Civil Resistance and Violent Conflict in Latin America: Mobilizing For Rights

STUDIES OF THE AMERICAS
Civil Resistance and

Violent Conflict in
Latin America
Mobilizing for Rights
Edited by
Cécile Mouly · Esperanza Hernández Delgado
Studies of the Americas
Series Editor
Maxine Molyneux
Institute of the Americas
University College London
London, UK
The Studies of the Americas Series includes country specific, cross-
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Cécile Mouly
Esperanza Hernández Delgado
Editors
Civil Resistance
and Violent Conflict
in Latin America
Mobilizing for Rights
Editors
Cécile Mouly Esperanza Hernández Delgado
FLACSO Ecuador University of La Salle
Quito, Ecuador Bogotá, Colombia
Studies of the Americas

ISBN 978-3-030-05032-0 ISBN 978-3-030-05033-7 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-05033-7
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Preface and Acknowledgements
This book is the product of a joint research project between Facultad

Latinoamericana de Ciencias Sociales (FLACSO) Ecuador and the
University of La Salle in Bogotá, Colombia, which initiated in 2015. This
project built on our previous findings and experience in research on civil
resistance in contexts of armed conflict. We thank FLACSO Ecuador and
the University of La Salle for their generous support, which allowed us to
conduct fieldwork for our respective chapters and present draft papers in
academic conferences. After months of discussion among ourselves and
potential contributors, the book proposal crystallized in early 2017 and
was discussed with Palgrave Macmillan and some contributors during the
International Studies Association conference in Baltimore that year. From
then on, we closely worked with all the contributors to bring this volume
to a successful completion. We are grateful to all our contributors for their
commitment and collaboration throughout the process, without which
this book would not have been possible.
We are also indebted to all the people who make up our case studies
and generously shared their story with us during fieldwork. We dedicate
this book to them, hoping that it provides them with some encourage-
ment and ideas to continue their peaceful struggle against diverse forms
of violence (structural, cultural or direct), move towards the achievement
of their goals and avoid the temptation to resort to violent means. Finally,
we would like to thank our anonymous reviewer for the useful feedback,
v
vi PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
the International Center on Nonviolent Conflict (ICNC) team for their

interest in our project and suggestions, and the Palgrave Macmillan edito-
rial team for their guidance and continuous support.
Quito, Ecuador Cécile Mouly

Bogotá, Colombia Esperanza Hernández Delgado
Contents
1 Introduction: Civil Resistance in Contexts of Violent

Conflict in Latin America—Leveraging Power to Defend
One’s Rights 1
Cécile Mouly and Esperanza Hernández Delgado
2 The Civil Resistance of Yaqui and Guarijio in Sonora,

Mexico: Meanings, Scope and Challenges 17
3 A Rebellion of Spirituality: On the Power of Indigenous

Civil Resistance in Honduras 41
Mónica A. Maher
4 Qué Diría Carlos? The ‘No al Canal’ Movement and the

Rhetoric of Resistance to Nicaragua’s ‘Grand Canal’ 65
Sarah McCall and Matthew J. Taylor
5 Venezuelan Struggle Towards Democratization: The 2017

Civil Resistance Campaign 85
Iria Puyosa
6 Alternative Forms of Civilian Noncooperation with

Armed Groups: The Case of Samaniego in Colombia111
Juan Masullo, Cécile Mouly and María Belén Garrido
vii
viii CONTENTS
7 Civil Resistance and Peacebuilding: The Experience of the

Peasant Worker Association of the Carare River137
Esperanza Hernández Delgado and Claudia Patricia Roa
Mendoza
8 Nonviolent Resistance in the Struggle for Housing in

Urban Areas of Brazil: The Direct Action of the Roofless
Workers’ Movement157
Mario Ramírez-Orozco
9 Frames in Conflict: Discursive Contestation and the

Transformation of Resistance175
Michael S. Wilson Becerril
10 Nonviolent Resistance in Plurinational Bolivia: The

TIPNIS Case205
Theo Roncken
11 Conclusion: Civil Resistance in Latin America—A Viable

Alternative for Ordinary People to Defend Their Rights227
Index245
Notes on Contributors
María Belén Garrido is a research lecturer at the Pontificia Universidad

Católica del Ecuador, a researcher at Facultad Latinoamericana de Ciencias
Sociales (FLACSO) Ecuador and a PhD student at the Catholic University
of Eichstaett, Ingolstadt. She holds a Master’s degree in Peace Studies. She
has trained teachers in peace education and nonviolent communication.
She has written on peace and conflict-related issues, with a particular focus
on nonviolence.
Esperanza Hernández Delgado, PhD, is a peace researcher, professor at
the University of La Salle and consultant on peace-related issues, specifically
local peace initiatives, civil resistance, mediations in the Colombian armed
conflict, peace processes, peace education and reconciliation. She has facili-
tated the peaceful transformation of violent conflicts and the creation of
reconciliation scenarios. Her works include several books and articles on
civil resistance, mediation in the armed conflict and peace processes. She
holds a PhD in Peace, Conflict and Democracy from the University of
Granada, Spain.
Mónica A. Maher, PhD, is a social ethicist who teaches in the Department
of Sociology and Gender Studies at FLACSO Ecuador and coordinates
the Peacebuilding in the Americas Program of Friends Peace Teams
(Quakers). Maher is the former Associate Director of the Harvard
University Committee on Human Rights Studies. She has served on
the visiting faculty of Harvard University and Union Theological
Seminary of New York. Her writings focus on diverse spiritual resources
ix
x NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
for peacebuilding and human rights. Awards for her work include a
Fulbright New Century Scholar Fellowship and the International Rotary
Peace Fellowship.
Juan Masullo, PhD, is a lecturer in the Department of Politics and
International Relations and research associate at the Changing Character
of War Centre at the University of Oxford. He holds a PhD from the
European University Institute. His substantive academic interests include
civil war and other forms of political violence, civilian agency and (self)
protection, collective action and, more broadly, contentious politics.
He is also interested in field research methods and research design for
qualitative and mixed-methods empirical social science. His work
combines multiple types of evidence and relies on immersive field-
work in conflict-affected areas. He has published in Terrorism and
Political Violence, Journal of Peacebuilding & Development, Mobilization,
Global Policy Journal and in several edited volumes. Before joining the
University of Oxford, he was postdoctoral fellow at the Bremen
International Graduate School of Social Science and research fellow at
Yale’s Program on Order, Conflict and Violence.
Sarah McCall, PhD, is a lecturer and researcher at the University of
Denver, and a consultant specializing in human-environment interactions,
political economy, water and energy resources, Latin America and the
Caribbean, and international development. She teaches undergraduate
courses on global climate change and sustainable development and has
done consulting work for the United States Agency for International
Development and the US State Department.
Cécile Mouly, PhD, is a research professor at FLACSO Ecuador and
coordinator of the research group on peace and conflict there. She is also
a practitioner specialized in peace and conflict studies. She has taught
postgraduate courses and facilitated practitioner trainings on issues related
to conflict analysis, conflict transformation and peacebuilding. She is a
member of the academic council of the International Center on
Nonviolent Conflict and is one of the organizers of the regional pro-
gramme on strategic nonviolent action in the Americas. She holds a
PhD in International Studies from the University of Cambridge. Her
research interests focus on civil resistance in the context of armed conflict,
the role of civil society in peacebuilding and the social reintegration of
former combatants.
NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS xi
Iria Puyosa, PhD, is a researcher in political communication and civil

society participation in public affairs, and is affiliated with the Universidad
Central de Venezuela. Her current research projects focus on networked
social movements, information disorders, civil resistance under authoritar-
ian regimes and internet public policy. She has a PhD in Higher Education
Public Policy from the University of Michigan, postgraduate training in
survey-based research (University of Michigan) and strategic communica-
tion (Universidad Católica Andrés Bello). She has taught postgraduate
courses in Information and Communication Technology (ICT) & Political
Processes, Public Opinion & Social Media, Media & Politics, Research
Methods in Digital Environments, Political Communication, Radical
Communication and Social Networks Analysis in universities in Venezuela,
Ecuador and Colombia. She is chair of the Section on Venezuelan Studies
of the Latin American Studies Association.
Mario Ramírez-Orozco, PhD, is an associate professor III in the doc-
toral programme in Education and Society at the University of La Salle in
Bogotá, Colombia. He is the coordinator of the Education, Language and
Communication research area of the doctoral programme, and is the
director of the research group in Education and Society (COLCIENCIAS).
He holds a PhD in Latin American Studies from the National Autonomous
University of Mexico (UNAM), and a master’s degree and a bache-
lor’s in Spanish and Latin American Studies from the University of Bergen,
Norway.
Claudia Patricia Roa Mendoza is a research professor in the programme
of Social Work at the Faculty of Economic and Social Sciences of La Salle
University in Bogotá, Colombia. She belongs to the research group
“Social Work, Equity and Social Justice” of the Centre of Studies in
Development and Territory. She is a PhD student in Education and Society
at La Salle University. She holds a master’s degree in educational and social
development from the Universidad Pedagógica Nacional. She is a psy-
chologist and specialist in Clinical Psychology from the Universidad
Católica de Colombia, and she graduated in pre-school education from
the Universidad Pedagógica Nacional.
Theo Roncken is the coordinator of Acción Andina—Bolivia, a local
platform for grassroots-based action research. He holds an MSc from the
University of Utrecht (1985) and has over 30 years of experience as a
practising community psychologist in Latin America. He was a trainer of
xii NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
unarmed civilian peacekeepers with Nonviolent Peaceforce and a member

of its international governance body. His most recent research has focused
on violence, insecurity and social conflict in Bolivia. See: https://www.
accionandina.org.
Matthew J. Taylor, PhD, is professor of Geography at the University
of Denver, Colorado. For the last 15 years, he has researched human-
environment relationships in Central America and has published widely
on topics such as war and the environment, human migration, drug
smuggling, access to and control of natural resources and climate
change.
Michael S. Wilson Becerril, PhD, is an assistant professor at Colgate
University. He holds a PhD from the University of California, Santa Cruz,
is a Research Fellow at the Council on Hemispheric Affairs, and was a PhD
fellow at the International Center on Nonviolent Conflict. His research on
peace and conflict in Latin America focuses on themes such as political
violence, civil resistance, extractive industries and the politics of media.
List of Figures
Fig. 5.1 Reasons to protest 91

Fig. 5.2 Repertoire of nonviolent action methods 97
Fig. 5.3 Training in nonviolent resistance methods 99
xiii
List of Maps
Map 4.1 Location of the proposed Nicaragua canal 69

Map 6.1 Geographic location of Samaniego. Source: Mouly et al.
(2016, 131) 119
xv
List of Tables
Table 6.1 Ten points of the local peace pact in Samaniego (2004–2007) 124
Table 6.2 Eight points of the Declaration of Samaniego (2017) 130
Table 9.1 Civil resistance in the cases 194
Table 11.1 Civil resistance methods used to leverage power 230
Table 11.2 Main strategies for civil resistance movements to cope with
direct violence 239
xvii
CHAPTER 1
Introduction: Civil Resistance in Contexts

of Violent Conflict in Latin America—
Leveraging Power to Defend One’s Rights
All around the world civil resistance has been a key way for ordinary people
to struggle against different forms of violence (direct, structural and cul-
tural). People have used it to bring about the collapse of dictatorships, as in
the Philippines, or to seek independence from colonial power, as in India. In
asymmetric conflicts, where opponents not only have the means but are also
ready to exert violence against civilians, the latter have used civil resistance to
leverage power to defend their rights. This is particularly so in Latin America,
C. Mouly (*)
FLACSO Ecuador, Quito, Ecuador
e-mail: camouly@flacso.edu.ec
E. Hernández Delgado
University of La Salle, Bogotá, Colombia
e-mail: eehernandez@unisalle.edu.co
© The Author(s) 2019 1

C. Mouly, E. Hernández Delgado (eds.), Civil Resistance and
Violent Conflict in Latin America, Studies of the Americas,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-05033-7_1
2 C. MOULY AND E. HERNÁNDEZ DELGADO
where nonviolent struggles are increasingly taking place against powerful1

actors in contexts of violent conflict. This is the case in Nicaragua, where
peasants have opposed the construction of an interoceanic canal (McCall and
Taylor in this volume); in Peru, where indigenous people have rejected the
negative effects of mining on their communities (Wilson in this volume); as
well as in Colombia, where civilians have challenged the rules imposed by
armed groups and the violence exercised against ordinary people (Hernández
and Roa, Masullo, Mouly and Garrido in this volume). The variety of cases
included in this book reveals the richness of Latin American experiences of
civil resistance in challenging contexts, as well as their successes and limita-
tions. Yet, the overall message is one of optimism: despite their limited mate-
rial capacities, civilians from these different countries, from Mexico to Bolivia
through Colombia and Venezuela, have made a difference through the use
of civil resistance.
In this book, we define civil resistance as the use of nonviolent, uncon-
ventional means to struggle against opponents who have a superior power,
understood in terms of material capabilities. This definition draws on the
work of Kurt Schock, who considers civil resistance as “the sustained use of
methods of nonviolent action by civilians engaged in asymmetric conflicts
with opponents not averse to using violence to defend their interests” with
nonviolent action referring to “non-routine political acts that do not
involve violence or the threat of violence” (Schock 2013: 277). It is also in
line with the definition put forward by Erica Chenoweth and Kathleen
Cunningham in the special issue on civil resistance that they edited in the
Journal of Peace Research, as “the application of unarmed civilian power
using nonviolent methods such as protests, strikes, boycotts and demon-
strations, without using or threatening physical harm against the oppo-
nent” (Chenoweth and Cunningham 2013: 271). Additionally, we follow
the mainstream literature on civil resistance and use “nonviolent resistance”
and “civil resistance” interchangeably.
We define conflict as the real or perceived opposition of interests between
two or more actors, referred to as “conflict parties”. A violent conflict is
one in which one or more parties have engaged in acts of direct violence,
1
Here “powerful” refers to power in its traditional sense. This said, we share the view of
other civil resistance scholars who reject the narrow definition of power as domination and
consider other forms of power, including “power within”, “power with” and “power to”
(e.g. Speck 2014). Such a conceptualization of power is key to understanding how ordinary
citizens have been able to collapse actors with significant material capabilities through civil
resistance (e.g. Sharp 1990).
INTRODUCTION: CIVIL RESISTANCE IN CONTEXTS OF VIOLENT… 3
that is, in acts aimed at inflicting pain to the person(s) or group(s) at which
they are directed.2 Direct violence includes physical as well as psychological
violence (Galtung 1969). This said, violent conflict often finds its roots in
structural and cultural violence (Galtung 1990). As Vicenç Fisas (2004:
119) argues, violent conflicts generally refer to “grave situations of high
tension and social or political polarization, with hostilities between politi-
cal, ethnic or religious groups, or between these and the state, which alter
the ordinary functioning of state institutions and produce significant levels
of destruction, fear, deaths or forced displacement”.
This book covers a variety of situations of violent conflict, including
ones in which opponents have used direct violence such as beatings to
curb protests, detentions, forceful eviction of resisters, intimidation includ-
ing through death threats and even the actual murder of activists as in the
case of Berta Cáceres in Honduras (Maher in this volume) or as in Peru
(Wilson in this volume). It also encompasses situations of armed conflict,
in which warring parties do not hesitate to use armed violence against
civilians who disobey their orders. We define armed conflict on the basis of
the definition put forward by the Uppsala Conflict Data Program, that is,
a situation of conflict, which involves the use of state military forces and
has resulted in at least 25 battle-related deaths in a year.3 Yet, we recognize
that there can be a fine line between situations of simple violent conflict
and those of armed conflict, and that not everyone agrees on the threshold
required for a situation to be called an “armed conflict”. This can lead to
different situations—for instance the one that opposes the Mexican
government to drug cartels—being described as an armed conflict or not.
2
Note that some authors (e.g. Ackerman and Kruegler 1994; Chenoweth and Stephan
2011) define a situation in which opponents use violence against nonviolent resisters as one
of “nonviolent conflict”. We differ with these authors for two main reasons. First, according
to other authors, especially from peace and conflict studies, the term “violent conflict” refers
to conflicts that involve the use of direct violence, even if one-sided. Second, the use of direct
violence, even if one-sided, makes it more challenging for grievance groups to achieve their
objectives than if all sides would refrain from employing direct violence. For instance, Erica
Chenoweth and Maria Stephan (2011) found that violent repression decreased the chance of
success of resistance movements by 35%. This said, we believe that it is crucial to distinguish
situations of violent conflict in which grievance groups use direct violence (violent resistance)
from those in which these groups only use nonviolent means (nonviolent resistance). As we
will discuss a little below, scholars, such as Chenoweth and Stephan, indeed found that the
latter type of struggle had much better odds of success than the former.
3
See the definitions used by the Uppsala Conflict Data Program at: http://www.pcr.
uu.se/research/ucdp/definitions/ (last visited on 12 October 2018).
Arguably, many civil resistance campaigns take place in contexts of vio-

lent conflict. So, why focus on such contexts? We believe that such a focus
is important because of the challenges raised by opponents’ use of direct
violence and the need to better understand how grievance groups can best
confront violent repression and achieve their goals through nonviolent
means of struggle in such contexts. This said, we acknowledge the signifi-
cant challenges raised by other forms of violence as well and the interrela-
tionship between direct, structural and cultural violence.
The booming literature on civil resistance over the past decade reflects
a growing awareness that nonviolent resistance is usually more effective
than violent resistance even in such challenging contexts, as demonstrated
in the large-N study conducted by Erica Chenoweth and Maria Stephan.
In this study, the authors compared more than 300 nonviolent and violent
campaigns against authoritarian regimes, colonial powers or foreign occu-
piers between 1900 and 2006 and found that nonviolent campaigns were
nearly twice as likely to achieve their goals as violent campaigns (Chenoweth
and Stephan 2011: 7). One key reason for this is that nonviolent cam-
paigns usually involve a higher level of participation compared to their
violent counterparts, which set higher barriers for participation owing to
potential risks. Further, when ordinary people take up arms, they compete
on an unequal footing with their opponents, who possess superior mate-
rial capacities and are often equipped with better armament. By contrast,
civil resistance enables ordinary people to fight from a higher ground and
to undermine some of the pillars of power of their opponents thereby
shifting power around (Sharp 1973, 2010).
This volume is the first to cover a broad range of civil resistance cam-
paigns that have taken place in contexts of violent conflict in Latin America.
Only a limited number of studies have focused on nonviolent struggles in
the region, despite its wealth of experiences (Martin 2015: 40–41). These
include the works of Philip McManus and Gerald W. Schlabach (2004);
that of Patricia Parkman (1990), who focuses on civic strikes; and a forth-
coming book by the editors in Spanish, which will cover some Latin
American experiences of civil resistance, although smaller in number in
comparison with this volume and not only in situations of violent conflict
(Hernández and Mouly forthcoming-b).4 Additionally, some books in the
4
It is worthy to note, though, the publication of a special issue of the Middle Atlantic
Review of Latin American Studies on civil resistance in Latin America in 2018. See https://
www.marlasjournal.com/15/volume/2/issue/1/ (last visited on 28 August 2018).
social movement literature, such as Stahler-Sholk et al. (2008) or Alvarez

et al. (1998), discuss cases of civil resistance in Latin America. Yet, they do
not place emphasis on the use of strategic nonviolent action to leverage
power and reach a movement’s objectives—a key feature of the civil resis-
tance literature (Zunes et al. 2017).
Likewise, only few books examine various processes of nonviolent resis-
tance in contexts of violent conflict but focus on cases in the context of the
Colombian internal armed conflict (e.g. Hernández 2004, 2012;
Hernández and Salazar 1999; Kaplan 2017b). By analysing experiences of
civil resistance in eight Latin American countries in contexts of violent
conflict that do not necessarily reach the threshold of armed conflict, this
book therefore provides unique contributions to the field of civil resis-
tance studies and significant insights into the exercise of nonviolent resis-
tance in such contexts, which can inform and guide practitioners who are
involved in, or support, such initiatives. In particular, it seeks to stimulate
comparison between the different experiences of nonviolent resistance
that have occurred in eight countries in the region and draw lessons learnt.
In each case the authors look at the violent context in which civil resis-
tance has taken place, how movements have coped with it, the methods
that they have used, the outcomes, the factors that have influenced these,
as well as the challenges faced. In what follows we look at some of the
book’s most salient features.
Campaign Objectives
A first noteworthy feature of this book that distinguishes it from the main-
stream literature on civil resistance is the diversity of objectives sought by
the various nonviolent campaigns covered in its chapters. While much of
the literature looks at nonviolent movements against authoritarian or
colonial powers, which aim to bring about the collapse of a dictatorship
or to seek independence from colonizers, more and more studies now
contemplate nonviolent struggles to achieve other types of goals in
different contexts. These include studies of campaigns against corruption
(e.g. Beyerle 2014), environmental damage (e.g. Hernández and Mouly
forthcoming-a), the deprivation of land (Schock 2012, 2015) or armed
actors’ abuses in the context of armed conflict (e.g. Hallward et al. 2017;
Hernández 2004; Kaplan 2017b). The chapters in this volume follow this
trend and encompass a broad range of civil resistance campaigns with
diverse objectives.
For instance, several of the resistance campaigns examined in this book

