child birth and gathering children for civic education or ensuring fairness in food distribution and collecting corpses of those killed for burial. As the departure of government officials and community leaders due to insecurity left a vacuum, members of these militias also started to play key roles in resolution of disputes and reconciliation. Civilians said they provided quick, impartial, fair, and satisfactory solutions without charge, in contrast to both traditional institutions and the police. They have prevented many attacks, increasing civilians’ peace of mind and providing different forms of assistance. Much of the work of community militias, for example, conducting patrols, is non-violent, and when members have used violence, for example, in physically restraining those suspected of being AOG members, these actions have been praised by their communities. In the absence of the state’s ability to provide full protection for its people, community militias have been forced to fill this gap, even if this includes the commission of violence. Yet, members of these community militias have also harmed civilians. The yan gora in particular were seen as committing harm in comparison with the kungiyar maharba or yan banga who are often seen as ‘more mature’ given they had been established before the conflict and so had stricter codes of discipline and behaviour that members followed. While some respondents speak of how yan gora members continue to be friendly and open, others talk of intimidation, lack of respect, and bullying. Members put restrictions on movement into and out of IDP camps for reasons of security. These restrictions on freedom of movement not only limit access to employment and family and friends living outside the camp but also have been used to extort money and sex from those living in the camps. Member has also been accused of theft, for example, collecting booty during operations, and of diverting humanitarian aid from intended recipients. While reports of their dispute resolution efforts are mostly positive, some respondents did mention members using opportunities to settle personal score and employ overly punitive and violent methods in the

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dispensation of justice. They have engaged in recruitment and use of children5 and forceful recruitment of their members in some villages. A male respondent in Damboa said they came to his village to ask villagers to set up a yan gora there, and when they refused as they were worried of JASDJ reprisals for doing so as had been seen elsewhere, they came back and physically assaulted villagers, including community leaders. Respondents in other locations spoke about how they were selected to be members and forced to join. Indeed, there was a high degree of coercion from the military and the Maiduguri yan gora for young people to join these groups in many parts of the state and grave consequences for failure to do so. Many respondents said any individual who did not take part in fighting against AOGs as a member of these groups was viewed with suspicion by the military as a potential sympathiser. Further, communities that refused to set up a community militia to work with the military or redirect their existing self-defence group to do so faced reprisals and collective punishment and were often left with no other option but to leave their villages to live in displacement elsewhere. Individuals and communities were trapped: their choice was to either form a yan gora group and be attacked by AOGs or not form one and be attacked by the military. Moreover, there are allegations that members have assaulted, tortured, and killed those suspected of association with AOGs. Some members have also used their power to commit sexual harassment, exploitation, and abuse, ranging from the use of physical force to rape and reprisals when women refuse to have sex with them to conditioning access to food for sex. A female respondent from Monguno recounted how a yan gora member would take her 13-year-old daughter to his residence forcibly for days at a time even though she had refused to allow him to marry her. After this happened a few times, even though she believed her daughter was too young to be married, she felt she had no other choice but to marry her daughter to him. At the time of interview, she was worried for her daughter’s continued safety as he was physically violent but felt she had nowhere to turn due to his membership of the yan gora. While there have been cases reported to yan gora leaders that have led to punishment and cessation of behaviour, many civilian respondents felt 5 The yan gora signed an action plan in September 2017 committing to stop using children and refer those already associated with them for rehabilitation and reintegration and, at the time of writing, is carrying out this plan.

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unable to report harm because of close relations between the group and the military. As one woman from Bama said, ‘Nothing happens to them, you can only report to them, you know they walk hand in hand with the soldiers, so they are likely friends, so how can you report someone’s friend to him, you know that’s not possible. It is like fighting the government and that’s not possible.’ The yan gora that initially protected their communities at great personal sacrifice has become increasingly seen as committing increasing levels of civilian harm, exploitation, and human rights abuses. This transformation shows the extent to which youth engagement in violent contexts is dynamic not static and how young people and their groups and organisations evolve in response to the changing context. Indeed, many respondents linked this shift to interactions with the government, saying the group had become corrupted through the provision of monthly stipends to some of its members and involvement with the military. As many of the ‘original’ yan gora were not among those selected for the Borno Youth Empowerment Scheme set up by the state government whereby some yan gora members are given monthly stipends and were unhappy at the way it had developed, they had become disillusioned and stopped taking part in the group, leaving those who were more monetarily and politically motivated rather than focused on community protection. Members of yan gora groups are often compared negatively with the kungiyar maharba and yan banga who are seen to be more disciplined and follow a code of ethics. These kungiyar maharba and yan banga groups tend to be comprised of older men who have more resources, options, networks, and life experience than those in the yan gora. As a result, they are more able to decide the terms of their engagement with the conflict situation and the extent to which they wish to be active security players. Their roles as family men with wives and children to support also meant they were less likely to be swayed to accept risk. Many respondents who were part of kungiyar maharba and yan banga groups shared how they had decided not to take part in certain types of activities due to the dangers involved. They also spoke of how they and their groups had actively resisted attempts at politicisation by key political actors who wished, for example, for them to play more active roles in their elections campaigns. They knew to what such engagement could lead, given they had seen how Borno politicians had used such links for their own personal purposes in the past. That their groups had existed before the conflict gave them a longer-term purpose as well as stronger group cohesion to be able

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to take such decisions. In contrast, yan gora groups, which tend to consist of younger men, formed in response to the current violent conflict, often due to persuasion and coercion by security force and political actors were less likely to resist such pressures. Indeed, many respondents from these groups and members of civil society spoke about the high numbers of casualties, injuries, and disabilities among the yan gora as a result of their members being put at risk during operations with security force actors. Further, all respondents were apprehensive about what would happen to the yan gora without urgent action. They spoke about their increasing politicisation and that they had shifted focus away from protection. They worried that they would become more involved in criminality, that they may derail processes of disarmament, demobilisation, reintegration, and rehabilitation (DDRR) of AOG fighters, and that these dynamics would develop into a new phase of the conflict. They pointed to their (legitimate) grievances. Many community militia members interviewed spoke of how they had suffered to bring peace to their communities, the numbers of their members who had been killed or injured in this work, and the lack of any sustained interventions to address their material needs. This case study shows how young people, who come together to protect their communities, can start becoming involved in violence, first as part of what is needed to defend their villages and towns from violence and later in the form of increasing human rights violations. It shows the role of weak governance, the inability of the state to protection, political interests, and the seductive nature of power in shaping such groups. As in other conflict contexts, there is a danger that these groups, which were so instrumental in safeguarding their communities, may evolve in ways that perpetuate and prolong violence if their grievances are not addressed.

Conclusion This chapter has aimed to centre the realities of young people living through violent conflict in northeast Nigeria. It has shown the entrenched nature of age, gender, and other hierarchies in the region and how they perpetuate common narratives, stereotypes, and stigmatisation against young people in ways that differ greatly according to gender in particular. It has traced how inter-generational relations have evolved over time. Key factors in this shift include corruption, materialism, rising inequality, and decreasing economic prospects and livelihoods. As young people’s routes

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to adulthood and self-actualisation were blocked due to this combination of factors, the social and familial contract and reciprocal relationships have broken down. Moreover, cultural norms prevented young people from speaking out and challenging this unequal status quo. Violence has been manifested in the region both as the cultural and structural violence directed against young people and as a function of the ongoing violent conflict and state response which has veered from being lacking to heavy-handed security. In light of this, non-violence is a posture that can be difficult to maintain given the violent nature of the context, particularly for young people who are in any way politicised against the injustice they face. Political elites have driven youth violence since the transition to democracy in 1999, as seen by electoral-related violence that manifests around the country. Borno state has a long history of political violence, including a number of assassinations of key political contenders in the period before elections, and a tradition of ‘dirty’ politics (Nagarajan, 2019). Young people have made conscious choices to link with politicians and partake in this violence as doing so offers their only opportunity to benefit from the ‘dividends of democracy.’ Indeed, cultural, social, and political norms and structures provide very few ways for young people to engage in cultural and social change non-violently. While this was not the only driver of recruitment, AOGs provided space for young people to express anger and fight against the direct, cultural, and structural violence they experienced. Some respondents express great pride and joy in the learning they were able to access and the agency they experienced during their association with these groups, contrasting this with their lack of power in mainstream society. Conversely, young people also acted to protect their communities from harm caused by these AOGs including in ways that were violent. They were under great pressure from security forces to do so but also felt they had little option given the state’s failure to protect and the killing, injuries, abductions, and sexual violence they and their families were subjected to. There is a tendency among commentators to reify non-violence, but this is not always a choice everyone has. There are many young people who have been uninvolved with any of the groups mentioned in this chapter. The case studies chosen are not meant to be representative of the lives and choices of all youth in the region. Rather, they aim to show some of the dilemmas, competing factors, and challenges that young people experience and the ways their orientations towards violence can change

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over time. Northeast Nigeria shows us the extent to which a binaristic classification of young people in conflict affected settings as either peaceful or violent is too simplistic an understanding of their roles and realities.

References Amnesty International. (2015). “Our job is to shoot, slaughter and kill”: Boko Haram’s reign of terror (AFR 44/1360/2015). Amnesty International. British Council. (2012). Gender in Nigeria: Improving the lives of girls and women in Nigeria (2nd edn.). British Council. Burke, J. (2021). Boko Haram leader killed on direct orders of Islamic state. The Guardian, 7 June 2021. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/jun/ 07/boko-haram-leader-abubakar-shekau-killed-on-direct-orders-of-islamicstate Galtung, J. (1969). Violence, peace and peace research. Journal of Peace Research, 6(3), 167–191. Hoechner, H. (2015). Traditional quranic students (Almajirai) in Nigeria: Fair game for unfair accusations? In M. A. Pérouse de Montclos (Ed.), Boko Haram; Islamists, politics, security and the state in Nigeria. African Academic Press. Holmes, R., McCord, A., & Hagen-Zanker, J. (2013). What is the evidence on the impact of employment creation on stability and poverty reduction in fragile states: A systematic review. Overseas Development Institute. International Crisis Group. (2017). The watchmen of Lake Chad: Vigilante groups fighting Boko Haram (Africa Report No. 244). International Crisis Group. Interview, Hassana Waziri Ibrahim, lecturer at the University of Maiduguri and head of the University of Maiduguri Muslim Women’s Association, January 2019. Jerry, G., Pam, P., Nnanna, C., & Nagarajan C. (2015). What violence means to us: Women with disabilities speak. NSRP. Kwakwa, V. Adenikinju, A. Mousley, P., & Owusu-Gyamfi, M. (2008). Binding constraints to growth in Nigeria. In P. Collier, C. Soludo and C. Pattillo (Eds.), Economic policy options for a prosperous Nigeria. Palgrave Macmillan. Maclean, R., & Alfa, I. (2021). Thousands of Boko Haram members surrendered: They moved in next door. New York Times, 23 September 2021. https://www.nytimes.com/2021/09/23/world/africa/boko-haramsurrender.html Mahmood, O. (2016). Will changes in Boko Haram leadership revive local support? Institute for Strategic Services. Mercy Corps. (2016). Motivations and empty promises: Voices of former Boko Haram Combatants and Nigerian Youth. Mercy Corps.

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Mercy Corps. (2015). Youth and consequences: Unemployment, injustice and violence. Mercy Corps. Mustapha, A. R. (Ed.). (2014). Sects and social disorder: Muslim identities and conflict in Northern Nigeria. James Currey. Mustapha, A. R. (2015). Understanding Boko Haram. In A. R. Mustapha (Ed.), Sects and social disorder: Muslim Identities and conflict in Northern Nigeria. James Currey. Mustapha, A. R., & Ehrhardt, D. (Eds.). (2018). Creed and grievance: MuslimChristian relations and conflict resolution in Northern Nigeria. James Currey. Nagarajan, C. (2016). Masculinities, conflict and violence in Nigeria. NSRP/V4C. Nagarajan, C. (2017). Conflict analysis of Northeast Nigeria: Biu, Bursari, Gombi, Hawul, Hong, Jakusko, Jere and Kaga Local Government Areas. Catholic Relief Services. Nagarajan, C. (2018a). Civilian perceptions of the Yan Gora (CJTF) in Borno State, Nigeria. Center for Civilians in Conflict. Nagarajan, C. (2018b). “We were changing the world”: Radicalisation and empowerment among young people associated with armed opposition groups in Northeast Nigeria. Equal Access International. Nagarajan, C. (2019). Briefing: Looking ahead to the 2019 elections in Borno State. INGO Forum. Nagarajan, C. (2020). To defend or harm: Community militias in Borno State, Nigeria. Center for Civilians in Conflict. Ogundipe, S. (2018). Buhari criticises Nigerian youth as lazy, uneducated. Premium Times. https://www.premiumtimesng.com/news/headlines/265 484-buhari-criticises-nigerian-youth-as-lazy-uneducated.html Ostien, P. (2018). The Muslim majority in northern Nigeria: Sects and trends. In A. Raufu Mustapha and D. Ehrhardt (eds.), Creed and grievance: MuslimChristian relations and conflict resolution in Northern Nigeria (1st edn.). James Currey. Premium Times. (2016). Sokoto govt to ban street begging. Premium Times. https://www.premiumtimesng.com/regional/nwest/202401-sokotogovt-ban-street-begging.html Salkida, A. (2021). ISWAP confirms Shekau’s death, says its fighters were following ISIS orders. HumAngle, 5 June 2021. https://humanglemedia. com/iswap-confirms-shekaus-death-says-its-fighters-were-following-isis-ord ers/ Soyinka, W. (2012). The butchers of Nigeria. Newsweek. https://www.newsweek. com/wole-soyinka-nigerias-anti-christian-terror-sect-boko-haram-64153 Thurston, A. (2016). The disease is unbelief: Boko Haram’s religious and political worldview. (Brookings Analysis Paper No. 22). Brookings Institute.

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Thurston, A. (2017). Boko Haram: History of an African Jihadist movement. Princeton University Press. United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs. (2020). Humanitarian response plan: Nigeria. United Nations. Vanguard. (2018). Kano Hisbah apprehends 94 culprits in one month over street begging. Premium Times. https://www.vanguardngr.com/2018/02/streetbegging-kano-hisbah-apprehends-94-culprits-one-month/ Vivekananda, J., Wall, M., Nagarajan, C., & Sylvestre, F. (2019). Shoring up stability: Addressing climate and fragility risks in the Lake Chad Region. Adelphi. Walker, A. (2016). Eat the heart of the infidel: The harrowing of Nigeria and the rise of Boko Haram. Hurst.

CHAPTER 5

‘Good Boys, Gone Bad’: Navigating Youth Mobilisation and Gender in Post-Conflict Sierra Leone Ross Wignall

Introduction Recent years have witnessed a growing interest in the role of young people in fragile and conflict settings. While policy discourses have predominantly focused on the perceived risks to stability in countries with large youth populations (Urdal, 2006) and high levels of youth unemployment (Cincotta, 2008), others have emphasised that young people can make a significant contribution to peace and post-conflict reconstruction (Agbiboa, 2015). In December 2015 the United Nations Security Council adopted resolution 2250 on Youth, Peace and Security, which calls for the participation of young people in all relevant processes aimed at bringing peace and stability, and may create momentum for supporting the participation of young people in peacebuilding. While

R. Wignall (B) Department of Anthropology, Oxford Brookes, Oxford, UK e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 A. Iwilade and T. M. Ebiede (eds.), Youth and Non-Violence in Africa’s Fragile Contexts, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13165-3_5

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there is an emerging literature on everyday youth activism that emphasises the constructive role that young people can play in their communities (Berents & McEvoy-Levy, 2015), few of these studies are situated in fragile and conflict-affected settings. This chapter addresses this gap by analysing the everyday tactics and strategies with which young people respond to living in an insecure environment, and their motivations for being active citizens. This chapter addresses a current gap in the literature on non-violence and civil resistance by analysing the tactical capacities of youth agency in conflict affected and fragile settings of young people engaged in creating cultures of non-violence. Rather than focussing on strategies that directly confronts violence or conflict, the research presented here focusses on a setting where a legacy of violence inspires a cultural focus on nonviolence, peaceful reconstruction and cultural regeneration. While this landscape is inevitably shaped by the legacy of conflict, and the underlying root causes of conflict that remain ever present, this approach destabilises the rigid boundaries between both violence and non-violence, conflict and non-conflict and the categorisation of youth as agents or victims (Agbiboa, 2015; also see Oosterom, this volume). Sierra Leone has had a long history of violence which has been compounded by recent economic difficulties and the 2014 Ebola crisis. Consequently, young people in Sierra Leone are navigating out of the violent worlds they have inherited they are also navigating between different types of non-violence, be they earning a precarious livelihood, community mobilisation or migration. Based on interviews with young people and youth activists in each setting this study found overwhelming evidence of the multiple ways in which young women and men make life liveable for themselves and others and mitigate the fragility of the postconflict setting in non-violent ways. Through subtle, everyday actions that can easily go unnoticed they contribute to peace, security and development, sometimes having significant impact. The study also found evidence of how young people actively negotiate with state and military actors for the benefit of their communities, using informal tactics. Such instances may offer valuable insights for how youth participation might be supported, while at the same time youth initiatives can be accompanied to become more inclusive and accountable and include the voices and interests of young women.

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This chapter proceeds as follows: firstly, I discuss the methodology which encouraged young people to define and explore their understanding of citizenship and non-violent action; secondly, I situate the Sierra Leone case in relation to the burgeoning literature on youth and non-violence; finally, I discuss the range of ways young people expressed their engagement with non-violent mobilisation and modes of citizenship through our findings.

Methodology This chapter is part of a wider study which aimed to show how young people contribute to the formal and informal processes that address conflict-affected settings at the local and national levels, and to what extent their actions have impact. It focused on settings where violent conflict, in the past or present, have been a major driver of political, social and economic instability that have had a direct impact on the lives of young people. Fieldwork was carried out between October 2016 and January 2017 by two researchers and four youth researchers identified through the network of Plan offices, who received thorough training in the key concepts, research ethics and methods. In total, the Sierra Leone team conducted 12 focus group discussions (FGDs) and 22 key informant interviews (KIIs) in Sierra Leone, to capture the changing views of young people FGDs were split evenly between younger (14–18/19) and older (19/20–25) youth and between men and women. Among the KIIs in each country were ordinary youth, youth activists and representatives of civil society organisations and government actors. Research was conducted in the Northern region across Bombali, Kuinadogou and Port Loko districts which were heavily affected by both conflict and Ebola and recently targeted for youth interventions. Authority in Sierra Leone is currently in the process of devolution with power being delegated to locally elected ‘district councils’ who also work with local authority figures such as chiefs, ‘paramount chiefs’ (the chief of chiefs) and civil society actors (Fanthorpe et al., 2010; Jackson, 2007). Made up of five districts in total, the Northern region encompasses several different chieftaincies, and it was considered courteous to consult with chiefs before entering an area to conduct research (Acemoglu et al., 2014). Interviews with local authority figures and chiefs were also included in the research programme. Though Sierra Leone is 69% Muslim, the Northern Region is 85% Muslim with a Christian

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minority, the widespread practice of traditional religions and medicine is still common, especially in rural areas (Richards, 2005). Due to time constraints and availability of respondents, not all relevant donors and civil society organisations could be interviewed and therefore important programmes that enable youth participation may have been missed.

Context: Youth in Sierra Leone In February 2018, sporadic outbreaks of violence around Freetown, the sprawling capital of Sierra Leone between young supporters of the opposing political parties were greeted with counter protests and brutal police crackdowns. However, much of the commentary around this political violence focussed on young people, labelling them as ‘domestic terrorists’ or ‘good boys, gone bad’ (Mitton, 2018) and mirroring the intergenerational ruptures which prompted political and violent action during the Civil War (see Boersch-Supan, 2012; Bolten, 2012; Fanthorpe & Maconachie, 2010; Richards, 2005). The outbreak of negative depictions of young men during the Elections thus reflects the multiple forms of marginalisation and deprivation faced by youth in Sierra Leone including low employment levels; informal/precarious work; sexual exploitation; substance misuse; and crime (Enria, 2012, 2015). The state has failed to recover in the wake of decades of conflict and has weak institutions and weak systems of participation leading to the exclusion and disenfranchisement of large groups of young people (See Edwards et al., 2015). This situation was further exposed and compounded by the recent Ebola outbreak (2014) which claimed nearly 4000 lives, devastated the country’s health infrastructure, limited migration and further damaged the already weak economy (Diggins & Mills, 2015). Currently, the government is stable but relies heavily on outside assistance and foreign Aid to maintain basic amenities and services and is mistrusted by the general population (See Edwards et al., 2015). As recent research has noted, in spite of the lessons learned during the Civil War, young people continue to operate as a subordinate class, often marginalised, excluded and exploited (Boersch-Supan, 2012) with many joining gangs or participating in illegal or precarious work to escape oppressive eldership systems (see Diggins, 2015; Enria, 2012). Added to this, the mainly negative focus on young men continues in a concerted media campaign against, for instance, Okada drivers and unofficial political gangs (known as ‘cliques’) which has been fomented by

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police harassment and sporadic episodes of violence (Finn & Oldfield, 2015; Menzel, 2011). These tensions have perpetuated the lingering intergenerational tensions which led up to the conflict and have continued to create feelings of economic and social marginalisation among youth including the strong reaction against mistreatment from chiefs and elders, prompting young people to ‘revolt’ against their elders and the corrupt state in pursuit of recognition and empowerment (Tom, 2014). This has led to a surge of youth mobilisation structured around Western human rights discourses aiming to ‘to secure economic and political advantage’ as ‘youth who view traditional authorities as corrupt and failing to protect their interests against politicians are claiming accountability from below)’ (Ibid, p. 335; see also Enria, 2012). For young women especially this has opened up opportunities to challenge entrenched patriarchal structures and mobilise around specific issues such as FGM (Female Genital Mutilation) and SGBV (Sex and Gender-Based Violence) (see Oosterom et al., 2017). In the next, section, I situate this context in relation to the literature on Non-Violence and agency which points towards the optimism inherent in youth mobilisation, countering the complacency and corruption which characterises elite governance in many precarious settings.

Non-Violence and Youth Agency: Navigating from Conflict to Post-Conflict There is increasing evidence that involving young people in participation processes can help establish, or re-establish, mechanisms of peacebuilding, conflict resolution and reconciliation, enhancing the ability of states to nurture stability and security (Agbiboa, 2015). Young men in particular are often seen as agents and perpetrators of violence and conflict, presenting beleaguered post-conflict states and the global development community a persistent problem in need of solution (Honwana, 2014). However, recent studies have shown how young people have adapted to these types of post-conflict settings by marshalling resources and mobilising their peers, making positive contributions to social renewal (Christiansen et al., 2006; Cole & Durham, 2008; Finn & Oldfield, 2015; Jeffrey & Dyson, 2008). In fact for, for some young people, these forms of activism create ‘resilient support mechanisms, [to] retool themselves as political actors to build a better world, as well as materially resist

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various inequalities to actually improve their lives and those of others’ (Chatterton & Pickerill, 2010, p. 481). However, while youth participation has become an increasingly mainstream policy focus within development, interventions are often too narrowly defined to be effective or ‘too episodic to be meaningful’ (te Lintelo, 2012, p. 90; see Özerdem & Podder, 2015). This is especially the case in fragile or ‘at risk’ contexts where youth participation may be low on the state’s priority list in the face of emergency relief or national reconstruction (Hilker & Fraser, 2009). Moreover, young people often have a different perspective on the very nature of participation and democracy to those engaging them in participation programmes and processes, seeing certain modes of engagement as either coercive, elitist or lacking true transformative potential (Cele & van der Burgt, 2016; Fusco & Heathfield, 2015). For example, in Nairobi Kenya, Forti and Maina (2012) discuss how youth ironically lament their opportunities denied them by the government but also fail to take advantage of the programmes or policies which are available. They identify an urgent need for better promotion, awareness raising and explanation of youth programmes to address this mismatch, noting how the current disparity between the state and its young people is actually fuelling frustration and feelings of marginalisation, making integration into state-led initiatives even harder. As I explore in this paper, in Sierra Leone, young people’s agency in conflict-affected settings is often highly ‘ambiguous’ (Bordonaro & Payne, 2012), marked by both tactical and strategic navigations which may encompass physical movement and mobility; forms of social mobility and self-development; engagement with state, community and international agencies; as well as ambivalent feelings, motivations and actions. As a number of existing studies emphasise conflict-affecting settings are highly dynamic and insecure, forcing young people to navigate and deploy tactical agency ad hoc, as it were. Using De Certeau’s (1984) distinction between tactics and strategies, Honwana (2006) argues that, in conflict settings, agency among youth is often ‘tactic agency’: focused on responding to immediate needs and returns rather than ‘strategic agency’ aimed at achieving long-term goals. As such, I draw on Vigh’s concept of ‘social navigation’ to understand how young people in Sierra Leone move, adapt and thrive in increasingly precarious contexts where their route to the future is marked by uncertainty. Drawing on Bourdieu and De Certeau, Vigh (2006, p. 238) observed how his young informants in Guinea-Bissau were constantly renegotiating the trajectories of their lives,

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using a range of manoeuvres, performances and socio-cultural capitals to make the best of their situation suggests the concept of ‘social navigation’ as an ‘analytic optic’ to understand how agents seek to move within the social terrain and are moved by the social terrain’ (Ibid, pp. 13–14). For Vigh, this was particularly relevant in conflict-affected areas where young people ‘struggle to expand the horizons of possibility’ and allows us to make sense of the ways young people ‘navigate networks and events as the social terrain of their lives are embedded in oscillates between peace, conflict and (at times) warfare’ (Ibid, p. 55). However, other more recent studies have turned Vigh’s theories to contexts such as economic insecurity in old age (McQuaid et al., 2021) offering new productive ways of theorising young people’s agency in diverse precarious contexts. Addressing this ambiguity, scholars have demonstrated the importance of investigating young people’s motivations for undertaking certain activities and explore how they link to broader social and political processes (Berents & McEvoy-Levy, 2015, p. 117). Yet there is evidence that suggests the distinction between the tactic and strategic, and between private and public action, is not as clear-cut (Berents & McEvoyLevy, 2015, p. 117). NGOs play a vital role in this process mediating and brokering forms of participation and filling in the gaps between young people and inadequate formal provision or simply redirecting state resources where they are most needed (Frederiksen, 2010). For example, in the context of Nairobi, Thieme (2013) has shown how young people got involved in the politics of waste management despite resistance from the state. In the context of rampant unemployment and state disinterest, youth-based NGOs have been quite effective in reshaping local understandings of waste and recycling and turning reinvent garbage recycling into a form of environmental activism. Thieme’s analysis shows how encouraging ‘positive’ youth action can simultaneously make the informal activities of young people more meaningful but may also provoke feelings of ambivalence and frustration as they engage with the formal structures of the state (see also Oosteromn, this volume; Oosterom, 2018; Osteroom et al., 2016). Furthermore, the data presented below suggests that the gender dimensions of youth participation need to be more fully explored (see, e.g., Krause, 2019; Pruitt, 2015). As Krause (2019, p. 1480) argues, the experience of women and girls in conflict and post-conflict settings are usually presented through a victimhood narrative that foregrounds their suffering and the violence inflicted on them (see also Pruitt, 2015). While

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these experiences are important to collect and address, recent studies have shown that women and girls experiences of conflict/post-conflict and wider forms of social fracture are multi-dimensional and varied, covering a huge range of activities and experiences (Krause, 2019). Rather than simply passively experiencing violence, young women and girls are often involved directly or indirectly as both perpetrators and victims of conflict and violence, undergoing experiences of trauma, rites of passage and postconflict discrimination comparable with those of their male counterparts (Coulter, 2008; Honwana, 2006; Krause, 2019; Utas, 2005). For example, Coulter’s (2008) study of women and girls in the Sierra Leone war has challenged dominant narratives around the conflict being primarily to do with dangerous, disenfranchised young men. As he notes the armed rebellion of the Revolutionary United Front (RUF) included a large number of women in the various forces, estimated at between 10% and 30% with children making up half of the RUF fighting forces, a third of which were girls (p. 56). As he described, women and girls had a number of different roles within the armed groups but significantly at least half had received military and weapons training (Ibid, p. 59; cf. Mazurana & Carlson, 2004). However, while some female fighters joined voluntarily, the majority were forcibly abducted (Ibid, p. 59; cf. Mazurana & Carlson, 2004). Moreover, even though female fighters often occupied positions of authority or of higher status, the majority of women and girls were also forced to be ‘wives’ to male fighters and were repeatedly subjected to sexual violence, rape and gang rape (Coulter, 2008). As other studies have noted, this plural experience of young women needs to be accommodated in post-conflict reconciliation programmes if young women are not to remain multiply silenced in peacebuilding efforts (Krause, 2019; Maclure & Denov, 2009; McKay, 2004). For a deeper understanding of non-violent action among youth in Sierra Leone and to what extent these are more political and strategic, I now analyse the spectrum of young people’s motivations and experiences of citizenship, and how these link to broader social and political processes of how youth identity formed. I then discuss the implications of these findings in relation to the gendered politics of youth mobilisation and participation, and the possibilities of understanding young people’s nuanced and partial entry into non-violent action and dialogue. ‘We are the future leaders’: Peace as Progress in Sierra Leone.

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We are the future leaders and if you are taking decision that will affect us and we are not involved, I don’t think that is good. The decisions you are making will affect the youth in the long run and therefore we should be part of the entire process. (Kii Boy, 19–25, Koinadogu)

For young people in Sierra Leone, endemic poverty, the lack of reach from government services and social protection and a lack of incoming solutions to their problems has resulted in an admirable ‘DIY’ mentality to community development that fed into their mobilisation during the recent Ebola crisis. In this context, engagement with community-level activism had become an important part of everyday life following the Civil War, resulting in a vibrant patchwork of NGOs, both local and global; other civil society actors; and community spaces dedicated to the reparation of social relations or development objectives such as training, health or awareness raising. Given the lack of readily available formal, or even informal, employment, for some young people everyday activism had become a ‘way of life’ operating as a substitute for daily labour and offering a way of maximising their skills, training, networks and reputation without necessarily the corresponding financial reward. For some young men this meant becoming part of ‘youth cliques’, a more benign and less well-organised version of the Nigerian vigilante groups. As I have explored earlier, ‘cliques’ are often derided in the national press as a corrupting force on young men in particular, offering an increasingly institutionalised route into both political patronage and street violence. However, as examples from Nigeria have shown, where vigilante gangs are well-established components of the political machinery, gangs can play an important mediating role between ineffective government and local communities as well as absorbing large numbers of young men in informal employment (Meagher, 2007; Pratten, 2008). As this informant notes, in the context of social and moral breakdown the status of cliques in Sierra Leone is more ambiguous and these youth are informally organising to sort out problems and resolve community disputes and encouraging other young people to do the same. In my school, I have been a welfare advocator trying to talk to some of my colleagues who are engaging in this thing called ‘cliques’, I use to go to them engage them so that can the reality in life and stop doing the bad things they are doing. For instance here in Kabala, we a common practice here now wherein if you have a dispute with someone, you can come now

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and give me money to deal with the person you are having a confrontation with.

For most young people we spoke to, the cliques were an urban phenomenon and were not part of their daily life but were representative of a broader move into community mobilisation and activism which were becoming more organised and uniform. For example, a number of civil society actors spoke of their involvement in development and community work from a young age, which has helped them to, in turn, support and inspire young leaders and activists. Many of these longer-term actors developed their expertise in community led development during and after the Civil War, adapting their skills, spaces and networks to different development issues over the years and encouraging a group of young leaders to follow in their footsteps. For example, the manager and founder of the ‘Youth Partnership of Peace and Development’ (YPPD) started when he was 18 after in 2005 to become active participants in the ‘truth and reconciliation process’ by helping their conflict-affected peers with the ‘aspiration of integrating young people back into society after the war’. One of their roles, emulated in other contexts such as Rwanda, was to take the findings of the reconciliation process into communities via a mobile cinema before becoming an integral part of the ‘West African Network for Peace Building’ that fosters peace and conflict resolution across the region. More recently, they have become advocates of youth-led development with programmes on education, child protection, governance and accountability. In one recent innovative project, they used short videos and plays to capture a range of social problems and relay them in a community setting. An approach that again has been replicated in places as far afield as Mexico. Many of these advocates and activists benefitted from having community organisations and networks which were both embedded in communities for long periods and which were associated with spaces which could be used for a variety of community purposes. For the young people and civil society actors, we spoke to informal, youth friendly spaces provided vital platforms for opening dialogue between different social groups and were seen as an effective measure for mitigating the potential for a repeat of the conflict. For example, the ‘Attaya Base’ programme offered a friendly space for young people to drink tea and discuss social issues. There were also many examples of youth mobilising

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to perform everyday action, whether preventing disputes from escalating to promoting community relations through sport. During the Ebola outbreak, young men especially were mobilised successfully by both NGOs and the government as part of a widespread sensitisation programme around hygiene. In a context where health workers were being assaulted and were generally mistrusted, youth were essential for reaching communities and engaging local people: Youth were coming from NGOs and from the government to tell us about hand washing and the things we should do to remain Ebola free. we should not bury the dead and touch the sick and we should call 117 in case we are faced with any of the above situations as that is the only way to remain safe and they were also telling us not to eat bush meat and that OKADA riders shouldn’t ride after nine in the evening.1

This informant details the importance of young people as mediators between health authorities and local communities poignantly describing how some local people thought of the ‘thermometer as a gun’ due to their fears of death from having a high temperature, resulting in many people avoiding seeking treatment as this informant explains: I think the other issue was lack of sensitization and or education as that was evidenced during the time when we were working as volunteers. It was during the outreach we realised that people were referring to thermometers as a ‘gun’ but we were able to educate them that it has no harm and therefore they should have confidence in the health system and continue seeking medical attention. In fact what the health workers were doing was to allow you to rest each time your temperature is above thirty nine degree. We were also telling that, doctors will not give you illness that you don’t have. My community Dwarzark was a hot spot during the Ebola outbreak and some of relatives and others in the community were afraid of coming very close to us as they do not have confidence in us. But because I was well informed, I was doing as I was told and that was the reason why I was going to quarantine homes. I think our sensitization helps a lot as people started seeking medical attention from that time for their various purposes. Therefore, increase in teenage pregnancy was as a result of lack of knowledge about Ebola.2

1 FGD Under-18 Mothers Bombali. 2 Ki Boy, 14–18, Port Loko.

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In the spirit of DIY development, young people played a vital, but overlooked, role in working with communities to raise awareness and help people access treatment, further evidence of their ability to act with sense of ongoing social responsibility in their own communities. As this informant reports, youth played the role of ‘broker’ between medical and political authorities and local communities: As a youth, one of the developmental contributions I have made is my participation in the constitution review process of which we made a position paper and it was given to the review committee. Also, during the time of Ebola, I did a lot of sensitization in the chiefdom and in the community where I was living at that time. We were also educating our people to stop eating bush meat as most of them were not listening to the advice of the health care workers. (Male Youth, 20, Koinadogu)

However, for many young women, their already precarious situations were compounded during the Ebola crisis by immobility, isolation and a lack of education. Teenage pregnancy, early marriage and secret abortion had increased during the outbreak as young women were forced to become more reliant on both young men and elder relatives for support, a situation compounded by the breakdown of their already limited access to health care. This also made them more vulnerable to ongoing issues such as FGM and SGBV. Women from minority ethnic and religious groups with more rigid ideas around early marriage were also more isolated and more vulnerable, as were other discriminated against groups such as young disabled people and often stigmatised Ebola survivors. For some young men this proved a turning point in their activist stories, pushing them to become more engaged in local politics. For example, Foday became more fully engaged in youth activism when he completed his secondary schooling. With his father absent, his mother supported his education by herself and he combines his youth advocacy work with helping her earn money to support his family. In his district, he is an active campaigner on the rights of women and the disabled, counting himself member of several voluntary organisations. He started volunteering for a local community organisation when his mother could not afford his school fees. Inspired by a visit from the ministry of social welfare, gender and children’s affairs, he started working on youth outreach programmes, before eventually getting involved with PLAN Sierra Leone’s youth advisory panel which promotes youth participation.

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One of his main interests is fighting for the rights of his female peers, as he explains FGM is normally practised during the ‘dry season’ which is when his network tries to bring traditional leaders and community members into dialogue with the young people he represents, often with limited success ‘the traditional leaders and some community members will not be happy with us at they think it is a taboo for a male youth to discuss publicly issues relating to FGM. During this period, even if you invite them to participate in your programs they will not honour your invitation’. Part of the problem, he told us, is the lack of support from national government: ‘I’m not aware of any program at national level that is supporting youth advocacy at community or district level. If there is any, they should have let us know because I’m also part of vibrant youth groups in the district’. ‘Leh We Talk’ [Let Us Talk]’: Ambiguities of Gender in Post-Conflict Sierra Leone. The boys always feel that they are more intelligent than the girls in this community and within the district. They boys used to say that the girls are not experienced and therefore they should not be voted in as president of the nation or be appointed as ministers.3

For some young activists we spoke to, gender was the main focus of their work. The young people we met working for the Youth Advocacy Network (YACAN), for example, discussed how they had been involved in the Girl Power project as well as running a weekly radio discussion show for young people, with a special emphasis on issues affecting young women’s lives: The culture of our people is one of the barriers to female education in the region. What we are now doing is to involve parents from different communities to a meeting and we will use the female youth to discuss the role of women towards the development of the nation or the family. The reason for this is to ensure that those parents who are very stubborn in educating their girl child start doing so. I think if we continue with kind of sensitization, the mentality of our people on girl child education and the issue of earlier marriage will reduce in the district. (Male Youth, 17, Koinadogu)

3 FGD Girls, 19–25, Kuinadogu.

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Well so many things have come together to see how best they can be able to make a change. Some people are mistaking the process of change to be that automatic not knowing that, it is a process that is coming step by step. Sometime ago, we used to have some high rate of discrimination of girls and the disable people of any form and more especially girls. For us, we use to have a group called ‘’Girls Making Media Project.’’ What we were trying to do is that, we were trying to mitigate the discrimination against girls.

M: How were you doing your work? R: We were doing it in different ways and we had different areas we used to operate. We were doing it in such a way that we made sure those who were concerned actually know the main issues and understand them as well. Like when we got to a particular community, we made sure we targeted the chief and made sure he/she understands the issues and after getting their consent, we now made sure we go ahead and do our sensitization in the community. We also used to tell them the impact of some of these issues and why they should not discriminate the girls. We used to act dramas explaining how it is important for girls to be included in the sharing of family properties even when it comes to decision making, they also need to be included. We were giving them these kind of education that will move the family forward as well as the community forward and we tried so much in that. In Makeni today, you will not hear about discrimination like it used to happen before now, in fact in most of the arrangement here now, you will hear then saying one boy one girl or two boys’ two girls as the case may be. In fact they’re now encouraging more girls than boys that is why even in the job advertisements now, you will see that, it is been stated clearly that ‘women are encouraged to apply’. That is to tell you that women are more been encouraged and to also tell them that, women as well can do the job and not just the men. We also do a lot of other things like advocacy in raising the awareness of the girl child. (Male youth, 20, Makeni) However, despite these very positive gains, some of our informants relayed how difficult it was for women to access both positions of power more widely and even to participate in spaces designed for the purpose of

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participation. In Port Loko we spoke to two prominent female activists who advocated for the rights of local women and girls in cases ranging from FGM to domestic violence. They told us that despite significant changes and steadily increasing gender equality, girls and women still faced multiple forms of exclusion: Obviously women are been marginalized. For instance, here in Port Loko, how many women do we have here? …Even in the area of councillors, out of 34 wards, we only have 2 women as councillors, so we’re really been marginalized. (Kii Women’s Community Advocate, Port Loko) We’re trying, before this time, we as women don’t even have confidence in our very selves due to our tradition. Even to participate in forums, it was very difficult for women to involve in those. Even to go to school, it is only the boys or the men. Women are not allowed to go to school but bit by bit we are getting there coupled with your own help. Before this time, we as women don’t have trust in ourselves. When it comes to forums, even a woman is been pointed at to talk, they’ll tend to discourage her and say, ‘’let the men continue.’ (Kii Women’s Community Advocate, Port Loko)

This reflected the experience of a number of younger girls we interviewed, who often wanted to participate in political spaces and debates but faced stigmatisation for doing so, primarily from young men. For example, Amy, 24, told us how her education was initially disrupted at the age of 13 when she fell pregnant (got ‘hard belly’). Encouraged to drop out of school by her Mandingo Muslim family, who valued a good marriage over her education, for the next few years she struggled to survive with the intermittent support of her now husband, having a second child when she was 15. When the father left her alone with two children she tried to make ends meet by selling vegetables on the street, something she still does today. Her life really changed when she started attending a Christian church, where she got support outside her family and a place to call home. Today, she sells vegetables to eke out a living, but she is also active in the church community, encouraging young women to use contraception, work with NGOs and continue their education. Ebola made things even harder for her and other young women in her community, and she tells us how some of her friends have taken up sex work to make ends meet and how she is trying to stop the same happening to younger girls, as well as stopping them ending up like her with a ‘bad, bad, belly hard’. She is also trying to go back to school and finish her diploma, as she wants

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to ‘for be somebody’ in the future but, in her words, ‘life is straining’ meaning everyday is still a struggle to survive. Others reported how their families urged them to give up their commitment to activism and take up ‘real jobs’. As Theresa from Passion4Humanity, a community-based organisation told us, local programmes to address women’s lack of participation were proving highly popular. At just twenty-seven years of age herself, she is well aware of the multiple problems facing young women in Sierra Leone and passionate about helping women to help themselves: That is more so while we are involving women in this LEH WE TALK [Let Us Talk] Program which is a sub set of our broader program. In our settings, when your husband is talking, you are not supposed to talk but to listen and say yes to whatever he came up with at the end as he is the head of the house hold. There is a saying that a man should talk above his voice but a woman should not talk about her voice but should do in a very tongue. There are certain gatherings where women are often discriminated against. For instance in KAMANYADOR which is in Kono district, when they have chiefdom meetings, women are not allowed because they belief that women are not part of development and should stay in the kitchen. This is what we are advocating for as we want women to be part of key decision making processes in this country.4

However, it is important to emphasise that as well as a growing cadre of young female advocates and activists, young men are also changing their attitudes. As this informant told us, this non-participation can be multi-layered: We organised youth in the district into two groups and we registered twenty male and twenty female youth. But when there is a meeting or program, you will realise that all male youth will attend and only few female youth. But what we realised was that; most of the female youth in the community are involved in a lot of domestic work which will limit their association with the male youth. The other reason we find out for their non-participation in youth activities is the advice they get from their parents as parents will refer to youth advocacy as idleness.5

4 Kii Youth Actor, Bombali. 5 KI Boy, 14–18, Kuinadogu.

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This comment also reflects the support expressed by a number of young male informants that attitudes and behaviours were changing with a growing awareness of the widespread issues faced by girls reflecting a broader generational shift. Many of the male only FGDs and KIIs actually placed social problems traditionally seen as issues affecting women (teen pregnancy, early marriage) at the top of their list of fragility indicators and many were passionately advocating the protection of women as well as in some cases, getting involved directly in campaigns to prevent the exploitation of their female peers. One caveat to add is that. Despite persistent gender inequality in Sierra Leone some young men discussed how they were tired of the continued and concerted focus on women’s issues asking ‘what about us boys’,6 reflecting a widespread belief that some groups of young men had been marginalised or ‘left behind’ by the current global and national development agenda.

Conclusion My analysis has shown that the non-violence literature needs to more fully embrace the complexity of young people’s lives on the ground working through conflict and post-conflict social issues. Young people in Sierra Leone experienced multiple layers of vulnerability in their everyday lives, experiencing the recent Ebola outbreak in the context of an ongoing economic crisis as both an emotional and personal assault on their freedom, security and well-being and also as a closing down of many of their life options. However, as I have demonstrated, they are not simply standing still, they are ‘doing’ development themselves, helping their communities and each other to find work, get an education or simply mobilise around specific issues or cause. The outbreak of Ebola both exposed these vulnerabilities but also revealed the exceptional courage and willingness of young people to actively get involved in helping their communities and the national effort against the spread of Ebola and navigate through crisis to an ideal of stability and economic prosperity. In this context, non-violence can become both a mode of selfbecoming for young people and a way of engaging with complex political realities at both the local and national levels. In Sierra Leone, these recent mobilisations must be situated in relation to an ongoing dialogue over

6 FGD Boys, 14–18, Kuinadogu.

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the role of peace and violence and the legacy of conflict. Even for young people of school-going age, the Civil War cast a long shadow over their present existence and shapes the way they relate to ideas of peace and prospective tension. As the data shows, many young people have a history of activism and are following activist patterns and pathways in the same way their parents would have followed livelihood pathways. These new histories of activism and community mobilisation for peace, stability and community relations deserve further attention and situating with regard to the current literature which preserves binaries between peace and violence and neglects the young people who navigate between both, in both spatial and temporal terms. Furthermore, the analysis presented here has exposed the ambiguous engagement with state actors by young people seeking to engage in community mobilisation. This in part due to the fragmentation of state services and state provision, but also on the informal, interpersonal networks through which mobilisations can gather momentum. This reflects Thieme’s (2013) observation on the important role of brokering organisations in building and sustaining community mobilisation and engagement in non-violent action in the shadow of overbearing, ineffective or dangerous state actors. Many of our informants were inspired, informed or galvanised by involvement with community NGOs, Foday offering a good example of how activism can become part of everyday life for some young people. As our understanding of non-violent action moves forward we must understand more completely the role of non-state actors as catalysts for change which may also provoke ambiguous or even fraught interactions with the state. Finally, the existing non-violence literature also has a tendency to be gender-blind or overly focussed on young men, creating binary oppositions which obscure the complex negotiations of everyday gendered realities in conflict and emergent post-conflict arenas (see Pruitt, 2015). This chapter has shown how these negotiations remain deeply relational, implicated in a wide array of social networks and intergenerational tensions. In terms of youth more broadly, even as increasing numbers of young men are displaying heightened levels of gender awareness, young women are experiencing problematic levels of sexual exploitation and discrimination, with the recent economic, political and Ebola crises7 disproportionately

7 The COVID-19 pandemic has further heightened these issues.

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impacting young women and rescinding gains in gender equality. At the same time, gender activism is clearly reshaping broader attitudes towards gender, especially among younger Sierra Leoneans and offers a blueprint for integrating gender-responsive strategies into all peacebuilding efforts (Krause, 2019). This analysis has shown that only through an inclusive understanding of youth engagement in non-violent action can conflictaffected settings build towards more stable forms of post-conflict stability and security leading to genuine social transformation.