have sought to prevent the implementation of megaprojects that undermine
the life of local communities. These include the indigenous struggles against
the building of an aqueduct and a dam in Mexico (Hernández in this vol-
ume), that of another indigenous group against a dam in Honduras (Maher
in this volume), the ‘No al Canal’ campaign in Nicaragua (McCall and
Taylor in this volume), the resistance campaigns undertaken by rural com-
munities against mining in Peru (Wilson in this volume) and the indigenous
marches against the building of a road across ancestral territory in Bolivia
(Roncken in this volume). While these different campaigns shared the com-
mon goal of rejecting the imposition of megaprojects in local communities
and all took place in contexts of violent conflict, their objectives were vari-
ous, including the preservation of grievance groups’ natural resources, cul-
ture, ancestral territory and the defence of affected communities’ right to be
consulted when discussing and planning such projects.
This collection also includes examples of campaigns conducted by civil-
ians to reduce the level of violence perpetrated by armed actors in their
territory in the context of armed conflict. This is the case of the campaigns
that have taken place in Samaniego and the area of influence of the Peasant
Worker Association of the Carare River (ATCC) in Colombia (Hernández
and Roa, Masullo, Mouly and Garrido in this volume). While curtailing
violence has been one of the chief objectives of these campaigns, like in the
previous examples, they have also sought to defend the communities’ right
to have a say in matters that affect them, rejecting armed actors’ imposi-
tions. Additionally, in both localities, the civil resistance movements have
endeavoured to reduce the structural violence at the root of the armed
conflict, notably the poor socioeconomic conditions to which local popula-
tions have been subjected in comparison with the average in Colombia.
As for the Roofless Workers’ Movement in Brazil (Ramírez-Orozco in
this volume), the objectives of its civil resistance campaign stand as unique
in comparison with other campaigns covered in this volume. They mainly
consist of defending the right of urban poor to a decent living in the face
of pressures by powerful private sector groups and their allies that want to
make the most of urban space in terms of profit. But they also include a
struggle for dignity and justice since the right to housing is enshrined in
the Brazilian Constitution and many members of the movement believe
that they are entitled to legal recognition of the property on which they
live. Exploring diverse forms of civil resistance, such as these, and their
different objectives is important because they respond to a variety of chal-
lenges that affect many parts of the world today.
Campaign Opponents
A second interesting feature of this book, linked to the diversity of case
studies, is that, unlike most of the civil resistance literature which focuses
on struggles against the state, it covers campaigns targeted at different
types of actors. These include the state, but also the private sector (both
national and foreign companies), as well as violent non-state actors, such
as guerrilla groups, paramilitaries or private security companies.
In Peru, for example, indigenous and rural communities have fought
against mining companies, which have hired public relations and private
security companies to curb opposition to mining projects. Local civil resis-
tance movements have therefore been faced with a particular type of
opponents and have had to respond in particular ways to the challenges
raised by these opponents, in a context marked by repression and criminal-
izing media (Wilson in this volume). The analysis of such responses pro-
vides new insights into the processes of learning in the practice of civil
resistance and of struggling in the arena of public discourse, broadening
scholars’ and practitioners’ perspectives.
Likewise, the cases of civil resistance against violent non-state actors,
such as guerrillas and paramilitaries and state armed forces in Colombia
offer useful insights into how different opponents elicit different resistance
strategies from local communities and how different strategies can be
more or less effective in relation to different target groups. In the
Colombian context, for instance, noncooperation with the payment of
taxes or the provision of coca leaves has been more costly for insurgent
groups than the state armed forces, given the former’s dependence on
such resources to sustain themselves (Mouly et al. 2016).
Meanwhile, the Yaqui campaign against the “Independence” aqueduct
in Mexico has targeted both state and private sector actors. Interestingly,
it illustrates how the blockade of a highway can inflict severe costs on pri-
vate sector companies that depend on this road to transport and commer-
cialize goods and, in so doing, can press their opponents to come to the
negotiating table. This said, the case also revealed that such a strategy may
simultaneously bear costs on ordinary people and should therefore be
used only to a certain extent (Hernández in this volume).
Further, this volume shows that the separation between resisters and
opponents is fluid. While most literature on civil resistance has focused on
defection from the opponent side as a result of nonviolent actions, in the
Bolivian case, the opposite happened. The civil resistance movement got
divided after the indigenous marches of 2011 and 2012 against the building
of a road across ancestral territory, with many non-indigenous members

deciding to switch sides because they felt that the building of the road
would contribute to local development (Roncken in this volume).
Civil Resistance Strategies and Methods

A third feature worth mentioning is the broad spectrum of civil resistance
strategies and methods covered in this book. Strategies include unilateral,
pacted and oblique forms of noncooperation, in which the first type refers
to an overt form of noncooperation that has not been negotiated with
opponents, whereas the second one refers to an overt form of noncoop-
eration that has been negotiated with opponents and the last one to a
covert form of noncooperation (Masullo 2017). Meanwhile, methods go
all the way from the more visible types of protest, such as marches or road
blockades, to the subtler everyday forms of noncooperation, such as
refusing to serve company employees in restaurants (Wilson in this vol-
ume) or implementing participatory budget planning (Masullo, Mouly
and Garrido in this volume).
The cases analysed in this book show that each strategy and method can
be important in its own way. For instance, more overt unilateral forms of
noncooperation can remind opponents of previous commitments, while
pacted ones can generate some buy-in from opponents, and oblique ones
can allow people to reject certain practices while avoiding costly confron-
tation (Masullo, Mouly and Garrido in this volume).
The case of Venezuela also points at new forms of civil resistance,
including networked activism through social media and mobile applica-
tions. Interestingly, new means of communication can help civil resistance
movements circumvent controls imposed by their opponents on the flow
of information and successfully counter propaganda campaigns that aim to
delegitimize their nonviolent struggle. Yet, the use of networked activism
can lead to uncoordinated actions by leaderless crowds and make it diffi-
cult for people to maintain nonviolent discipline, which can have negative
consequences on their prospects of success (Puyosa in this volume).
Most cases, especially those of Nicaragua and Peru, illustrate that pro-
cesses of civil resistance, to some extent, take place at the discursive level.
This is why rhetorical traps—only recently explored in the field—can be a
useful strategy to exert leverage on opponents (Kaplan 2017a; Mouly et al.
2016). The ‘No al Canal’ movement in Nicaragua is a case in point of the
potential for success of this strategy, with the movement using the rhetoric
of founders of the Sandinista movement to publicly expound contradictions

in the discourse of the Sandinista government, as the main promoter of the
canal (McCall and Taylor in this volume).
Further, a key point made in this book is how experiential learning can
enable civil resistance movements to improve their strategies and come up
with more effective tactics. In Bolivia, for example, following the ninth
indigenous march for the protection of ancestral indigenous territory and
the protection of natural resources in 2012, the civil resistance movement
decided to shift from tactics of concentration to tactics of dispersion to
regain strength and consolidate the movement (Roncken in this volume).
In a similar fashion, in Peru anti-mining groups have learnt how to respond
to the repressive tactics of their private sector opponents (Wilson in this
volume). More generally, various cases presented in this volume reveal
how members of civil resistance movements opted for nonviolence for
pragmatic and strategic reasons, either after trying to use violent means
and realizing the costs or simply by coming to the understanding that
given the asymmetric power relations with their opponents they had more
chance to succeed by using nonviolent means of struggle.
Notes on Methodology
All but one of the chapters in this volume are based on field research in the
localities under study. Yet, the methodologies used by the authors vary.
Some have studied their cases for many years and have drawn upon years
of academic and activist work in the field. They have used participant
observation, participatory action research, as well as interviews with rele-
vant actors and primary documentary sources to collect data (e.g. Maher
and Hernández in this volume). One author conducted comparative
ethnographies though extensive fieldwork, including participant observa-
tion and hundreds of interviews (Wilson in this volume). Others had the
chance to participate for a shorter time as accompaniers in the civil resis-
tance campaign under study (e.g. Roncken in this volume). Meanwhile,
various authors undertook less extensive periods of fieldwork, during
which they conducted multiple interviews with relevant actors, and/or
used other techniques of data collection (e.g. Puyosa; Ramírez-Orozco;
Masullo, Mouly and Garrido in this volume). Importantly, all the authors
were able to build relationships with the main actors involved in the pro-
cesses of civil resistance under study, which increased their understanding
of these processes.
In addition to the analysis of data from interviews and field notes, our
contributors analysed a broad variety of documents to sustain their argu-
ments, including through archival research (Wilson and Masullo, Mouly and
Garrido in this volume). These documents included media reports, online
communications, documents produced by those involved in civil resistance
campaigns (e.g. meeting notes, communiqués), reports from nongovern-
mental and intergovernmental organizations, government documents, as
well as secondary literature when available. Further, some authors resorted to
discourse analysis in order to unravel the practice of rhetorical traps as a civil
resistance strategy to denounce contradictions between the opponents’ state-
ments and their actual behaviour thereby putting pressure on them to abide
by the norms they profess (McCall and Taylor in this volume).
Book Structure
The book is organized around a series of case studies of experiences of civil
resistance in contexts of violent conflict in Latin America, from Mexico to
Bolivia, going through Honduras, Nicaragua, Venezuela, Colombia,
Brazil and Peru. Chapter 2 by Esperanza Hernández Delgado examines
the processes of nonviolent resistance of two indigenous groups in north-
western Mexico, the Yaqui and the Guarijio. These two groups have used
civil resistance against the state and private companies to defend their ter-
ritory, the natural resources that are part of that territory and their culture:
while the Yaqui have fought against the “Independence” aqueduct, the
Guarijio have targeted their struggle against the “Pilares” dam. The chap-
ter analyses the influence of these indigenous peoples’ characteristics on
their process of civil resistance and draws important lessons from these
cases and the civil resistance literature about the necessary conditions for
nonviolent resistance to achieve better results. It also shows the usefulness
of combining methods of civil resistance with others, including judicial
actions and negotiation and of striking alliances with like-minded groups.
Chapter 3 by Mónica Maher looks at indigenous civil resistance against
megaprojects in Honduras, where the environmental activist Berta Cáceres
was murdered in March 2016. It examines the nonviolent struggle of the
Lenca community, to which Cáceres belonged, against the building of a
hydroelectric dam on a sacred indigenous river. The author argues that
this conflict, while originating in one small indigenous village, is the tip of
the iceberg of a much larger ideological split in Latin America generally,
where struggles between indigenous peoples and the state abound over
ancestral waters and land usage, and is a prime example of the power of
civil resistance. Other chapters in this volume support this argument. She
also highlights the power of spirituality as key to the successful outcomes
of the Lenca’s nonviolent resistance campaigns.
Chapter 4 by Sarah McCall and Matthew Taylor draws our attention to
the nonviolent resistance campaign against the construction of Nicaragua’s
“Grand Canal” to link the Pacific Ocean with the Atlantic Ocean.
Interestingly, it shows how protesters used the rhetoric of founders of the
Sandinista movement in their struggle to prevent the implementation of
the project, promoted by the government of Sandinista leader Daniel
Ortega. This strategy enabled them to expose the contradictions between
the official discourse of national development and progress for the people,
and the economic reality of Nicaragua, where projects such as the Grand
Canal have led to increased inequality and corruption.
Chapter 5 by Iria Puyosa adopts an innovative approach to civil resis-
tance by focusing on networked activism and the occupation of public
spaces in the nonviolent struggle against an increasingly authoritarian
regime in Venezuela. Interestingly, the author examines the interaction
between the use of social media and mobile apps by civil resistance activ-
ists, on one hand, and the control of information flows by the govern-
ment, on the other hand, and shows how the balance between these two
forces can foster or hinder resisters’ capacities to organize a united opposi-
tion movement with a high level of participation that can provoke defec-
tions in the government camp. She argues that without the permanent
occupation of public space by the civil resistance movement it became
increasingly difficult for leaderless crowds to maintain nonviolent disci-
pline and prevent violent actions by radical flanks.
Chapter 6 by Juan Masullo, Cécile Mouly and María Belén Garrido anal-
yses the use of three different types of civilian noncooperation with armed
actors—unilateral, pacted and oblique—in the Colombian municipality of
Samaniego. Importantly, it looks at how the combination of civil resistance
and dialogue enabled civilians to achieve consequential goals despite the
military superiority of their opponents. This includes the removal of land-
mines and the release of hostages. In particular, it shows how pacted nonco-
operation, which has been the main form of civilian noncooperation in
Samaniego, allowed civilians to get a buy-in from armed actors and facili-
tated the establishment and compliance of agreements between the parties.
The case study also illustrates that oblique noncooperation, by operating on
the shadow of armed groups’ confrontation, can be useful in more sensitive
contexts where open, direct opposition to armed actors seems too risky or
hard to organize. As for unilateral forms of civil resistance, while more con-
frontational in nature, they can be of particular use to remind armed actors
of their commitments and pave the way for dialogue, enhancing the leverage
of civilians.
Chapter 7 by Esperanza Hernández Delgado and Claudia Patricia Roa
Mendoza discusses the experience of nonviolent resistance of the ATCC in
Colombia, which began in the late 1980s and made this farmers’ organiza-
tion worthy of the Right Livelihood Award in 1990. The authors study
this experience of civil resistance against armed violence in the context of
war and focus on the relationship between this type of resistance and
peacebuilding based on this case and the relevant literature. They argue
that this successful experience shows the complementarity between civil
resistance and peacebuilding.
Chapter 8 by Mario Ramírez-Orozco examines the case of the nonvio-
lent movement for the right to housing in urban areas in Brazil. It shows
how such a movement arose from peasants displaced by rural violence,
who decided to settle in the suburbs of big and middle-range cities in
Brazil and got organized as the Roofless Workers’ Movement to defend
their right to housing. Interestingly, these peasants drew on their past
experience in the struggle for access to land in rural areas and embraced
nonviolent direct action to achieve their goals. Further, owing to the mag-
nitude of the issues at stake, they built a large coalition including formal
and informal workers, temporary harvesters and unemployed to defend
people’s right to a decent living.
In Chap. 9, Michael Wilson Becerril looks at how civil resistance
movements against mining companies in Peru responded to violent
repression, learning how to maintain nonviolent discipline. On the basis
of ethnographic evidence from two case studies, the author explains how
activists reflected upon their opponents’ use of frames of “violence” and
“terrorism” to delegitimize, violently repress and demobilize their non-
violent struggle for the protection of their territory, and henceforth
decided to adhere strictly to nonviolent tactics and frames, innovating
and implementing specific tactics to ensure nonviolent discipline. While
the literature has emphasized the importance of nonviolent discipline for
the success of civil resistance campaigns, few scholars have sought to
understand the learning processes that take place within such movements
in the face of violent tactics and rhetoric by their opponents and how
such learning influences future strategic and tactical choices.
In a similar vein, Chap. 10 by Theo Roncken draws our attention to the

learning process that occurred within the civil resistance movement against
the building of a road through the Isiboro Sécure national park and indig-
enous territory (TIPNIS by its acronym in Spanish) in Bolivia, and led to a
change in tactics. Interestingly, the author argues that these learning prac-
tices could eventually lead to a shift in the power relations between indig-
enous protesters and the road promoters, including the Bolivian central
government. Such a shift may not prevent the building of a road through
the TIPNIS, but could set the stage for the prevention of similar projects
to be implemented without adequate consultation of local communities.
Finally, in the concluding chapter, we draw on all the case studies to
identify key findings in relation to civil resistance in contexts of violent
conflict, lessons learnt and avenues for future research. All in all, we hope
that this book enables our readers to learn from the manifold experi-
ences of civil resistance covered in this volume to understand the factors
that have facilitated or hampered them, the way in which people have
sustained their nonviolent campaigns, as well as the strategies and tactics
that they have used effectively both to cope with direct violence and to
achieve their objectives.
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CHAPTER 2
The Civil Resistance of Yaqui and Guarijio

in Sonora, Mexico: Meanings, Scope
and Challenges
Civil resistance is a social practice and a relevant concept for various

social sciences.1 Such social practice and concept are interdependent. As
a social practice, it has been present throughout the history of humanity,
1
These include history, anthropology, literature, sociology, political science and peace
studies.
This chapter is the product of the research: “Contributions to peacebuilding

from Latin America: Experiences of nonviolent resistance in contexts of violent
conflict in Brazil, Colombia and Mexico”, carried out between 2015 and 2017,
with the support of the Office of the Vice-Rector of Research and Transfer
(Vicerrectoria de Investigación y Transferencia [VRITT]) of the University of
La Salle. It was developed in partnership with Facultad Latinoamericana de
Ciencias Sociales (FLACSO) Ecuador. It is also part of the research group
“Educación y Sociedad”.
E. Hernández Delgado (*)

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-05033-7_2
18 E. HERNÁNDEZ DELGADO
constituting a mechanism of opposition, struggle and defence of

oppressed majorities and subjugated and ignored minorities (Havel et al.
1985; Powers and Vogele 1997; Randle 1998; Hernández 2004, 2017;
Schock 2008; Chenoweth and Stephan 2011; Dudouet 2012; Castañar
2013; López 2016).
Civil resistance is a polysemic concept. In general terms, it can be
understood as opposition, pressure and struggle without violence (Randle
1998; Hernández 2017). In peace studies, this resistance is considered as
a mechanism of positive transformation of conflicts (Lederach 1997: 15;
Dudouet 2012), as well as pacifist empowerment (Hernández 2017) and
as a peacebuilding mechanism (Hernández and Salazar 1999; Hernández
2004; Lederach 2008; Dudouet 2012). In this chapter, I adopt the con-
ceptualization of civil resistance put forward by Schock:
I define unarmed insurrections as organized civilian-based popular challenges

to government authority. That is, civilians, rather than being relegated to the
position of providing support for an armed vanguard, are the main actors in
the struggle. Thus, the term “people power” is often used to describe these
struggles. They are “nonviolent”, in the sense that the primary challenge to
state power and legitimacy occurs through methods of nonviolent action
rather than through methods of violence. (Schock 2008: 57)
The historical recurrence of civil resistance, its meanings, methods and

scope have drawn scholars’ attention, especially in peace research, and
mostly since the 1990s, as revealed by many studies and publications about
this type of resistance. Some of these have focused on the meanings of civil
resistance processes, such as the studies conducted by Roberts (1967),
Sharp (1973), Randle (1998), Schock (2008), Drago (2008), Dudouet
(2012) and López (2016). Other studies have left their mark in history:
Randle (1998), Castañar (2013) and López (2016). Some scholars have
documented cases or experiences of nonviolent resistance, such as
Hernández and Salazar (1999), Hernández (2004), King (2007), Mouly
and Garrido (2018) and Idler et al. (2015).
Nonviolent resistance processes against national or international eco-
nomic initiatives known as megaprojects, however, are a relatively unex-
plored field from the theoretical perspective of civil resistance (Ali 2003;
Schock 2009; Wilson 2017). Similarly, the civil resistance of indigenous
peoples has generally been approached from the theory of social move-
ments (Composta and Navarro 2014; Caviedes 2007; Flórez 2007) and
only exceptionally from civil resistance theory (Hernández 2004, 2006,
2009, 2017; Ballesteros 2016; Martínez 2016; Wilson 2017).
THE CIVIL RESISTANCE OF YAQUI AND GUARIJIO IN SONORA, MEXICO… 19
Findings in peace research show the importance of the civil resistance