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Coulter, C. (2008). Female fighters in the Sierra Leone war: Challenging the assumptions? Feminist Review, 88(1), 54–73. De Certeau, M. (1984). The practice of everyday life (S. Rendall, Trans.). University of California Press. Denov, M., & Buccitelli, A. (2013). Navigating crisis and chronicity in the everyday: Former child soldiers in urban Sierra Leone. Stability: International Journal of Security and Development, 2(2), 45. Diggins, J. (2015). Economic runaways: Patronage, poverty and the pursuit of ‘freedom’ on Sierra Leone’s maritime frontier. Africa, 85(2), 312–332. Diggins, J., & Mills, E. (2015). The pathology of inequality: Gender and Ebola in West Africa. Institute of Development Studies. Edwards, B., Yilmaz, S., & Boex, J. (2015). Decentralization as a post-conflict strategy: Local government discretion and accountability in Sierra Leone. Public Administration and Development, 35(1), 46–60. Enria, L. (2012). Employing the youth to build peace: The limitations of United Nations statebuilding in Sierra Leone. Human Welfare, 1(1), 42–56. Enria, L. (2015). Love and betrayal: The political economy of youth violence in post-war Sierra Leone. The Journal of Modern African Studies, 53(4), 637– 660. Fanthorpe, R., & Maconachie, R. (2010). Beyond the ‘crisis of youth’? Mining, farming, and civil society in post-war Sierra Leone. African Affairs, 109(435), 251–272. Finn, B., & Oldfield, S. (2015). Straining: Young men working through waithood in Freetown. Sierra Leone. Africa Spectrum, 50(3), 29–48. Forti, D., & Maina, G. (2012). The danger of marginalisation: An analysis of Kenyan youth and their integration into political, socio-economic life. In Africa dialogue (p. 55). ACCORD. Frederiksen, B. F. (2010). Mungiki, vernacular organization and political society in Kenya. Development and Change, 41(6), 1065–1089. Fusco, D., & Heathfield, M. (2015). Modeling democracy: Is youth “participation” enough? Italian Journal of Sociology of Education, 7 (1), 12–31. Hilker, L. M., & Fraser, E. (2009). Youth exclusion, violence, conflict and fragile states (Report Prepared for DFID by Social Development Direct). Social Development Direct. Honwana, A. (2006). Child soldiers in Africa. University of Pennsylvania Press. Honwana, A. (2014). Waithood: Youth transitions and social change. In Development and equity (pp. 28–40). Brill. Jeffrey, C., & Dyson, J. (Eds.). (2008). Telling young lives: Portraits of global youth. Temple University Press. Krause, J. (2019). Gender dimensions of (non) violence in communal conflict: The case of Jos Nigeria. Comparative Political Studies, 52(10), 1466–1499.

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Maclure, R., & Denov, M. (2009). Reconstruction versus transformation: Post-war education and the struggle for gender equity in Sierra Leone. International Journal of Educational Development, 29(6), 612–620. McQuaid, K., Esson, J., Gough, K. V., & Wignall, R. (2021). Navigating old age and the urban terrain: Geographies of ageing from Africa. Progress in Human Geography, 45(4), 814–833. Mazurana, D., & Carlson, K. (2004). From combat to community: Women and girls of Sierra Leone. Hunt Alternatives Fund. McIntyre, A., & Thusi, T. (2003). Children and youth in Sierra Leone’s peacebuilding process. African Security Studies, 12(2), 73–80. McKay, S. (2004). Reconstructing fragile lives: Girls’ social reintegration in northern Uganda and Sierra Leone. Gender & Development, 12(3), 19–30. Meagher, K. (2007). Hijacking civil society: The inside story of the Bakassi Boys vigilante group of south-eastern Nigeria. The Journal of Modern African Studies, 45(1), 89–115. Menzel, A. (2011). Between ex-combatization and opportunities for peace: The double-edged qualities of motorcycle-taxi driving in urban postwar Sierra Leone. Africa Today, 58(2), 97–127. Mitton, K. (2018). Elite bargains and political deals project: Sierra Leone case study. UK Stabilisation Unit. Oosterom, M. A. (2018). Youth and social navigation in Zimbabwe’s informal economy: ‘Don’t end up on the wrong side.’ African Affairs, 118, 485–508. Oosterom, M., Kache, C., Mususa, D., & Pswarayi, L. (2016). The violent politics of informal work, and how young people navigate them: A conceptual framework (No. IDS Evidence Report 198). IDS. Oosterom, M. A., Wignall, R., & S. Wilson. (2017). Youth action in fragile settings. PLAN UK. Özerdem, A., & Podder, S. (2015). Youth in conflict and peacebuilding: Mobilization, reintegration and reconciliation. Springer. Pratten, D. (2008). ‘The thief eats his shame’: Practice and Power in Nigerian vigilantism. Africa, 78(11), 64–83. Pruitt, L. J. (2015). Gendering the study of children and youth in peacebuilding. Peacebuilding, 3(2), 157–170. Richards, P. (2005). To fight or to farm? Agrarian dimensions of the Mano River conflicts (Liberia and Sierra Leone). African Affairs, 104(417), 571–590. te Lintelo, D. J. (2012). Young people in African (agricultural) policy processes? What national youth policies can tell us. IDS Bulletin, 43(6), 90–103. Thieme, T. A. (2013). The “hustle” amongst youth entrepreneurs in Mathare’s informal waste economy. Journal of Eastern African Studies, 7 (3), 389–412. Tom, P. (2014). Youth-traditional authorities’ relations in post-war Sierra Leone. Children’s Geographies, 12(3), 327–338.

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Urdal, H. (2006). A clash of generations? Youth bulges and political violence. International Studies Quarterly, 50(3), 607–629. Utas, M. (2005). West-African warscapes: Victimcy, girlfriending, soldiering: Tactic agency in a young woman’s social navigation of the Liberian war zone. Anthropological Quarterly, 78, 403–430. Vigh, H. E. (2006). Navigating terrains of war: Youth and soldiering in GuineaBissau (Vol. 13). Berghahn Books.

CHAPTER 6

The Nonviolent Qeerroo Movement and Political Changes in Ethiopia Zekarias Beshah Abebe

Introduction In 2014, the government’s announcement of a controversial ‘master plan’ for Addis Ababa and the surrounding Oromia towns and villages sparked violent protest across Oromia that intensified in 2015. Addis Ababa has been undertaking a Master Plan for the last 126 years. In 2012, the city administration established a project office (Addis Ababa City Planning Project Office) with a mandate to prepare a ten-year Master Plan for the city. Meanwhile, the mandate of the office was modified to prepare a metropolitan Master Plan which in effect extends the jurisdiction of the office to include the surrounding towns and villages of the Oromia—the largest regional state in the Ethiopian federation. The office eventually unveiled ‘a readymade metropolitan plan’ at the capital of the Oromia

Z. B. Abebe (B) Debre Berhan University, Debre Berhan, Ethiopia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 A. Iwilade and T. M. Ebiede (eds.), Youth and Non-Violence in Africa’s Fragile Contexts, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13165-3_6

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regional state, Adama. In the subsequent sensitization programmes held at the town, officials—mainly the low middle level—from Oromia began to air their concerns about the Master Plan. The situation quickly evolved into tension between the government and the Oromo ethnic group when a protest erupted at Jimma University, Oromia, in April 2014. The government managed to contain the situation before it got much attention both within and outside the country. However, in November 2015, a wave of protests rocked Oromia denouncing the Master Plan and other grievances that had been simmering beneath the surface for long. The government eventually rescinded the Plan, yet protests continued unabated triggering more vigour and political demands including the end of ‘TPLF domination’. There are diverging views on the motive and implication of the Master Plan on the surrounding ethnic populace. The federal government— which commissioned the plan—explains that the fast industrialization and urbanization happening in the capital city and the surrounding localities have necessitated a harmonized project. It further claims benefiting the surrounding community from the infrastructural projects and service provisions that the Master Plan envisioned to implement. Critics of the government on the other hand, views the project as no less than a blatant encroachment on the territorial jurisdiction of the Oromia. It is perceived as an attempt by the federal government for a territorial expansion into the regional state of Oromia. The manner in which the Master Plan was initiated and prepared is also criticized for infringing constitutional principle of ‘comity and mutual respect’ in the relation between the federal and state government due to the absence of any genuine involvement and consultation of the later. The mass eviction of the Oromo farmers from what they believed to be their ancestral land, that would soon follow the implementation of the project, was also believed to change the cultural and ethnic composition of the local population and marginalize the evicted farmers. Another protest was staged in Amhara—the second largest regional stat—after a deadly clash broke out between the federal security forces and members of a committee asserting Amhara identity in the summer of 2016. In the subsequent days, protests spread across some parts of the Amhara regional state venting their anger and discontent with the political system. The mass protest by the two numerically dominant ethnic groups plugged the country into one of the worst political crises since 1991.

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More than 1000 people were killed during the protests over the period between 2014 and 2018; the government declared a state of emergency two times between 2016 and 2018; the body politic deeply fractured; and the ruling coalition faced political tremor with ever growing divisions among member parties. However, perhaps, the most dramatic event is the unprecedented resignation of the Prime Minister Hailemariam Desalegn and his replacement by the new Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed with the promise of reforming the political system. The coming into power of Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed set the country on the course of whirlwind political reforms. Positive measures have been taken to relax the political environment. Thousands of prisoners have been released; rebel groups previously labelled as terrorist organizations were invited back to participate in the country’s political system; criminal charges against dissidents were dropped; and repressive laws which were instrumentalized to silence any opposition against the government are now under revision. The country is indeed undergoing a major political reform. The driving force behind all these changes is a nonviolent youth movement which came to be known as the ‘Qeerroo movement’—a nonviolent struggle staged in Oromia against the Tigrayan People’s Liberation Front (TPLF) led regime. This chapter is an attempt to shed light on the nonviolent Qeerroo movement and the political changes it induced. It highlights the nature, structure, mobilization, and demands of this underresearched movement. It also discusses the different nonviolent methods deployed by the movement and how and why the nonviolent methods were effective in bringing political change in Ethiopia. The chapter covers political developments between 2014 and 2018.

Some perspectives into the Qeerroo movement: meaning, structure, and demands The qeerroo movement’s nature of organization and leadership has been difficult to establish. The literal meaning of ‘Qeerroo’ in Oromoffa is ‘youth’. In the Oromo culture, it does not, however, encompass all the youth but a young bachelor. Many believe that the term entered into the political discourse in 2006 with the formation of ‘Qeerroo Bilisummaa Oromoo’ as a youth wing of the Oromo Liberation Front (OLF)—an organization established in 1973 by Oromo nationalist with the aim to achieve self-determination for the Oromo people against the perceived domination by the northerners.

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Befiqadu hailu, an Ethiopian activist and blogger, argues that this group was originally established by University students as an informal network, which later on evolved into an active resistance group following the onset of the Oromo protest in 2014.1 But, its genesis can be traced as far back as 1969. The word Qeerroo as part of the Oromo struggle emerged in 1969, according to Jawar Mohammed, an activist and political analyst widely linked to the movement, and a leader figure for the Oromo struggle.2 A self-help association called the Macha-Tulama was established in the 1963 to promote the Oromo self-identity and providing infrastructures to the Oromo people. As the popularity of the association rises among the Oromos, the imperial regime banned the association in 1967 and persecuted its prominent leaders including the arrest of General Tadesse Birru and the execution of Capitain Mamo Mezemir. With the intensification of the crackdown, some of its leaders escaped to Somalia and then to Yemen to form a rebel group called the Ethiopian National Liberation Front. In Yemen, the members of the newly established rebel group received a military training to wage an armed struggle against the imperial regime. 36 of them led by Jaarraa Abbaa Gadaa were dispatched from Yemen to Ethiopia through northern Somalia to start the armed struggle. However, security forces tracked them down and arrested them. These people, the 36 members of the armed group, were named qeerroo.3 This was how, for the first time, the word Qeerroo entered into lexicon of the Oromo struggle. For the second time, it came in 2006 following the controversial national election crisis. The OLF organized a youth wing under the ‘Qeerroo Bilisummaa Oromoo’. This was actually a continuation of the student movements that was taking place from 2001 to 2004. That just morphed into the Qeerroo under the OLF leadership in 2006. The group was very efficient and successful for staging mass protests in 2006 and 2007 across Oromia. The group was unfortunately infiltrated by the government and even, some of its leaders became double agents turning the Qeerroo into a trap for much of the Oromo activists.4 Following

1 Interview with Befiqadu Hailu, January 2019, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. 2 Interview with Jawar Mohammed, January 2019, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. 3 Ibid. 4 Ibid.

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the 2014 Addis Ababa Master Plan, the Qeerroo group re-emerged as a platform for Oromo resistance. This time around, however, the revamped Qeerroo group carefully detached itself from the one previously established by the OLF and emerged as a separate youth movement. Whether Qeerroo is an organized group with recognizable structure and a chain of command is subject to dispute. Some claim the presence of such structure while others downplay the claim. For instance, in an interview with The Guardian in March 2018 two young Oromos claimed to be Qeerroo leaders stated that ‘each district of the city has one Qeerroo leader, with at least 20 subordinates’. They further claimed the existence of hierarchical chain of command. Conversely, Befeqadu Hailu dismisses such claim arguing that an organized and structured Qeerroo with a chain of command is a myth rather than a reality.5 But, Jawar’s understanding of the movement is somewhat different. He argues that the movement is a mix of both. There is active structure, well trained coordinators but yet they may not resonate the chairman type, top-down hierarchical structure as we know it in most armed insurgency and political party system.6 At the same time, he argues, it is not completely informal nor a spontaneous protest as many people would claim.7 The movement does not have a centralized hierarchical structure. Coordinators of the movement did not find this type of organization fitting to a social movement since it creates vulnerability for the adversary given its clandestine nature. This does not mean however that it is a leaderless horizontal movement as it remains hardly possible to undertake a social movement without some kind of organization and leaders. The Qeerroo movement has multiple horizontal units and subunits and central coordinating groups and individuals that do not have the kind of chairman role with a central figure. In smaller villages, according to some sources, there are around 20 Qeerroos, composed of students and other professionals such as medical professionals, security personnel and teachers, but the number gets larger in bigger towns. In addition, in every locality, there are coordinators working on publicity, medical response, intelligence gathering and information dissemination. The ordinary members of the Qeerroo nor the coordinators are dependent on one

5 Interview with Befeqadu. 6 Interview with Jawar Mohammed. 7 Ibid.

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single individual for decision making or reporting purpose. This is probably to avoid the infiltration and crackdown by the government. As Jawar stated, if the structure is dependent on single individual as a decisionmaker and if that individual defects get captured, the whole network will become vulnerable and a sitting duck for government crackdown. Another important point concerning the structure of the movement is that it combined social media activism with grass root activism, which gave a leverage for the Qeeroo movement to connect with people at village level who may not have access to the Internet. It also enabled the movement to sustain its struggle even in situations where the adversary decided to shut down the Internet in an attempt to cripple the mobilization effort. At this point, it is imperative to discuss the role of Jawar Mohammed who is widely perceived to be behind the Qeerroo movement. Undoubtedly, Jawar shaped the movement significantly and his role was decisive. He provides the following while explaining his controversial role in the movement. My role is a multiple fold. One, I am their strategist. I studied non movement for long time. I grew up in the struggle; I understand the nature of the struggle and its limitations. I also spent several years studying nonviolent struggle at Stanford University, Oxford and India and different places. So, my main role has been to Strategize…providing strategic inputs and providing training. The second role is communications, articulating their demands and Speaking on their behalf to the public, to the international audience and also help them coordinate as well, help them craft their messages.8

But, Jawar categorically rejects the widely accepted claim that the Qeerroo group is remote controlled by him saying that: Was I a leader for them? Yes, I was one of them. But I was never their boss, I was never their chairman. They never saw me as a boss. They did take inspiration. They did take advice. But, did I control them? No! If that was the case, we would not have succeeded and there is no such kind of

8 Ibid.

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control…I did play important role probably leading role. But, I Was never intended and I’ll never be able to Control them remotely.9

However, it cannot be simply denied that he served as a de facto leader of the group given his central role in the mobilization as well as coordination of the movement.

The Demands The demands of the movement and the change that it sought to bring about cannot be boiled down to a single factor. As the protest was sparked by the announcement of the Master Plan, during the initial phase of the protest the demand was for its cancellation. The government’s decision to rescind the Master Plan however failed to assuage the indignation of the protesters. As the protest gathered momentum, the demands of protesters also grew to include structural issues and historical grievances encompassing wide-range of topics ranging from self-rule in Oromia to social justice to good governance to democracy to regime change. In fact, the demands of the movement cannot be properly understood without situating them into their historical contexts. In this regard, the youth movement in Oromia cannot be regarded as an isolated and spontaneous event; it is a continuum of a contestation over the making and remaking of the state in the last half a century. Some scholars argue that the Oromo have been largely subjected to socio-economic and political marginalization since the making of the Ethiopian polity.10 For instance, Asafa Jalata (1995, p. 166) points out a contradiction between the Oromo’s relegated position in the Ethiopian political life despite the fact that they are numerically dominant ethnic group in the country. Such marginalization coupled with the general political awakening of students in the 1960s gave birth to ‘Oromo nationalism’. The imperial regime’s brutal response to the rising tide of the Oromo nationalism radicalized the nationalism so much so that at the beginning of 1970 the quest to get their right position in the national

9 Ibid. 10 See for instance, Jalata (1993), Bulcha (1997).

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politics was elevated to the level of autonomy to establishing an independent Oromo republic.11 The lopsided reforms launched with the coming into power of the Derg regime, which was responsive to the socio-cultural grievances but suppressive of the diverging political aspirations, failed to content the demands of Oromo nationalism. The advent of TPLF/Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF) led regime in 1991 did little in fundamentally addressing the historical questions of the Oromo. It reconfigured the state along ethnic based federal model by devolving power to regional states that are organized on ethno-lingual basis. The long-yearned quest for selfdetermination also became a constitutionally guaranteed right. However, the praxis over the last 27 years has been at odds with the ideals of ethnic federalism. Most scholars agree that the much-touted federal system failed to decentralize power to the regions. For instance, Merera Gudina, an Ethiopian political science professor and politician, described the system introduced by EPRDF as ‘decentralization on paper and centralization in practice’.12 Similarly, Tronvoll and Aalen described the political arrangement as ‘central authoritarian…that operates behind the facades of federalism and ethno-national self-determination’.13 This was a major setback to the Oromo’s age-old question for autonomy. The quest for abbaa biyyummaa which is, according to Tsegaye Ararssa, ‘the right to have full say on, and control over, the resources, the governance, and politics of their country’, was one of the rallying cries of the protest.14 Besides, the TPLF’s outsized control over the national politics and the economy which represents just 6 per cent of the population to the detriment of other groups dashed the hope for fair representation and equal access to national resources. At the heart of the TPLF’s domination is the asymmetrical power relations within the coalition between TPLF and other political parties representing Oromo, Amhara and the Southern Nation, Nationalities and Peoples that formed EPRDF. This engendered disenfranchisement and indignation of the Oromo people.

11 Merera Gudina (2007, pp. 89–90). 12 Merera (2007, p. 97). 13 Quoted in Mehretu (2009, p. 6). 14 Tsegaye R. Ararssa, ‘How the “Special Interest” of Oromia over Addis Abeba became a vacuous exercise in legal rhetoric: What is next? Addis Standard Special edition, 20 February 2018.

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The regression of democracy and a reversion to complete authoritarianism in the aftermath of the 2005 contentious election is also another area of discontent. Since then, opposition parties have been weakened, and infamous laws were issued that successfully hamstrung the activities of civil societies and the free press. The result of such strict control and purge of political parties, civil society, and media is the emergence of EPRDF as a dominant party controlling all levers of political power from national to the lowest local unit. This was evident in the 2010 and 2015 election results where the EPRDF and its affiliates amassed 99.6 per cent and 100 per cent of votes, respectively. This pushed the country to the edge of total closure of political space for any dissenting voice, rendering streets the only avenue to vent out discontents. Therefore, looking into the protesters’ slogans, placards, chants and speeches, the main demands of the movement can be summarized as: the right for self-rule, social justice, fair representation in the national politics, and democracy while other smaller and local demands were also raised during the protest. Befeqadu also agrees to this summary when he captures the demands in the following words: …even though they [protesters] threw different local questions in their local protests they can be summed up as extension of questions raised by OLF and other elderly Oromo politicians. Their questions are for regional autonomy, for proportional representation in federal government, for equal economic/wealth distribution.15

Mobilization As for many social movements in recent times, social media served as a crucial avenue for mobilizing the Qeerroo. In an authoritarian context where freedom of expression, freedom of assembly, and access to information are severely restricted, social media platforms like Facebook and Twitter filled the void as a tool to orchestrate different form of nonviolent actions such as protest rallies, strikes, blockades and others, and disseminate information about government’s brutal crackdowns against protesters. Jawar Mohammed, speaking to Al Jazeera about the role of social media in the youth movement, said that ‘you cannot imagine this

15 Interview with Befeqadu.

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revolution, this change without social media’.16 Indeed, the platform was a game changer in the Oromo protest. In a context where the intelligence eavesdrops and monitor all forms of communication, the diasporas in the West took advantage of the freedom of speech they enjoy to freely stream information via social media. This not only gave them the leverage to shape public opinion about the movement but also placed them at the centre of the homeland politics. The role of Jawar Mohammed was particularly notable in that regard who became the single most important source of information in which people turn for updates on the unfolding political crises in the country. He effectively used social media as an important instrument to reach hundreds of thousands of young people across Oromia to organize them for action. This made Jawar an uncontested ‘de facto leader’ of the movement who has immensely shaped it by articulating, communicating its demands and strategizing the peaceful struggle.17 Sources indicate that Ethiopia is one of the least connected countries in the world with one of the lowest Internet penetration rate of 12 per cent.18 Mobile phone penetration is also one of the poorest (43 per cent in 2015) even on regional standards. Despite this however the number of Internet and social media users have increased by leaps and bounds over the last few years. For instance, data from Digital in 2018 report suggested that annual growth of Internet users in the country was around 37 per cent while the number of active social media users was growing by 20 per cent.19 Social media users also reached a critical mass where more than 3 million people in Ethiopia had active accounts. What is more, the rapid expansion of smart phones coupled with the availability of affordable mobile data plan, which became the main means of going online, made the use of social media a lot easier in the country. As such,

16 Al Jazeera, ‘How social media shaped calls for political change in Ethiopia’, 11 August 2018. https://www.aljazeera.com/programmes/listeningpost/2018/08/soc ial-media-shaped-calls-political-change-ethiopia-180811084501289.html. 17 Interview with Befeqadu. 18 2015 data from International Telecommunications union (ITU) cited in Freedom

House Country Report 2016. https://freedomhouse.org/report/freedom-net/2016/eth iopia. 19 Capital, ‘Digital in 2018: Report shows fast growing use in Africa’, 19 February 2018. https://www.capitalethiopia.com/capital/digital-2018-report-shows-fastgrowing-internet-use-africa/.

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social media remained an effective tool for the diaspora-based Oromo activists to connect with the youth on the ground and mobilize them for demonstrations, particularly University students and the youth in urban and semi-urban areas who have better access to Internet. Jawar effectively exploited this opportunity in waging his unconventional warfare of nonviolent movement against the government, discombobulating the latter on how to contain the situation. Cognizant of the dangers that social media was posing to the very survival of the regime, the government also hit back by pulling the plug on the Internet, particularly mobile data in which most Ethiopians use to get online. During the heat of protests in Oromia and other parts of the country, heavy crackdown on protesters were often accompanied by restricting Internet access, Internet throttling, and social media blackout. As the state-owned Ethio Telecom was the sole telecommunication service provider, it enabled the government to limit the service anytime at will. Internet shutdown, mainly mobile data, had been pervasive since protest set off in November 2015 until the new Premier Abiy Ahmed took helm of the government in April 2018. Social media and messaging service like Viber, WhatsApp and Messenger were largely blocked since early March 2016 in Oromia and other selected areas. Internet services were completely shut down in Amhara, Addis Ababa and Oromia on August 6 and 7, 2016 following the escalation of the protest. Mobile data went off for several days after a declaration of state of emergency in October 2016. The Internet outrage continued unabated in 2017. The government imposed a blanket Internet shutdown across the country in the wake of fresh student protests in December 2017.20 There was further blackout of Internet following the surprising resignation of Prime Minister Haile Mariam Desalegn. As the protest was largely planned, mobilized, and coordinated via social media, its restriction severely affected the youth movement. The frequent Internet shutdowns and social media blackouts constrained the mobilization and coordination of protests and strikes.21 While this gave a sigh of relief to the government, but it was fugacious as protests flared

20 Freedom House report on Ethiopia. The report covers the period between June 2016 and May 2017. https://freedomhouse.org/report/freedom-net/2018/ethiopia. 21 Ibid.

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up again with the restoration of the Internet. Yet, in some cases, the youth were also able to successfully navigate and surmount the restrictions imposed by the government to go ahead with their planned protest. However, the role of social media in the Qeerroo movement should not be overstated. Although one cannot deny its decisive role in shaping and facilitating the youth movement for change, caution should be taken not to fall into the ‘technological determinism’ argument which views ‘technology as the principal initiator of the societal transformation’. An attempt to associate the Qeerroo movement with the expansion of Internet service remains inaccurate as the Oromo movement for change was there even before the advent of social media.

Nonviolent Movement: ‘Ethiopian Exceptionalism’? One of the salient features that characterizes the Qeerroo movement is its clear departure from violence and adoption of nonviolent struggle as a strategy to counter its repressive adversary. Qeerroo’s nonviolent resistance claimed to have taken inspiration from Ethiopian Muslim protests sparked in 2011 for the alleged meddling of the government in religious affairs. Many were sceptical of the viability of this method of resistance in the Ethiopian context invoking the ‘Ethiopian exceptionalism’ argument that low Internet penetration, ethnic fragmentation and composition of the military will work against waging a successful nonviolent resistance.22 Jawar debunked the argument first at a theoretical level and then practically applied it by designing strategic nonviolent methods that are tailored to the Ethiopian realities. He outlined how nonviolent struggle could work in the Ethiopian context in his piece titled ‘nonviolent struggle: Ethiopian exceptionalism?’ which was published few years before the Oromo protest took off in 2014. The first argument is that the experience in the Arab spring shows the decisive role of social media in organizing nonviolent movements. Given the low Internet penetration in Ethiopia, the argument runs, nonviolent strategies have little chance to succeed. Jawar acknowledges the role of Internet. Yet, he positsed that low Internet penetration could not prevent 22 Jawar Mohammed, ‘Nonviolent Struggle: Ethiopian Exceptionalism’, 28 February 2011, OPride. https://www.opride.com/2011/02/28/nonviolent-struggle-ethiopian-exc eptionalism/.

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nonviolent movement from flourishing as the critical mass who were involved at the strategic planning stage had access to Internet.23 This was indeed the case with the Qeerroo movement. The second is on the composition of the military. Critics drew attention to the fact that the top brass of the military officials were by and large TPLF affiliates; as such, they remain loyal to the political leadership. While this might be true, the assumption did not reflect the realities of the rank and file of the military. Unlike the top brass of the military, the rank and file are drawn from all corners of the country. Most of the soldiers below the rank of Colonel did not share ideological mutuality nor had personal connection with the political leadership.24 History is full of evidences where even if both the political leadership and the military are dominated by the same ethnic group, this by itself does not give the regime a strong posture as well as render nonviolent uprisings unfeasible.25 The apartheid regime in South Africa is a case in point. Accordingly, Jawar contends, it is possible to stage a successful nonviolent resistance in the context of repressive regimes by employing ‘a carefully planned and designed low-risk action’.26 The third argument is that the prevailing social fragmentation in the country is a major roadblock for a nonviolent resistance to succeed. Many would agree that what kept the TPLF led government in power for so long is not only its military prowess but also its divide and rule tactics that foment tension and suspicion among the various ethnic groups. This has been particularly true with regards to the two numerically dominant ethnic groups, the Amhara and the Oromo, who jointly make-up twothirds of the total population. The regime exploited historical hostility between these two groups by framing them as eternal enemies and existential threat to the unity of the Ethiopian polity.27 Such social tension may dent the effectiveness of the nonviolent strategy but will not render it 23 Jawar (2011), ‘Nonviolent Struggle’. 24 Jawar (2011), ‘Nonviolent struggle’. 25 Ibid. 26 Ibid. 27 Awol Allo (2015), ‘“The blood flowing in Oromia is our blood too”: Why

Oromo-Amhara solidarity is the greatest threat to the Ethiopian government’, Africa Arguments. https://africanarguments.org/2016/09/27/the-blood-flowing-in-oromia-isour-blood-too-why-oromo-amhara-solidarity-is-the-greatest-threat-to-the-ethiopian-govern ment/.

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totally impossible. If organizers work on mending the existing ethnic fault lines, there is a possibility of success for nonviolent movements. This was clearly evident from the Ethiopian case. The experience of shared oppression and marginalization of the Amharas and the Oromos helped them to narrow-down their differences and join hands against the minority led regime. The chants—‘the blood flowing in Oromia is our blood too’, ‘We are all Oromos’, ‘I am not Oromo but I stand with my Oromo brothers’—during the rally in Gondar, the epicentre of the Amhara protest, in solidarity with the Oromos played a significant role in bridging the ethnic cleavage. This changed the gears of the movement and intensified the assault on the regime, eventually bringing to its knees.

Nonviolent Methods Protagonists adopt nonviolent strategies for the reason that it is the ‘most effective and least costly’ means as compared to armed struggle.28 A survey conducted from 1900 to 2006 reveals that major nonviolent struggles conducted over the period were more than twice as successful as violent insurgencies.29 The strength of the nonviolent resistance lies in its ability to weaken the power base of the adversary. It co-opts the regime’s main sources of power—the people. When the people withdraw their consent and cooperation to the regime, it falls apart! Robert Helvey, in his seminal book ‘On strategic nonviolent conflict: thinking about the fundamentals’, argues that planning a nonviolent struggle is no different from devising armed conflict in the sense that in both cases, it starts with identifying and analyzing what is called ‘pillars of support’ and the Achilles heel of the opponent.30 ,31 It is only when the main pillars of the regime are ‘undermined, neutralized or destroyed’ that a movement will succeed in bringing the intended reforms. Jawar Mohammed, the strategist for the Qeerroo who has studied nonviolent movement for several years at Stanford and other prestigious universities,

28 Ackerman/Kruegler (1994) cited in Veronique Dudouet (2008), ‘Nonviolent resistance and conflict transformation in power asymmetries’, Berghof Research Centre for Constructive Conflict Management, p. 7. 29 Erica Chenoweth (2012, p.23). 30 Robert Helvey (2004). 31 Robert Helvey (2004, p.9).

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understands this very well. While explaining how the movement tried to navigate the oppressive regime in Ethiopia, he stated that: The first is really to map the political space in this country, the nature of the state, the regime’s strength and weaknesses; a whole deeper analysis of what kept the government in power? The second is to analyse your society, your base, your constituency… We figured out of all the pillars, the most vulnerable is the economy. So, to weaken the economy was our first strategy.32

On the other hand, the Qeerroo well understood the fact that the strength of the regime mainly lied in the military as they came from military background. In the past, anybody who tried to take them on militarily were easily outflanked. However, the regime was less familiar with the terrain of nonviolent movement. It was against these considerations that the Qeerroo movement found waging nonviolent resistance expedient to face the powerful regime heads-on. Gene Sharp, in his monumental manual, identified 198 methods of nonviolent action which generally fall into one of the three categories: nonviolent protest persuasion, non-cooperation, and nonviolent intervention. Erica Chenoweth rightly observed that if movements rely on one or two methods, they become sitting ducks for regime crackdown.33 Successful movements mix variety of tactics to outmanoeuvre the opponent and disperse the latter’s repressive capability. It was against this backdrop that the Qeerroo movement combined wide range of methods encompassing symbolic gestures, rallies, stay-at-home protests, demonstrations, strikes, and road blockades. The following are some of the major methods employed by the movement. #Oromoprotests: Resilient mass protests, widely referred to as #oromoprotests, that were largely peaceful despite government’s harsh crackdown was the hallmark of the Qeerroo movement. Many rounds of such protests roiled the Oromia regional state beginning from April 2014 up to the abrupt resignation of Prime Minister Haile Mariam

32 Interview with Jawar Mohammed. 33 Erica Chenoweth (2012, p.25).

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Desalegn in February 2018.34 The protest started on April 12, 2014 at Jimma University, South Western part of the country, denouncing the Master Plan. The protests then spread into some other educational institutions located in Oromia demanding for the scrap of the Master Plan. The protests which continued until early June 2014 was relatively small, student-led and mainly concentrated in the Western part of Oromia and Universities.35 The government failed to respond to the legitimate questions; rather, security forces used brute force against peaceful protesters claiming dozens of lives. The government seemed to manage suppressing the protest for the time being though, the second round of protest erupted on November 12, 2015 with full of vigour. Another wave of protests was set off in Ginchi, 80 kms southwest of the capital Addis Ababa, in protest of the alleged transfer of a football pitch and forest reserve for investors. A week later, another protest erupted at Ambo University, located at the epicentre of the Oromo protest, under the banner of ‘no to the Master Plan’. It, then, spread into the rest of Oromia in which the domino effect reaching some 227 towns and rural areas of Oromia, according to a report by the Ethiopia Human Rights Project.36 This round of peaceful protests which lasted until January 2016 engulfed the whole of Oromia in unprecedented manner. What is more, it further pushed the edge of protests from urban areas deep into rural areas of the country, thrusting the periphery into the centre stage of the protest. On the other hand, the government also intensified its fierce crackdown on peaceful protesters leaving hundreds of people dead and tens of thousands mass arrest. Along with the crackdown, the government also made one concession to tone down the protest: to roll back the beleaguered Master Plan in early January 2016. This, however, did little to stop the protests as by that time, the demands had already morphed into much broader political questions including the removal of the regime. Then came the next wave of protests in mid-February 2016. It was triggered when the security force attempted to arrest a bus full of guest

34 See Ethiopia Human Rights Project (2016), ‘Days of Public Protests’ for the detail reports on the rounds of protests. http://ehrp.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/ 03/EHRP-OromoProtests-100-Days-of-Public-Protests.pdf. 35 IPI Global Observatory, ‘Data Analysis: The Roots of Popular Mobilization in Ethiopia’, 16 June 2017. 36 Ibid.

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around Shashemene, in Oromia, who were heading to a wedding ceremony.37 The attendees were playing an Oromo song widely known as a resistance song. This precipitated a clash between the federal security forces and local people causing multiple casualties. The incident ignited wave of protests where, according to the IPI Global Observatory report, in February alone an average of 26 protests per week was registered across Oromia.38 The region experienced low intensity protests throughout March and April with the resumption of major protests in May which continued over the summer.39 August 2016 was a milestone in the trajectory of protests in the country: #oromoprotest was joined by the Amhara, the second largest ethnic group, turning up the heat on against the government. Though the protest in Amhara state sparked following a clash between the federal security agents and members of a committee established to assert Amhara identity, longstanding issues simmering beneath are behind the revolt. What is historic about the August protest in Amhara was that protesters showed their solidarity to the Oromo, chanting ‘the blood flowing in Oromia is our blood too’. Such solidarity not only gave impetus to the Qeerroo movement but also paved the way for the emergence of alliance between OPDO and ANDM, political parties in the ruling coalition representing the two largest ethnic groups. The alliance turned the table on TPLF which previously exercised an outsized influence in the coalition. Week of rage: Tension escalated in October 2016 after a deadly violence broke out at the Irreecha, a thanks giving festival. Hundreds of thousands of Oromos from every corner of the country coalesce into Bishoftu, just 50 KMs from Addis Ababa, every October for the annual religious festival. The 2016 celebration was exceptional: that the Qeerroo organizers turned the festival into a mass rally chanting ‘down, down Woyane’, referring to the TPLF led regime. A deadly stamped ensued when police force fired tear gas to disperse the protest. The confrontation between government security forces and protesters caused a stamped which resulted in the death of several people and many others injured. Diaspora-based activists fumed the incident by labelling it as ‘Irreecha

37 Mebratu Kelecha, ‘Protest, Repression and Revolution in Ethiopia’. 38 IPI Global Observatory, ‘Data Analysis: The Roots of Popular Mobilization in

Ethiopia’, 16 June 2017. 39 Ibid.

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massacre’; inflated the number of victims to the extent of claiming more than 700 deaths while many journalists on the ground lowered the number to 52–55. Gruesome pictures of victims were swirling on social media all that day. Organizers called for ‘five days of rage’ in response to the Irreecha death. On October 3, 2016, protesters blocked main roads; torched dozens of vehicles; and attacked several foreign factories and flower farms, mainly foreign-owned, including Africa’s richest man, Aliko Dangote’s, cement factory. The incident is often cited by critics of the Qeerroo movement in their claim that the movement has been violent than nonviolent. Whether this was an aberration to a generally nonviolent movement or was it part of the strategy is something to scrutiny. Jawar argued that destruction of property is one of the most common strategy of nonviolent struggle.40 For him, what nonviolent entails is avoiding use of gun to confront the state machinery and not killing people; burning and destroying of property are at a higher level more confrontational and destructive, yet they remain within the 198 methods of Gene Sharp.41 He further stated in relation to the days of rage that: Factories are burned but you do not see anybody been killed in it; you see cars burned but you do not see anybody dying…destruction of property is nonviolent, death of people is not. So, prior warning has been always given to the factories and given enough time for them to escape and, then, they [Qeerroo] set fire on the factories or cars.42

However, whether property destruction tactic fall within the category of nonviolent methods remains a contested issue. Strikes and blockades: Protests in Oromia significantly subsided following declaration of state of emergency and Internet shutdown in November 2016 which was precipitated by the escalation of violence after the Irreecha incident. Protests were muted for almost 8 months since the ‘week of rage’. The declaration of emergency and the ensued fierce crackdown against protesters coupled with the Internet blackout, which was instrumental in mobilizing and organizing protests, badly dented their capability. In the words of Jawar, the Qeerroo went into a ‘survival 40 Interview with Jawar Mohammed. 41 Ibid. 42 Ibid.

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mode’.43 Therefore, this period was a period of recovery, re-strategizing, regrouping and remobilizing resources. The movement was reawakened in July 2017 responding with protests to tax hike imposed on small businesses. Despite the state of emergency, businesses remained closed and roads taking to the capital were blocked. According to Jawar, the renewed protest on tax hike served two purposes to the Qeerroo movement.44 First, it brought the business community to their side and second, it was a softer approach to test the new capabilities of the movement after a long period of hibernation and movement exhaustion. The government was finally forced to withdraw the new tax arrangement. Another protest sparked in October 2017 in and around Shashemene, West Arsi Zone of Oromia and then, spread into a dozen of towns in West Arsi, West Shewa, Wallaga, and Hararge zones.45 While it was triggered by the incursion of the Somali Liyu police into the Oromia territory, they also demanded the downfall of the regime and release of jailed political leaders. On February 15, 2018 Prime Minister Hailemariam Desalegn tendered his resignation in an unprecedented manner though not unexpected. The unrelenting protests in Oromia as well as Amhara since 2015; the deteriorating political crises; the ever-growing rupture between parties within the coalition seemed to inform the Prime Minister’s decision to resign. On the following day, the government declared a controversial state of emergency for the second time since the onset of the protest. This move of the government was vehemently opposed by leaders of the Qeerroo movement including Jawar. As government went ahead with the declaration of the state of emergency, Jawar called Qeerroo for a three-day social shutdown. The call was effectively implemented by Qeerroo where businesses were closed across Oromia region while roads connecting Addis Ababa were targeted and remained blocked off, bringing the capital to a complete standstill. The Qeerroo took advantage of the geographic location of the capital, which is surrounded by the state of Oromia. As such, this was one

43 Interview with Jawar. 44 Ibid. 45 OPride, ‘#Oromoprotests in Ethiopia take unexpected turn’, 12 October 2017.

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of the most successful tactical moves of the Qeerroo as it turned the heat of the protest to an unbearable level for the government.

The Government’s Crackdown, ‘Political Jiu Jitsu’ and Outcomes The government kept on framing the legitimate demands of the movement as works of anti-peace elements who are bent on destabilizing the country. Over the course of the four years struggle, security forces killed more than 1000 persons. As the government intensified its crackdown, so did the strength of the movement. This is what is often referred to as ‘political jiu-jitsu’. Repression against nonviolent movements will have a boomerang effect against the attacker by boosting the internal and external support to the nonviolent group while weakening the power position of the government.46 Jawar also stated that ‘We knew crackdown will come…We want to make sure that they will crackdown. When they crack down, it backfires on them but strengthen our side’.47 It indeed worked on the side of the Qeerroo movement. What actually contributed to the downfall of the regime was the fierce crackdown. A major rupture occurred within the ruling coalition when crackdown failed to bring the sought result. The reformist argued, if this did not work then nothing is going to work. They rather wanted to test their own way by listening and responding to the demands of the movement. The complacent on the other hand sought to try force once again to supress the movement. OPDO and ANDM who represent the two restive regions of Oromia and Amhara and the two largest regions that have two-thirds of the total population, formed an alliance of the reformist group against the complacent TPLF which previously exercised outside influence over the rest despite the fact that it represents a population that accounts just six per cent. The new dynamics in the political landscape reinforced the resistance in three ways. First, he Qeerroo got free space to stage successful protests, strikes and blockades as the regional government (OPDO) began to shield them from violence by the federal security apparatus. Second, the split within the party seriously weakened the regime and hamstrung its coercive 46 Gene Sharp (2005, p. 406). 47 Interview with Jawar.

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capability against the adversary. Third, both internal and external support increased as the regime’s legitimacy shredded. With less threat of crackdown, more people showed interest to join the struggle which bolstered the resistance. Similarly, Western powers who previously regarded the regime as a key ally and bulwark in the fight against terrorism in the Horn began to recognize the legitimate demands of the movement. The shift of power to the Qeerroo ultimately forced the regime to undergo political reforms that would placate protesters. According to Gene Sharp, there are four mechanisms in which nonviolent struggles could induce change.48 The first is conversion. It takes place when the government changes its view. When change is brought as a result of concessions made by both sides, it is called accommodation. As Véronique Dudouet rightly captured, in this case, why the government responds to the demands of the movement is not because it has changed its mind on the issue nor lost its capability to continue the fight.49 They instead realize that balance of power is shifting and, therefore, negotiation is found to be politically expedient. If change comes against the will of the government, because it is overwhelmed by the nonviolent movement and its coercive power has waned, then it is nonviolent coercion. On the other hand, disintegration refers to a situation where change ensues as a result of the total breakdown of the regime. Looking into the Ethiopian case, there was concessions made by both sides. Protesters renounced their quest for the total dismantle of the regime; they instead began to espouse the reformist group within the regime. On the other hand, the TPLF led regime agreed to undergo a ‘deep renewal’ to address some of the demands of the movement. The regime found it expedient to reform itself than risking a total disintegration. It is against this backdrop that EPRDF decided to bring Abiy Ahmed to the fore from the restive region of Oromia as a chairman of the ruling party and Prime Minister of the country. In this context, the change induced fits the category of accommodation.

48 Gene Sharp (2005, pp.8-9). 49 Veronique Dudouet (2008), ‘Nonviolent resistance and conflict transformation in

power asymmetries’, p. 15.

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In connection with the outcome of the movement, it has changed the Ethiopian polity in many ways. One of the major gains of the movement is its role inreforming the authoritarian regime from within and setting the country on the course of democratic transition. It is premature to tell whether the country has carried out a successful democratic transformation, but there have been encouraging steps to liberalize the political space since Prime Minister Abiy’s ascension to power. one can safely say the country is indeed on the right track taking stock of the political reforms with Abiy Ahmed’s ascension to power. Positive steps to liberalize the political space have been taken. For instance, thousands of prisoners including prominent political leaders were released; three rebel groups were removed from government’s terrorists list; charges dropped, and bans lifted against two diaspora-based broadcasters who were vocal critics of the government; filtered websites and blogs were unblocked; and the environment for free media has been relaxed. The same was said by Jawar while explaining the fruits of the movement. He stated: Now, we have a government that doesn’t talk down to people but that actually emulate the words of democracy, the words of transition, and the words of Freedom. Not only that, in most of parts of this country there is freedom today. People are free. People can gather; people can talk; people can meet; and go about their daily life. So, the Qeerroo movement has toppled the dictatorship it has paved the way for a democratic engagement in this country. It has liberated the country from yoke of oppression.50

The movement has also changed the dominant narrative of the Oromo struggle over the past half a century. The Oromo politics has been perceived by some as an antithesis to the Ethiopian state that the aim of the struggle was to establish an independent Oromo republic. The Qeerroo movement redefined the Oromo politics by changing the narrative of ’independent Oromia’ into repositioning the Oromo into their rightful place in the national politics. For many centuries, power alternated between northerners (the Amhara and Tigray ethnic groups). With the Qeerroo struggle, the centre of power seems to be now shifting towards to the South.

50 Interview with Jawar Mohammed.

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Conclusion The Qeerroo movement in Ethiopia has brought changes which neither political organizations nor armed insurgencies have achieved for long period of time. The movement had forced the government to change its authoritarian course and set the country on a path towards democratic transition. Whether that transition would bring sustainable peace and democracy to the country however remains to be seen. Some studies suggest that nonviolent movements are positively related with democratization, but that is not guaranteed as some of the movements may lead to the emergency of a new form of authoritarianism. The Iranian green revolution is a case in point. As such, Qeerroo’s success cannot be full without a democratic governance taking root in the country. A concern worth highlighting is that there are possibilities for the Qeerroo to destroy its own gains and mar the legacy of the movement, particularly if they is no strategy on how to channel the empowered Qeerroo to operate within the framework of rule of law. The sprit and discipline of nonviolence may not always sustain during the post-struggle periods. Members of a grass root movement who were once committed to nonviolence may turn to be violent. Dangers are already looming as some members of the Qeerroo are allegedly behind the spike of communal violence in Oromia region. Given the current Ethiopian context where youth bulge is accompanied by high unemployment rate and ethnic polarization, there are growing risks of the Qeerroo turning to be violent. It is also critically important for the government to address the structural socio-economic and political challenges that became sources of discontent to achieve sustainable political stability in Ethiopia.

References Ackerman, P., & Kruegler, C. (1994). Strategic nonviolent conflcit: The dynamics of people power in the twentieth century. Bulcha, M. (1997). Modern education and social movements in the development of political consciousness: The case of the Oromo. African Sociological Review, 1(1). Chenoweth, E. (2012). Think again: Nonviolent resistance in Magnus Meyer Harrison (ed.), ‘Youth for democracy: Learning from nonviolent struggle across the world’.

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Dudouet, V. (2008). Nonviolent resistance and conflict transformation in power asymmetries. Berghof Research Center for Constructive Conflict Management. Gudina, M. (2007). Ethnicity, democratization and decentralization in Ethiopia: The case of Oromia. Eastern Africa Social Science Research Review, 23(1), 81–106. Helvey, R. (2004). On strategic nonviolent conflict: Thinking about the fundamentals. Albert Einstein Institution, East Boston. Jalata, A. (1993). Ethiopia and ethnic politics: The case of Oromo Nationalism. Dialectical Anthropology, 18, 381–402. Jalata, A. (1995). The emergence of Oromo Nationalism and Ethiopian reaction. Racial & Political Justice, 22(3), 165–189. Mehretu, A. (2009). Ethnosymbolism and the dismemberment of the state in the Horn of Africa: The Ethiopian case of ethnic federalism. International Conference on Afican Development Archives, 132. Sharp, G. (2005). Waging nonviolent struggle: 20th century practice and 21st century potential. Boston.