experiences of indigenous peoples and the relevance of their own features
in the scope of those experiences (Hernández 2004, 2006, 2017;
Ballesteros 2016; Martínez 2016). They also draw attention to their long
duration in Latin America since the arrival of—mostly Spanish—coloniz-
ers in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, as well as to their strong char-
acter, their organizational levels, their methods and, in some cases, their
successful achievements against structural violence and internal armed
conflicts (Hernández 2004, 2006, 2017; Ballesteros 2016; Martínez
2016). Moreover, some of these processes of resistance made a transition
from violent to nonviolent resistance, as in the case of the indigenous
peoples of Cauca in Colombia and the Yaqui in Mexico. The experiences
of civil resistance of the Yaqui and Guarijio tribes of Sonora, Mexico, fit in
these studies. These peoples have exerted resistance at different times
throughout their history, under different forms, as defence and struggle,
and, in the case of the Yaqui, generally in contexts of violent conflict.
The Context
The Yaqui and Guarijio tribes have resisted against the megaprojects pro-
moted by the state of Sonora and private companies, which they perceive
as a threat and aggression (interview with Yaqui indigenous authority,
June 2016). More specifically, the Yaqui have opposed the Independence
aqueduct and the Guarijio have opposed the Pilares dam with a view to
defending their territories and water resources, which they claim are theirs.
They have also tried to defend their cultures and identities, given the close
link between them and the territory and their survival as peoples, which
has been at the centre of indigenous resistance (interviews with Tomás
Rojo and Jerónimo Rodríguez, May to June 2016).
The Yaqui and Guarijio tribes are native to the northwestern part of
Sonora, Mexico, although part of the Yaqui population is located in
Arizona (USA), while the Guarijio are also present in Chihuahua, Mexico
(Aguilar 1993; Haro and Valdivia 1996). Each tribe has its own culture,
history and processes of resistance (Aguilar 1993; Haro and Valdivia 1996;
Valdivia 2007). In this chapter, I analyse their respective experiences of
resistance in a permanent dialogue, including their purpose, the factors
that affect their outcomes and their ability to take on current challenges.
The Yaqui Tribe: Transition

from Violent to Nonviolent Resistance
The Yaqui or Yoheme tribe is one of the eight indigenous peoples of
Sonora, Mexico (interview with Alejandro Aguilar May and June 2016).
It is located in the central Southern region of that state. Its name comes
from the Yaqui or Jaiki River, which is a point of reference in their past,
present and future, closely linked to the Yaqui culture, their territory and
their historical exercise of resistance. The Yaqui are the largest indigenous
population in that state and are estimated to be between 25,000 and
45,000 (interviews with Alejandro Aguilar, Jesús Armando Haro and
Tomás Rojo, May and June 2016). Since the arrival of the Jesuit mission-
aries in 1616, the Yaqui population has been organized in eight settle-
ments: Cocorit, Bacúm, Tórim, Vícam, Pótam, Ráhun, Huiviris and Belen
(Haro 2013).
Some of the most significant features of the members of this tribe are
their high self-concept; their attachment to their culture and their sense of
belonging (Dabdoub 1987); their political capacity to interpret reality, to
dialogue, to negotiate and to make agreements (interviews with Tomás
Rojo, Alejandro Aguilar and José Luis Moreno, May to June 2016) and
their close relationship with their territory, especially with the Yaqui River
(Haro 2013). A special mention should be made to their historical capac-
ity for resistance, which emerged when Spanish colonizers arrived in the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and continues until now (interviews
with Yaqui authority and Tomás Rojo, May to June 2016). As previously
mentioned, the driving force of this resistance has been the defence of the
“toosa”, which means their space or sacred and inherited territory (Lerma
2014). According to a Yaqui authority:
[T]he resistance is what keep us going, it is what keeps us here […] This is
the resistance we are carrying out thanks to our ancestors. We have never
been disarmed since the arrival of the Spanish. (Interview with Yaqui author-
ity, June 2016)
Until 1937, the Yaqui resorted to violence in their exercise of resis-

tance. After that year, they made a transition to civil resistance. The first
mode of resistance was known for its strong, persistent and often success-
ful nature (interviews with Yaqui authority, Tomás Rojo, Alejandro
Aguilar, Jesús Armando Haro, May to June 2018). In particular, between
1825 and 1927—a whole century—this resistance with resort to violence
was a continuum. This period was known as “the Yaqui wars” (Lerma
2014). The Yaqui, however, paid a high cost for this violent opposition:
they lost historical leaders such as “Cajeme” and “Tetaviate”, who were
deported to the state of Yucatán and sold as slaves, and some 10,000 Yaqui
died (interview with Tomás Rojo, May to June 2016). A Yaqui leader
explained that:
The first use of violent resistance to defend the territory was before the
Spanish invasion. […] the military resistance lasted until 1936. Once the
military resistance stopped being an instrument, it became a structural, non-
violent resistance. For 500 years, we have fought to defend our land and
water. (Interview with Tomás Rojo, May and June 2016)
In 1937, Mexican president Lázaro Cárdenas returned part of their

ancestral territory to the Yaqui and recognized their property rights over
50 per cent of the Yaqui River (interviews with José Luis Moreno and
Tomás Rojo, May to June 2016). This event marked the end of violent
resistance and the beginning of the Yaqui’s transition to civil resistance.
The Guarijio Tribe: Transition from Passive to Civil Resistance

The Guarijio or Makurawse, also known as “the children of the sierra and
the rivers” (Aguilar 1993), are another indigenous group of Sonora. They
have an estimated population of 2000 people and a semi-arid territory,
with an area of about 19,000 hectares (Haro and Valdivia 1996: 15).
Their main settlements are Mesa Colorada, Bavicora, Los Conejos and
Burapaco (interviews with Alejandro Aguilar, Jesús Armando Haro and
Elizabeth Pettit, May 2016).
Overall, this tribe has been little documented. This is partly because
there is a gap in knowledge about its origin and also because the Mexican
government only recognized it in 1976 (Valdivia 1979). Some even claim
that the tribe is extinct or that it was assimilated by the Tarahumara.
Meanwhile, others believe that the Guarijio migrated from Chihuahua to
Sonora (Haro and Valdivia 1996: 14). A more convincing and accepted
version states that the territory where the Guarijio now live is their place
of origin (Haro and Valdivia 1996: 14). This is supported by reports from
Spanish colonizers who arrived in that territory at the end of the sixteenth
century and reported the existence of 700 Guarijio and their economic,
sociopolitical and religious organization (Haro and Valdivia 1996: 24). It
is also supported by accounts from the “Yoris”—a word that these tribes
use to refer to non-indigenous people—who stated that, when they arrived
to colonize the territory, they found indigenous people who were naked
or wore loincloths (interview with Jesús Armando Haro, May 2016).
At the end of the eighteenth century, more specifically since 1797, the
colonization process of the Guarijio territory began, facilitated by the
Mexican State (Valdivia 1979; Haro and Valdivia 1996: 31). This event
marked the beginning of the exploitation and exclusion of the Guarijio by
the Yoris, who would force them into a continued state of poverty and
marginalization ever since then. This form of structural violence2 lasted for
two centuries, until they were recognized by the Mexican State in 1976
(interviews with Julian Sazueta Enriques and Manuel Valenzuela Vega,
May 2016). One Guarijio leader narrated that:
We used to start work early. Back then, the rich gave us five litres of corn for
us to work on their fences. Some parents had older kids and they brought
them to work with the same rich men. So, they made us work like horses for
the rich ever since we were little. They would not let us take a piece of land,
and that is why we requested it. But there were many obstacles because the
landowners didn’t want us to have any hectare of land, since they owned
everything. They would just point their fingers and say “this is mine”.
(Interview with Manuel Valenzuela Vega, May 2016)
Likewise, a local scholar explained that landowners:
[W]ouldn’t let you [the Guarijio] build houses, you were working for the
ranch owner, who owned it [the ranch] because he had taken it from you or
your family, and people would say “we walked around half naked, in caves
and, if we did not work for anyone, we had no right to anything”. (Interview
with Alejandro Aguilar, May 2016)
In 1975, Canadian anthropologist Edmund Faubert came to the terri-

tory and was the one who found and made the Guarijio visible. He also
denounced to the government their fragile and difficult life conditions
(interview with Jesús Armando Haro, May 2016). In 1976, taking advan-
tage of the visit by the then president of Mexico, Luis Echeverría, to
Tiburón Island, Faubert took a group of Guarijio there and had them
2
According to Johan Galtung (1995), structural violence is what prevents human beings
from enjoying the minimum conditions of a human life. This type of violence finds its origin
in social and economic structures that generate social injustice.
dance before the president. Since then, the Mexican government has rec-
ognized this tribe (interview with Jesús Armando Haro, May 2016).
One of the more noteworthy features of the Guarijio is their nomadic
or semi-nomadic nature, which allowed them to survive in the difficult
conditions imposed by the territory and climate, as well as the exploitation
of the Yoris until their official recognition (interviews with Alejandro
Aguilar, Jesús Armando Haro and Ramón Martinez Coria, May 2016).
They are also known for their special relationship with their territory, par-
ticularly with the Mayo River, which has been essential for their subsis-
tence (interview with Jerónimo Rodríguez, May 2016) and for their
flexible and joyful nature, and particularly their resistance capacity, which
has allowed them to subsist despite extreme forms of structural violence,
such as misery, exclusion and exploitation (interviews with Alejandro
Aguilar, Jesús Armando Haro, Elizabeth Pettit and Ramón Martínez
Coria, May 2016).
After the arrival of Spanish colonizers, the Guarijio began exercising
their indigenous resistance. Since then, they have registered different
forms of opposition and struggle, with different methods and outcomes,
and always in self-defence (interviews with Alejandro Aguilar and Jesús
Armando Haro, May 2016). I distinguish three expressions of opposition
and struggle from this tribe: resistance with resort to violence, passive
resistance3 and civil resistance.
The resort to violent resistance was spontaneous, circumstantial and of
very short duration. Nevertheless, it was a key factor in the history of the
Guarijio, since it implied the near extermination of its population, the
forced displacement of those who managed to flee from their ancestral
territory, and, afterwards, their return to that territory in a situation of
invisibility, marginalization and exploitation, which persisted until their
recognition by the Mexican government. This resistance took place at the
beginning of the seventeenth century, specifically in 1632. Around that
time, in the Mission of Nuestra Señora de los Varohios (Guarijio) in
Chinapas, the Guazapare and Guarijio indigenous people revolted, setting
3
Some analysts define passive resistance as the right and individual duty to disregard the
law or the established orders by listening to conscience (Randle 1998). When the term was
coined in the English-speaking world at the beginning of the nineteenth century, it was
understood as “an obstinate refusal to cooperate with—or to obey—people or institutions
with power” (López 2009: 10). Later, it was used to express the opposite of active resistance,
“identifying it with nonviolent experiments, assuming the idea that violence was associated
to action and nonviolence to inaction” (López 2009: 10). In this chapter, we adopt the first
meaning of passive resistance in order to distinguish it from “nonresistance”.
fire to the church and ending the life of two Jesuit priests (Haro and
Valdivia 1996: 27; interview with Alejandro Aguilar, May 2016). Some
consider the evangelization and the intervention of the church in aspects
typical of the cultures of these tribes as the main causes of the indigenous
uprising, insofar as they may have been perceived as a threat to indigenous
people’s identity. Although this historical event has not been fully clarified,
it is considered as the product of these indigenous people’s extreme need
for defence (Haro and Valdivia 1996: 27; interviews with Alejandro
Aguilar and Jesús Armando Haro, May 2016). In response to this resis-
tance, the colonial government sent a military expedition that caused the
death of approximately 800,000 Guazapare and Guarijio indigenous peo-
ple. Those who managed to escape moved away from their territory or to
the mountains. They reportedly returned in 1652. There is a historical gap
between 1767 and 1934, during which there is no information about the
Guarijio (Haro and Valdivia 1996: 27; interviews with Alejandro Aguilar
and Jesús Armando Haro, May to June, 2016). One Mexican scholar
explained that:
The Guarijio case is very peculiar, because they are considered the most
barbaric for defending their territorial and cultural rights. They are strongly
stigmatized. They resisted the domination of the missionaries. They killed
some missionaries in 1623 and that caused them to be terribly repressed by
the Spanish, suffering a retaliation according to the chronicles, which gener-
ated a displacement of the Guarijio population […] some of them stayed
near what is now Chihuahua, while others eventually returned to Sonora.
(Interview with Alejandro Aguilar, May 2016)
A passive resistance then became visible. It first manifested during the

mid-seventeenth century, when the Guarijio returned to their territory
under the above-mentioned conditions. At the time, they decided to
remain itinerant or nomadic and to hide in caves, apparently to remain
unseen and protect themselves (interviews, Alejandro Aguilar, Jerónimo
Rodríguez, Cristina Troyan and Guarijio, May and June 2016). A Spanish
woman who has accompanied the Guarijio explained the particularity of
this tribe:
I consider the case of the Guarijio people to be very different from others
because they hid instead of resisting, meaning that they have hidden for
decades or centuries because even the Government and the Mexicans did not
know about them until recently. (Interview with Cristina Troyan, May 2016)
A second expression of this form of resistance is found in the 1930s. At

that time, the Guarijio maintained their nomadic or semi-nomadic life-
style, living in caves or in rudimentary and short-term living spaces in a
system of survival that some researchers define as a “shelter region” model
(Haro and Valdivia 1996: 14). They were characterized by their isolation
from the national culture. At the time, a dual society was made up of
dominant mestizos and subordinate natives (Aguirre Beltran 1967). The
Guarijio resisted abandoning their ancestral territory. Thus, they survived
the exploitation, exclusion and pauperization imposed by the Yoris, even
though it directly affected their cultures in terms of weakening their orga-
nizational structures (interview with Alejandro Aguilar, May 2016).
The Civil Resistance of the Yaqui

and Guarijio Tribes
In recent history, the Yaqui and the Guarijio have engaged in civil resis-
tance against the state and private sector initiatives to exercise their auton-
omy and defend their rights over their territory, especially their rivers,
owing to their particular significance in the two cultures. They have also
done so to ensure their survival and protect nature (interviews with Jesús
Armando Haro and Guarijio, June 2016). However, there are notable dif-
ferences between the exercise of civil resistance in the two cases, as dis-
cussed below.
The Civil Resistance of the Yaqui

Analysing this experience requires examining elements of the Yaqui cul-
ture, specifically the meaning of the territory in their worldview and
history, as well as those related to their praxis of civil resistance. As men-
tioned, this resistance originated in the Yaqui’s decision to make the tran-
sition from violent resistance to a peaceful one between 1937 and 1941,
when President Lázaro Cárdenas returned part of their ancestral territory
and recognized their ownership over 50 per cent of the Yaqui River (inter-
views with Tomás Rojo and Yaqui authority, June 2016). In this section, I
argue that several reasons allow us to characterize this experience as an
expression of “strategic or pragmatic nonviolence”. Since then, civil resis-
tance has been ongoing, has been sustained and has reached important
achievements, despite significant challenges. The Yaqui themselves and
non-indigenous groups have recognized the value of this experience of
civil resistance, owing to its characteristics and outcomes (Lerma 2014).
A relevant aspect of the Yaqui civil resistance is the meaning of space,

territory and water in the Yaqui worldview. The “toosa”, a word which is
equivalent to space when translated into English, has been a pillar in the
defence of the Yaqui nation. “Toosa” includes the territory, but goes
beyond it. It means “inherited nest”, “divine inheritance”, “the portion of
land given to them [the Yaqui] to inhabit”, “everything that the territory
was originally” and “everything that space comprised” (Lerma 2014).
Although the territory is part of the “toosa”, this concept acquired great
relevance for the Yaqui in the mid-nineteenth century. At that time, the
tribe considered that the triumph achieved in the fight for independence
had to do with symbols such as territory, which led them to adopt it
(Lerma 2014). From then on, the territory became the pillar of their civil
resistance. As for water, according to the Yaqui worldview, when the world
was created, everything was water. The earth was the mother and the river
was the father, from whom they derived their subsistence, as it provided
them with fishing, planting and life (Zavala 1985). The myth “Ania
Baallutek”, which translates as “the one that painted the line”, reflects the
importance of space or territory and this tribe’s capacity to defend it:
On Tuesday 30 September the Spaniard passes the Mayo river looking for
the Yaqui and, on 4 October, he reaches its left bank and, on 5 October, he
crosses it […] he follows the course of the river downstream and discovers a
group of Yaqui that comes out to meet him, throwing handful of dirt to the
wind, tempering arches and making signs for them to go back. They are
warriors. Their chief walks in front of the Indians, dressed with a magnifi-
cent plume of multicoloured feathers and pearl shell […] When the two
armies are face to face, the Indian captain advances arrogantly and with his
bow draws a long line on the ground, then kneels and reverently kisses the
land of elders, then stands proudly and, with the right arm extended, invites
the Castilians to return the way they came, because otherwise and, if they
cross the line, this would mean the invasion of their pariah and war, for
which they would be killed without mercy. (Fabila 1978)
Another important factor in the analysis of this experience of civil resis-

tance is the transition from violent resistance to a peaceful one. It not only
means the beginning of the exercise of this last form of resistance but also
evidences its characterization as strategic or pragmatic nonviolence. Several
reasons led the Yaqui to make this transition. The first is the tranquillity
generated by the restitution of part of the territory and the government’s
recognition of their ownership over 50 per cent of the Yaqui River.
Specifically, in 1937, President Cárdenas ratified the Yaqui’s possession of

almost 500,000 hectares as exclusive territory and their ownership of over
100 thousand hectares (interview with Jesús Armando Haro, June 2016).
Additionally, in 1939, a presidential decree recognized that half of the
river’s waters belonged to the Yaqui (interviews with Jesús Armando
Haro, Alejandro Aguilar and Tomás Rojo, June 2016). The Yaqui consid-
ered then that they had mostly reached their objective and henceforth
could move forward using less costly methods.
A second reason behind their decision was the high costs suffered by
the Yaqui as a result of violent fighting, including the loss of historical
leaders and a large number of their population, their deportation and
enslavement, and enduring state repression (interview with Tomás Rojo,
June 2016). A third reason was the tribe’s appreciation of the favourable
conditions that allowed their transition to a nonviolent struggle: their pro-
cess of resistance had reached an important level of consolidation and they
had leaders and communities prepared for dialogue, mediation and nego-
tiation (interview with Tomás Rojo, June 2016). Further, the Yaqui were
confident in their capacity to resist, their experience and their organiza-
tional capacity:
We have modern and non-modern weapons but we will not use them. We
will not fight one-to-one as our ancestors did because we know that, with
the technology that they [our opponents] now have, they could extermi-
nate us in our territory. We have professionals, we have engineers, we have
people prepared to speak to the government. (Interview with Yaqui author-
ity, June 2016)
An important feature of the Yaqui’s experience of civil resistance is

therefore the strategic or pragmatic use of nonviolence. For them, civil
resistance is a mechanism of peaceful struggle to defend their inherited
space, their territory (interview with Yaqui authority and Tomás Rojo, June
2016). They have committed themselves to this type of struggle, as a result
of the pragmatic decision to make the transition from violent to peaceful
resistance, based on an analysis of cost-benefit, convenience and opportu-
nity. Their purpose was not to convince their opponents that they should
do something to redress the injustice against the Yaqui. Rather, they told
their opponents that the Yaqui resistance was peaceful at the moment, but
that they kept their weapons and their indigenous guard because, in the
face of an extreme need for defence, they were willing to use them (inter-
view with Yaqui authority, June 2016). According to a Yaqui authority:
Our struggle is peaceful, but we always make our weapons known so that
the government knows that we have the power and authority […] What we
want is to live in peace in our territory, to have a territory to leave to our
children, grandchildren and leave them a good future. (Interview with
Yaqui authority, June 2016)
This nonviolent strategic resistance is also reflected in the importance

the Yaqui attach to organization and planning. They conceive civil resis-
tance as an organized form of struggle, and they have prepared for it
(interview with Tomás Rojo, June 2016).
The Civil Resistance of the Guarijio