CHAPTER 7

Youth and Non-violent Resistance: #ThisFlag Movement in Zimbabwe Simbarashe Gukurume

Introduction Youth in authoritarian and violent spaces are often portrayed as violent. Yet in such spaces, many young people are deploying non-violent tactics and strategies of articulating their grievances. Drawing on ethnographic fieldwork in Harare, this chapter focuses on a youthful group, the #ThisFlag movement in Zimbabwe to unpack the dynamics and tactics of non-violence in the 2016–2017 nationwide protests. This chapter draws on ethnographic fieldwork conducted with young people in Harare to argue that in spite of state-sponsored brutality and violence against members of this movement, young people in the #ThisFlag movement deployed effective non-violent and cyber forms of confronting the state and navigating the precarious terrain of state violence (Gukurume 2022a). I assert that the deployment of non-violence was in itself a form of agency and a creative way of navigating a violent state. Thus, this

S. Gukurume (B) Sol Plaatje University, Kimberley, South Africa e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 A. Iwilade and T. M. Ebiede (eds.), Youth and Non-Violence in Africa’s Fragile Contexts, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13165-3_7

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chapter contributes to emergent scholarship that unpacks non-violence engagements in conflict research. This chapter further argues that the bloodless coup that overthrew former president Robert Mugabe should be understood within the context of the non-violent mass protests from 2016–2017 which were inspired by #ThisFlag movement. I argue that the non-violent action by many groups like #ThisFlag, #ThisGown and #Tajamuka played a huge part in the removal of Mugabe’s protracted rule and sanitising the November 2017 coup. From 2015 to 2017, a number of social movements emerged and confronted the Mugabe government to deal with deepening poverty crisis, skyrocketing unemployment especially among the youth, poor service delivery and corruption by government officials. Through social media, many of these non-partisan movements organised virtually and mobilised support for online and offline protest action. One of the most popular and influential of these movements was the #ThisFlag movement. The #ThisFlag movement was led by a youthful cleric Pastor Evan Mawarire who drew on the symbolism of the flag and appropriated it to mobilise citizens to speak out against the excesses of the government and for protest action. On 19 April 2016, a day after Zimbabwe commemorated its independence, Pastor Mawarire posted a poetic video on his Facebook page where he passionately bemoaned the country’s protracted socio-economic and political crisis. Although this was a personal rant inspired by his personal existential challenges, Mawarire’s cyber outbursts resonated with the everyday realities and existential challenges of many Zimbabweans who responded overwhelmingly through comments, likes and shares of Mawarire’s video. Consequently, Mawarire’s video would give birth to arguably the biggest social media engendered protest in post-independent Zimbabwe (Gukurume, 2017; Gukurume 2022a). With the country’s flag on his shoulders, Mawarire went from one colour of the flag to another questioning the symbolic meanings attached to each of the colours and how these had become meaningless in light of the country’s economic collapse, endemic corruption, and deepening poverty. The monologue video which immediately went viral galvanised people’s active citizenship. In fact, it torched a wave of social media dissent which gave people the voice to speak out against bad governance and corruption among other social vices. After the overwhelming success and popularity of Mawarire’s video, the pastor urged

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ordinary citizens to share their own experiences and stories while wearing their national flag with a #ThisFalg caption as a form of protest. Indeed, there was an overwhelming support and response to Mawarire’s call, with thousands of citizens posting their selfies on Twitter and Facebook with the colours of their national flag. Mawarire’s use of the flag and the nationalism associated with it to mobilise and symbolise protests was a strategic and creative form of subversion. He was conscious of the affective potential and symbolism attached to the flag as a tangible object of people’s collectiveness (Gukurume, 2017; Mawere, 2020). This chapter uses the #ThisFlag movement, a youth-led protest campaign, to explore youth non-violent resistance and struggle in post-colonial Zimbabwe. I also examine the various non-violent techniques that #ThisFlag movement youth deployed in challenging the state and the ways in which the state responded.

Pastor Mawarire’s Trial and Symbolic Resistance Pastor Mawarire’s social media campaign quickly became international and gained significant traction beyond the country’s geopolitical space. Riding on this populaity and support, Mawarire organised a national stay at home protest on 6 July 2016. The success of Mawarire’s #ShutdownZim peaceful protest rattled Mugabe and his political henchman. In fact, at its peak, Mawarire became one of the most threatening figures to Mugabe’s prolonged hold on power. Consequently, Mawarire’s continued call for non-violent protests and his shift from online to offline mobilisation led to his arrest. Mawarire’s controversial arrest attracted widespread local and international condemnation. On his trial, thousands of people, including the author thronged the Rotten Row Magistrate courts in solidarity with the pastor. Outside the courts people took turns to pray and sing gospel and revolutionary songs. The predominantly youthful group demanded the release of Pastor Mawarire. Many of the people constantly chanted the movement’s popular mantra “Hatichatya and Hatichada” (We are not afraid, and we are fed up). As more and more people from all walks of life continued to arrive at the courts, before Pastor Mawarire came for trial, the court deliberately tried to delay the start of proceedings hoping that people would disperse. Armed anti-riot police were deployed to surround the court building and displace the people in vain. Some of the armed police officers manned the court’s main entrance and stopped people from entering. Interestingly, people did not seem intimidated or

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moved by their presence. The police continued to push the crowd back, and away from the court’s main entrance. Meanwhile, the people’s prayers and gospel songs were becoming louder. Pastor Mawarire finally arrived in a Zimbabwe Prison Services (ZPS) vehicle for the trial. A member of #ThisFlag movement announced that the hearings will commence after lunch. Interestingly, the number of people had more than tripled. After Mawarire got out of the ZPS vehicle, people cheered him, sang his name and knelt to pray as he was led into the courts. They prayed for divine intervention for his release and acquittal. These indomitable spiritual forms of protest disempowered the brutal and violent police deployed by the government to crush dissent at the courts (Gukurume 2022a). Indeed, this echoe broader scholarly arguments that non-violence should be understood as a spirituality that takes shape in action (Harrington, 1991). As such, non-violence in this case manifested as a spirituality and not just a set of strategies. While pastor Mawarire consistently promoted peaceful ways of engaging the state and articulating grievances since he established the #This Flag movement, he was arrested and charged for inciting violence.1 As court proceedings started people began to put more decibels in their songs and prayers outside the court. After a few minutes, one of Pastor Mawarire’s 150 lawyers who had volunteered to represent him and other activists came out of the courtroom to update the crowd about what was happening and the progress they have made with his case. They told the people that the state had changed its charges and accused Pastor Mawarire of trying to unconstitutionally remove a constitutionally elected president. In Zimbabwe, this was a treasonous charge that attracted a life imprisonment penalty. Upon hearing this new charge, people’s prayers became were amplified. People held each other’s hands in a big circle and engaged in a series of powerful prayers. They braved the chilly weather and intimidation tactics of the heavily armed anti-riot police notorious for their brutality against protestors throughout the day. At around 7:30 p.m. on the same day, thousands of people were still outside the court when Pastor Mawarire was finally released and acquitted of his charges to rapturous applause. He walked out of the courts to a cheering, ululating and screaming crowd who hoisted him up like a national hero. For many

1 https://www.news24.com/news24/video/africa/watch-pastor-evan-mawarire-def ends-peaceful-protest-20160720.

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Christian supporters of the pastor, his acquittal was signified Godly spiritual dominion over the evil government and its apparatus. The use of prayer as a form of protest is neither new nor unique to Zimbabwe. Prayer has been used as a form of protesting injustices and an appeal for Godly intervention. For instance, African American Muslims used prayers as a form of spiritual resistance against police brutality and racial injustices (Auston 2017). The story with which I begin this chapter is that of Pastor Evan Mawarire. Pastor Mawarire was the leader of a non-violent social movement called #This Flag. He established the movement in April 2016. The story is particularly fascinating in the ways in which it reveals how young people resort to non-violent political acts even amid state-sanctioned violence and brutality by its repressive apparatus. It shows how protests are spiritualised and how this spiritualisation of political action disempowered brutal state responses. Thus, this chapter examines #This Flag movement and focuses more particularly on the non-violent strategies that it deployed by its members in articulating their grievances and in engaging with an authoritarian and violent state. There is very little research on and about youth and non-violence in Zimbabwe. Consequently, much of what is known about youth and politics in Zimbabwean is the violent young people engage in and the equally violent response of the ZANU-PF government to protests and its political archenemies. This bias towards violence is not unfounded because the country experienced long and protracted periods of violence (Alexander & Chitofiri, 2010; Alexander & McGregor, 2004). Indeed, since the 1893–1894 Anglo-Ndebele war, Zimbabwe has been (re)shaped by violence. Hove (2016) asserted that since this historic war that there has been a continuous reccurrence of violence in the country. Following this, the country fought and won its independence in 1980 after a violent struggle against the colonial regime from 1896 when the first chimurenga 2 was fought. Furthermore, from 1964–1980 another bloody second chimurenga was fought which eventually led to the attainment of independence (Alexander & McGregor, 2004; Chung, 2006; Kriger, 2003; Sadomba, 2011). Immediately after independence, a violent

2 The term Chimurenga is a Shona term that is used to mean the liberation struggle.

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conflict erupted which led to the Gukurahundi atrocities in Matabeleland and Midlands provinces where an estimated 20,000 people were massacred by the North Korean trained fifth brigade soldiers (CCJP, 1997). In fact, many scholars argue that former president Mugabe and his ZANU-PF henchmen always used violence against their political rivals (Gukurume 2018; Maringira 2016). After the formation of a strong opposition party, the Movement for Democratic Change (MDC) in 1999, in which Mugabe was handed his first electoral defeat since independence, ZANU-PF resorted to using violence to win elections. Consequently, pre and post-election political violence became an everyday reality in the country (Alexander & Chitofiri, 2010; Chitando & Togarasei, 2010; Chitukutuku, 2017; Maringira, 2016). Although much has been written about state-sponsored brutality and electoral violence, very little is known about how civil society groups and social movements like #ThisFlag engaged a violent state non-violently. Similarly, despite the popularity and influence of the #This Flag movement, research on this movement and its non-violent campaigns is still scarce and very much isolated. However, for a few related studies about the movement (see, Gukurume, 2017; Oberdorf, 2017; Gukurume 2022a). Gukurume’s (2017) study focused on how this movement appropriated social media technologies in reclaiming political space and people’s critical voice in the country. Gukurume (2017) argued that the #This Flag movement became a space through which, citizens not only articulated their grievances but also tried to reclaim their political voice and discursive public sphere/space. Similarly, deploying the concept of meaning-making, Oberdorf’s (2017) study explored the rise and decline of the #ThisFlag movement in the context of enduring state repression. Oberdorf (2017) argued that Mawarire created a new wave of belligerent political claim-making in Zimbabwean society. In fact, Oberdorf asserted that #ThisFlag movement morphed into a space through which citizens and netizens (Hauben, 1995; Shen, 2015) mobilised and brazenly spoke out against the government induced social injustices in the country. While these and other related studies are insightful , they did not specifically focus on how youth activists in this movement appropriated and sustained non-violent strategies to engage a violent state and forced it to address people’s grievances. As such, this chapter attempts to fill this lacuna through an in-depth exploration of young people in this movement and the various non-violent strategies they used in their protest action. I assert that the #ThisFlag movement successfully created an important discursive

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space that was outside the purview of state control which empowered the people to overcome their fear to critique the state. Indeed, the state struggled to effectively deal with and control the political threat engendered by this new ‘digital public’ that the movement created. A lot of literature argues that youth always use confrontational and violent approaches to articulate their grievances. Indeed, this body of literature constructs young people as predominantly violent (Urdal, 2006; Ukeje & Awilade, 2012; Yair and Miodownik, 2016). Similarly, some scholars assert that marginalised youth tend to be radicalised and develop violent subjectivities which manifest in violent conflicts. Much of the literature asserts that the youth bulge problem in Africa tends to fuel violent conflicts (Urdal, 2004; Yair & Miodownik, 2014). While this argument may be true in some parts of the continent, this is only one side of the story. Indeed, Oosterom and Pswarayi (2014) noted that many youths navigate violent political landscapes without resorting to violence. Following this, I assert that the essentialist framing of youth as perpetrators of violence obfuscates the complexity of youth and violence. As such, this chapter is an attempt to highlight the ways in which young people engage and navigate a violent state through non-violent resistance. By showing how this movement enacted peaceful subjectivities among its youthful membership, I make the case for youth agency.

The Authoritarian State and the shrinking civic space Since independence in 1980, Zimbabwe has been classified as an authoritarian state where citizens’ freedoms and rights are religiously suppressed and violated. Oosterom (2019) noted that Zimbabwe is largely characterized as a predatory authoritarian state. This authoritarian form of governance worsened from the late 1990s when Mugabe and his ZANU-PF government faced growing opposition and criticism locally and internationally. The formation of strong opposition, the Movement for Democratic Change (MDC) in 1999 which handed Mugabe his first electoral defeat since independence exacerbated Mugabe’s authoritarian leadership and led to a progressive shrinking of civic spaces. This shrinking on civic spaces was characterized by omni-present state surveillance (Gukurume 2019), intimidation and political violence, abduction and torture of government critics, police brutality, arrest and imprisonment as well as imposition of restrictive legislation. In fact, since 2000,

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restrictive pieces of legislation and measures have been promulgated and enacted by the ZANU-PF government to suppress and eliminate dissent. For some scholars, these laws were deliberately imposed to suffocate any liberal political voice (Gukurume, 2017; Raftopolous, 2003, 2009). For instance, in 2003 the government passed the Public Order and Security Act (POSA) and the Access to Information and Protection of Privacy Act (AIPPA). Chapter 11 of the POSA and chapter 10 of the AIPPA severely constrained the operations of civic movements and opposition political parties. Through these restrictive laws and other strategies,he ZANU-PF government has been unleashing structural violence, which successfully instilled widespread fear and discontent among the people. It is against this background and context that Ilocate the emergence and growth of a transnational non-violent social movement that came to be known as #ThisFlag. I asset that the #ThisFlag movement was incubated in the existential anxieties and challenges triggered by the country’s multilayered crisis (Gukurume 2017; 2019a). Given the authoritarian and violent nature of the state, non-violent tactics were viewed as a safer way of holding the government accountable. Indeed, non-violence resistance is designed for use against opponents who cannot be defeated through violence. The adoption of non-violent techniques of confronting an authoritarian state is neither new nor unique to Zimbabwe. In fact, there is a long history of non-violent protests in and beyond Zimbabwe. In the following section, I historicise, problematise and examine non-violent resistance in Zimbabwe and beyond.

Unpacking Non-Violence in and beyond Zimbabwe Although many scholars intuitively claim to know and understand the definition and meanings of non-violence, the term is inherently complex, contested and remains elusive conceptually. Given its complexity, the term is also subject to multiple and sometimes conflicting interpretations. In fact, scholars agree that the concept does carry multiple and subjective meanings. However, Zunes (1999) asserts that non-violent action should be conceptualised as a conflict behaviour consisting of unconventional acts implemented for purposive change without intentional damage to persons or property. Similarly, Chenoweth and Cunningham (2013) defined non-violent resistance as the application of unarmed civilian power using non-violent methods such as protests,

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strikes, boycotts, and demonstrations, without using or threatening physical harm against the opponent. For Sharp (1990) non-violent struggle is a technique of conducting conflicts using psychological, social, economic, and political weapons. Zunes (1999) further notes that non-violent action includes strikes, boycotts, sit-ins, occupations, demonstrations, refusal to pay taxes, creation of alternative and parallel institutions, and other forms of civil disobedience. Similarly, Sharp (1973) identified about 200 nonviolent resistance strategies, which included sit-ins, protests, boycotts, civil disobedience, mass non-cooperation, and strikes. Indeed, a key feature of non-violence is that ‘it is a process through which a great number of people come together with a common vision, setting common goals, creative strategies and employing a diversity of tactics’ (Hove, 2016, p. 61). Citizens confronting the state through non-violent resistance tend to utilise irregular political tactics, working outside the defined and accepted channels for political participation defined by the state (Chenoweth & Cunningham, 2013). The use of non-violent strategies to confront the state in Zimbabwe is not new. In fact, it can be traced back to the colonial era. During the liberation struggle, many nationalist groups initially resorted to non-violent resistance before resorted to armed and violent resistance. During the colonial era, nationalist groups mobilised and engaged in boycotts, commercial shutdowns, and various types of political noncooperation. These non-violent acts of civil disobedience were acts of resisting the exploitative colonial regime. Although the nationalist movements resorted to non-violence, the colonial regime often unleashed violence and brutality. This led the nationalist guerrilla movements to resort to the violent insurgency against the Rhodesian forces.

The Genealogy of #ThisFlag Of all the hashtag movements that emerged and organised the 2016 protests, #ThisFlag was arguably one of the most popular and influential movements of its time. According to Pastor Evan Mawarire, the leader of the #ThisFlag movement, the campaign started as a personal rant against the state’s failure to deliver the promises of independence which by extension constrained his capacity to cater for his family. After struggling to pay his children’s tuition fees and other basic needs, Mawarire recorded a video draped in a national flag ranting against the state and its failure to arrest the protracted economic crisis. Mawarire moved from one colour of

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the flag to another questioning the symbolic meaning of those colours and how the postcolonial state had made these colours meaningless. Mawarire then shared the video on Facebook and other social media platforms such as Twitter. In a matter of hours, the video went viral (Gukurume, 2017; Kataneksza, 2017) and generated serious discussions in the comments, received thousands of likes and shared widely.3 In response, thousands of Zimbabweans in and out of the country shared their own stories of economic hardship, disenfranchisement and frustrations by posting messages, videos and photos as well as placards using the #ThisFlag caption. In these videos, people articulated their anxieties, their frustrations, but also their hopes, aspirations, and alternative discourses of what the country’s future ought to be (Gukurume, 2017; Kataneksza, 2017; Gukurume 2022a). As such, the social media space provided the people with a platform on which a sense of group solidarity was established. Social media became a visual space that gave marginalised Zimbabweans a visceral sense of empowerment to speak for the huge number of people who identified with the movement and the concerns it raised. Indeed, it is this strong group affect, which became the movement’s rallying point (see Szablewicz, 2014). For instance, one participant named Nakai posted the following message on Twitter; This flag represents my hopes and my aspirations. The realisation of dreams that I have been robbed of #ThisFlag.

What is interesting with #ThisFlag is how this movement appropriated the national flag in its resistance to the state. Flags are always framed as symbols of national identity, but the movement appropriated the symbolism of the flag for political mobilisation and dissent. By so doing, the flag became the space and symbol of protest and resistance. The repurposing of the flag and its affective symbolism should be viewed as a powerful form of dissent. The prophet encouraged citizens and #ThisFlag members to move around with their flag on their neck as a form of protests. As such, the national flag appropriated a totally new meaning and form of nationalism that subverted the normative and dominant statecentric nationalism. It became a terrain of popular citizen dissent. This subversive use of the national flag led the government to ban the public display and selling of the flag in the streets. The police also threatened to 3 https://mobilisationlab.org/zimbabwe-activists-test-track-movement/.

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arrest people who moved around in public spaces with the national flag. Mawarire himself noted in an interview with the local newspaper that he received death threats from hidden numbers that if he continued moving around with the flag on his neck, they (state security) were going to use his flag to strangle him (Chidza, 2016).4 According to Oberdorf (2017), the movement believed in six key values and these included non-violence, dignity, integrity, diversity and citizenship. Interestingly, the movement’s continued use of the national flag as a symbol of dissent was in itself an act of defiance. It challenged ZANU-PF’s monopoly over the use of national symbols in asserting its patriotic historical discourse. As such, the #ThisFlag movement’s appropriation of the flag should be understood as a protest against ZANU-PF’s capture of national symbols.

Ethnographic and Netnographic Research with #ThisFlag This chapter is based on interpretive qualitative research that triangulated ethnographic and netnographic approaches among youth members of #ThisFlag movement in Harare. The empirical data that is used in this chapter was collected between 2016 and 2017. Several youths in the urban areas, especially in the capital city Harare were active members of #ThisFlag social movement. While doing participant observation, I joined my participants in many of the non-violent activities mobilised by #ThisFlag. As such, participant observation was one of the main data collection techniques that I used to collect primary data. Through participant observation, I was able to observe events as they occurred in their natural setting in real-time. Indeed, by participating in the movement’s non-violent activities I became a quasi-member of the movement. As such, I inhabited the position of an insider–outsider. This helped to further cement social relationships and rapport with my interlocutors which allowed them to open up and share their experiences. To augment participant observation, I also conducted 35 in-depth semi-structured interviews, several informal conversations and key informant interviews with two key figures of the movement. Furthermore, I corroborated primary data with a rigorous review of secondary sources of data, especially newspaper articles, and data

4 https://www.newsday.co.zw/2016/05/flag-protest-pastor-receives-death-threats/.

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harvesting on the movement’s Facebook page and Twitter handle. At the height of the movement and protests in 2016, I maintained a constant presence on the virtual spaces created by the #ThisFlag movement. As a netnographer (Kozinets, 2015), I took detailed notes on the comments and discussions by members of the movement’s social media platforms. This elaborate triangulation of methods enabled me to harvest rich data on the movement and the various non-violent strategies that members used . Data were collected from April 2016 when the movement first emerged to January 2017. I also recruited my interlocutors through a combination of snowballing and purposive sampling techniques. My initial contacts, who were also members of the movement introduced me to many other participants. After having access to a huge pool of potential participants, I then purposively selected what I considered informationrich cases for in-depth interviews. Information rich cases were those who were active members of the #ThisFlag movement and were also knowledgeable about th movement’s non-violent tactics.

Peaceful Stay-At-Home Protests One of the main non-violent tactics used by #ThisFlag was the stay at home protests. For instance, while conducting fieldwork in 2016, #ThisFlag movement organised peaceful protests in and outside Zimbabwe. What was interesting about the #ThisFlag movement was its capacity to appeal to a transnational Zimbabwean community and also to virtually organise and mobilise people not only in different towns of the country but also in the diaspora. Given its appeal beyond the national borders, the movement quickly morphed into a transnational social socio-political discursive space were disillusioned Zimbabwean found space and courage to speak. Scholars have shown how the movement appealed to the political sensibilities of the country’s diaspora in the United Kingdom, United States of America, Australia, Kenya, and South Africa among other countries with a huge Zimbabwean population (Gukurume 2022a). As such, this movement enabled people’s non-violent struggles in Zimbabwe to be fought in a transnational space that was not only restricted to the localised physical geopolitical space of the country. It is these international solidarities and alliances which irked Mugabe and his ZANU-PF party. As the author discussed in other articles (Gukurume, 2017; 2022a), social

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media was a critical tool used by the movement for political mobilisation to engage in offline activities like peaceful protests. The movement’s use of stay at home protests should be read as a rational risk aversion strategy and hence a demonstration of creativity. In fact, by staying at home, many people participated in the protest without fear of harassment and brutality by state security agents. Consequently, I assert that the decision to use non-violent stay at home protests was not only strategic but also an exercise of agency by the youth and members of the #ThisFlag movement. Importantly, the movement’s brazen appropriation of a national symbol for protest brings to therefore discourse of patriotism and what it means to be a patriotic citizen. Discourse of patriotism has for long been defined and monopolized by the ruling ZANU-PF party. Therefore, the movement creatively unsettled dominant and essentialist framing of patriotism. This also subverted ZANU-PF’s hegemonic narratives of patriotic history. I assert that the #ThisFlag movement sought to reclaim national symbols that had been appropriated and monopolised in the ZANU-PF party. This resonates with Mawere (2020) who argued that the #ThisFlag made use of the flag to resist and subvert grand and naturalised dominant discourses of nationalism and citizenship to foster new imagi/nations of the nation. As such, the movement offered space for counter-hegemonic understandings and narratives of nationalism and patriotism which resonates with subaltern and silenced voices. The strategy and event that shook the corridors of power in the ruling party was a massive nationwide stay at home protest which the movement called #ShutdownZim. The #ShutdownZim stay at home protest brought business to a complete standstill for the whole day across the whole country, especially in major urban centres. This shutdown was organised on the 6th of July through social media mobilisation. What made this protest particularly crippling especially in Harare was because the protest coincided with kombi (public transport) protest against excessive police presence, corruption and roadblocks in Harare which made business impossible for public transport operators. In an interview, Ephraim one of my youthful interlocutors explained; I participated in this mass stay at home protest because I felt that it was the best strategy to make the government listen to our concerns and grievances. If you go to demonstrate in the streets, the government just

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unleashes anti-riot police to brutalise people, so if we just stay at home it’s safe and effective.

Ephraim’s narrative resonates strongly with many other youth participants I talked to who noted that the stay-away protest was very effective and made the government realise the power of the people the masses. One member told me in an informal conversation that there is strength in numbers when it comes to political and policy changes. As such, the movement used all platforms to urge people to stay at home in protest. Consequently, a lot of people boycotted work and stayed at home in protest. Many scholars regarded this national stay-away protest as the largest contentious action against the ZANU-PF regime (Oberdorf, 2017; Gukurume 2022a). The success of this shutdown demonstrated not only the capacity of the movement to mount a successful political mobilisation, but also the effectiveness of citizen non-cooperation tactics. Indeed, this strategy caused enormous panic in the ZANU-PF corridors as witnessed by how party officials threaned Mawarire and labelled him a traitor and economic sabotuer. In a context where the state is violent, non-violent strategies like staying at home reveal the agency of the people and their capacity to navigate risky encounters with state security in the streets. While aware of the possible consequences of challenging the government, many young people felt that it was their duty to engage in a cyber-struggle against gross mismanagement of the country which limited employment and livelihood opportunities for many. Indeed, regarding the mass stay at home protests, Pastor Mawarire explained; This protest united the citizens through nonviolence, they avoided clashes with the police. Staying at home was an effective strategy in that it was not only low risk but also high impact.5

In all its online and offline activities, the movement used the mantra ‘Hatichatya and Hatichada’ which translate to we are no longer afraid and we are fed up. Through this mantra, citizens were urged to be bold and to speak out against the state induced hardships and violations. Emboldened by this mantra, many disenchanted youth displayed their angst and frustrations online and in offline activities organised by the 5 See also Kataneksza (2017).

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movement. Although many people questioned the mantra after Mawarire fled the country after his release, I assert that this mantra was instrumentalized as a means through which resistance was enacted and was an important way through which the movement gave voice and courage to a disenfranchised majority. In an interview with an international newspaper, Mawarire asserted; We are trying to encourage people to be courageous and to speak, to overcome their culture of silence and fear to speak

This resonates powerfully with Oberdorf (2017) who noted that the #ThisFlag-movement transformed the political subjectivities of many Zimbabweans, making them believe and do certain things that were risky and impossible before. Former president Mugabe and his ZANU-PF party were brutally ruthless with their political critics and castigating the party and its policies was a risky and precarious activity. This risk was amplified by the fact that thee ZANU-PF government deployed an extensive network of state security agents and government spies in various sectors of the country (Gukurume, 2019, McGregor 2013). This widespread architecture of state surveillance on citizens’ everyday lives and talk created a culture of fear, silence and suspicion among the people at every level of the society (Kagoro, 2005). Consequently, people were forced to resort to the ‘technologies of the self’ including self-censorship and silence as a way of trying to avoid trouble. Through the movement, Mawarire noted that he wanted to remove the fear that kept many Zimbabwean citizens from speaking out against injustices and violations orchestrated by the state and its repressive apparatus. As such, Mawarire felt that the movement would give the people the requisite space and courage to confront their problems and also to compel the government to be transparent and accountable to the citizens. It is important to note that everyday life before the emergence of #ThisFlag campaign was characterised by what Grant (2015) referred to as ‘quite insecurity’. In her study in Rwanda, Grant (2015, p. 16) uses the term quite insecurity to capture the multiple, coded, cryptic, disingenuous, and above all indirect ways in which the state enforces security onto its citizens, and how these processes paradoxically lead to greater insecurity, not only in terms of citizens’ relationship with the state but also with each other. Grant (2015, p. 16) urged us to imagine and think of ‘quite insecurity’ as ‘metastasis’ and asserts that although created by a

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particular political system at a particular historical moment, it spreads to all areas of social life, engendering fear and mistrust among friends and even family members (Grant, 2015, p. 16). Correspondingly, in the Zimbabwean context, many people, my interlocutors included, were reluctant to discuss what they considered politically sensitive issues or topics, the few who did talk about politics were careful about what they said and who they talk to about politics. Given the real and perceived pervasiveness of state security agents and spies doing the work of surveillance, people never trusted their close colleagues and even family members. Consequently, for many of them remaining silent about sensitive political issues was a safety mechanism. By creating a scenario where people became afraid of each other, the sate made surveillance and intimate and embodied phenomenon. However, #ThisFlag sought to dismantle this deep-seated culture of silence and passive citizenship. Instead, the movement sought to impart and inculcate engaged and active political subjectivities based on non-violent principles. In her article about #ThisFlag, Jacquelin Kataneksza (2017) asserted that the widespread influence of this movement emboldened Zimbabweans within and beyond the country’s national borders to speak out and challenge the state through non-violent actions. Interestingly, Kataneksza further asserted that the majority of citizens transformed from adjusting to the whims of an authoritarian and violent regime, to mobilising and expressing dissent while demanding transparency, accountability and change. Indeed, at the centre of this movement was an emphasis on fostering a new kind of civic subjectivity that promoted values of active citizenship and non-violence. In light of the foregoing, findings in this study echo Jenkins’ framing of contemporary online forms of political activism or cyber-activism as ‘participatory politics’. Jenkins used participatory politics to articulate a new kind of youth politics, especially how young people engage in virtual political activism. Consequently, #ThisFlag should also be understood within the broader context of Jenkins’ participatory politics. Jenkins asserted that participatory politics transcends our traditional understanding of what constitutes the political. Following this, I frame #ThisFlag movement as a form of participatory politics constructed as a critical ‘counter public’ and alternative discursive space through which subaltern voices articulated their grievances. Furthermore, this new counter public also contested state propaganda on and about the

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state of affairs in the country. Indeed, I assert that the #ThisFlag movement developed into an online public and discursive space through which marginalised Zimbabweans in and out of the country launched and engaged in a concerted moral critique of ZANU-PF and its political henchmen.

Prayer and Spiritual Vigils as symbolic resistance On of the non-violent actions discernible in the broad repertoire of protect tactics of the movement were public prayer vigils. The movement organised several prayer vigils in and around Harare as well as in the diaspora. In Zimbabwe, the use of prayer vigils was also a way of circumventing brutal reprisals from state security agents. In a context where the majority of Zimbabweans classify themselves as Christians, the appropriation of prayer as a key resistance ritual by #ThisFlag was a creative strategy that appealed to the religious sensibilities of many people. In fact, when Pastor Evan Mawarire was arrested, thousands of people, including church leaders and pastors thronged the Rotten Row magistrates’ courts in solidarity with the pastor. Many pf them interepreted the arraest of Mawarire as a satanic attack on the body of christ and the kingdom of God. Throughout the day, many supporters brazenly knelt to pray, sang religious songs and prayed to God for the release of pastor Mawarire, a man of God. During court proceeding one church leader led a powerful prayer and declared that the word of God says ‘touch not the annointed man of God’. Therefore, prayer was a powerful symbolic non-violent strategy that appealed to the spiritual sensibilities of many Zimbabweans thereby enabled the movement to mobilise participants from across the Christian faith and beyond. Judith, one of my interlocutors and an ardent member of the #ThisFlag movement explained; When our leader pastor Mawarire was arrested, we had to seek divine intervention. We knew that with God everything is possible, so we started singing and praying outside the court. We started with a few people but after a few hours, the number grew to almost five thousand people kneeling and praying.

These prayer vigils should be viewed not only as tools of non-violent resistance but also as relevant forms of political critique. Engagement in prayer

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for my interlocutors signify citizen agency in dealing with a violent and repressive state. Therefore, while at one level the vigil can be constructed as a form of solidarity with the arrested pastor, it can also be cast as a way of reclaiming the political voice that had been silence through violence by the state. Indeed, prayer disempowered the state’s repressive machinery that was deployed to clamp down on protestors. I assert that prayer vigils became an important form of spiritual resistance strategies used by #ThisFlag to stir affect and emotions which helped to sustain the movement. The affective ties forged during these vigils emboldened the members to continue the struggle. In fact, through instrumentalization of prayer, the struggle against the corrupt and violent state gravitated into the spiritual realm, what some called ‘spiritual warfare’. The utilisation of prayer as a tool of protest reveals the creative ways through which dissent and the political became spiritualised. Indeed, I contend that prayer becomes a form of affective space and ritual through which alternative forms of protest and resistance can be (re)imagined and enacted through time and space. This resonates with Comaroff and Comaroff (1985) who viewed religious rituals such a faith healing as non-violent resistance to colonialism. The centrality of ritual and prayer as a tool for resistance was eloquently explained by Pamela; one of my interlocutors; We have always used prayer since the movement started. I think you know our leader is not only a pastor but also a religious man who believes strongly in the power of prayer and God answering prayers. So we knew that at the courts we should use prayer as our weapon to get a decision in our favour.

This narrative was echoed by several other people I talked to outside the court. Most of them believed that they knew that with prayer they were going to win the case. In the words of Eric; one of my interlocutors; With God nothing is impossible. There was no way that we were going to be defeated in the court with the way we prayed since morning and the unity of purpose we showed as a group. With prayer and God on your side victory is certain.

The most fascinating part about Pamela and Eric’s stories pertains to the ways in which the arrest of pastor Mawarire was framed as a spiritual attack on the movement which required spiritual remedies such as prayer and

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fasting. The framing of Mawarire’s arrest as a spiritual attack resonates with the spiritual warfare discourse where Christians are engaged in a perpetual struggle against Satan and his demonic forces. As such, when Mawarire was eventually acquitted of his charges and released, it was celebrated by the thousands of people outside the court as a spiritual victory whichdemonstrated Godly dominion over Satan. Indeed, after his release outside the court, many people carried placards with messages like, “Thank you Jesus” “NdiJesu Aronga Kudai” (Its Jesus’ plan) “We have overcome, Jesus is unconquerable”

These messages reveal the spiritual meanings that people attached to Mawarire’s acquittal and release. Many people that I talked to after Mawarire’s release attributed this victory to their prayer vigils and God.6 In her article on the prayer vigil, Cornwell (2016) asserted that Mawarire was released after a powerful ‘prayer protest’ vigil outside the court. For Cornwell and other interlocutors, had it not for the power of prayer, Mawarire may not have been acquitted, let alone released from prison. This was eloquently explained in an interview with Amos. Amos noted that the powerful prayers by the people outside the court helped. Amos told me that; This is a clear testimony that our God is a God who answers prayers. He is a faithful God. When you are arrested with the charges they laid against him then ZANU-PF will make you rot in prison, but our prayers conquered today. Even the police who are notorious for brutality could not touch us.

It is against this background that one can argue that engagement in prayer vigils was not just a spiritual act, but also a form of civil disobedience meant to subvert and critique the state and its repressive machinery which perpetrated violent human rights abuses and corruption. As highlighted earlier,Mawarire was initially arrested on accusations of inciting violence. However, during his trial, the court charged that Mawarire was trying to remove a constitutionally elected government.

6 https://www.thetablet.co.uk/news/5846/zimbabwean-pastor-released-after-prayervigil-outside-court.

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This was a very serious charge which was akin to treason in Zimbabwe. Indeed, a treason charge would mean up to 20 years in prison and at worst life imprisonment. Therefore, many Christian members did not take lightly the acquittal and release of Mawarire only after a single night in prison. For Mary, one of my participant , it was a miracle and she shouted that, "Our God is a miracle working God, once this government considers you a political threat they can even strangle or poison you, but Mawarire was released, that can only be God". Mary’s claim was unfounded as fierce ZANU-PF critics like Itai Dzamara were abducted and disappeared without trace, while others like Learnmore Jongwe died in prison under mysterious circumstances. As such, prayers did not only assert dominion over ’this worldly’ things like the court or the police, but also provided some sense of ontological security (Gukurume 2022b) to Pastor Mawarire and the movement’s members. I assert that prayer’s invocation of affect was central in mobilising support for the #ThisFlag movement. This argument resonates strongly with observations made by scholars like Ahmed (2004) who reminds us of the complex ‘politics of emotions’ as a mobilising tool. Sarah Ahmed (2004) asserts that emotions signify a form of social power albeit subjugated. She further foregrounded that affect and emotions have the capacity to collate certain bodies together. As such, affect triggers collective action. In this case, prayers not only cultivated but also further cemented affective ties among group members. This was manifest when Mawarire was arrested and appeared at the magistrates’ court on 12 July 2016. Many people thronged the Rotten Row courts in their thousands. Interestingly the courts’ grounds were converted into space and site of prayer and other religious rituals as people sought divine intervention for Mawarire to be released. On the day of his court appearance, hundreds of people arrived early in the morning with their national flags—a symbol for the movement. Delays in commencing court proceedings only helped to allow more people to come and join members who came earlier. Around lunchtime when court proceedings started, thousands of people were singing gospel songs and conducting a prayer ritual outside the court. What was interesting with the people who came to support Mawarire was not only how racially mixed they were, but also how they demonstrated a strong sense of unity, community, and solidarity. Being there on this day offered me rich insights into the way people deployed non-violence strategies in their social critique of the state and its repressive apparatus.

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Initiaing and Signing of Petitions Members of the #ThisFlag movement in the diaspora often initiated online petitions challenging government decisions and demanding the removal of corrupt political elites. Indeed, one of the key strategies that the movement used in articulating it’s grievances to the state was through filing petitions to contest unpopular decisions and to force the state to act in addressing endemic corruption by government ministers. For Zimbabweans in the diaspora, initiating and signing petitions was one way through which they could connect with ’home’ and trigger policy changes back home. Therefore, petition signing was part of the movement’s repertoire of non-violent protests action. For instance, #ThisFlag drafted and submitted many petitions to the government and its various arms in 2016. Indeed, in June 2016 the movement started an ‘Undenge Must Go’ campaign petition.7 The petition was meant to put pressure on the government to relieve the then minister of Energy and Power Development Samuel Undenge to resign over alleged corruption scandals. Although minister Undenge was not immediately arrested after the petition, after the removal of former president Robert Mugabe by a coup in November 2017, Undenge was found guilty of abusing public office and corruption. The former minister was convicted and sentenced to two years in prison.8 Similarly, in 2016 the movement also petitioned the Reserve Bank of Zimbabwe (RBZ) governor and the minister of finance to stop introducing a surrogate currency called the bond note.9 The movement wanted the RBZ governor and minister of finance to reconsider the introduction of the bond note. For the members of the movement, the printing of the bond note was an economic fiscal blunder reminiscent of 2008 when the country experienced world-record hyperinflation. While the RBZ governor and the government asserted that the bond note will be equal in value to the United States Dollar, the movement produced a comic video that revealed that the bond note cannot have the same value as the American dollar. This also reveals how the movement used humour and parody as a tool of political critique and speaking truth to power. In this case, humour was used also to show the disparities between 7 www.thestandard.co.zw/2016/06/26/undenge-must-go-campaign-hots/. 8 www.herald.co.zw/ex-energy-minister-undenge-jailed/. 9 www.theindependent.co.zw/2016/08/03/zim-uprisings-useless-bond-notes/.

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the bond note and the American dollar. One of my interlocutors told me in a conversation that anyone saying that the bond note is equal to the US dollar was berserk. In fact, many people used social media to express their disillusionment with the introduction of the bond note which eroded people’s savings in the banks. Ephraim explained to me in a conversation that; This is daylight robbery by the state. Imagine you saved your money in the bank in US dollars. You deposited US dollars in the bank and now the state is saying it’s now this useless bond note. I cannot pay my children’s tuition fees in South Africa using bond notes because it’s not recognised outside as money. They claim the value is equal to 1:1, but no bank will give you forex. This is pure theft.

Ephraim’s sentiments were shared by many of my interlocutors who participated in a protest against the introduction of bond notes. Many of my interlocutors felt that the government’s attempt to introduce the bond notes was a plan to resurrect the moribund Zimbabwean dollar which was discarded in February 2009 after a world record hyperinflation for a country that was not at war (Gukurume, 2015; Gukurume 3). The use of social media spaces and petitions as non-confrontal tactics of protesting, engaging and subverting the state is understandable. In a context epitomised by a long history of state brutality and repression, many activists turned to social media due to the relatively lower risk and vulnerability to violence. Thus, being less risky made signing petitions and the social media attractive devices through which to articulate grievances and critique the state’s deceit and corruption. As such, the movement’ penchant for deploying non-violent techniques in dealing with a violent state was tactical. This finding was also echoed by Kataneksza (2017) who argued that cyber-activism provided many people with a perceived ‘safe’ discursive and communal space, through which citizens exchanged each other and the state and debated political issues without fear of police violence. I assert that digital activism and social media provided citizens with new and alternative ways of reimagining their futures and that of the country.

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Peaceful Dialogue and Engagement Apart from petitions, peaceful dialogue with state actors were also key tactics used by the #ThisFlag movement. In fact, from its inception, the movement forgrounded dialogie. One of the participants noted that the most popular strategies young people employed in articulating their grievances through the #This Flag movement was peaceful negotiation and constructive dialogue with authorities. For instance, in 2016, the movement’s leadership sought audience and dialogue with the Reserve Bank Governor Mangudya over the controversial introduction of ‘bond notes’. Bond notes are a surrogate currency that was introduced by the RBZ to ease the cash crisis in the country (Gukurume 2018; Gukurume and Mahiya 2020). Many people felt that the introduction of the bond notes was an attempt to reintroduce the local currency. Members of #ThisFlag and other social movements resisted this move to introduce bond notes from the time it was proposed. Their initial resistance was largely online. However, as the government accelerated and insisted that they will go ahead with the introduction of bond notes, the movement mobilised online for offline contentious action and peaceful protests. Mawarire and other members of the #ThisFlag movement rejected the idea that the bond note will be equal in value to the United States Dollar. Members of the movement used parody and humour to mock the government’s insistence that bond notes will have the same value as the US dollar. However, their dialogue with the RBZ governor did not stop the introduction of the bond notes. Apart from dialogue, the movement also used humour, parody and other symbolic forms of protest which were embedded in everyday life. For instance, before the introduction of the controversial bond notes, several jokes were circulated which contested the government’s claim that the new note has the same value as the dollar.

Conclusion This chapter examined the non-violent strategies deployed by a youthful social movement, the #ThisFlag movement. The movement emerged in 2016 and became popular among Zimbabwean locally and internationally. Mobilising through social media platforms, the movement used nonviolent tactics and strategies to articulate the citizens’ grievances and engaging with a violent state. The movement organised several nonviolent online and offline forms of dissent against the state. In so doing,

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the movement enabled citizens to speak out against endemic corruption, nepotism, poor service delivery, and violation of human rights among other social ills perpetrated by ZANU-PF and its political henchman. I argue in this chapter that the deployment of non-violent strategies by members of the movement has to be understood within a broader politics of repression and violence of the state. As such, engaging in non-violent techniques was in itself an exercise and deployment of their agency.

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Oberdorf, J. (2017). Inspiring the Citizen to be Bold: Framing Theory and the Rise and Decline of the #ThisFlag-Movement in Zimbabwe. M.A. Thesis, Utrecht University. Oosterom, M., & L. Pswarayi. (2014). Being a born-free: Violence, youth and agency in Zimbabwe. Research Report no. 79. Institute of Development Studies, University of Sussex. December. http://www.participatorymethods. org/news/being-born-freeviolence-youth-andagency-zimbabwe Raftopolous, B. (2003). The state in crisis: Authoritarian nationalism, selective citizenship and distortions of democracy in Zimbabwe. In A. Hammar, B. Raftopoulos, & S. Jensen. (Eds.) Zimbabwe’s unfinished business: Rethinking land, state and nation in the context of crisis (pp. 217–42). Weaver Press. Raftopolous, B. (2009). The crisis in Zimbabwe 1998–2008. In Raftopoulos, & Mlambo. (Eds.). Becoming Zimbabwe: A history from the pre-colonial period to 2008 Weaver Press. Sadomba, W. (2011). War Veterans in Zimbabwe’s Revolution: Challenging Neocolonialism & Settler & International Capital. James Currey. Sharp, G. (1990). The role of power in nonviolent struggle. The Albert Einstein Institution. Sharp, G. (1973). The politics of nonviolent action, vols, 1–3. Porter Sargent. Shen, Y. (2015). Netizens, counter-memories, and internet literature into the new millennium. In Public discourses of contemporary China. Chinese literature and culture in the world (pp. 135–168). Palgrave Macmillan. Szablewicz, M. (2014). The ‘losers’ of China’s Internet: Memes as ‘structures of feeling’ for disillusioned young netizens. China Information, 28(2), 259–275. Ukeje, C. U., & Iwilade, A. (2012). A farewell to innocence? African youth and violence in the twenty-first century. International Journal of Conflict and Violence., 6(2), 339–351. Urdal, H. (2004). The effect of youth bulges on domestic armed conflict, 1950– 2000, Social Development Paper 14. World Bankz. Urdal, H. (2006). A clash of generations? Youth bulges and political violence. International Studies Quarterly, 50(3), 607–629. Yair, O., & Miodownik, D. (2014). Youth Bulge and Civil War: Why a country’s share of young adults explains only non-ethnic wars. Conflict Management and Peace Science. Yair, O, & Miodownik. D. z., (2016). Youth Bulge and Civil War: Why a Country’s share of young adults explains only non-ethnic wars. Conflict Management and Peace Science, 33(1), 25–44. Zunes, S. (1999). The role of non-violent action in the downfall of Apartheid. The Journal of Modern African Studies, 37 (1), 137–169.

CHAPTER 8

Ushahidi’s Nonviolent Technological Impact in Kenya’s 2008 Post-Election Violence Toyin Ajao

Introduction The 21st-century technologies or new media, offer democratic and creative platforms to African youth in generating nonviolent digitized solutions to violent conflicts. From Cape to Cairo, African youth are becoming more visible in challenging bad governance through various nonviolent technological innovations, and examples abound of African youth’s creative digital activism. The #FeesMustFall Marches in South Africa, the North Arab Spring, and #EndSARS Protests in Nigeria albeit their outcomes, gave us a glimpse of what kind of social contract African

This chapter has been made possible with the support of SSRC Next-Gen, Carnegie Corporation, Andrew Mellon Foundation and the African Leadership Centre. T. Ajao (B) African Leadership Centre, King’s College London, London, UK e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 A. Iwilade and T. M. Ebiede (eds.), Youth and Non-Violence in Africa’s Fragile Contexts, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13165-3_8

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youth are propelling towards a future governance they want (Ajao, 2016, 2020). It also showed us that the youth’s attempt at social and political change has a notable edge of people-centred peacemaking approach to it. In other words, African youth netizens are utilizing the new media technologies such as social media, web. 2.0 or user-generated content and open-source software to participate in conflict transformation. Thus, African youth are altering top-down state-centred traditional peace mechanisms whereby the state and intergovernmental experts dominate peacebuilding with little or zero ownership by the people (Banda, 2010; Bock, 2012; Galtung, 2007; Lederach, 2003). This chapter provides underexplored knowledge of African youth’s innovations in addressing violent conflicts using the new media technologies. It delves into digitized endeavours of the Ushahidi Platform, which emerged at the height of Kenya’s 2008 post-election violence crowdsourcing information to fill the vacuum created by the government’s ban of live media, and the gap left by the self-censoring or ethnicized reporting of the mainstream media (Okolloh, 2009). The chapter further examines the roles of Ushahidi beyond its initial intervention during the 2008 post-election violence to their ensuing efforts to shape Kenya’s democracy and political landscape: first, as a citizen journalism platform, and later as a cutting-edge technological organization. Likewise, it offers a critical background into Kenya’s 2008 post-election violence to understand the significance of the youth-led technological interventions in violent contexts. To understand how African youth are utilizing the new media platforms in real-life contexts, data was gathered through interpretivist qualitative inquiries of Ushahidi’s platform in Kenya. Samples were collected during a three and half months’ fieldwork in Nairobi interviewing twentyeight research participants including the Ushahidi platform founders, partner organizations and intermediary institutions through an interdisciplinary study paradigm. Data were obtained through semi-structured and unstructured interviews of four members of the Ushahidi platform, six other bloggers/citizen journalists outside the Ushahidi platform, seven civil society organization leaders/workers, three governmental workers, five writers/journalists, two activists and one politician. The rationale for choosing the research samples stemmed from the preliminary enquiries into Ushahidi’s work and the platform’s scope of engagement in Kenya.