From their recognition until today, the Guarijio have exercised civil resis-
tance. Two key moments have marked this process of resistance: (1) their
fight against the state of Sonora and the Yori settlers focused on the rec-
ognition of the territory and (2) their opposition to the Pilares dam, car-
ried out by the state government and local businessmen.
The first moment, that is, their struggle for the recognition of their ter-
ritory, represented the greatest expression of civil resistance of this tribe
and made their capacity to exercise nonviolent resistance visible and note-
worthy (interview with Alejandro Aguilar, May 2018). In addition, with-
out ignoring the challenges related to this campaign of resistance, over its
course it encountered propitious conditions that enabled it to reach sig-
nificant achievements.
The colonization of the mestizos or Yoris since 1797, supported by
state institutions, resulted in the Guarijio’s gradual dispossession of their
territory, their exploitation and their subjugation to extreme poverty. The
late recognition of this tribe by the state and its marginalization further
compounded this situation. At that time, the Guarijio worked for the Yoris
and received a bottle of corn or very few pesos in compensation. They
lived in caves or in rudimentary and short-term living spaces, and had no
access to basic services such as education, health and justice (interviews
with Guarijio, May 2016). In this context, the civil resistance of this tribe
became visible. Scholars consider that several factors contributed to the
Guarijio’s awareness raising. The first one is their difficult living condi-
tions, owing to indigenous peoples’ exclusion, exploitation and racism
towards them. Valdivia (1992) points out that, when the census was con-
ducted, 610 Guarijio, which represented the total number of members of
this ethnic group at that time, were bonded agricultural workers of 14 Yori
families. This estimate reflects their situation of exploitation (Valdivia
1992). The second factor is the influence of an insurgency for a short time
in their territory. According to an academic:
At the end of the 1960s, social unrest was widespread in several parts of the
country by student and guerrilla movements throughout the world, which
awakened the consciousness of Mexican youth. There was a guerrilla move-
ment in Chihuahua (September 23), which operated in Chihuahua and they
had to flee to the Guarijio region […] the Guarijio had no contact with the
rest of the country, so what the guerrillas told them drew their attention in
terms of social struggle. The guerrillas were repressed and the majority of
their members died; however, it was a very short but very fruitful moment,
because the Guarijio became aware of the need to defend the rights to which
they were entitled. (Interview with Alejandro Aguilar, May 2016)
In addition to these factors, it is worth mentioning the resistance capacity

of this tribe, proven throughout their history, and their peaceful trans-
forming power.
This awareness was a precursor of the Guarijio process of civil resistance
for the recognition of their territory. This experience had a strictly indig-
enous, nonviolent and participatory character, which involved significant
efforts, and it reached important achievements (Valdivia 1992; Buitimeo
and Valdivia 2007). The Yoris’ response to the Guarijio’s civil resistance
was violent and included threats, persecution, repression and aggression.
Further, the Yoris’ social and economic power and their support from the
police and the judiciary favoured such repression (Buitimeo and Valdivia
2007). Accordingly, the Yoris
[B]eat the leaders, the ones at the forefront. They sent the police, because
those who have money don’t want people to get angry, they wanted to keep us
working all the time because they do not work. (Buitimeo and Valdivia 2007)
In this civil resistance campaign, which lasted four years, the Guarijio
used methods from Sharp’s (2003) typology, such as protest, noncoopera-
tion and disobedience. They also employed conflict transformation methods
such as dialogue and negotiation with state representatives, advocacy with
state officials and strategic alliances with other indigenous tribes, mainly the
Yaqui and Mayo (Buitimeo and Valdivia 2007). The main achievement of
this nonviolent struggle was the return of ancestral territory by the state to
the Guarijio under the form of a communal land (ejido) (interviews with
Alejandro Aguilar, Jesús Armando Haro and Guarijio, May 2016). Three
decades later, nonetheless, this tribe faced new challenges: the presence of
drug trafficking in its territory and the construction of the Pilares dam by
the state of Sonora and local businessmen.
Yaqui and Guarijio Civil Resistance in Defence

of Their Water Resources
A common trait between the Yaqui and Guarijio in recent history has been
the exercise of civil resistance in defence of their rivers and cultures, given
the close relationship between these groups and their natural resources in
accordance with their worldviews. The Yaqui have used civil resistance
specifically against the megaproject called Independence aqueduct, and
the Guarijio have done the same against the Pilares dam. Both projects
were proposed and promoted by the state of Sonora and local business-
men. Despite these commonalities, the conditions in which these tribes
have carried out civil resistance have differed, as have their achievements
so far, as discussed below.
The Yaqui Civil Resistance Against the Independence Aqueduct

The Yaqui’s satisfaction with the agreements on, and recognition of their
ownership over, their territory and river during the Cárdenas administra-
tion did not last long. Out of the almost 500,000 hectares allocated to the
Yaqui by the government, they were finally left with only 24,000 hectares.
Likewise, the decree that recognized their ownership over 50 per cent of
the Yaqui River was not fully effective for various reasons, including because
it would involve expanding the irrigation district to 15,000 hectares (inter-
views with Jesús Armando Haro, Alejandro Aguilar and Tomás Rojo, June
2016). Moreover, from 1940 until 2018, three dams were built and
affected the course of the river. The tribe was only given some 20–30 per
cent of the water promised to them because the rest was used to satisfy the
needs of the residents of the city of Obregón and the irrigation needs of
private agriculture (interview with José Luis Moreno, June 2016).
The last straw was that, since 2010 and without consulting them first,
the state of Sonora and local businessmen began the construction of the
Independence aqueduct, which aimed to transfer water from the basin of
the Yaqui River to that of the Sonora River in Hermosillo, considerably
affecting the riverbed of the Yaqui River and the Yaqui culture and sur-
vival. Scholars and experts consider that the Yaqui suffered further dispos-
session of their natural resources as a result of the lack of state compliance
and the construction of the megaproject. The Yaqui emphasized that there
were less expensive solutions, like using water from nearby basins or desal-
inating sea water, and denounced other interests behind the project (inter-
view with José Luis Moreno, June 2016).
In this exercise of civil resistance, the Yaqui combined common nonvio-
lent resistance methods with their own ones and with conflict transforma-
tion methods. They employed some tactics of persuasion and protest
mentioned by Sharp (2003), such as public speeches, petitions, communi-
cations through forums, symbols, media, networks and processions through
marches and caravans. The May 2015 caravan, which gathered more than
100 social organizations, including ethnic organizations, NGOs, academics
and other social sectors that shared similar struggles for water and the
defence of territory, was particularly noteworthy (interview with Jesús
Armando Haro, June 2015). Additionally, they used nonviolent interven-
tion methods, such as blockades, some of them with significant economic
repercussions on economic sectors like mining, agro-export and transport
in Sonora, such as that carried out in 2013 (Moreno 2014: 269, 270).
The Yaqui complemented their civil resistance strategy with negotia-
tion. Various studies analyse the relationship between these two types of
strategies. Some highlight the advantages of combining them and using
them in an articulated way (Finnegan and Hackley 2008; Dudouet 2012).
Others point out that civil resistance can be a catalyst for transforming
conflicts peacefully by exerting pressure for their resolution, empowering
those who resist and leading to dialogue and negotiation (Dudouet 2012).
Similarly, some argue that civil resistance can provide underdogs with
leverage to engage in a negotiation with powerful opponents (Finnegan
and Hackley 2008). This happened in the case of the Yaqui: their resis-
tance facilitated dialogue with government representatives. The Yaqui rec-
ognize their capacity of resistance but also for political negotiation. This
said, they have not managed yet to solve the conflict this way.
The Yaqui also combined civil resistance with judiciary proceedings,
achieving significant results, consisting of favourable rulings, three of
which were proffered by the Supreme Court of Justice (interviews with
Tomás Rojo and José Luis Moreno, May and June 2016). The rulings in
favour of the Yaqui pointed out that the project lacked an authorization
based on environmental impact studies. However, they have not had any
major impact to date, owing to lack of compliance (interview with José
Luis Moreno, June 2016). Similarly, the Yaqui combined resistance with
strategic alliances with the academia, NGOs, unions and political parties,
among others. They also used their own methods to create a structure
integrated by managers, interlocutors and fighters, which fulfils precise
functions in terms of internal consolidation, strengthening of identity and
its articulation with negotiation (interview with Tomás Rojo, June 2016).
Importantly, they placed their identity and the needs of their tribe at the
centre of their struggle, thereby fostering unity and cohesion.
The Guarijio Civil Resistance Against the Pilares Dam

In recent history, the Guarijio have engaged in civil resistance against the
state of Sonora and local businessmen for promoting the Pilares dam. The
megaproject was approved in 2009, and its construction began in 2011.
The basis of this opposition is the defence of the tribe’s territory and cul-
ture, as well as their survival as an ethnic group (interviews with Eugenio
Loquivo and Fidencio Leyva, May 2016). The megaproject originated in
the 1990s. At the time, users of the 038 Irrigation District of the Mayo
River, which includes some 11,000 agricultural workers, expressed the
need to build a dam to expand the irrigation surface in that district in
order to cultivate secondary crops. Yet, there were other reasons, such as
the generation of energy and the “public interest” need to avoid the pos-
sible flooding of the river. This dam would be the second of this nature,
since one called “Mocuzarit” had already been built (personal communi-
cations with the Kaweruma Network, 2017).
The Guarijio and some organizations that have accompanied them
stressed the negative impact of the dam. They indicated that its curtain
would be over 78 metres high, which means that part of the tribe’s terri-
tory would be flooded. They also noted that some parts of the dam would
be built on sacred sites, more specifically on some 800 petro-engravings.
They highlighted other impacts on the Guarijio culture, such as flooding
in territories where their dead rest, where their plants and roads are
located, and where their history has been written. They further pointed
out the risk of forced displacement because of the dam (interviews with
Jesús Armando Haro, Ramón Martinez and Elizabeth Pettit, May 2016).
Some, like the Kaweruma Network,4 even stated that the megaproject
would result in ecocide and ethnocide of the communities settled in the
Mayo River basin:
The Guarijio population is highly vulnerable, not only in terms of the condi-
tions of poverty and isolation in which they live, but also due to their low
demography. Therefore, a forced displacement and the dispossession of the
lands they have only owned since 1982 would technically erase them from
the map, and we would be facing an ethnocide. (Interview with Ramón
Martinez Coria, May 2016)
Throughout their resistance campaign against the megaproject, the

Guarijio faced physical aggressions and threats, proffered against some of
their authorities, as well as the division of some communities, propitiated
by non-indigenous groups (interview with Jerónimo Rodríguez, May
2016). A Guarijio resident explained the treatment to which the police
subjected him and others:
I had to defend Don José Romero from San Bernardo, since they were using
public security to attack him. I went and said “Good morning. What is the
reason of this visit? Why do you come with so much violence?”. The women,
who were more organized, opposed it. […] They [public security officials]
scolded me and told me “who are you?” and I told them “you are doing
wrong and you are not even ashamed. I think you are important and you
should not be threatening or attacking innocent people”. […] Because Don
José did not want to sign any contract with [the governor] Guillermo Padres.
(Interview with a Guarijio man called Jerónimo Rodríguez, May 2016)
The Guarijio used civil resistance methods mentioned by Sharp

(2003) in combination with advocacy and conflict transformation meth-
ods. Methods of protest and persuasion included speaking out in com-
munity assemblies, in forums and in the media. They also used economic
noncooperation by refusing to sell their properties to the promoters of
the dam (personal communications with the Kaweruma Network, 2017).
4
It is a support group for the Mayo River communities, especially the Guarijio and their
campaign of civil resistance against the Pilares dam. It comprises the School of Sonora, the
National Institute of Anthropology and History, the Centre for Research in Food and
Development, the Forum for Sustainable Development, the Centre for Anthropological
Research, the Latin American Legal Anthropology Network and the Mexican Network of
Studies on Indigenous Populations.
In addition to civil resistance methods, the tribe resorted to dialogue and

negotiation with state authorities. The Guarijio and the state reached
agreements to compensate the indigenous people affected by the dam,
consisting of the allocation of 500 hectares to the tribe, but the tribe had
received only 114 hectares at the time of writing. Similarly, the two sides
agreed to establish a trust fund of 11 million pesos to support productive
projects for the Guarijio, but this had not been implemented either.
The Guarijio also resorted to intergovernmental organizations to
defend their rights and seek the suspension of the megaproject. In particu-
lar, they met with the UN special rapporteur on the rights of indigenous
peoples in 2017 (interview with Jesús Armando Haro, May 2016).
Likewise, they established strategic alliances, mainly with the academia,
civil society organizations in Europe and America, and the Yaqui and
Mayo tribes. The greatest result of this strategy was the establishment of
the Kaweruma Network (personal communications with the Kaweruma
Network, 2017).
Besides, they resorted to legal channels, although without positive
results to date. Finally, they strengthened their resistance movement by
vindicating their identity and culture and emphasizing the importance of
their territory through actions, such as cultural presentations and their par-
ticipation in a competition of ancestral knowledge. This contest aimed to
disseminate and protect the biocultural heritage of this tribe (interview
with Jesús Armando Haro, 2017). Likewise, the Guarijio carried out a pil-
grimage on the Mayo River in 2017, visiting historical and archaeological
sites for three days, sharing traditional legends and performing songs and
dances (personal communications with the Kaweruma Network, 2017).
Key Factors That Can Explain the Outcomes

of the Yaqui and Guarijio Civil Resistance Campaigns
Power asymmetries represent a significant challenge for civil resistance. As

Dudouet (2012) points out, this form of resistance is a way to redress
these asymmetries, empowering those who resist. It is therefore important
to understand the power relations that underlie these experiences in order
to examine them and understand their outcomes. In their exercise of civil
resistance, the Yaqui and Guarijio have faced the power of the state and
local private companies. The have been prey to the social structures of
exclusion and discrimination of indigenous peoples, which have been
prevalent throughout Mexican history—an expression of structural vio-
lence. These conditions have represented challenges in the Yaqui and

Guarijio processes of civil resistance.
Further, Sharp indicated that the success of civil resistance depended
on a series of factors. These include the characteristics of the conflict, the
issues that are at the centre of the struggle, the social structure of the
population that resists, the choice of the resistance strategy, the mecha-
nism to promote change, the selected methods and “the skills, discipline
and tenacity of those who resist” (Sharp 2003: 196, 197). Several factors
facilitated the Yaqui’s exercise of civil resistance. These have to do with
their culture, history, and demographic and organizational aspects. They
are also related to the choice of methods used to resist. These factors
need to be analysed in combination to better understand how and to
which extent the Yaqui were able to redress power imbalances and achieve
some successes, even if limited, in their nonviolent struggle. They include
(1) Yaqui cultural traits, such as their pride, a deep-rooted culture and a
sense of belonging; (2) their understanding of their space as an inherited
nest and of their territory in accordance with their worldview, which led
the tribe to engage in a nonviolent struggle to protect such territory; (3)
the larger size of their population; (4) their long experience of resistance,
which has made them recognize their civil resistance capacity and trust it;
(5) their important historical achievements, including the return of part
of their ancestral territory by the state and the recognition of their owner-
ship over 50 per cent of the Yaqui River during the presidency of Lázaro
Cárdenas (although this recognition has largely remained symbolic, it
became a pillar for the Yaqui’s exercise of nonviolent resistance and dem-
onstrated to the Yaqui that they could have an impact on the state); (6)
their transition to nonviolent resistance, since it allowed them to con-
tinue their struggle with less costs for their tribe and possibly to gain
outside support; (7) the significant achievements of their campaign of
nonviolent resistance against the Independence aqueduct, especially the
judicial sentences in their favour (even if these rulings have yet to be
enforced, the fact that they exist has empowered the resistance movement
and strengthened its process); (8) the Yaqui’s strategic decision to com-
bine methods of nonviolent resistance with other methods to achieve
better results; (9) their political capacity to communicate, to establish
alliances and dialogue, and to make agreements; (10) the consolidation
of the organizational structure of the Yaqui resistance movement over
time, although this structure would be stronger if the eight indigenous
peoples of Sonora could achieve unity; (11) the higher level of education
and training of their communities and leaders and (12) the strategic alli-
ances that they have established.
By contrast, the huge power asymmetry between the Guarijio and their
opponents has put their resistance capacity to the test. Yet, simultaneously,
the value of exercising civil resistance in this context has been proven, and
civil resistance has enabled the Guarijio to make their struggle visible.
Despite being unknown and ignored for so long, subjected to feudal forms
of exploitation until the 1970s and being affected by extreme structural
violence, this tribe has demonstrated its capacity to resist in a strong and
persistent way, with limited resources and unfavourable conditions, against
the Pilares dam, and against the state and local businessmen behind the
project.
The Guarijio’s experience reveals unfavourable and favourable elements
to overcome challenges in their civil resistance campaign. Unfavourable
conditions include the significant political and economic power of their
opponents, as well as their late recognition by the state, their historical
exploitation and poverty, which have denied them basic and essential
opportunities. This factor has negatively affected their organizational
structure, as they could not count on greater autonomy, more prepared
communities and leaders, and a more cohesive social base. Similarly,
unequal political and social structures have reproduced and perpetuated
racism against indigenous people, which has hampered the Guarijio’s civil
resistance efforts. The recent death of their main leaders, Cipriano
Boutimeo and José Zazueta, and their small population have also nega-
tively affected the Guarijio’s process of civil resistance. Further, the pres-
ence of drug trafficking in their territory and the construction of the dam
have displaced some of the Guarijio population, which can indirectly
undermine the resistance process.
The Guarijio have exerted their agency to overcome these unfavourable
circumstances. In particular, they demonstrated their capacity and willing-
ness to resist despite their fragility and the many challenges. They also
established strategic alliances to strengthen their movement, especially
with scholars and NGOs as part of the Kaweruma Network, and with the
Yaqui and Mayo tribes. Additionally, like the Yaqui, they combined meth-
ods, including their own methods, reflecting a search for alternatives to
increase the possibility of success of their civil resistance campaign.
Conclusions
This chapter examined the unique characteristics of the Yaqui and Guarijio
tribes that impinged on their experiences of civil resistance, particularly
the meaning of their territory in accordance with their worldviews and
their history. In so doing, it demonstrated that the analysis of these two
indigenous experiences of civil resistance requires a careful consideration
of the characteristics of these peoples and those of their civil resistance
praxis. It confirmed previous findings regarding indigenous experiences
that have made the transition from violent to nonviolent resistance.
Additionally, it revealed the pragmatic or strategic use of nonviolent resis-
tance by the Yaqui and Guarijio—in the case of the former, evidenced in
the reasons that led them to move from violent to nonviolent resistance.
Importantly, in both cases, needs, convenience and opportunities were at
the origin of their processes of civil resistance.
The Guarijio experience further showed that a community’s organization
and strong commitment to civil resistance are not necessarily sufficient to
ensure successful outcomes. Other factors too play a significant role in mak-
ing it possible for civil resistance to redress power asymmetries and achieve
a greater impact. This experience also illustrated that civil resistance pro-
cesses are not linear. In particular, some historical periods were character-
ized by more favourable conditions for civil resistance movements to achieve
their goals, while others presented more adverse conditions. Additionally,
the two cases revealed the high impact of megaprojects on indigenous peo-
ples, the threat that they represent for the preservation of these peoples’
cultures and survival, as well as the repercussion of these projects on nature
and their potential for generating other conflicts, especially environmental
ones. Finally, the two experiences of civil resistance highlighted the impor-
tance of combining methods of civil resistance with other ones, including
conflict transformation methods. In particular, they emphasized the com-
plementarity of civil resistance, negotiation and peacebuilding.
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CHAPTER 3
A Rebellion of Spirituality: On the Power

of Indigenous Civil Resistance in Honduras
Mónica A. Maher
In Memory of Berta Cáceres
The murder of indigenous environmental activist and human rights

defender, Berta Cáceres, in La Esperanza, Honduras, on 2 March 2016
triggered outrage and calls for justice around the world.1 The event made
visible a conflict within the Lenca Community of western Honduras con-
cerning a hydroelectric dam project, Agua Zarca, in Rio Blanco,
Department of Intibucá. Berta Cáceres had successfully organized the
Lenca community through her organization, the Civic Council of Popular
and Indigenous Organizations of Honduras (COPINH), to resist the
1
Cáceres was murdered at her home just before midnight by heavily armed gunmen;
her colleague visiting her at the time, Gustavo Castro, was the sole witness, surviving an
assassination attempt against him. In April 2016, two military officers and two employ-
ees of the Honduran firm Desarrollos Energéticos S.A. were charged with the murder of
Cáceres.
M. A. Maher (*)

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-05033-7_3
42 M. A. MAHER
World-Bank-financed hydroelectric dam project of the Chinese Sinohydro