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Holistic enquiries into a people-centred approach to peace processes also required community stakeholders who are living in the real-life context of the subject under exploration be involved. The nonprobability snowballing method was adopted to obtain field information. This means that unknown research participants are selected via a chain-referral method. The study adopted thematic analysis techniques to analyze the data. The gathered qualitative data revealed how new media technologies are a “double-edged sword”, offering opportunities for netizens to either contribute to the instigation of conflict or its transformation. Conflict transformation in this sense is a holistic peace process mechanism that seeks to reduce structural and cultural violence by addressing their root causes through ground-up durable construction of long-term advocacy and strategic planning known as constructive change processes (Lederach, 2003, p. 14). Broadly, the composite elements of constructive change processes encompass relationship-building, construction of effective social structures, justice, respect for human rights and nonviolent forms of resistance. Through citizen journalism and other digitized interventions, African netizens are engaging people-centred initiatives to address violent conflicts. The concept of citizen journalism is based upon “ordinary” citizens “playing an active role in the process of collecting, reporting, analysing, and disseminating news and information” (Bowman & Willis, 2003). Rodriguez (2001, p. 19) refers to the term “citizen” in this context as members of the society who “actively participate in actions that reshape their identities, the identities of others, and their social environment, [through which] they produce power.” Atton (2009) looks at citizen journalism from a wider concept of alternative journalism/media. In this way, Atton (2009) treats citizen journalism as a subset of alternative media. Atton (2009) states that those outside mainstream media organizations produce “alternative journalism”. To reiterate Atton’s point, citizen journalism is practiced outside the grasp and control of the mainstream media, devoid of secrecy but with a strong focus on advocacy journalism and representation of marginalized voices and ignored viewpoints. Therefore, citizen journalism and digital activism would serve as catalysts for conflict transformation in ways Kenya’s youth engage new media technologies in violent contexts.

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Ushahidi’s Materialization in 2008’s Post-Election Violence Kenya underwent ghastly post-independent political violence due to election irregularities in 2008. The crisis resulted in the displacement of over 500,000 people and the death of over 1000 citizens (Mwiandi, 2008). Mwiandi (2008) sees what Kenyan 2008 post-election unearthed as deep ethnonationalist divisions engrained in socioeconomic and political problems. Existing literature on Kenya’s 2008 post-election violence has drawn seas of fundamental reasons, on why the 2007 presidential election erupted in violent conflict following previous political crises that befell the country in 1992, 1997, 2002 and 2005. One of the extant scholars, Kagwanja (2009) points to ethnonationalism and populism as the major reasons. Ajulu (2002, p. 251) expounds the complexity of “reconstruction of ethnicity, ethnic mobilisation and ethnic conflict as the main instruments of political contestation”. Generational conflicts around land disputes, unfair distribution of resources, tribalism, human rights abuses, corruption, despotism, oligarchy and colonial legacy have also been named as part of the root causes of Kenya’s protracted political crises. In the middle of the 2008 pandemonium, four Kenyan youth, who were already prominent bloggers on the nascent technology decided to fill the gap created by the ban of live broadcast and the polarized mainstream media to report and document the violence (Makinen & Kuira, 2008). They created a citizen journalism platform named Ushahidi (a Kiswahili term for “testimony”) to provide verified information through crowdsourced crisis mapping using open-source software. The Ushahidi team consisting of Ory Okolloh, Juliana Rotich, David Kobia and Erik Hersman began analyzing and documenting the crowdsourced materials, which culminated in a “mashup” graphic representation of the crisis on Google Maps depicting the hotbed of violence and places needing urgent humanitarian assistance (Jeffery, 2011). While critics of Ushahidi later considered the crisis mapping irrelevant (Nyabola, 2018), it was claimed in early studies, that not only did the crowdsourced crisis mapping assisted in humanitarian efforts, but also became a repository of information for conciliation and justice (Banda, 2010; Jeffery, 2011). Nyabola (2018) describes Ushahidi’s circumstantial but creative presence on the then nascent twenty-first century media scenes, as a trigger for Kenya’s analogue politics to beckon digital democracy in ways that dubbed the country a silicon Savannah of technocapitalism.

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The presidential elections conducted on the 27th December 2007 had Mwai Kibaki and Raila Odinga as its main contenders. Both candidates had previously teamed up under the National Rainbow Coalition (NARC) and won against Uhuru Kenyatta in 2002 (Otieno, 2010). Upon falling out of the NARC coalition, both Kibaki and Odinga pitched tents against each other in the 2007 presidential election. Thence, when the Electoral Commission of Kenya announced the presidential election’s results on the 30th of December 2007, the general belief was that they had been rigged in favour of the incumbent president, Mwai Kibaki (Bock, 2012). The announcement would plunge the country into an unprecedented political, security and humanitarian crisis leading to people’s displacement, and massive loss of lives and properties (Kagwanja & Southhall, 2009). In the accounts of several reports (Gimode, 2007; International Crisis Group, 2008; Kagwanja, 2009; Mwiandi, 2008; Yamano et al., 2010), the initial violence was spontaneous as a reaction to the perceived rigging of the elections. Subsequently, while more facts emerged about the election and Kibaki was hurriedly sworn in, more violence erupted in Nairobi slums and the Rift Valley province. Odinga’s supporters likewise declared him a winner, leading to two presidents in one seat. After this declaration, a spontaneous pandemonium became retaliatory and later morphed into more organized strife, and before long, the violence became state-driven (Kagwanja, 2009). On the events leading up to the crisis, Yamano et al. (2010) report that Raila Odinga’s Orange Democratic Movement had garnered support from Kenyans who were keen on a decentralized political system. They believed the Kibaki-led government had failed to implement its political devolution manifesto, thus, polarizing the political supports along ethnic lines. According to the International Crisis Group’s report (2008), Kibaki, a Kikuyu candidate, had pulled a few ethnic groups to his side while many other ethnic groups, hoping for a different political outcome, had supported Odinga, a Lou aspirant. The supports by these ethic groups would make the Orange Democratic Movement a strong contender in the general elections. A thriving group of youth in Odinga’s camp would mobilize “let’s wake up youth, it’s our time” campaigns. To secure majority votes, Yamano et al. (2010) state, the political strategy of Kibaki and Odinga was to choose their vice presidents from the Luhya ethnic group as one of the largest ethnicities that could influence the voting outcomes, because no single ethnic group in Kenya could produce the needed majority votes. This Luhya vice president

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ticket alliance gave Odinga an edge over Kibaki at 75% over 23%. The regional support from the Kalenjin ethnic group also gave Odinga 88% of the votes (Yamano et al., 2010). Since both Moi and Kibaki had failed to achieve devolution dreams, many Kenyans would bet on Raila Odinga, who had envisioned a more centralized political system in Kenya. Thus, all evidence seemed to point at Odinga as the winning candidate in the 2007 presidential elections. However, the Electoral Commission of Kenya declared that Kibaki acquired 46.4% while Odinga obtained 44.1% of the total votes (Yamano et al., 2010). These results were considered untrue and some electoral commissioners and external observers called for an investigation into the election results. External observers provided evidence of undeniable rigging, which revealed misconduct of some electoral officials who had been seen tampering with and doctoring, polling results (International Crisis Groups, 2008). Notwithstanding, Kibaki was hurriedly sworn in and flown to safety in a coastal military facility while the internal security minister, John Michuki, suspended all live media broadcasts. In response to the misconduct, an immediate outbreak of violence in the Nairobi slum and other major Rift Valley cities ensued. Members of Party of Nation Unity who are Kibaki’s associates, mainly from Kikuyu and Kisii ethnicities became key targets in Kenya’s 2008 post-election attacks. The Kikuyu settlers in Eldoret, a Kalenjin homeland, were also butchered and burned in their hideouts. Accordingly, Eldoret in the Rift Valley became the epicentre of Kenya’s 2008 postelection violence when Kalenjin warriors’ well-orchestrated attacks against the Kikuyus began. The Rift Valley attacks of Kikuyus would continue in a bid to cleanse the province of Kikuyus. Subsequent retaliation violence would later ensue with mobilized Kikuyu gangs, including Mungiki sect to unleash violence against the Luo, Luhya, and Kalenjin ethnic groups. The post-election violence would later spread to other parts of the Rift Valley provinces such as Nakuru and Naivasha, and Kisumu, Embu, Meru, Mombasa, Kakamega, Bungoma, Busia, Webuye provinces as well as Nairobi Slums. Residential expulsions, land eviction, maiming and killings of different ethnic groups would mark the attacks. Local leaders, businessmen and politicians from various ethnicities were indicted as organizers of many paid for executions. The police would also join in the attacks, killing and maiming Kenyans, including children who were not from their respective ethnic groups.

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According to Gimode (2007), the police power to repress and oppress the citizens dated back to pre-independent Kenya. Subsequently, the post-independent Kenya saw the leadership of Kenyatta and Moi using the Police to arrest, harass, torture and intimidate oppositions (Gimode, 2007). This means the legacy of police brutality is ingrained in Kenya’s post-colonial politics to protect political elites and suppress any form of dissension. The police would become collaborators in stifling people’s freedom as the elitist leadership had failed to democratize and reform their operations. Also, the elitist generational conflict of power struggle would continue to have devastating effects on collaborations and cooperation among Kenyans. For instance, the historical context of power and proprietorial privileges disenfranchised the Lou and favoured the Kikuyu. The Kikuyu, as one of the largest ethnic groups would stand in favour of centralization of power while the Lou felt marginalized and canvassed for decentralization. Succeeding politicians would inherit the founding president, Jomo Kenyatta’s The oligarchy legacy, which pitched his vice president Oginga Odinga against him and led to their fallen out (Nasong’o, 2007). The legacy of the divide and rule approach of the British Empire that had become an integral part of Kenya’s sociopolitical fabric would further complicate the country’s fragmented political system (Nasong’o, 2007). As Johan Galtung (1969) posits, it can be deduced through the contextual analysis of Kenya’s 2008 post-election violence above that the unceasing bitter rivalry, unhealthy competitions and ethnonationalism are rooted in structural violence. It is within this conundrum that Kenya’s youth began utilizing nonviolent interventions as a means of exercising their agency to address the structural violence rooted in Kenya’s political spheres. Consequently, Kenyan youth would begin navigating institutionalized divisions preventing them from exercising their rights in ways that nurture their growth and allow them contribute sustainably to development. This does not mean that Kenya’ youth are not divided along ethnic lines but instead of joining in the violence, some youth decided to participate in nonviolent technological interventions to change the status quo.

Kenya’s Youth and the 21st-Century Technologies To understand the emergence of the Ushahidi platform, it is important to highlight the different narratives around the roles of youth as

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purveyors of violence or the harbingers of transformation. The youth of Kenya have been mentioned in works of literature as contributors to the state of affairs in numerous ways. They have been described as the exploited, the marginalized, the deprived, the excluded, the betrayed, the reckless, the puppets, the goons, the revolutionaries, the innovators and the future transnational/intercultural leaders (Musila, 2010; Mwangola, 2007; Njogu, 2013; Rasmussen, 2010). According to Mwangola (2007, p. 150), the Kenyan postcolonial era would see youth that were recruited into political parties as ideology defenders, supporters and task bearers of the “elders”. Therefore, with political divisions and incessant quest for control, Kenya’s youth would come to represent purveyors of violence and political messengers as youth from Mungiki movement, Maasai Morans, Kalenjin Warriors, and Chinkororo groups would be available to corrupt political leaders as “puppets” and “goons” (Kagwanja, 2005; Mwangola, 2007). Rasmussen (2010) pins the problem on a postcolonial era that promised hope to the youth but rather left them swathed in economic deprivation and ethnic division. However, like post-independent transformative youth leaders Tom Mboya, and Pio Gama Pinto assassinated in the 1960s in their thirties, Kenya’s youth are also known to exercise their agency in political spaces as harbingers of change and advocates of democracy and good governance (Gimode, 2007; Mwangola, 2007). From the Mau Mau fighters, cast as “dissidents” for challenging the British colonialists to the Mungiki movement initially known for their indigenous African traditions advocacy but banned for ethnic violence, Kenyan youth are never wanting in social activism as a political society (Kagwanja, 2005; Mwangola, 2007). In Chatterjee’s (2004) and Branch and Mampilly’s (2015) view, a political society exists as a critical response to representative and community ethical deficits in the exclusive model of governance and civil society representation. Thus, the political society serves as an avenue for the underclass and marginalized populace to think and act outside the statecivil society mediation and dichotomy, creating autonomy necessary to address their downtrodden conditions (Branch & Mampilly, 2015). As observed in the context of Kenya, many youth groups began as a political society to challenge injustice, marginalization and oppressive political systems. Some would later metamorphose into civil society organizations blurring the line of who is a political society and who is a civil society. In the same vein, the Ushahidi originated from a premise of political society. However, as discussed in a later section in this chapter, the question of

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whether or not, Ushahidi is a middle-class organization for the middleclass patronage would later surface. But the point here is, Kenya’s youth are not a laid back bunch who does not exercise their agency. Instances of Kenya’s youth exercising their agency against all odds to challenge structural violence are limitless. For instance, the Moi despotic leadership saw many youth activists who spoke truth to power and challenged his despotism threatened, beaten, jailed or killed Gimode (2007, p. 239). According to Gimode (2007, p. 242), over 63 students were held in custody for six months before later released by Moi in 1983. Many others were sentenced to prison for subversion offences. Other scholaractivists like David Onyango Oloo eventually fled the country to avoid being recaptured and sent back to jail after receiving initial amnesty in 1987. His offence was having a handwritten document promulgating the role of students and youth in the struggle for democracy two days after a coup attempt (Sunday Nation 2003, cited in Gimode, 2007, pp. 242– 243). Among several female Kenyan activists arrested for dissidence by the longest serving president of Kenya Arap Moi, was Wangari Maathai, a political and environmental activist, arrested for starting a protest for the protection of Uhuru Park in the 1990s. Like many others, the late Nobel Laureate fled into exile, as criminalizing political activists became the government’s propaganda exercises while using the state-owned broadcasting television and radio to control narratives (Kenyan Broadcasting Corporation) (Gimode, 2007). When Kenya was crippled by 2008 post-election violence, at the scene of solution finding are old and new concerned citizens. While the traditional well-established Civil Society Organizations were unrelenting in their quest for peace and justice, there would also enter new non-state actors serving as a political society. Musila (2010) refers to the new voices, as the “Redykyulass Generation”. The “Redykyulass Generation”, are Kenyans with intellectual public participation and interventions. On the one hand, a group of educated Kenyan named the Concerned Kenya Writers was formed. The group comprised of authors, academics, journalists, bloggers, politicians, artists, and poets who were using Google Groups for sociopolitical discourses. Their intellectual discussions produced 150 articles, which Kwani Trust later published as an anthology under the title: After the Vote: Dispatches from the Coalition of Concerned Kenyan Writers. On the other hand was a group of Kenyan youth, who were utilizing the new media nonviolently to intervene in the 2008 post-election

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violence. The Redykyulass Generation is construed “as a contemporary generation of politically engaged youth who have successfully used various genres of popular cultural productions and media platforms to engage with Kenyan social imaginaries” (Musila, 2010, p. 279). The Redykyulass Generation would continue exercising their agency in pragmatic ways to bring about conflict transformation. These youth would challenge the stereotypical narrative that they are easily manipulated as political louts who only do the biddings of politicians. For instance, in the lead up to the 2013 elections, three DJs of Ghetto radio station went on hunger strike for peace. According to Njogu (2013, p. 3), these DJs were on hunger strike for six days while broadcasting through the Ghetto radio station, imploring Kenyans to #Vote4Peace and #Vote4Kenya in the 2013 elections. The Redykyulass Generation of Kenya would imaginatively come up with platforms such as Ushahidi. This study encountered many youth-led platforms that worked independently or in collaboration with Ushahidi’s platform. One such individual is Dipesh Pabari1 a Kenyan ex-blogger who solely crowdfunded over $10,000 through his blog—sukumakenya.blogspot.co.ke to help displaced Kisumu settlers in the 2008 post-election violence. Another individual who pioneered Map Kiberia is Kepha Ngito.2 Kibera, labelled as one of the most notorious slums in Nairobi has been reported for its unprecedented crimes rate, unemployment, and extreme poverty. It has been said that Kibera, a slum amid the cosmopolitan essence of Nairobi, houses two million Kenyans. Conversely, citizen journalist Ngito, who grew up in Kibera, started a mapping project called Map Kibera using Ushahidi’s open-source software to ascertain the real number of people residing in Kibera. He came up with 600,000. The information that Kibera was over-populated is being used by the government as an excuse to under-focus on infrastructural development and job opportunities for the people of Kibera. With Map Kibera, Ngito brought forward the real figures that could assist in facilitating the necessary amenities and employment opportunities for Kibera’s populace. Kepha work also challenged the United Nations manipulated figures of over 2 million inhabitants in Kibera (Warah, 2014).

1 Dipesh Pabari Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, March 30, 2017. 2 Ngito, Kepha. Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, September 6, 2016.

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Map Kibera is a participatory creative digital tool to represent the voices of the marginalized community of Kibera. This initiative began in 2007 and was launched in 2009. It extended to Mathare and Mukuru slums for better representation of these communities to the government. Ngito identifies the reason why Kenyan youth are angry as the innate need to be recognized as a part of development. He reasons that the angry unemployed and unskilled youth are easily manipulated by the politicians due to the lack of opportunity to be viewed as respectable members of their community. The loss of their pride with no opportunity and no education to propel their ambition towards a greater height became an inducement for retaliation. Ngito sees the change the new media brought as an opportunity to participate and be heard. Map Kibera allowed the residents to table their issues in a way that challenged a single narrative of what their lived realities are without the nuances of the root causes. Another youth Boniface Mwangi,3 is a political activist and photojournalist known for his photojournalism in the 2008 post-election violence. Boniface Mwangi went on a solo photojournalism mission to portray the heinous reality of the 2008 post-election violence. He undertook this mission from the perspective of a citizen journalist who was deeply disturbed by the country’s polarization and ethnic fragmentation. He was unpleased by the profit-driven attitude of the professional media and decided to show the danger of violent conflict and educate Kenyans how to avoid a repeat. Kenya Burning was the first book that Mwangi made out of his conflict photos and in 2016 he published Unbounded, a compilation of his personal stories and his community struggle and triumph, depicting the harrowing and humorous life events he witnessed and documented. Mwangi has since become a senior TED fellow for his activism and citizen media engagement. He is a social media influencer who founded PAWA 254, a Kenyan youth hub for artistry, dialogue and collaboration. Although he lost the election, Mwangi vied for Sarehe’s constituency Member of Parliament in 2017 as his ways persistent commitment to effecting social change. The stories of Pabari, Ngito and Mwangi represent the various ways in which Kenya’s youth bring about constructive change. It is crucial at this juncture to delimit constructive change processes. Constructive change is a key element of conflict transformation. Lederach (2003, p. 14)

3 Mwangi, Boniface. Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, October 17, 2016.

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perceives conflict as “life-giving opportunities” to create “constructive change processes that reduce violence, increase justice in direct interaction and social structures, and respond to real-life problems in human relationships”. What is observed in numerous endeavours of Kenya’s netizens are the ground-up approaches to constructive change processes where youth platforms such as Ushahidi are finding avenues to reduce violence and increase justice. Constructive change encompasses a people-centred approach to peace processes and participation in all spheres of development. There are more youth-led platforms in addition to Ushahidi that are investing in constructive change. One is Mzalendo, created by Ory Okolloh and Conrad Akunga in 2006 to fix a watchful eye on the Kenyan parliament as a means of keeping tabs on accountability (Goldstein & Rotich, 2008). Another is Afroes virtual peace game, created in 2013 by Anne Githuku-Shongwe to unlock the potential of young Africans and transform their entrenched belief and mental model through interactive media. When Ushahidi responded swiftly to the dearth of information during the 2008 post-election crisis, it was a youth-led leadership and agency in action. The ubiquitous technology would be at their beck and call with creative insights to apply it to their context. Okolloh (2009) recounts the idea that birthed the Ushahidi as the urge to lessen the information vacuum created by the ban of slive media. Ory Okolloh who is the leading blogger behind the formation of Ushahidi, further states that Ushahidi created opportunities for bidirectional information through the crowdsourced reports that culminated into crisis mapping. Ushahidi would later start its crowdmapping application, as well as contribute to Uwiano consortium and spearhead Uchaguzi to monitor the proceeding of Kenya’s 2010 constitutional referendum and the 2013 elections.

Ushahidi’s Impact in the 2008 Post-Election Violence and Beyond When Ushahidi an open-source software application emerged in 2008 at the height of Kenya’s post-election violence combining social activism, citizen journalism and geospatial information for public accountability, it stood out among polarizing voices on the Internet. According to George

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Kegoro,4 the Executive Director of Kenyan Human Rights Commission, Kenyan nascent virtual community was very divisive in 2007. He observes that the new media helped promote division and hatred in Kenya’s 2007 elections. He also notices youth platforms such as Ushahidi singing a different tune. Also, Muthoni Wanyeki,5 Regional Director of Amnesty International East Africa highlights the two trends of Kenyan netizens during the 2008 crisis. She calls the first the panicky diaspora, with distorted interpretations of realities and disruptive agendas. She considers the second trend progressive voices like Ushahidi helping fellow Kenyans and making a difference. Kui Kihoro Mackay,6 a diaspora Kenyan blogger regards the international media, especially the BBC delusional in the way it romanticized the notion of a peaceful country that is shocked into devastating violence for the first time. She deems this a grand delusion in that Kenya had witnessed previous political crises in 1992, 1997 and 2002. She accuses the international media of promoting “tribalism”. Jessica Musila,7 Director of Mzalendo, will also recall that Kenyans in the diaspora were fuelling hate speech in the lead up to the 2008 post-election violence, such that it could be said that Kenyans abroad ethnicized positions showed in the prejudices they were spreading online. David Kobia,8 a software engineer and a pioneer member of Ushahidi, agrees with Musila’s account of Kenyans at home and abroad engaging in online vitriol and fuelling more discord. They all see the role Ushahidi played mapping Kenya’s 2008 crisis through SMS sent in by Kenyans who were reporting the hotbed of violence pragmatic and different from the delusional reportage by the international media and the polarized citizens’ voices online. While Kenyan’s civil society organizations were lobbying to bring Kofi Annan’s team for mediation, the Ushahidi team members were turning Kenya into an information society. First, the Ushahidi served as a local agent who understood the context of the crisis and reporting through participatory crisis mapping. Second, The Ushahidi crisis mapping about

4 Kegoro, George Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, September 29, 2016. 5 Wanyeki, Muthoni. Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, September 15,

2016. 6 Mackay, Kihoro Kui. Interview by author. Skype Call. Nairobi, October 5, 2016. 7 Muslia, Jessica. Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, October 30, 2016. 8 Kobia, David. Interview by author. Skype Call. Nairobi, October 3, 2016.