Company, the largest hydroelectric company in the world, on the sacred
indigenous River Gualcarque. Sinohydro and the World Bank withdrew in
2013, citing ongoing community resistance. In recognition of her success,
Cáceres received the prestigious Goldman Award in 2015 for her brave,
creative leadership.
Despite international acclaim for the successful indigenous resistance to
Sinohydro and the World Bank, the Honduran counterparts in the proj-
ect—Desarrollos Energéticos S.A. (DESA) and its local financer, Financiera
Comercial Hondureña S.A.(FICOHSA)—remained engaged in the dam,
simply moving the construction site to another village on the river where
local leaders were armed to defend the project. Ongoing resistance of
COPINH continued to be met with violent repression up to and after the
murder of Cáceres in 2016. At this writing, the second anniversary of her
assassination and 25th anniversary of COPINH, DESA president, David
Castillo, has been arrested as one of the intellectual authors of Cáceres
murder, the dam construction is stalled, and Bertita Zuñiga Cáceres,
daughter of Berta Cáceres, is leading COPINH as General Coordinator.
The Honduran government has supported the Agua Zarca dam project
despite it violating International Labour Organization (ILO) Convention
169, which the State of Honduras has ratified, which demands prior, free
and informed consent of indigenous communities. This reflects a pattern
of the Honduran government which has made hundreds of concessions of
lands and waters since the 2009 military coup, allowing foreign companies
to carry out highly profitable projects with the protection of armed forces,
while at the same time increasingly criminalizing indigenous and afro-
descendent social movements. A total of 30% of Honduran territories have
been conceded to transnational companies without formal consent of the
communities affected (Korol 2016: 274).
This conflict, though originating in one small indigenous village, is the
tip of the iceberg of a much larger ideological split in Honduras and in
Latin America generally, where struggles between indigenous peoples and
the State abound over ancestral waters and lands. It is reflective of not only
a broader geographic but also historical issue, rooted in centuries of colo-
nial and neo-colonial domination of indigenous peoples in Latin America.
It is a prime example of the power of civil resistance in the process of
building peace with justice. This chapter explores the roots of this power,
asking from whence come the perseverance, conviction and creativity that
are critical to the success of COPINH in the face of protracted social con-
flict and imminent State-sponsored violence.
A REBELLION OF SPIRITUALITY: ON THE POWER OF INDIGENOUS CIVIL… 43
This chapter uses various bodies of literature, including peacebuilding,

intercultural philosophy and politics, to analyse how the civil resistance
movement led by Berta Cáceres drew upon spirituality in order to main-
tain resilience, innovate tactically and develop a constructive programme—
three key elements of successful civil resistance—and managed to prevent
the building of a dam on the sacred Gualcarque River. It also builds on
non-governmental reports, print and digital media, and the author’s expe-
rience visiting Honduras over three decades, particularly by interactions
post-coup with Feminists in Resistance of Tegucigalpa and the Forum of
Women for Life of San Pedro Sula, including in events with Berta Cáceres.
Honduras is a country marked by political crisis, economic inequality,
widespread impunity and rampant insecurity. The State is widely distrusted
by the majority of the population for flagrant corruption and concentra-
tion of oligarchic power, particularly post the 2009 coup (see, e.g.,
Barahona 2010). Although since 1982 the State has guaranteed protec-
tion of the rights of indigenous people2 with Article 346 of its constitu-
tion, the reality is that indigenous peoples, who make up 8% of the total
population, have almost no formal political power with respect to their
lands, culture and natural resources (Cultural Survival 2010: 2).
The success of the indigenous organization COPINH stands out within
this context of extreme structural violence. What factors explain its success?
This chapter explores this question by examining several dimensions of the
life of COPINH: its origins, popular education and communication, net-
works of regional and international advocacy, ancestral force, perceptions of
spacetime, spiritual practice, moral certainty and creative spontaneity. This
chapter argues that the ancestral indigenous spirituality inherited, main-
tained and practised by COPINH serves as both a source of its fierce com-
mitment and unwavering strength and a strategy for creative unified action.
It is a fire that does not die in the face of brutal repression.
COPINH Success: Amidst Harsh Repression

The indigenous Lenca civil resistance to the Agua Zarca dam in Rio
Blanco, which secured the withdrawal of Sinohydro and the World Bank,
represents a remarkable victory of COPINH recognized internationally. It
is the most well-known success of COPINH since it resulted in the award-
2
Besides the Lenca people, other indigenous groups in Honduras include the Miskitu,
Tawahka, Tolupan, Pech and Chorti.
44 M. A. MAHER
ing of the 2015 Goldman Prize to COPINH Coordinator, Berta Cáceres,

although tragically as well in her assassination less than a year later. Yet, far
from being the only example of creative nonviolent action of COPINH,
the Rio Blanco case is in fact one of many.
Indeed, the success of COPINH’s civil resistance has been stunning.
COPINH has “reclaimed ancestral lands, winning unheard-of communal
land titles […] stalled or stopped dams, logging operations and mining
exploration—not to mention free-trade agreements” (Bell 2016).
COPINH members have used numerous civil resistance tactics to achieve
their objectives. They
have occupied public spaces, including several of the six US military bases in
their country, and refused to leave. They have shut down the road to
Tegucigalpa, strategically blocking goods from moving to the city. They
have declared a boycott of all international financial institutions on their
lands. They have helped coordinate 150 local referendums to raise the stakes
on democracy (Bell 2016).
Berta Cáceres explained COPINH’s unwavering resistance, despite vio-

lent repression:
We have detained 10 hydroelectric megaprojects of the great coup support-

ers of Honduras. We have confronted US, Israeli and other multinational
industries that come for the great hydro-resources that are in Honduras.
There was a strong struggle against the privatization of water, against the
tourist industry. We have colleagues who have been assassinated for the
struggles against the multinationals, for the issues of water, of mines.
Another threat are the projects […] that privatize an important wealth of
our common natural good: the forests. We are going to continue this strug-
gle, despite all the threats. (Cited in Korol 2016: 268–269)3
A politics of militarization, discrimination, racism and criminalization of

social movements sharply increased after the 2009 coup, with a very rapid
expansion of neoliberal capitalism focused on extractive industries. The
coup, according to Cáceres, “is very linked to the advance of the project of
death against our communities. We know in our own flesh what it means,
we know that it marked the guarantee of the most fierce, criminal colonial-
ism of impunity that we have seen in many years, and that is a lot given that
historically we have had to deal with plundering and extermination” (cited
Translation into English of all Spanish texts by Mónica Maher.

3
in Korol 2016: 273). During 2010, the year after the coup, 6239 people
were murdered in Honduras, representing a homicide rate of 82.1 per
100,000, the large majority of which went unprosecuted, making Honduras
the most violent country in the world among countries without a formal
conflict (United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime 2011: 93, 109). As
the country in Latin America with the highest economic inequality in
2017, Honduras was also the most dangerous place in the world for envi-
ronmental defenders; in a country of just eight million people, 123 envi-
ronmental defenders were killed after the 2009 coup through 2016 (Global
Witness 2017: 8). Many more have been harassed, tortured and detained.
This violence has accompanied the implementation of free trade agree-
ments and neoliberal economic policies in the region, notably the Central
America Free Trade Agreement (CAFTA) and Plan Puebla Panama, which
many human and nature rights defenders have resisted for their destructive
impact on rural and indigenous peoples as well as nature. Activists like
those at COPINH have demanded respect for international laws which
guarantee participation of the indigenous communities in decisions that
affect their ancestral territories, such as ILO Convention 169, which the
State of Honduras has ratified.
After the coup, Cáceres claimed:
Now it is not only that there is no respect for the right to free, prior and
informed consultation and the systematic violation of Convention 169 …
but … to this, you add the constant aggression, the death threats, the harass-
ment by forces that operate as paramilitary troops, by the army itself, by the
police, all in collusion with the central and municipal authorities (cited in
Korol 2016: 274–275).
The victory in Rio Blanco resulted, thanks to the resiliency of the resis-
tance in the face of repression. On 15 July 2013, armed forces opened fire
on COPINH protestors in Rio Blanco, killing COPINH leader, Tomás
García, and injuring his son, Alan. There were ongoing attempts to discredit
the work of COPINH and the leadership of Cáceres who described: “During
the struggle in defence of the River Gualcarque there was a situation of
much criminalization […]. They accused me of carrying illegal arms, of
threatening the security of the State of Honduras. This very difficult situa-
tion of confrontation arose, but […] at the same time […] we demonstrated
that it was possible to free territories” (cited in Korol 2016: 282).
Civil resistance scholars have brought attention to the importance of
resiliency in the face of repression. According to Schock, “Mobilized cam-
paigns must remain resilient in the face of repression and gain leverage
46 M. A. MAHER
over their adversary to attain their goals. Resilience refers to the ability of
a challenge to withstand and recover from repression; that is, to sustain a
campaign despite the actions of opponents aimed at constraining or inhib-
iting their activities” (Schock 2013 [2005]: 283).
What accounts for the collective capacity to be resilient in the face of
systemic repression? How was COPINH able to sustain its civil resistance
in the context of violence? According to Beverly Bell, founder of Other
Worlds and close friend of Cáceres, the victories were due not only to
Cáceres’s outstanding leadership but to “the size, strength, unity and
fierce commitment” of COPINH, underlined by a fearlessness for which
the members of the organization are famous. “They fear us because we’re
fearless” was something Cáceres loved to say (Bell 2016). This refrain
took on national meaning after 2009 with the prolonged resistance to the
coup marked by a historic convergence of indigenous, student, labour,
LGBTI4 and women’s movements in which Cáceres emerged as a key
leader motivating the diverse, mass protests in the face of harsh armed
repression.
Origins: Hope in a Historical Moment

Insight into the origins of this fearlessness and fierce commitment can be
revealed by exploring COPINH’s beginnings. COPINH was founded
on 27 March 1993 in La Esperanza, Honduras, by Berta Cáceres, and
seven other young activists for the purpose of working “for the improve-
ment of the life conditions in the southwest region of the country, for
the spiritual territorial defence of indigenous peoples, above all the
Lenca people, and for women’s rights” (cited in Korol 2016: 266). This
was a vision of transforming the interconnected systems which re/pro-
duced classism, racism and sexism, namely, a capitalism of pillage, US
and European neo-colonialism, and patriarchy. It was an ambitious ini-
tiative to be sure, yet it was a time of new hope in Central America due
to the recent signing of the Peace Agreements in neighbouring El
Salvador; the Campaign of 500 years of Indigenous, Black and Popular
Resistance; the emergence of the Zapatista movement in Chiapas and
the Nobel Peace Prize for the first time to an indigenous woman,
Rigoberta Menchú of Guatemala (Korol 2016: 266).
4
LGBTI referes to Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender and Intersex people.
Several of the COPINH founders, including Cáceres and her husband,

Salvador Zuñiga, were returning from the recent armed conflict in El
Salvador, had much experience in social struggle, and were rethinking
their identity and commitment. They had a desire to do something to
alleviate human suffering at home in Honduras, one of the poorest regions
with very high infant mortality, illiteracy, racism, violence against women
and exploitative logging industries. “There was something that weighed
on us: we wanted to do something in our own place, return to our origins,
rethink who we were, and what our commitment was. We felt that in our
place much was lacking, and we felt naked before that reality: the misery”
(cited in Korol 2016: 267). Affected by their experience of armed conflict
in El Salvador, they were reconsidering their strategies. Zuñiga explained,
“We understood that war was repugnant. It was the worst thing that could
happen to people.” The group decided to dedicate themselves to “active
nonviolence” (cited in Gibler 2017).
Popular Education and Communication: Collective

Re/Learning in Action
Within the context of extreme suffering and oppression, COPINH began
by focusing on local organizing and popular education. It sponsored
spaces for ongoing reflection about communal, local and national realities
which directly informed action. According to Cáceres, this collective
reflection “gave us a sense of what to do next” (cited in Pañuelos en
Rebeldía 2016). Decisions about acts of resistance were grounded in daily
realities and were tested for their effectiveness. Actions in turn became a
source of reflection in a continuing process of experiential learning.
Cáceres affirms, “We value popular education as a tool of liberation, of the
collective construction of thought, of proposals and ideas. We can take
wrong steps, but we are there learning, making the effort … Learn, relearn
and recreate. That is very powerful.” In sum, “from the beginning, we
determined that the great school of COPINH was its own struggle” (cited
in Korol 2016: 284–285).
In 2007, communication and political formation by COPINH grew
with the founding of the community radio station, Lenca Voice Radio
(Radio Voz Lenca), which operates out of the Department of Lempira.
Later, Radio Guarajambala joined, broadcasting from La Esperanza,
Intibucá. Popular radio has been an important vehicle for affirming the
48 M. A. MAHER
right to communication of indigenous communities and organizing, edu-

cating, denouncing injustice and strategizing. According to Cáceres,
“communication is a weapon for formation and training which allows us
the breadth and diversity to create new things appropriate for new reali-
ties” (cited in COPINH 2018). Referring to the armed forces who threat-
ened COPINH, she said without fear, “You have the bullet […]. I the
word […]. The bullet dies when it goes off […]. The word lives when
repeated” (cited in Arévalo 2018).
Experiential learning and popular communication were thus critical to
ongoing formulation of strategies and decision-making of COPINH. This
was particularly true of the California Farm Workers’ Movement as well,
analysed by Marshall Ganz, who “develop(ed) the concept of strategic
capacity, which emerges from an interactive process of experimentation,
learning, and adapting” (Schock 2013: 285). According to Schock (2013),
“civil resistance campaigns with leaders and participants who recognize
and understand the role of strategic choice are more likely to succeed.”
Development of effective strategy is most likely “if the leadership team is
deeply motivated, has access to salient information and is open to learn-
ing” (Schock 2013: 284–285).
Networks: National, Regional and International

Advocacy
In addition to popular education and political formation at the local level,
COPINH has also formed very strong networks of collaboration and sup-
port at the national and international levels. “We needed political forma-
tion, but not just at the community level […]. we also felt the need to be
connected at the national and international level” (cited in Korol 2016:
284). These connections include but are not limited to organizations of
women human rights defenders and environmental activists, Latin
American solidarity groups in the US and Europe, and progressive social
movements of Latin America. Regional and international networks of
allies have been critical to bring attention to and support the cause of
COPINH, since the struggle is with transnational political and economic
forces, helping with information distribution, advocacy, lobbying and
professional technical assistance.
The global profile of COPINH has grown through direct regional and
international advocacy. Berta Cáceres and COPINH colleagues brought
the case of Rio Blanco to the Inter-American Commission on Human
Rights, which demanded of the Honduran government protective security

measures for her because of the threats to her life. With European allies,
Cáceres was active in pressuring international financiers of the Agua Zarca
project, the Dutch Entrepreneurial Development Bank FMO and the
Finnfund, to withdraw their investments. In addition, Cáceres spoke in
the US Congress about the deadly impacts of US militarism on the grand
majority of people living in poverty in Honduras. After her murder, the
US Representative Henry Johnson introduced the Berta Cáceres Human
Rights in Honduras Act (HR 5474) to suspend military aid to Honduras
until human rights violations cease.5
The critical importance of transnational advocacy networks to nonvio-
lent struggles is well documented, especially in cases like that of COPINH,
small organizations with little direct leverage over those they are resisting.
“The ability of local actors to internationalize their struggle by forming
functional alliances with third parties that have more direct leverage over
the opponent and its allies is key to the success of nonviolent struggles in
these cases” (Zunes et al. 2017: 12).
Beverly Bell describes the important linkage between nonviolent action
on the local level and political pressure at the international level, which
resulted in the Rio Blanco victory over the World Bank and Sinohydro:
The COPINH community of Rio Blanco—everyone: elders, toddlers, nurs-

ing mothers—formed a human barricade and blocked construction of the
dam. Meanwhile, Berta, other members of COPINH, and national and inter-
national friends pressured the World Bank and the largest dam company in the
world, Chinese state-owned Sinohydro, to pull out. Rio Blanco did not block-
ade the construction for an hour or for a day, or for a week. They did it for
more than a year. They did it until they won. They got the most powerful
financial interests in the world to abandon the project. (Bell 2016)
Such an achievement by a rural indigenous organization to defend its

interests in the face of militarized, multi-million-dollar transnational
power is truly outstanding. Beyond its strong history of social struggle,
popular education, networks and advocacy, what else can help explain
COPINH’s success? What are the roots of its resilience, fearlessness and
power?
5
H.R. 5474 Berta Cáceres Human Rights in Honduras Act, introduced 14 June 2016, by
Representative Henry Johnson, Jr., 114th US Congress (2015–2016). See: https://www.
congress.gov/bill/114th-congress/house-bill/5474.
50 M. A. MAHER
Ancestral Force: What Keeps Us Going

A deeper dimension of COPINH’s success is without a doubt its histori-
cally grounded spirituality, marked by interconnection with the spirits of
nature and the ancestors. Cáceres attests to the fundamental connection
between the civil resistance of COPINH and its spirituality: “...I have a
conviction in the spirituality of the Lenca people, that the ancestors
accompany us, and that the cause of COPINH is just, and that force is
what keeps us going” (cited in Korol 2016: 283). This force of faith in
Lenca spirituality, ancestor accompaniment and justice is the motor of the
indigenous movement in Honduras, which is COPINH.
As the singer and songwriter Karla Lara writes in her tribute to
COPINH in their defence of the River Gualcarque: “From where such
force? From where so many Bertas?” Lara answers: “They told me a secret.
They are old spirits; they are ancient spirits, that give life to bodies, that
give force to the Lenca” (Lara 2013).
Indeed, behind the success of COPINH in a context of extreme repres-
sion is a collective spiritual force, an ancestral force, a source of strength
and life, protection and guidance, unwavering conviction and persever-
ance, and creativity and resiliency. It is a millennial power, both transcen-
dent, beyond this material time and space, and imminent, within the
community and this historical moment. In Cáceres’s words, “Here it is
easy to be killed. The cost we pay is very high. But most important is that
we have a force that comes from our ancestors, a heritage of thousands of
years, of which we are proud. That is our nourishment and our conviction
at the hour of struggle” (cited in Arévalo 2018).
In the history of civil resistance, such a spiritual force has been identi-
fied as essential to successful nonviolent action and has been defined in a
variety of ways from distinct cultural and religious traditions. Gandhi, as a
devout Hindu in India, called this force satyagraha, Sanskrit for holding to
the truth (York 1999), or firmness relying on truth (Schock 2013), often
translated simply as truth-force or soul-force. Christian Rev. Dr Martin
Luther King, Jr, inspired by Gandhi, embraced this concept as the force of
love in his civil resistance campaign against racial injustice and violence in
the USA. Whatever its name, such a power has been fundamental to civil
resistance. It is the key which opens the door to envisioning a different
future and acting on that vision.
In early civil resistance studies, scholars examined the internal dynamics
of the Gandhi movement; Richard Gregg, for example, interpreted the
movement from the perspective of psychological theory and “developed

the concept of ‘moral jiu-jitsu’ which states that activists committed to
nonviolence have a moral advantage that throws the violent opponent off
balance” (Schock 2013: 279). Nevertheless, the focus of analysis later
took a turn to document-specific strategies, dynamics or tactics key to
successful nonviolence movements independent of questions of spiritual-
ity or morality. This is especially true since the breakthrough work of Gene
Sharp, The Politics of Non-violent Action (1973), who, “less holistic than
Gandhians in his approach to social change […] narrowed the focus to
observable actions without consideration of motives or beliefs” (Schock
2013: 279). Scholars thus have in large “focused on the dynamics and
consequences of implementing methods of nonviolent action regardless of
the motivation […] or the beliefs or cultures of the activists” (Schock
2013: 286).
In contrast, within peacebuilding literature, there has been a renewed
interest in analysing the roles of spirituality, worldview and moral imagina-
tion in social processes to overcome entrenched violence and injustice.
Peacebuilding expert, John Paul Lederach, has emphasized conflict trans-
formation as an art, asserting that in order to break cyclical generations of
violence and oppression, more important than any professional training or
technique is the ability to imagine a different outcome, another reality,
which he claims lies in our moral imagination: “the capacity to imagine
something rooted in the challenge of the real world yet capable of giving
birth to that which does not yet exist.” For that reason, Lederach calls for
a shift in worldview among those who are trying to build constructive
social change amidst conflict (Lederach 2005: ix).
Others, like Robert Schreiter, have subsequently affirmed this thesis
and argued for a framework for peacebuilding which goes beyond secular
frames to include an imaginary based in worldviews which recognize the
invisible, transcendent realm. According to Schreiter, a social imaginary
common to many such traditions assumes: “A porous boundary between the
visible world and the nonvisible, transcendent world” (Schreiter 2010: 222).
Lenca spirituality assumes that there is another world which one cannot
see but which is very present. Indeed, ancestral indigenous and afro-
descendent traditions in Latin America are rooted in a mystical under-
standing of the world, a spiritual framework for perceiving reality. This
ancestral spirituality has particular conceptions of time and place which
differ from widespread modern secular assumptions.
52 M. A. MAHER
Spacetime: Fluidity, Memory and Place