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the hotspot of violence in the Rift Valley were used for Red Cross humanitarian deployment and police intervention. Third, Ushahidi reduced misinformation and misconceptions propagated by the international media about the magnitude of the conflict. All made possible by the fact that Kenyans had access to electricity as well as no interference by the government to censor new media. John Githongo„9 Inuka Trust Director and a whistleblower in the government of Mwai Kibaki, who exposed the large-scale Anglo Leasing scandal, shares his take on the Internet freedom with the author during the fieldwork. He considers the new media at the wake of the 2008 post-election a mysterious creature that is touched in the dark by many people without knowing fully what it is. His figure of speech alludes to the fact that Kenyan government had no idea then what power the new media wields in citizens’ hands, but would later attempt to regulate social media under the guise of hate speeches (Nyabola, 2018). Hersman10 explains that Ushahidi was able to dispel the misinformation that all of Kenya was burning down and pinpoint the actual hotspots of violence. Ushahidi catered to technology that is central to elevating human conditions within a local context, which other kinds of experts might have missed, ignored or delayed. For instance, the open-source crowdsourcing that took Ushahidi’s team two hours to set up to allow the Red Cross and other humanitarian or non-governmental organizations intervening at swift speeds, took the United Nations three days to achieve. Above all, the power of bidirectional information flow is a powerful turnaround in the way that Ushahidi responded to Kenya’s 2008 post-election violence. How powerful the bidirectional flow of information is, was exhibited in the way the Ethiopian government gagged its citizens, by shutting down social media for two years to prevent protesters from communicating with one another (Nyabola, 2018). The fourth significant role of Ushahidi was creating a platform that amassed vast amounts of information about the conflict and mashed it up into a readable map for humanitarian assistance, justice and posterity. David Kobia11 could not believe that Ushahidi’s little effort would become so relevant in the aftermath of the 2008 post-election violence. He speaks to Ushahidi’s achievement by reflecting on what

9 Githongo, John. Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, November 2, 2016. 10 Hersman, Erik. Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, September 22, 2016. 11 Kobia, David. Interview by author. Skype Call. Nairobi, October 3, 2016.

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the platform was able to do, which centres on democratizing information and widespreading accessibility to nonviolent technology. Furthermore, Rotich,12 one of the founding members of Ushahidi and a Tech Entrepreneur says Ushahidi serves as the fifth estate when the fourth estate (the mass media) fell through the crack of bias and compromise. Thus Rotich sees Ushahidi as the fifth estate that carried out online reporting, documentation, coordination and information finding through the public. In the academic circle, a few scholars including Dutton (2009) have referred to the online community that has been fearless in holding the first to the fourth estates accountable as the “fifth estate”. According to these scholars, the netizens have dismantled the conventional structures of who can report, who can critique, who have evidence to bear and who can transform the sociopolitical landscape. Therefore, Rotich considers Ushahidi an informational and revolutionary bridge between the local and the international audience in the 2008 post-election violence. Notably, Ushahidi began to build reputations at home and abroad as a technological giant. Irungu Houghton, Associate Director of the Society for International Development, who had initially ignored Ushahidi, when its team approached him for collaboration would later consider it a powerful force after encountering the name abroad as an innovative opensource software giant in Africa. He deems the work of Ushahidi fulfilling the third leadership whereby the political consciousness and progressive solutions emanating to put the mainstream media and the political leadership on their toes. Thus, in the heartland of Kenya, Ushahidi gave people voices and facilitated a bidirectional flow of information from groundup. The Ushahidi’s intervention culminates in a diversity of voices and experiences, which reduced the pitfall of one narrative that may obscure other voices. New media in the hands of Ushahidi helped present a fuller picture of occurrences and events as were reported. Further, data reflect multiplication of roles as Ushahidi advanced not only as platform but also as a tech organization, both within and outside of Kenya. The Ushahidi’s first three strongest institutionalized participations within the Kenya political landscape being the 2008 crisis mapping, the 2010 Constitution referendum and the 2013 elections. Other collaborative projects of Ushahidi as an organization was Umati, a hate-speech

12 Rotich, Juliana. Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, October 24, 2016.

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monitoring project carried out in conjunction with iHub, a sister organization. Ushahidi co-facilitated Umati with the aim to identify, monitor and devise collective solutions to dangerous speech online. The project went further to create NipeUkweli—an outreach effort to debunk inciting myths in order to reduce the possible effects of dangerous speech. Likewise, Making All Voices Count is a distinguished global initiative adding to ways Ushahidi amplifies people’s voices in public services. The project aimed at creating open and effective participatory governance through the launching of a “Global Innovation Competition” to support innovations that would improve governments’ accountability and responsiveness to the citizens. The winners of the competition in 2013 and 2014 include a South African and Indonesian initiative aimed at using SMS services to improve students’ civic engagement and eradicate maternal mortality. The Ushahidi team extended this project to healthcare and public utilities services and partnered with the Institute of Development Studies, University of Sussex and Hivos International for a four-year innovation worth 55 million dollars in grant. Similarly, Ushahidi ventured into an ecosystem project designed to cater for the planet. One of the projects launched in this regard is called Vital Sign, aiming at collecting big data and designing a monitoring system that assists the agricultural decision-makers to protect the ecosystem and increase food production. In conjunction with the Rockefeller Foundation, Ushahidi has begun a Resilience Network Initiative to support and train community-based organizations to effectively engage with their local government using the open-source software. While Ushahidi has grown in leaps and bounds and diving into several donor-funded projects, there are critical voices among the research participants who worried that Ushahidi might be selling its souls to the highest bidders. The concern expressed by Patrick Gathara,13 a commentary analyst, blogger and award-winning political cartoonist is on donor’s influence and commercialization of Ushahidi’s open-source projects. He worried that commercialization and grant seeking would jeopardize its people-focused role and reduce its home-grown influence. Gathara’s apprehension deserves some attention where the sustainability of Ushahidi is concerned. While some of the issues on grants and commercialization would not be explored in this chapter, it is important

13 Gathara Patrick. Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, October 6, 2016.

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to note that, one of the reasons not-for-profit establishments are incapacitated in many African countries is as a result of lack of funding for sustainability. Also, it is no doubt the world is in the era of technocapitalism where neoliberal agenda is taking a front seat (Suarez-Villa, 2012). But, for an open-source software organization like Ushahidi to continue functioning effectively, it needs to engage in pragmatic sustainability while being conscious of its directive in “helping people raise their voice and those who serve them to listen and respond better”. As expatiated in previous publications of the author in relation to Ushahidi’s open-source software, it has been used in crises, disasters, gender-based violence and xenophobia mapping in various countries such as Chile, South Africa, USA, Haiti, India, the Philippines and Pakistan (2021; Banda, 2010). The Ushahidi founders have been acknowledged for their services to humanity. For example, in the global entrepreneurship summit in 2015, ex US president, Barack Obama acknowledged Ushahidi’s efforts in monitoring elections in Panama and Zambia. The Kenyan president, Uhuru Kenyatta recognized Juliana Rotich as one of Kenyan Heroes on technology innovation on Mashujaa (Heroes’) Day in October 20th 2016. Also, on HapaKenya online news in 2017, Vanessa Mwangi presented the list of 19 inspirational Kenyan women and Juliana Rotich and Ory Okolloh, both co-founders of Ushahidi, took #4 and #7 spots respectively. Lastly, Ushahidi is instrumental in creating Kenya’s tech ecosystem known as Silicon Savannah indicating that like the California Silicon Valley, Kenya is the African hub of high technology and innovation. The Ushahidi Technological organization, born out of Ushahidi platform’s sweat (the crowdsourcing programme) assists other organizations in using the open-source software for crisis and disaster mapping. The organization goes further to provide electoral monitoring services to different countries within and outside the global North and South. According to Rotich, Ushahidi organization serves as a catalytic anchored organization for the start-up of other initiatives such as iHub, Gearbox and BRCK. She clarifies: Ushahidi was the anchor organisation that led to the setting up of iHub, and then that led to the spinout of BRCK, Ushahidi supported even GearBox. So Ushahidi acted as a catalytic organisation that led to all of these other companies and initiatives. So, you could say Ushahidi is the core, like the anchor organisation that led to the creation of all these other things.

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iHub is a technology innovation community that provides an open space for technologists and innovators. BRCK is a technology innovation for affordable, rugged, made-for-Africa backup Internet modems and generators for the grassroots Kenya. Rotich sees the work of Ushahidi platform and organization as vital in bridging the information gap, representing the voices of the people and providing digital sources for crisis and disaster mapping and management. According to Rotich, both human capital and technology are vital for transformation and Ushahidi has decided to invest in human capital. Rotich defines Ushahidi the platform as the product, the open-source software, free and downloadable, while the Ushahidi organization is the legal entity, the business model with the board of directors. Ushahidi is the scaffolding for other organizations and people to build technological solutions. With Rotich’s intense passion to restore the multi-cultural and multi-ethnic glory of the Kenyan community, she sees Ushahidi and its sister organizations as the bridging avenues. Therefore, Ushahidi and its spin-off organizations do not only consider these avenues to transform crises and disasters, but also to create job opportunities for Kenyan youth as forerunner of the Silicon Savannah. Another germane concern, which came up during the fieldwork by some participants is on the middle-class nature of the Ushahidi platform. Tony Mochama,14 a Kenyan journalist and an award-winning poet and writer known for his reflective work on the 2008 post-election violence titled The Road to Eldoret voiced his concern. He thinks that “sensitised Kenyans” and not the average Kenyans are the users of the Ushahidi platform. He believes also that the platform is a constituency of Kenyan’s middle class who might be disconnected from the realities of the masses. He elaborates by pointing to the fact that educated middle-class Kenyans who seem more aware are using the platform. His take led to a critical question of who the prominent actors on the new media scenes in Kenya are. Kepha Ngito would redefine middle-class or the educated Kenyans as comprising but not limited to those in possession of mainstream education to include those with literacy in any language. Ngito, who has no university education but is fluent in English language, reads and writes in English created the Map Kibera. As presented in the subsequent sections, Ngito’s online work, especially on Map Kibera, is of great value to the

14 Mochama, Tony Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, September 22, 2016.

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people of Kibera and beyond. It would appear that the new media has provided unrestricted access to all spectra of people who can afford the services, from the educated elites to the marginalized educated and those with informal education. It can be inferred from the gathered evidence that the new media is bridging the urban–rural divide in terms of collective sociopolitical struggles within divergent needs. The online communities have advanced beyond who can read and write in any language to include anyone with creative ingenuity to make and post videos, use spoken word digital audio such as podcast or post pictures on various social media platforms. This does not mean that some people might not be disenfranchised from online participation if they are not literate or cannot afford the neoliberal capitalist technology. However, the new media enjoys a broader system of inclusivity and formal education is not necessarily a correct indicator of who occupies the Internet. To illustrate, as evident by the Internet World Stats (2021), about 5 billion out of the 7.8 billion people in the world are Internet users, which represent 64.2% of the entire human species. Further, the Internet World Stats (2021) lists Africa at 43%, which is 590 million out of a total 1.3 billion inhabitants on the continent, out of which Kenya claims 85.2% of its population as Internet users as of December 31st 2020. In simple English, out of almost 55 million Kenyans, about 47 million are currently using the Internet. In effect, the new media has become more of a level playing field for anyone who is curious and can afford the data to browse or the credit to engage in mobile communication. While the question of where the remaining 2.8 billion humans might be essential, the statistics of newborn babies, teens and old people who are not using the Internet must be known to understanding the role of abject poverty and lack of access due to repressive regimes or neo-capitalism. Nonetheless, despite Ushahidi’s expansion, the platform/organization continues to invest in crisis mapping as seeing in the recent COVID-19 plotting for deployment (Ushahidi 2021). Uchaguzi for Electoral Monitoring Before the 2013 general elections, Ushahidi had built up enough credibility to have more public engagement, thus creating Uchaguzi. The Uchaguzi platform was initiated to monitor the 2013 election for transparency, fairness and tranquillity. The members of the public used the

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platform to report on voting and any suspicious activities. This was in response to the 2007 elections and the violence that transpired thereafter. Therefore, no chances taking, especially where accurate and timely information could save the day. As reported on the Uchaguzi platform, according to Daudi Were,15 of the 4964 reports published on the Ushahidi website during deployment, 2699 were swiftly verified. By engaging different stakeholders as eyewitnesses in different locations, Ushahidi was able to verify information that was receiving real-time. Ushahidi has continued to improve its performance regarding verification and real information to the public. This exercise was Ushahidi’s way of contributing further to Kenya’s political transformation by giving an accurate account of what was witnessed during the subsequent elections that succeeded the turbulent 2007 voting. Ushahidi collaborated with the Hivos Foundation, the Constitution & Reform Education Consortium (CRECO), the Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA) and SODNET on the 2013 Uchaguzi initiative. The Ushahidi platform’s maturity showed in the 2013 general election. With many partners and volunteers and effective preparation, multi-level coordination propelled information to be relayed in time to the IEBC and for police deployment to be coordinated speedily. On the outcome of Ushahidi’s contribution in 2008 and 2013, Juliana Rotich states that the strategies and activities of Ushahidi platform “enabled information flow that led to action on emerging issues on the ground”. Some of Ushahidi’s global electoral monitoring activities have included Nigeria and the USA elections. Ushahidi also monitored the 2017 elections marred with political turbulence and human right violations pointing to the fact that Kenya political arena is not as transformed as progressive citizens wanted it to be. Notwithstanding the setbacks in the Kenya’s political scenes, Ushahidi soldiers on Ushahidi currently boasts of 120,000 software deployments and 25 million people whom it had reached in critical situations.

15 Daudi, Were. Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, September 6, 2016.

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Ushahidi in the Centre of the Uwiano Early Warning Consortium What came out of the 2008 post-election violence, from disjointed efforts of stakeholders, i.e. civil society, governmental parastatals and citizen journalists’ platforms or the political society, was the need to synergize conflict prevention efforts. Thus, a multi-stakeholder platform was birthed for a consortium that responds to imminent conflict through an early warning mechanism. This mechanism was formed in 2009 and was referred to as Uwiano. Funded by the United Nations Development Program, the platform includes the Ushahidi platform, National Cohesion and Integration Committee, National Steering Committee on conflict management and peacebuilding, Independent Electoral and Boundaries Committee and PeaceNet. Bock (2012) considers the Uwiano platform’s ability to make use of a nonviolent technology approach for early warning solutions a strategic peacebuilding tool that combines open-source software with crowdsourcing methods to prevent the recurrence of violent conflict. The information collected from Daudi Were,16 Ushahidi’s former Executive Director; Peter Mwamachi, Peace Officer National Steering Committee on Peace Building and Conflict Management and Absalom Shalakha,17 Programme Manager of PeaceNet whose organizations are part of the Uwiano Consortium elaborate on its strategy. Uwiano, they echo, synergizes stakeholders working on conflict-related programmes so that they can be better coordinated. From 2010, the Uwiano platform has been effectively used for conflict resolution, human security, advocacy, early warning and early response mechanisms. The Uwiano platform can facilitate information gathering before there is an uncontrollable outbreak of conflict in Kenya’s 47 counties. At the grassroots level, the Uwiano platform collaborates with local organizations, as well as individuals, whose roles are dubbed “peace actors” to report through the online system any disturbances or state of unrest or brewing violence before it escalates. The peace actors consist of the community members (i.e. the district committee members, the police, local NGOs and interreligion councils) of each county where the consortium operates. The data collected in real-time are used to deploy help where necessary for 16 Daudi, Were. Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, September 6, 2016. 17 Shalakha, Absalom. Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, November 21,

2016.

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violence mitigations, in most cases through collaboration with the police or mediators. The Uwiano platform, which came into operation two years after the post-election violence, became a timely early warning initiative that stands to mitigate conflict before it erupts into violence. As Bock (2012, p. 9) echoes, “…early warning and early response are important in curtailing a deterioration of a peace process already set in motion”. Within this platform are multi-levels of stakeholders from the government, NGOs, international organizations and the citizen journalism platform. Within PeaceNet, an early warning system has been established since 2006 where citizens send in their concerns via text messaging. But the consortium coalesced this effort by tapping into the opportunity that the new media offered. The Uwiano as a local peace architecture ensures that the crowdsourced conflict reporting attracts immediate responses to quell unrests. Peter Mwamachi,18 a peace practitioner with the National Steering Committee on Peace Building and Conflict Management, finds the Uwiano platform the answer to disruptive and unprecedented violence. National Steering Committee is a governmental organization existing since 2001 to synergize with policymakers and peacebuilders to form a cohesive and well-coordinated multiagency consortium. National Steering Committee work includes conflict analysis and an early warning system, national peace coordination, media and communication and capacity building and training. National Steering Committee credits its commitment as robustly inter-state—not limited to governmental and nongovernmental stakeholders but also with a regional reach, National Steering Committee, in Partnership with National Cohesion and Integration Committee, PeaceNet, Ushahidi and a few other organizations have made the Uwiano platform a fundamental digital revolutionary jointinitiative to prevent and address conflicts before they turn violent. The United Nations Development Program only serves as a development partner and a resource mobilizer for the Uwiano mechanism while the operationalization of the platform is locally coordinated. The Uwiano mechanism, according to Mwamachi, has expanded since 2010 to include an election-monitoring exercise. The consortium has also

18 Mwamachi, Peter. Interview by author. Tape recording. Nairobi, November 23, 2016.

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attracted more partnership with the Independent Electoral and Boundaries Commission, the UN Women, Interreligious Council of Kenya and the Kenyan Private Sector Alliance. Uwiano is considered by those participating in the consortium as an avenue for participatory effort to promote peace and minimize conflict. What is not clear is how Uwiano platform intends to address the root causes of political conflicts in its operations. But as it stands, Ushahidi’s open-source software has enabled Uwiano to get better in its operationalization. The Uwiano consortium, if managed efficiently, can further facilitate a space for constructive change processes where long-term strategic peacebuilding will materialize.

Conclusion Kenyan netizens, who were youth at the time of launching the Ushahidi’s initiative in Kenya’s 2008 post-election violence, made some significant nonviolent technological impact as citizen-journalists and tech-savvy public. Their efforts have highlighted that youth’ roles in their community can be fundamental and multidimensional. They can move from just mere onlookers or instrument of political violence to active solution finders. For instance, several initiatives of Ushahidi unveiled untapped potentials that youth possess in contributing to leadership, development and conflict transformation for a more equitable society. The statecentred paradigm shift engendered by the new media is such that leaders can no longer undermine the power that the citizens wield through it or feign ignorance or be unconcerned; so much so that they are joining new media to represent their agendas. Not only has the new media become vast platforms for youth to make visible changes to the status quo of world’s affairs, but they have also shown track records of human-centred pragmatic initiatives for conflict transformation. The Ushahidi platform has contributed to conflict transformation in more ways than one through the utilization of the new media. For one, Ushahidi demonstrates the continuous determination to constructively advance their society towards peace through its numerous projects that stand to minimize the destructive effects of sociopolitical conflicts. Second, the Ushahidi platform has proactively created a ground-up bidirectional, if not multidirectional, flow of information in a way that has a telling influence on Kenya’s sociopolitical landscape. Third, the platform has shown that the youth have significant roles to play in constructive change processes to overhaul structural, cultural, relational and personal

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conflicts and violence. Not only that, the availability of open-source software to crowdsource data or crowdmap crises and disasters are bringing about immediate responses that are altering devastating outcomes. In the same vein, the Uwiano, Umati and Uchaguzi projects offer a watchful eye over imminent dangers in several counties. Therefore, the youth of the Republic of Kenya have demonstrated the possibilities of utilizing the new media, as citizen journalists and tech-savvy netizens in a violent context, for effective nonviolent interventions. Finally, using their voices to lead conversations and developing innovations that prevent violent conflicts, is geared towards addressing structural violence and relational injustices that affect their personal and collective growth. It is safe to conclude that Kenyan youth are not wanting in all of the aforesaid.

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Index

A Africa, 2, 3, 6, 34, 115, 130, 143, 177, 181 Agency, 2–4, 8–10, 39–43, 48, 61, 67–69, 71, 75, 86, 92, 95–97, 137, 143, 149, 150, 154, 160, 169–172, 174 Armed, 15–19, 22, 23, 25–28, 30–34, 52, 67, 68, 70, 71, 74, 78, 98, 116, 117, 126, 127, 135, 139, 140, 145 Army, 18, 26, 27, 32, 132 Assemblage, 5, 6

C Central African Republic (CAR), 7, 10, 15–20, 22, 24, 27, 28, 30, 31, 34 Conflict, 2, 3, 6–10, 16, 17, 19, 21–23, 28, 31, 33, 34, 40–46, 57, 58, 61, 67, 68, 70–74, 79, 82, 84–87, 91–98, 100, 107, 108, 126, 138, 143–145,

163–166, 169, 172–174, 176, 183–186 Coping, 9 E Ethiopia, 6, 11, 113, 116, 122–124, 127, 135 Everyday, 3, 4, 6–11, 16, 18, 39–42, 47, 51, 57, 61, 92, 99, 101, 106–108, 142, 151, 159 G Gender, 11, 21, 43, 47, 52, 68, 77, 85, 97, 102, 103, 105, 107–109 I Imagination, 2–4, 8, 11, 18 Insecurity, 21, 31, 41, 42, 53, 61, 79, 82, 97, 151 J Jos, 10, 39–41, 43–49, 52–59, 61

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 A. Iwilade and T. M. Ebiede (eds.), Youth and Non-Violence in Africa’s Fragile Contexts, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13165-3

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INDEX

K Kenya, 2, 5, 11, 12, 96, 148, 164–177, 179–183, 185, 186

M Masculinity, 8 Militia, 6, 45–47, 55, 68–70, 74, 75, 79–83, 85

N Navigate, 2, 10, 16, 34, 42, 96, 107, 108, 124, 127, 143, 150 Nigeria, 2, 3, 7, 10, 40, 43–47, 53, 67–72, 74, 77, 79, 80, 85, 99, 182 Non-violence, 2, 3, 6–12, 27, 32, 34, 40, 47, 57, 86, 92, 93, 95, 107, 108, 137, 138, 140, 141, 145, 147, 152

P Peace, 3, 6–8, 10, 34, 40–43, 47, 51, 53–55, 59, 61, 67, 78, 82, 85, 91, 92, 100, 108, 164, 165, 171, 172, 174, 183–185 Peacemaking, 2, 7, 16, 164 Politics, 2, 3, 10, 12, 42, 43, 86, 97, 98, 102, 120–122, 134, 141, 152, 160, 166, 169 Post-conflict, 9, 91, 92, 95, 97, 98, 107–109

Q Qeeroo, 6, 118

R Rebellion, 11, 18, 25, 26, 98 Resilience, 3, 6–9

Resilient, 6, 8, 127 Resistance, 5, 11, 17, 92, 97, 116, 124–127, 129, 132, 133, 139, 143–146, 151, 153, 154, 159, 165

S Security, 18, 32, 33, 40, 46, 48, 53–55, 59, 67, 69–71, 76, 78–82, 84–86, 92, 95, 107, 109, 114, 116, 117, 128, 129, 131, 132, 149, 151, 152, 167, 168, 183 Seleka, 17, 18, 23, 25–28, 32, 33 Sierra Leone, 2, 6, 11, 43, 47, 92–94, 96, 98, 99, 102, 106, 107 Social, 1–12, 17, 19, 31, 40–43, 45, 46, 50, 51, 57, 59, 71–74, 78, 86, 93, 95–100, 102, 107–109, 117, 119, 121, 125, 138, 142, 144, 145, 147, 152, 156, 159, 160, 163–165, 170, 173, 174 Social media, 5, 11, 20, 118, 121–124, 128, 130, 138, 142, 146, 148, 149, 158, 159, 164, 173, 176, 181 Society, 1, 5, 6, 17, 42, 47, 59, 74, 76–79, 85, 86, 93, 94, 99, 100, 121, 142, 151, 164, 165, 170, 171, 175, 183, 185

U Ushahidi, 5, 11, 12, 164, 166, 169–172, 174–185

V Vigilantism, 7, 40, 41, 43, 46, 47, 51, 60, 61

INDEX

Y Young, H., 9

191

Z Zimbabwe, 5, 11, 137–141, 143–145, 148, 156