The spirituality from which COPINH’s actions emerge is a unifying and
motivating force that gives rise to an unwavering commitment for realiz-
ing justice in light not only of future but also in honour of past genera-
tions. In fact, COPINH’s is a vision of uninterrupted resistance of a
half-millennium: “The resistance of the Honduran people did not begin
on 28 June (2009, the day of the coup). This rebellion began more than
500 years ago” (cited in Korol 2016: 268). Cáceres declared proudly, “We
indigenous peoples are strong! Despite 522 years of oppression, slavery
and extermination, to exist today as peoples means we have shown the
force that we have!” (cited in Arévalo 2018). And this history is very alive
today, “That resistance for identity […] is very strong in the memory of
the people” (cited in Korol 2016: 267).
Cáceres described the Lenca ancestral resistance to the Spanish as a
defence of their space in order to survive as a people: “In the face of the
threat of the Conquest […] arose a great indigenous insurrection in 1536”
(cited in Korol 2016: 267). The Spanish conquerors “could not stop that
indigenous resistance, in spite of assassinating Lempira and all that he sig-
nified as an indigenous leader.” She emphasized, “The Lenca people kept
resisting and engaged in several battles for their territory. They are very
attached to their territory. They were not displaced; they maintained their
resistance right there […] defending their space, searching for a way to
survive” (cited in Korol 2016: 268).
In describing the moral imagination necessary for interrupting
engrained systemic violence, John Paul Lederach affirms the importance
of a concept of time as fluid, as a “seamless connection between the past
and the future.” This is an understanding of “the past as a generative
energy” and “of collective memory and survival (as) linked” (Lederach
2005: 148). Within such a worldview, “the past is alive” and the present is
an “expansive moment” filled with the “potentialities” of the future
(Lederach 2005: 132). Based on his learning from many indigenous
peoples, Lederach claims that to interrupt cycles of oppression, it is neces-
sary to develop the capacity to imagine the past that lies before us and to
experience time as spacetime, inseparable from space, a conception similar
to modern physics. This is “an understanding of space and time as multi-
dimensional spheres, polychronistic in quality rather than exclusively lin-
ear, and based on a deep understanding of human place within creation”
(Lederach 2005: 137–138). According to a Philippine indigenous elder
who worked with Lederach, “Ancestral domain is not about the land as if
it were a legal question of title. For us, this place is where the ancestors
live. Where they live is where we are people. That is why we say ancestral
domain. It is the domain of our ancestors, the place where we as a people
go to join them. You take away our place, you take away our past. You take
our past and we cease to be” (cited in Lederach 2005: 132).
This view of time as spacetime, emerging from a specific vision of the
cosmos, informs approaches to living, and to resisting injustice, in very con-
crete ways. According to a Mayan traditional priest in Guatemala, “In a
traditional Mayan view, if there is a problem in the community, the first
thing we would say is: Did you greet the sun today? Did you thank the earth
for the corn? It is not the only thing, but it is the first. We always must know
where (in) what place and time we are located” (cited in Lederach 2005:
140). The Mayan elder highlights the importance of acknowledging and
giving thanks to the spirits of the sun, earth, water and air. Indeed, the
worldview of indigenous peoples of the Americas includes a particular way
of “relating to all that exists, in the social realm as well as beyond the social
and also beyond the temporal present.” It has to do with “relating to the
animals, the trees, the insects, the ancestors and the spirits not just in the
present but also in the past and the future” (Huanacuni 2010: 85).
COPINH’s actions are grounded in such a worldview, reflecting the aware-
ness of the much larger context of spacetime of which the community is a
part. In her moving three-minute speech to accept the Goldman
Environmental Prize, Berta Cáceres began by acknowledging the Earth, the
water and the corn as the collective identity of the Lenca people and
described the particular Lenca responsibility for the rivers: “In our world-
views, we are beings of the Earth, the water and corn; as Lenca people, we
are the ancestral custodians of the Rivers” (Cáceres 2015). This worldview
is one in which humanity is interconnected with the Earth in an inseparable
relationship of life. Water is the blood of the Earth, rivers its veins, giving life
to all (Causa Justa 2014). And, the Lenca people have a special ancestral
responsibility to protect that life.
Indigenous spiritual cosmology is inseparable from the civil resistance of
COPINH, a moral ancestral calling, and is also reflected in concrete ways
in its collective nonviolence. One example is COPINH’s description of
their action to take over the Agua Zarca dam project, demanding the with-
drawal of all personnel, reclaiming their ancestral territory in the exercise of
their power and sovereignty as indigenous people, an action carried out by
children, women and men: “Today, day of the nahual of the rain, of light-
54 M. A. MAHER
ening and of the duality of the sacred fire, day in which we ask for the well-
being of the sun and the well-being of the people, Lenca communities
organized in COPINH in Rio Blanco, we have decided and have acted
again in defence of the territory and of the River Gualcarque” (cited in
Lara 2013). Actions, coordinated with the indigenous calendar, coincided
with the purpose of particular days, reflecting a vision of the cosmos in
which humans are connected to one other, to nature, to the ancestors and
to spirits. The spirituality assisted the community in determining when to
act, giving a strong sense of conviction in the necessity and efficacy of the
action. It framed the whole event of civil resistance within a millennial
context of spacetime. Such a framework for understanding reality and col-
lective purpose was also reflected in slogans within nonviolent actions. One
sign at a COPINH protest read, “I am Life. I am Earth. I am River. I am
part of the Way. I am History. I am Present. I am Struggle” (Lara 2016).
Rebellion of Spirituality: Indigenous Spiritual

Practice as Political Resistance
Lenca spirituality, a moral and ethical force behind COPINH’s successful
civil resistance, fuelling fearlessness and fierce commitment, is also a cause
for that nonviolent action. Indeed, sacred ancestral sites, including but not
limited to the Gualcarque River, have been gravely threatened by the new
neoliberal development projects. In its civil resistance campaigns,
COPINH has “prevented many precious and sacred places from being
plundered and destroyed” (Bell 2016). This struggle to protect their spiri-
tuality is not new. Cáceres emphasized, “the Lenca people were always
resisting to maintain their spiritual and cultural practices, condemned by
the Catholic Church. That resistance, for their identity, is one of the most
dignified histories that exist” (cited in Korol 2016: 267). The very main-
tenance and practice of indigenous spirituality is itself an act of resistance.
Cáceres explained that:
The Lenca people maintain their very important ceremonial centres, that are
part of the origin of our life. To maintain the ceremonial centres and spiri-
tuality is part of the resistance of the Lenca people. As COPINH we have
continued in the flight for the recognition of the right to cultural practices
of the indigenous peoples […] those sacred covenants with the water, with
the rivers, with all beings, with all natural wealth, with all biodiversity […].
This heritage continues to be maintained despite […] strong colonizing
pressure of cultural invasion. (Cited in Korol 2016: 268)
In the face of threats of displacement and extinction, the Lenca people

have resisted not only in formal protests but in daily life itself through
sustaining their spirituality and culture. Cáceres declared: “Until this day,
we have seen how the [Lenca] communities resist in marches [and] also
with their cultural tradition, knowledge, art, understanding of health,
complex worldview about the Earth and the creation of the universe”
(cited in Korol 2016: 268).
In addition, indigenous spiritual practice, condemned by the colonial
Catholic Church as satanic, has been increasingly incorporated within
public nonviolent actions as both a source of unification, strength and
motivation, and a protest against discrimination in proud defence of col-
lective identity. In this sense, political marches become a form of spiritual
pilgrimage, especially when taking place on or near sacred waters or lands.
Ceremonies before, during or after actions have been an integral part of
COPINH’s spirit of resistance, brought also to national marches post-
coup in which the ceremonial element helped to bring harmony to a
diverse convergence. Rituals as part of political public actions serve as
statements of indigenous sovereignty as well as strategies to unite, inspire
and strengthen members and allies.6 Indigenous wisdom of the Americas
“emphasizes ritual aspects in order to connect with the divinity, deities,
ancestors, with astral spirits and the other beings of nature, in order to
give thanks, ask, and come into collective and personal balance”
(Huanacuni 2010: 43).
Lisa Schirch has written about the important role of ritual and sym-
bol in conflict transformation around the world. Schirch outlines the
functions of ritual in peacebuilding to include creating a space which
“allows for a liminal or in-between place where transformation can take
place.” Such a space “builds, affirms and heals identities that may be at
risk” (Schirch 2005: 61). As a demonized tradition, Lenca spirituality
has an increased significance in public actions for waging just peace
than mainstream religions or culturally dominant spiritual practices.
Lenca civil resistance becomes a rebellion of spirituality, rebellion of a
spiritual force which has been demonized as dangerous and threatened
with extinction.
6
For further description of the roles of Afro-descendent and indigenous spiritualities, cer-
emonies and rituals in the Honduran resistance movement, see Maher (2015a).
56 M. A. MAHER
Over its history, COPINH’s incorporation of Lenca spirituality into

public acts of resistance has evolved to become more visible and directed.
Cáceres described:
[T]he capacity [of COPINH] to create modes of protesting, a little distinct

from what we had done years ago. For example, the very indigenous pil-
grimages which carried a political demand are also a rebellion of spirituality
and of cultural and ancestral practice. In the takeover of highways, in the
hunger strikes, when we took various embassies in various moments, the
United Nations headquarters, the Vatican headquarters. (Cited in Korol
2016: 283–284)
The choice of the Vatican headquarters site was very conscious as a

strategy “to make visible that reality that condemns the indigenous peo-
ples, their spirituality, that demonizes and prohibits it.” Cáceres consid-
ered the spiritual-political action as very significant for COPINH carried
out a spiritual-cultural practice for the first time by day what previously
they had to hide by night; it was “something marvellous and profound”
(cited in Korol 2016: 284).
This approach to reclaim publicly a spirituality that has been con-
demned by the dominant culture is part of the objectives of Latin
American scholars of intercultural philosophy who “desire to recognize
and make visible the plurality of spiritual traditions that give life and
hope to Our America, many of them delegitimized and even persecuted
by the dominant culture.” These engaged academics emphasize the
“existence of a close relationship between spiritualities and justice,” the
need to “give space to the struggles that are born inspired by spirituali-
ties of indigenous and Afro-descendent peoples,” and take particular
note of the prophetic leadership of Berta Cáceres (Méndez 2017: 78,
80). Affirming the plurality of spiritual wisdom as an invaluable wealth
in the postmodern era marked by global violence and threatened plane-
tary life, Mexican scholar Carlos Mendoza asserts “spiritualities in resis-
tance to the horror of dominant powers that seem to be taking over the
planet” so that “life might flourish for all” (Mendoza 2017: 151).
Eminent intercultural philosopher Raul Fornet-Betancourt calls for a
spiritual uprising (levantamiento) of humanity which implies political,
cultural, ethical and epistemological rebellions (Fornet-Betancourt
2017: 18–20).
Moral Certainty: Beyond Imagining

At the roots of the struggle against political, economic and cultural
domination is the struggle for spiritual rights, critical to the right to
survival. To defend political, economic and cultural rights is also to
defend spiritual rights.7 Spirituality is critical to the survival of indige-
nous people as it is inextricably connected to memory, identity, place
and history. COPINH’s fierce commitment is first to the right to exist,
to collective physical and spiritual survival, which cannot be separated.
This is reflected very clearly in the Agua Zarca project case, since the
Gualcarque River is essential to daily physical as well as spiritual sur-
vival, a source of both material and spiritual sustenance. The Gualcarque
River provides water for drinking, washing, cooking and recreation as
well as a home for spirits. It is sacred, a space of ancestral spirits of girls
who are its guardians. Cáceres insisted that the Lenca struggle on
behalf of the river was a struggle about spirituality, that an aggression
against the Gualcarque River was “an aggression against its spirits” (see
Causa Justa 2014).
In the worldview of indigenous peoples of the Americas, the water is a
“living being,” a “sacred being,” with which the people have a “relation-
ship of profound respect” since water provides life and reproduces life.
One “dialogues” with the water, “treats it with care”; it is not a resource
or object of which one can take advantage. Water is a “universal and com-
munity right […] it belongs to all and belongs to no one; it belongs to the
earth and to all beings” (Huanacuni 2010: 85, 88).
The relationship of Lenca people with the Gualcarque River is one of
protecting and being protected. The spirits protect the river and its peo-
ple, offering a source of sustenance and in turn call the people to protect
the river. The river is alive. The river speaks. “The Gualcarque River has
called us, as have other threatened rivers,” proclaimed Cáceres upon
receiving the Goldman Award in 2015, urging humanity to “awake” and
listen to the rivers (Cáceres 2015). The Spirits of the Gualcarque River
call, give guidance, assurance and energy; humanity must in turn heed
their call to be good stewards and live in harmony with all beings.
The spirits of the river are a source of deep certainty that the cause is not
only just but that what is envisioned will be achieved. Berta Cáceres
expressed this clarity about a positive outcome when talking about the non-
7
I have argued this previously in the context of Honduras (see Maher 2015b).
58 M. A. MAHER
violent resistance campaign to protect the Gualcarque River: “When we

began this struggle against Agua Zarca, I knew it was going to be hard. But
I also knew we would succeed. The River told me” (cited in Arévalo 2018).
This is a capacity to imagine a different reality and to believe it as given,
rooted in the Lenca spiritual worldview. Reflective of this perspective is
COPINH’s training centre, called Utopia. The space for visioning and
imagining the desired future is also the place for creating, bringing it into
existence and living it collectively in all the possibilities of the present. The
force of COPINH is a source of strength not only of moral imagination
but also of conviction that merges with a moral certainty that justice is
materializing.
On the day of her murder, Cáceres was taking part in a COPINH train-
ing on alternative energy led by her colleague, Gustavo Castro, of Other
Worlds Mexico. For as Cáceres had always insisted, COPINH “is not
against truly clean energy production. We aim at a development based on
human dignity, on respect for mother earth, on the fragile equilibrium
between human beings and our planet. We aim at an energy production
which respects ecosystems, human rights, territorial, cultural and indige-
nous rights” (cited in Bank Track 2013).
The civil resistance of COPINH included not just protesting injustice
and imagining an alternative but collaborating with focused certainty to
bring the Other World into reality. This approach of creating alternatives
to the dominant institutions has existed in civil resistance movements since
Gandhi, who emphasized the importance of the constructive programme.
More recently, the term “constructive resistance” has emerged to describe
practices of alternative or self-organized development by local actors dedi-
cated to social and economic transformation, such as the Kurdish resis-
tance movement in Turkey (Koefoed 2017).
Creative Spontaneity: Generating Joy

A moral certainty beyond imagining, of just cause and outcome, does not
preclude a flexibility of strategy in response to constantly variable circum-
stances. The success of civil resistance of COPINH has often come through
an admirable capacity to adapt to conditions and innovate tactically. In the
indigenous worldview, water, as an “expression of adaptability and flexibil-
ity which behaves according to ecosystems, circumstances and junctures,
without following rigid norms,” serves as a model for the people to be open
continually to what they face and to be selective (Huanacuni 2010: 88).
One collective action of COPINH which relied on spontaneity, surprise,
and humour took advantage of the farmers’ unventilated rubber boots,

known as bombas (bombs) because of the horrendous smell of sweaty feet
they emitted when taken off:
Early in COPINH’s history, a team went from La Esperanza to Tegucigalpa

to negotiate with the government on a land titling law. The discussions went
on for days. At one point, the negotiations were tense and the members of
COPINH’s team were shaky on their strategy. They asked for a recess, but
the government refused. So someone on the COPINH side gave a discrete
signal, and altogether the farmer-activists pulled off their bombas. The smell
was so toxic that the government officials fled the room. COPINH was able
to regroup and develop a stunning strategy. The indigenous radicals won
the law. (Bell 2016)
John Paul Lederach documents this dimension of successful interrup-

tions to systemic violence by communities around the world, calling it
serendipity, the capacity to respond with fluidity and creativity in the face
of changing conditions. He uses the very metaphor of a river to describe
the paradox of moving forward with clear purpose and direction while at
the same time being responsive and dynamic (Lederach, Lederach 2005:
128). Civil resistance studies have called this capacity tactical innovation
and documented its critical importance. Schock (2013: 283) asserts that
although “stubbornness, relentless persistence, steadfast perseverance
(sumud), and fearlessness […] are important, ultimately the resilience of a
campaign depends on tactical interactions between challengers and oppo-
nents.” Similarly, Zunes et al. (2017: 6) claim that the “effectiveness in
nonviolent struggles is largely contingent upon adaptability and strategic
and tactical innovation.”
As COPINH’s leader, Cáceres was untiring in her focused dedication
to the cause, and she could also be playful and fun-loving. This combina-
tion of lightness and seriousness allowed her to navigate with skill and
creativity many situations of extreme conflict, including countless death
threats on her life. One example of her good sense of humour and faith in
the spirits amidst danger is depicted in the short documentary made by
Piedad Cordóba. Honduran authorities had just prohibited Cáceres to go
to the Agua Zarca project site on the Gualcarque River in an increasingly
tense and militarized conflict. So, when she invited Piedad to go down to
the River with her, a puzzled Piedad asked with concern whether she had
not just been prohibited from going. With a twinkle in her eye and child-
like grin, Cáceres responded: “Yes. But the River is very long! The guard-
ian spirits will accompany me. Let’s go!” (Causa Justa 2014).
60 M. A. MAHER
Generating joy in the midst of harassment and violence is a tactical

strategy which has made COPINH very resilient, able to go on even after
threats and assassinations of members. As Cáceres declared with an unstop-
pable energy of optimism, “In Rio Blanco, we achieved expelling the big-
gest transnational dam construction company in the world, Sinohydro.
Also, we achieved stopping the financing of the World Bank. The transna-
tionals were furious and have a strategy of destroying COPINH […]. But
we are determined that the politics of terror will not paralyze us and that
we will continue with hope, with joy, joining together all that we can in
this project of life” (cited in Korol 2016: 283).
A Fire That Does Not Die

After the assassination of Cáceres, COPINH members refused to let the
spirit of joy die. This was true despite ongoing violent repression, includ-
ing the murder of COPINH members, Nelson García on 15 March
2016 in Rio Blanco, and Lesbia Janeth Urgía, on 6 July 2016 in Marcala,
La Paz, one day after a government consultation on a dam project she
opposed. At a COPINH protest in Tegucigalpa for justice for Cáceres,
one woman held up a home-made sign that read, “The secret of the resis-
tance is joy” (Lara 2016). It was a clear message to armed authorities
inside the building where she stood with many others that the violence
was not going to extinguish their spiritual fire. As Laura Cáceres pro-
claimed of the assassins at a ritual gathering at the Gualcarque River just
after the murder of her mother, “They threw gas on a fire that they wanted
to put out!” (Tejemedios 2016).
Arms cannot kill the spiritual ancestral force which is COPINH. It is a
millennial power, beyond and within this historical time and place. Gustavo
Castro, who held Berta Cáceres in his arms as she died, asserts: “We did
not bury Berta, we planted her. She has blossomed everywhere” (Castro
2016). In a similar way after her death at protests in Honduras and around
the world, people sang: “Berta didn’t die; Berta didn’t die. Berta became
millions, became millions. Berta am I.”8
8
At the 2016 International Women’s Day Protest at the United Nations in New York City,
for example, women from around the world attending meetings of the Commission on the
Status of Women sang this song in French, Spanish and English in demand for justice for the
assassination of Cáceres and other women activists.
Cáceres dedicated her 2015 Goldman award to all the living rebels and
martyrs who have given their life protecting the natural resources. She
explained that the spirits of girls who protect the Rivers “teach us that to
give your life in multiple forms for the defence of the Rivers is to give your
life for the good of humanity and of this planet” (Cáceres 2015). In her
living death, Cáceres joins the ancestral spirits who protect, guide and
bring energy, life and joy. From this perspective, the collective wisdom
and spiritual force of the Lenca people increases. Greater energy, courage,
conviction and clarity arise in a sweeping fire which radicalizes, consoli-
dates and awakens. Such has been the reaction to her death in Honduras
and around the world. Many environmental activists in Honduras are
dedicating their lives for the good of humanity; after the murder of
Cáceres, the Jesuits documented six settings throughout Honduras where
defenders of human and environmental rights continue their work despite
death threats (Radio Progreso 2016).
Now little girls who swim in the Gualcarque River in Rio Blanco say
that Berta Cáceres is the guardian of the river (Radio Progreso 2016).
Indeed, Cáceres has returned to the sacred Gualcarque River, becoming
another ancestor in the unending rebellion of spirituality, which is the
Lenca resistance.
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Honduras Criminalised. https://www.banktrack.org/news/indigenous_pro-
test_against_agua_zarca_dam_in_honduras_criminalised.
Barahona, Marvin. 2010. Estado Oligárquico, Crisis Política y Corrupción Pública.
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CHAPTER 4
Qué Diría Carlos? The ‘No al Canal’

Movement and the Rhetoric of Resistance
to Nicaragua’s ‘Grand Canal’
Sarah McCall and Matthew J. Taylor
The idea of an interoceanic canal across Nicaragua has been a source of

conflict for almost two centuries. In the 1800s, the USA spent decades
and millions of dollars trying to establish the best route for a canal through
Nicaragua, ultimately deciding to build the canal in Panama. The impetus
for a transoceanic canal through Central America was entirely self-serving
for the USA’s interest in establishing a more convenient trade route
between the east and west coasts as the country grew westward, as well as
easier access to California during the gold rush. Then, as now, private
business interest intertwined with national interests and led the initiative
to build a canal across Nicaragua. In 1849, business tycoon Cornelius
Vanderbilt’s Accessory Transit Company was granted a 12-year exclusive
concession to finance and build a canal across Nicaragua. Civil war in
Nicaragua and subsequent invasion by US filibuster William Walker ulti-
mately derailed Vanderbilt’s plans for a canal, though he did successfully
S. McCall (*) • M. J. Taylor

University of Denver, Denver, CO, USA
e-mail: sarah.mccall@du.edu; Matthew.taylor@du.edu

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-05033-7_4
66 S. MCCALL AND M. J. TAYLOR
operate a dry land crossing for several years in the mid-1800s. The USA
maintained rights to a canal in Nicaragua through 1970, when resentment
towards US intervention and the corrupt Somoza regime was boiling into a
full revolution. Frente Sandinista de Liberacíon Nacional (FSLN, Sandinista
National Liberation Front) declared victory over the Somoza dictatorship in
1979, on a platform of human rights and a rejection of foreign interference
in Nicaragua. After losing power from 1990 to 2007, the FSLN returned to
power with Daniel Ortega as president until the time of writing.
In 2013, the Ortega administration granted Chinese business magnate
Wang Jing’s Hong Kong Nicaragua Development Corporation (HKND) a
generous 100-year concession to build an interoceanic canal ‘and associated
projects’ in Nicaragua. While the Ortega administration maintained that the
canal project would create jobs and improve the lives of people in the sec-
ond poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, there was widespread
concern that the canal concession violated the constitution as well as human
and environmental rights (Amnesty International 2017; Huete-Pérez et al.
2016). Many former members of the FSLN and revolutionary leaders, along
with members of the rural population (campesinos) who stand to lose the
most from the construction of the canal, organized a large-scale civil resis-
tance to the canal. This civil resistance was met with overt violence by gov-
ernment forces, in the form of targeted attacks on resistance leaders and
their families, road blocks that destroy protesters’ tyres, rubber bullets and
tear gas, among other tactics (Civicus Monitor 2016; Watts 2015).
This research examines the origins of, and impetus for, the ‘No al
Canal’ movement. It analyses how the canal concession, Law 840, goes
against the revolutionary constitution and imposes significant human and
environmental rights violations. It also examines the important role played
by women in the movement. In particular, it looks at the role played by
Francisca Ramírez and Mónica López-Baltodano, the two main leaders of
the ‘No al Canal’ movement, and employs a feminist perspective to explore
how they leveraged their unique identities as a campesina and an elite law-
yer, respectively, to garner support for the movement. It also examines
ways in which the ‘No al Canal’ movement employs the language of the
original founders of the FSLN, Augusto Sandino and Carlos Fonseca, as a
kind of rhetorical trap to reinforce how far the Ortega administration had
deviated from the original FSLN philosophy. Finally, this research explores
how the ‘No al Canal’ movement maintained nonviolent discipline, even
in the light of violent repression tactics employed on the protestors by the
Ortega administration.
QUÉ DIRÍA CARLOS? THE ‘NO AL CANAL’ MOVEMENT AND THE RHETORIC… 67
Foreign Intervention and Government Oppression

Nicaragua is no stranger to resistance to oppression. The Nicaraguan
Revolution, pitting the FSLN against the Somoza dictatorship, is one of
the most violent, and also romanticized, in Latin American history. The
impetus for the revolution was not only the corruption of the Somoza
dictatorship, but also that the USA continued intervention in Nicaraguan
affairs and unwavering support for the Somoza regime. Following Cuba’s
violent revolution, the leaders of the FSLN urged supporters to take up
arms against Somoza. Their impassioned pleas for armed struggle held
Marxist values and did not see value in civil resistance after so many years
of oppression. The leaders of the FSLN spent years preparing and then
fought a violent, bloody civil war, ultimately overthrowing the Somoza
dictatorship. The USA responded by funding an equally violent counter-
insurgency, known as the Contras, in a misguided attempt to stop the
spread of socialism close to home.
Indeed, the USA has a long history of intervention in Nicaragua. Carlos
Fonseca founded the FSLN to overthrow the Somoza dictatorship and
resist US intervention. Daniel Ortega’s version of the FSLN, in power at
the time of writing, deviated significantly from Fonseca’s FSLN. To help
rationalize the need for his new revolutionary party in the 1960s, Fonseca
identified a number of events constituting US intervention in Nicaragua
in an article first published in 1969 titled “Nicaragua: Zero Hour.”
Fonseca detailed a long list of grievances, including that the USA and
England signed the Clayton-Bulwer treaty of 1850 to build an interoce-
anic canal across the country; in 1854 a US warship bombed the town of
San Juan del Norte out of existence; in 1855, William Walker invaded
Nicaragua and declared himself president; in 1909, the USA sent the
‘Knox Note’ claiming its right to intervene in Nicaraguan affairs; in 1912
US marines occupied Nicaragua after the USA intervened on behalf of the
conservative government; in 1914, the Bryan-Chamorro Treaty gave the
USA eternal rights to build a canal across Nicaragua; in 1933, the USA
installed and supported a National Guard to suppress the popular uprising
led by Augusto Sandino; in 1934, the National Guard, headed by Anastasio
Somoza and backed by the USA, assassinated Sandino (Fonseca 1969 in
Borge et al. 1982). If Carlos Fonseca had not been murdered by the
Somoza regime in 1976, he would likely have added the US support of
the Contra war after the FSLN overthrew Somoza and took power in
1979 to his long list of damaging interventionist actions by the USA.
An Ephemeral Canal with a Long History

To Fonseca and other revolutionary leaders, the USA’s long-standing
interest in building a transoceanic canal represented an overt desire to
quite literally control territory and economy in Nicaragua. In the 1800s,
the US economy was growing rapidly and raw materials from the western
USA were necessary for continued development of the population centres
in the east. Thus, the USA needed a more efficient transportation route
for necessary commodities to fuel its development. The California gold
rush made a canal across Central America all the more urgent. Since a rail
line across the USA was not yet complete, the most efficient option to
reach California from the east coast was via boat to the eastern shore of
Nicaragua or Panama, then overland and then back up the western coast
by boat. The USA spent decades and millions of dollars trying to establish
whether to build a canal through Nicaragua or Panama.
Ultimately, the USA decided to build a canal through Panama, pur-
chasing the rights to the canal for $40 million from France in 1902. The
terms of the concession gave the USA control over the canal for 100 years,
and the USA ceded control back to Panama in 2000. In 1914, the USA
and Nicaragua signed the Bryan-Chamorro treaty, which granted the USA
exclusive, perpetual rights to build an interoceanic canal across Nicaragua.
The USA paid Nicaragua $3 million for this and also received a 99-year
lease of Great and Little Corn islands and the right to establish a naval base
in the Gulf of Fonseca. It primarily saw this as a way to ensure that no
other country could build a canal in Nicaragua. The Bryan-Chamorro
treaty remained in force until 1970, as the Sandinistas were gaining power
with an anti-US imperialism platform.
Carlos Fonseca was wary of US involvement in Nicaragua, viewing
most actions as exploitative of Nicaragua for the sole benefit of the
USA. He stated:
The exploitation of minerals such as gold and copper, which is directly in the
hands of foreign investors, pays ridiculously small sums to the national trea-
sury through taxes. Parallel to this, the handing over of the national riches
to the Yankee monopolies has continued to increase. In 1967, for example,
a law went into effect that gave Magnavox, a company specializing in the
exploitation of forests, absolute ownership of a million hectares of national
territory. (Fonseca 1969 in Borge et al. 1982)
Were he still alive, Fonseca would likely be surprised that the FSLN under
Daniel Ortega granted the newest global superpower a sweeping conces-
sion to a canal across Nicaragua. Like the USA in the 1800s, China is cur-
rently looking for a trade route it can control to support its expanding
geopolitical power and to command better access to raw materials and
export manufactured goods to Latin America and beyond.
Law 840: The Nicaraguan Canal Concession

On June 13, 2013, the Nicaraguan Assembly granted a Chinese company
HKND, headed by CEO Wang Jing, permission to build a canal across
Nicaragua. The National Assembly approved Law 840 Ley Especial para el
Desarrollo de Infrastructura y Transporte Nicaragüense atingente a El
Canal, Zonas Libre de Comercio e Infrastructuras Asociadas (Special Law
for the Development of Nicaraguan Infrastructure and Transport related
to The Canal, Duty Free Zones and Associated Infrastructure), in an
“extremely fast” and “opaque” process (Amnesty International 2017).
The proposed canal would be the largest infrastructure project in history.
The 278-km-long Nicaragua Canal would cut Nicaragua in half and dis-
place at least 120,000 Nicaraguans from their land (see Map 4.1). The
Map 4.1 Location of the proposed Nicaragua canal

government also published the accords for a framework of the concession

and implementation with respect to the Nicaraguan Canal and
Development Projects (Acuerdo Marco Concesión e Implementación con
relación a El Canal de Nicaragua y Proyectos de Desarrollo). Amnesty
International and other international observers roundly criticized the
canal concession’s flagrant violation of rights:
Nicaragua has pushed ahead with the approval and design of a mega-project
that puts the human rights of hundreds of thousands of people at risk, without
consultation and in a process shrouded in silence. Amnesty International has
noted that, despite national regulations and international human rights stan-
dards, Law 840 was approved in a way that has been described by various
national actors as irregular, extremely fast, opaque and lacking real and genuine
consultation. The state’s actions constitute an unacceptable failure to respect
its international human rights obligations. (Amnesty International 2017)
Law 840 stipulates that Nicaragua will receive one per cent of the eco-
nomic gains made by the canal and its sub projects the first year, increasing
by 1 per cent each year until ownership reaches 99 per cent in 100 years.
As stated by movement leader Mónica López-Baltodano (2013), this basi-
cally means “that the canal will do no more than pass through Nicaragua,
but it is not owned by Nicaragua and Nicaraguans. For many more years
to come it will be the private property of large capital.”
Law 840 violates the Nicaraguan constitution in numerous ways, and
even to the casual observer, the canal concession is viewed as an overt land
grab on behalf of the Ortega regime. “The canal is ‘a personal family proj-
ect about President Ortega maintaining power through a megaproject
that’s generating illusions of profits among the people,’ said Manuel
Ortega Hegg, a sociology professor at the Central American University in
the capital, who is not related to the president” (Galeano and Weissenstein
2013). Indeed, there are numerous cases where the concession omits pro-
tections relating to free, informed and prior consent guarantees contained
in the Nicaraguan constitution, national legislation and Convention 169
of the International Labour Organization on indigenous and tribal peo-
ples (FIDH 2016). For many, the crux of the issue remains in Ortega’s
impressive business tactics.
John Lee Anderson’s 2014 reporting for an extensive New Yorker arti-
cle on the proposed canal revealed a variety of opinions from former FSLN
revolutionaries, academics and politicians. For instance, Ortega’s former
Ambassador to the USA Arturo Cruz stated:
The strength of this regime lies in the country’s poverty […] Ortega is the
last caudillo standing. He is a father figure for the campesinos—he can resolve
their needs. He has been clever about knowing how to distribute the scarci-
ties with more abundance than other politicians […] It can be resolved for
many people with a few pieces of roofing tin and a handful of nails. The
voter thinks, Now I won’t get wet. And when it rains he thinks of Ortega.
(As cited in Anderson 2014)
Likewise, former revolutionary leader Dora María Téllez stated:
The Chinese must be throwing themselves a party right now […]. Since the
concession doesn’t specify geographical limits, it effectively gives them the
whole country to do what they want. What do they have to pay in taxes?
Nothing. What control does Nicaragua have? None. [The Chinese] will
have the commercial interest and absolute control […]. The only reason
Daniel Ortega would have signed the canal concession is if he is the real
owner of the project. Because stupid he is not. (As cited in Anderson 2014)
In the same vein, Francisca Ramírez said that the canal concession “is a
new form of slavery. We will become the slaves of a foreigner” (as cited in
Cerda 2016). Based on his rhetoric and ideology in the 1960s and 1970s,
Carlos Fonseca would likely have felt the same way.
Anderson (2014) captured the idea that Ortega was wary of losing an
important financial ally when Hugo Chávez died in an interview with
Antonio Lacayo, a prominent businessman and a former senior govern-
ment official. Lacayo stated:
Daniel can see the disaster that is coming in Venezuela […] So he looks
around. It’s not a long list: there’s Russia, China, Iran. With Iran, there was
nothing to get. From Russia, he got some buses and some reconnaissance
planes. So Daniel decides to attract China to Nicaragua—to ‘defend’ it from
the US, and to contribute economically. How does he do it? By offering the
Chinese a hundred-year concession to do whatever they want. (As cited in
Anderson)
According to Lacayo, Ortega might not personally like the Chinese for
being ‘too capitalistic,’ “the point is, Daniel needs a friend” (as cited in
Anderson 2014). This is why, as contradictory as it might seem, the gov-
ernment used anti-imperialistic rhetoric to justify Chinese investment in
the canal, “as it represents a counterweight to US power” (Soutar 2017).
It is important to note that in spite of the ample media coverage of the

canal opposition, at the time of this research (i.e. 2014–2016) the canal
project (and Daniel Ortega himself) enjoyed widespread support from
much of the Nicaraguan population, both elites and campesinos. Even pro-
ponents of the canal evoked revolutionary imagery in their rhetoric. Rural
people are hopeful that the canal and associated projects would, indeed,
bring jobs and prosperity to Nicaragua. According to congressman Edwin
Castro, “[t]his is a project that’s been waiting for centuries and that’s why
we’re interested in doing it as soon as possible […] There’s no unconsti-
tutionality. It’s political attacks from those who don’t want Nicaragua to
move forward” (as cited in Galeano and Weissenstein 2013). Similarly, in
an interview with Anderson (2014), Manuel Coronel Kautz, the president
of the Nicaraguan Canal Commission, said “Wang Jing impressed us as a
young revolutionary who could take control of this kind of project. He
made an excellent impression on both the President and myself. He is
young and clean.” Eden Pastora, Daniel Ortega’s ally-turned-foe-turned-
ally, was placed in charge of dredging for the canal along the San Juan
River as his official role in the current Ortega administration. In an inter-
view with Anderson (2014), he boasted:
There will be two-hundred-ton trucks doing earthmoving and specialized

drivers earning a thousand dollars a day! The ticos [Costa Ricans] are just
concerned that we’re going to be the richest people in Central America […].
There are going to be railroads, refineries, satellites, hydroelectric plants,
airports, and over thirty-seven social projects—all of it achieved in an atmo-
sphere of freedom and democracy, without even so much as a tear-gas can-
ister fired, without persecuting anybody. In five years, Managua will be a
canal city, the most beautiful of Central America […]. Viva Daniel Ortega!
‘No al Canal’ Movement

While many supported the project, a vocal movement of civil resistance to
the canal emerged to protest human and environmental rights abuses and
what many viewed as the selling of Nicaragua’s sovereignty to a Chinese
company. Soon after Law 840 was passed and the canal concession was
announced, Mónica López-Baltodano, daughter of a prominent
revolutionary and women’s movement leader Mónica Baltodano, emerged
as a leader of the anti-canal movement by presenting her objection to Law
840 in the form of a book Recurso por Inconstitucionalidad: 25 Verdades
Sobre La Concesión del Canal Interoceánico de Nicaragua (López-

Baltodano 2013). This book was presented to the Nicaraguan Supreme
Court and the Nicaraguan population in general and is freely available
online. López-Baltodano (2013) showed in detail and in spirit how Law
840 contradicted the Nicaraguan constitution, which was promulgated
under President Daniel Ortega in 1987 during his first term in office. In
the larger sense she argued that as a Nicaraguan citizen who was commit-
ted to the construction of a new society that “eliminates all class of exploi-
tation and achieves economic, political and social equality for all
Nicaraguans, as well as absolute respect for human rights” (as established
in the preamble to the Nicaraguan constitution), it was her historic obliga-
tion to bring to light how the specific terms of Law 840 contradicted the
constitution (López-Baltodano 2013).
López-Baltodano submitted evidence that the concession violated the
constitution to the Supreme Court and received no response. She then
informed the territories of Nicaragua that would be impacted by the canal
about the legal implications and unconstitutionality of Law 840. Community
members such as Francisca Ramírez had already begun to organize protests
after the first-time Chinese representatives of HKND, accompanied by the
Nicaraguan Police and the Nicaragua Army, began to survey properties
within the canal zone (a zone 10 km wide along the length of the canal).
Police and army accompanied the Chinese land surveyors to ensure that the
work could be completed—effectively forcing land and homeowners to per-
mit entry to the surveyors (McCall and Taylor 2018).
Francisca Ramírez was born in a small community in Nueva Guinea and
had been a farmer her whole life. She explained how the nonviolent resis-
tance movement that she led emerged:
We started talking amongst a small group of us and then we started to orga-

nize ourselves. We started to take to the streets to protest because they do
not respect our rights, they do not consult us. The only thing they tell us is
that we are going to be evicted. (As cited in Salomon 2017)
At first the protests were spontaneous and not centrally organized. Later,
beginning in September 2014, the local community leaders and
López-Baltodano decided to formalize their efforts to coordinate protests.
They created the Consejo Nacional en Defensa de Nuestra Tierra, Lago y
Soberanía (National Council for the Defence of Land, Lake and
Sovereignty) as the legal body for the ‘No al Canal’ movement, with an
overt mission to repeal Law 840 and the canal concession.
The ‘No al Canal’ movement combined civil resistance with legal pro-
ceedings to achieve its objectives. Importantly, under the leadership of
López-Baltodano, it took appeals to repeal Law 840 to the Inter-American
Commission on Human Rights and the Latin American Tribunal for
Water. In April 2016 they presented a citizen’s initiative Law to repeal Law
840, signed and supported by more than 28,000 citizens, to Nicaragua’s
National Assembly (López-Baltodano 2017). López-Baltodano and col-
laborators published another book documenting the legal battle against
the canal, all the marches against the canal and all the pertinent legal infor-
mation to provide a comprehensive overview of the struggle against the
canal. This book, titled La Entrega de un País: Expediente Jurídico de la
concesión canalera en Nicaragua (Handing over a Country: Legal
Implications of the Nicaragua Canal Concession), was released in 2017 to
commemorate four years of struggle since the canal concession was
approved (López-Baltodano 2017).
Nonetheless, slow progress towards the construction of the canal con-
tinued despite this enormous effort and support of international bodies
like Amnesty International and the Latin American Tribunal for Water. As
of December 2017, Chinese surveyors were observed measuring proper-
ties for offices and related infrastructure. The Nicaraguan government said
nothing to indicate a deviation in plans for the canal’s construction.
Regardless of whether canal construction ultimately proceeds, Law 840
and all of the related concessions to the Chinese remain in place until the
Nicaraguan government abolishes the law. The canal protesters main-
tained that this was a violation of their sovereign rights as autonomous
citizens of Nicaragua. As further evidence of the canal’s continued threat
to the rights of Nicaraguans, the ‘No al Canal’ movement continued to
protest and had organized 91 peaceful marches against the canal and Law
840 as of October 2017 (Soutar 2017).
Violent Repression
While the Nicaraguan government made few official comments with respect
to the progress on the canal or the ‘No al Canal’ Movement, it sponsored
concurrent marches in support of the canal in the same place that anti-canal
protests were taking place. Moreover, the Nicaraguan National Police
actively blocked participants in ‘No al Canal’ campaigns from reaching the
protest locations. When the police blocked free access of circulation on
Nicaragua’s highways, they gave no explanation to the detained protestors—
they simply prevented them from proceeding (e.g. Chamorro and Moncada
2017). They did so in the face of national media who recorded the block-
ages. When these blockades occurred, the leaders of the campesino anti-
canal movement called for detained protestors to conduct their protests on
the spot, rather than try and reach the original destinations (López-
Baltodano 2017). The police used other tactics to stop the protests, includ-
ing spreading miguelitos in the roadways to damage the tyres of trucks
carrying protestors (miguelitos are a Spanish word for caltrops or bent nails
that are strewn in the road to puncture vehicle tyres). Some protestors
began to refer to the miguelitos as danielitos, in reference to Daniel Ortega’s
regime of oppression. The police also detained the vehicles of ‘No al Canal’
movement leader Francisca Ramírez, and physical action by unknown per-
sons was also taken against her family members. For example, barbed wire
was strung across the road where her son was travelling, injuring him as he
was thrown from his motorcycle in April 2017. Her daughter was the victim
of an attempted kidnapping in 2016 (Silva 2017). Use of force by the police
is not uncommon and has led to at least four protestors being injured in the
course of the protests—one protestor was blinded and another lost an arm
to police-inflicted injuries. Still another one was beaten by police after orga-
nizing an anti-canal protest around the inauguration of the canal (Watts
2015). Civicus Monitor (2016) reports that in November 2016, “police
resorted to rubber bullets, tear gas, threats against bus drivers, and even the
destruction of bridges to prevent protesters reaching Managua” in an
attempt to stop an anti-canal protest organized around the Organization of
American States (OAS) General Secretary’s visit to Managua.
In order to respond to this violent oppression, the canal protestors
largely resorted to attracting international attention to the state-sponsored
violence. Amnesty International has written extensive and damning reports
on the civil and environmental rights violations surrounding the canal and
anti-canal movement. They even employed higher-profile advocates such
as Bianca Jagger to march with them to draw further international atten-
tion and to discourage violent oppression from the state. These tactics
were successful in drawing attention to the issue of state-sponsored vio-
lence, though not successful in thoroughly stopping it. The international
community roundly denounced the government’s repression of the anti-
canal protests. The European Union (EU) Parliament issued a joint
motion for a resolution on the situation of human rights and democracy
in Nicaragua, denouncing that the megaproject “could displace thousands
of small farmers and indigenous people in the areas surrounding the canal
project” and “the use of tear gas and rubber and lead bullets by police
against protestors” (European Parliament 2017). They also specifically
addressed the case of Francisca Ramírez. The resolution urged “the gov-
ernment to refrain from harassing and using acts of reprisal against
Francisca Ramírez and other human rights defenders for carrying out their
legitimate work,” emphasized “the right of environmental and human
rights defenders to express their protest without retaliation,” and called
“on Nicaragua to effectively launch an independent environmental impact
assessment before engaging in further steps and to make the whole process
public” (European Parliament 2017).
The Role of Women in the ‘No al Canal’ Movement

Women have long been involved in Nicaragua’s fight against outside inter-
vention, and the Nicaraguan women’s movement has been well docu-
mented (Bayard de Volo 2001; Isbester 2001; Kampwirth 2004). The
FSLN published a manifesto for women’s rights in 1969, as part of the
momentum built from their overall social justice platform. The Sandinistas
even had an official women’s organization, the Organization of Nicaraguan
Women “Luisa Amanda Espinoza” (AMNLAE), which advocated for
women’s interests (Isbester 2001). Women took a central leadership role
in the FSLN, both in combat and later in government administration.
Isbester (2001) explains that the women’s movement was able to redefine
itself through each new government administration’s perception of the
role of women in society while still maintaining some degree of continuity.
While the overall 1979 revolution was extremely violent, the larger wom-
en’s movement has remained nonviolent and maintained the three essen-
tial components of a successful social movement: an autonomous identity,
use of resources appropriate to the group’s goal and a focused conflict
(Isbester 2001). The ‘No al Canal’ movement, led by women such as
Francisco Ramírez and Mónica López-Baltodano, has championed these
crucial elements of a successful social movement.
Women unmistakably led the resistance to the proposed canal, even in
spite of risks to their personal and familial wellbeing. According to Amnesty
International (2016), “[w]omen human rights defenders are often at risk
of violence and experience intersecting forms of discrimination.” When
examining the leaders of the ‘No al Canal’ movement and their motiva-
tions, it is important to note that the distinction between Mónica López-
Baltodano and Francisca Ramírez goes beyond their socioeconomic status
and education to their politics or lack thereof. In almost every press inter-
view or official statement, Ramírez was careful to state that the ‘No al
Canal’ movement was not political; rather it was fighting for the singular
cause of stopping the human and environmental rights violations of the
proposed interoceanic canal. For example, she stated:
Our movement is a popular, autonomous campesino movement for people

from different origins, for the defence of the earth, the lake and our sover-
eignty. We are open to everyone with no limitations, but our movement has
nothing to do with party politics […]. [The canal is] not a national project.
If it were, they’d be saying: ‘Tell us what you think’, ‘Let’s look deeply into
this’, ‘What does it involve?’ But what’s really happening is that if someone
is against the canal—or they just think that they’re against it—then they
assume that they’re against him (Daniel Ortega’s government) and they
turn it into a political issue. (As cited in Cerda 2016)
Ramírez explained her motivations for leading the resistance to the canal,
citing rhetoric that evokes Carlos Fonseca: “I thought about all the suffer-
ing we had to go through in the struggle for our rights against the trans-
national companies and powerful economic groups that always try to run
ragged over the rights of the poor and those of limited resources in the
country” (as cited in Cerda 2016). Ramírez was speaking to a newspaper
reporter from Confidencial, a widely read, anti-Ortega, news outlet in
Nicaragua, and in many ways, Ramírez’s quotation applies Kaplan’s (2017)
concept of rhetorical traps. Confidencial readers are likely perceptive of the
similarities between this rhetoric and that of the FSLN founders. They also
likely recognize the differences between these sentiments and those of the
current Ortega administration. She explained that it felt as though the
government was not taking their lives into account as it failed to consider
the opinion of local people who would be directly impacted by the canal’s
path (Salomon 2017). Carlos Fonseca would likely agree with her.
Campesinos, who stand to lose the most from the construction of the
canal, have participated in protests in vast numbers. Francisca Ramírez,
the de facto leader of the campesino anti-canal movement is herself a
campesino. Her background makes her easily approachable and relatable to
other campesinos. This also makes her a darling of the media and evokes
comparisons to Berta Cáceres (see Maher in this volume). Ramírez’s tire-
less leadership and willingness to talk to the press gave the ‘No al Canal’
movement the much needed visibility and a charismatic leader; yet her
campesina status also left her more vulnerable to threats and attack unlike
Mónica López-Baltodano. The European Parliament included multiple

sections aimed at protecting Ramírez in its resolution condemning the
Nicaraguan government’s response to the canal protests, denouncing acts
of repression and aggressions in Nueva Guinea, the intimidation and arbi-
trary detention of Ramírez, as well as violent attacks against her relatives
(European Parliament 2017).
While Francisca Ramírez mainly drew on a discourse of protection of
campesinos’ rights in the face of potential land deprivation and loss of live-
lihood, Mónica López-Baltodano has used a Sandinista discourse to reveal
the regime’s contradictory stance. In so doing, she actively employed what
Kaplan (2017) describes as rhetorical traps as a civil resistance strategy.
López-Baltodano is one of the many who see the current conflict over a
Chinese corporation’s intent to build a canal across Nicaragua as yet
another example of Daniel Ortega’s diversion from the original tenets of
the FSLN. The elite and former FSLN revolutionary leaders who have
since broken with the current iteration of the party have been the most
vocal about Ortega’s perceived corruption and described the canal and
associated legal concession as a thinly veiled land-grab and money laun-
dering operation. In an interview with Alejandra Gonzalez (2017) for La
Prensa, she pronounced that she considered herself a Sandinista in the
historic vein of Augusto Sandino and Carlos Fonseca and a critic of Daniel
Ortega’s current iteration of Danielismo, rather than Sandinismo. López-
Baltodano is a daughter of two Sandinista revolutionaries, and she
acknowledged that their example left her with her sense of commitment to
Nicaragua and Nicaraguan society. Specifically, she said that the work that
she did with her mother, Mónica Baltodano (2010), on the four-volume
Memorias de la Lucha Sandinista gave her much inspiration and insights
into the struggle for equality that she now saw eroding (Gonzalez 2017).
Together, Francisca Ramírez and Mónica López-Baltodano thus used
their unique identities and perspectives to bring together a visible and
vocal civil resistance movement to stop the interoceanic canal from being
built, even in the light of the regime’s violent repression.
Qué diría Carlos?

As Matilde Zimmerman (2000) recounts, Carlos Fonseca “was better
known to the ordinary citizen than any of the people who made up the
new revolutionary government.” In her treatise on Fonseca, she reveals
how the struggle of Carlos was long: “he fought for nearly twenty years as
the central ideological and strategic leader of the revolutionary movement

in Nicaragua” (Zimmerman 2000). Mónica López-Baltodano realized
that it would take years of organizing with the citizens of Nicaragua to
build a strong base from which to overturn Law 840 and the threat to lives
of hundreds of thousands of rural campesinos. She stated that the book
published in 2017, Handing over a Country: Legal Implications of the
Nicaragua Canal Concession “is a compilation of 4 years of legal and
political work that we have done side by side with the campesino move-
ment to repeal the canal law” (as cited in Vasquez 2017). In so doing,
López-Baltodano followed Fonseca’s lead in her commitment to a pro-
longed struggle with ordinary citizens (campesinos) versus a rapid victory.
Similarly, the text and ideas in López-Baltodano’s 2013 Recurso por
Inconstitucionalidad are reminiscent of the founders of the FSLN includ-
ing passages such as “just as shown in our historic past, that if we want a
Nicaragua in peace, with social justice, freedom and happiness, those who
have power must submit to the demands of the Nicaraguan populace”
(López-Baltodano 2013). This type of sentiment harks to the action and
words of both Sandino and Fonseca (see Zimmerman 2000).
The introduction of this same publication employs the power of the
revolutionary constitution of 1987 to prove how Law 840 is unconstitu-
tional (López-Baltodano 2013). The Nicaraguan constitution of 1987
was formed at a time when the Sandinista party was still ‘pure’ and had not
been perverted to Danielismo. It was in the mid-1980s that the revolu-
tionary government had just begun to write Carlos Fonseca out of history
or at least make less mention of his contributions to the foundation of the
party (Zimmerman 2000). López-Baltodano (2013) quoted the 1987
constitution to say that “given that the principal function of the state […]
is to improve the lives of the people and to carry out an equal distribution
of wealth, the new megaproject of the canal does not present the citizens
of the country with the conditions to overcome economic, political, and
social inequality that is pervasive in Nicaragua.” She went on to state that
Law 840 and the canal concession only strengthened the conventional
extractivist economy that benefits the interests of the private company to
whom the canal concession was given. This type of argument, relying on
the constitution of a government not far from the ideals of Fonseca, brings
the founders of the revolution to the forefront and reminds the Nicaraguan
populace of their recent fight against a different form of dictatorship—that
of Somoza. As López-Baltodano (2013) stated, “Sandino showed us that
the sovereignty of a nation is not to be debated, it is to be defended.”
In her interactions with the Nicaraguan press, in many instances,

López-Baltodano invoked the founders of the Sandinista party. For exam-
ple, she told Gonzalez (2017) that she admired Sandino and Fonseca
because they committed themselves with action to social causes—that they
went beyond ideas and moved to action to change Nicaragua. And she
stated, like Fonseca believed, that she was convinced of the importance of
organizations that have their roots in the popular sectors, not in the high
seats of the political parties. This recognition of the grassroots and identi-
fication with the populace is reminiscent of Carlos Fonseca. The people of
Nicaragua aptly described Fonseca’s position to Matilde Zimmerman
(2000) when they repeatedly told her “Carlos—he was one of us. He
spoke our language. He would never have let his happen to our revolu-
tion.” Indeed, qué diría Carlos? What would Carlos say?
Conclusion
Carlos Fonseca was assassinated before he could voice his own opinion
about the ‘Gran Canal’, but from his words and opinions documented as
he founded the FSLN, it is safe to surmise that he would not be pleased
with Daniel Ortega’s legal framework to concede a large amount of
Nicaraguan territory to a Chinese corporation to build such a canal nor
with the government’s use of violent force to silence opposition to the
canal. Civil resistance leader Francisca Ramírez was extremely careful not
to voice any sort of political affiliation or opinion except to say that the
government did not seem to actually care about the rights of rural people
who lived in the path of the canal. Her status as a woman, a campesina,
and leader of the ‘No al Canal’ movement made her more vulnerable to
violent retaliation from the Ortega regime, but her charismatic leadership
allowed her press coverage and provided a compelling voice to the ‘No al
Canal’ movement. The EU Parliament issued a resolution demanding
Francisca Ramírez’s protection because of the government’s violent
actions towards her. This resolution also denounced the human and envi-
ronmental rights violations of Law 840. As a member of the elite class, and
daughter of prominent FSLN revolutionaries, lawyer Mónica López-
Baltodano was not subjected to physical violence or repression for her
leadership against the canal. She used her status and education to her
advantage to be able to provide the ‘No al Canal’ movement a wider audi-
ence and evoked assistance from the international community to shed
light on the violent oppression used by government forces towards canal

protestors and ultimately try to repeal the canal concession.
The ‘No al canal’ movement employed a variety of strategies of civil
resistance to protest the human and environmental rights violations of
Law 840 including demonstrations, petitions and rhetorical traps in
media interviews. At the same time, the movement used legal channels,
appealing to international judicial bodies. This combination of civil resis-
tance strategies and judiciary means to protest Law 840 and bring atten-
tion to the violent repression of canal protestors was effective as the two
types of strategies reinforced each other and together succeeded in gener-
ating international pressure on the government. The language used by the
movement evoked that of the FSLN founders and highlighted the ways in
which the Ortega administration had deviated from the original tenets of
the FSLN, effectively employing rhetorical traps to highlight this disparity.
This study expands upon the existing literature on civil resistance, illustrat-
ing how a proposed infrastructure project can have legal, social and envi-
ronmental ramifications that warrant a civil protest. Chenoweth et al.
(2017) highlight cases in which violent repression is used to counter civil
resistance campaigns with maximalist goals, using case studies that are
more overtly political protests. Here, we highlight how rhetorical traps
and legal manoeuvres can be added to the toolkit of more traditional civil
resistance methods such as protest to garner support for a specific cause—
in this case the repeal of a law which grants developers the right to commit
human and civil rights violations in the name of the world’s largest infra-
structure project. Regardless of whether the canal is built, at the time of
writing, Law 840 remained in place. The leaders of the ‘No al Canal’
movement continued to work tirelessly in their civil resistance to a law
defended with violence and repression. Carlos Fonseca and Augusto
Sandino would surely support their efforts.
In spite of the international attention that the ‘No al Canal’ move-
ment’s leaders brought to the violent oppression against the canal pro-
tests, the Ortega administration continued to use violence to quash civil
resistance. At the time of finalizing this chapter, the extreme violence used
by government forces to stop protestors since April 2018 had resulted in
over 300 deaths, making it the deadliest period since the Sandinista revolution
and Contra war of the 1970s and 1980s (OAS 2018). While these protests
began as opposition to Ortega’s proposed pension reforms, they quickly
escalated into calls for Ortega’s resignation in the light of his increasingly
authoritarian rule. The canal law and associated protests were an earlier
symptom of this increasing dissatisfaction with the status quo in Nicaragua.

Perhaps Ortega’s prophecy will come true after all—the canal is proving to
be the beginning of the second revolution.
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CHAPTER 5
Venezuelan Struggle Towards

Democratization: The 2017 Civil Resistance
Campaign
Iria Puyosa
The process of civil resistance against authoritarian rule during the Chávez
regime and its successor in Venezuela initiated as early as 1999 and included
three major campaigns at the time of writing. The first major campaign was
the 2007 student movement for freedom of expression. That year the stu-
dent movement broke the illusion of consensus by convening massive dem-
onstrations in defence of freedom of information and against the closing of
the television network formerly RCTV (formerly Radio Caracas Television)
(Casanova 2009; Uzcátegui 2014). The movement was crucial to prevent
President Hugo Chávez from achieving the approval of the constitutional
reform that would have established the Communal Power and the new
Bolivarian military doctrine. However, after the movement dispersed in
2008, the regime resumed the offensive in 2009 by passing a constitutional
amendment that allowed a third mandate of President Chávez.
The second major campaign was in 2014, when the student movement
organized new mobilizations, which reached high visibility on February 12,
I. Puyosa (*)
Universidad Central de Venezuela, Quito, Ecuador

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-05033-7_5
86 I. PUYOSA
when 16 simultaneous marches were organized throughout the c ountry to

reject the rampant criminality that affected university campuses, as well as
violence perpetrated by pro-government militias against the academic com-
munity (Uzcátegui 2014; Puyosa 2015b; Masullo 2017). At the end of
April 2014, the popular demonstrations began to wane after government
repression left more than 40 dead and more than 100 people arrested.
Discontent became confined to the student protest camps in major cities
(Puyosa 2015b). These camps remained active until mid-May when they
were dismantled by the Bolivarian National Guard. In June 2014, those
who had mobilized had a sense of defeat, and it seemed that the authoritar-
ian regime had retaken control over public affairs. While disperse popular
demonstrations continued to occur during 2015 and 2016, street mobiliza-
tion had lost steam as a result of government repression and the lack of echo
in opposition political parties.
The third major campaign was in 2017, when a new wave of mobiliza-
tion called for the restoration of the rule of law. This chapter focuses on
this latest cycle of protests, analysing its characteristics, the strategies and
tactics used and the government’s response to it. The data used in this case
study stem from a national public opinion poll, observation and analysis of
digital communication during the protest cycle, official statements and
legal documents, as well as interviews with participants. Respondents vol-
untarily agreed to participate in the study after being contacted via an
acquaintance. While the interviewees were not representative of the gen-
eral population of Venezuela, their responses still provide significant
insights into the process of civil resistance against authoritarian rule in
Venezuela.
This chapter is divided into five sections. The first one explains the
political and economic context in which the nonviolent struggle against
the authoritarian regime in Venezuela has taken place. The second one
looks at people’s participation in the 2017 cycle of protests and their con-
struction of a collective identity. The third one draws on civil resistance
theory to analyse the strategy and tactics used by the 2017 resistance
movement. The fourth one describes how digital communication was key
to the 2017 cycle of protests and characterizes the civil resistance cam-
paign as one led by leaderless crowds. The fifth one examines how the
regime responded to the nonviolent movement by repressing it, especially
through the coordinated action of military as well as paramilitary groups
called “colectivos”.
VENEZUELAN STRUGGLE TOWARDS DEMOCRATIZATION: THE 2017 CIVIL… 87
Political and Economic Context of the Venezuelan

Nonviolent Struggle
In recent years Venezuela has moved from a hybrid regime that can be
labelled as competitive authoritarianism to an authoritarian regime charac-
terized by widespread repression (Corrales and Penfold 2015; Chaguaceda
and Puerta 2015). In 2016, after the refusal to convene a recall election to
remove President Nicolás Maduro from office, for many the regime became
“dictatorial” (Levitsky and Ziblatt 2018). Between 1998 and 2017, the
percentage of the Venezuelan population below the poverty line increased
dramatically. In 1998, when Chávez took power, 45% of the population
lived under poverty and 18% under extreme poverty. Meanwhile, in 2017,
87% of the population lived under poverty and 61% under extreme pover-
ty.1 According to Santos (2017), the population lost 63% of their food
purchasing power between 2015 and 2016. To maintain debt service in
2016, the government practically stopped the provision of services to the
population. The country avoided international default at the expense of a
deep humanitarian crisis. In 2016 the government established local com-
mittees of supply and production in order to control access to food for the
poorest. Instead of negotiating politically and introducing the necessary
economic reforms, it chose to expand its control over the population
through the introduction of a national biometric control system tied to the
supply of basic goods (such as food and medicine), known as the Carnet de
la Patria (Homeland ID), and used it for electoral mobilization.
As early as 2007, the government began to establish rules to limit the
free association of trade unions and subsequently other forms of political
participation, such as the right to be elected or the right to protest (Álvarez
2008; Panzarelli 2012; Chaguaceda and Puerta 2015). The ruling Partido
Socialista Unido de Venezuela (PSUV) further strove to subsume citizen
participation in entities directly influenced by the party and the central
government by establishing a new branch of state called “communal
power”. In practice, this entailed the loss of independence of grassroots
organizations.
1
National Survey of Living Conditions (ENCOVI) 2017, carried out by the Andrés Bello
Catholic University, the Simón Bolívar University and the Central University of Venezuela.
Available at: https://www.ucab.edu.ve/investigacion/centros-e-institutos-de-investiga-
cion/encovi-2017/.
88 I. PUYOSA
Initially, a broad coalition with internal ideological differences sup-

ported the regime. These different ideological groups remained cohesive
in the immediate aftermath of Chávez’s death in 2013 in order to secure
power, forming a kind of collegial leadership that minimized infighting
(Jácome 2013). Nonetheless, in 2014, differences regarding economic
policies and the biopolitical control of the population began to generate
tensions, which continued to persist until the time of writing. Power thus
began to be concentrated in smaller and tighter groups, with those less
convinced of the increasingly authoritarian turn of the regime gradually
leaving the ruling coalition. At the time of writing, those remaining in the
coalition were mainly those who would suffer high costs in case of a transi-
tion to democracy: those responsible for serious human rights violations
and those who would lose the fortunes gained through illicit enrichment.
In this context, a major fissure in the leadership was the dissent of former
General Prosecutor Luisa Ortega Díaz, who had been in office since 2007
(Lander and Rodríguez 2017). Ortega Díaz questioned the actions of the
State, such as the prosecution of demonstrators in military courts, the
spurious trial of opposition leader Leopoldo López,2 and the convening of
a constituent assembly without consulting citizens.
Another source of conflict was the growing militarization of the coun-
try. Jácome (2013) pointed out three factors that reflected the predomi-
nance of military power: (1) the increasing participation of the military in
the government, (2) greater explicit partisanship of the military high com-
mand and (3) the increasing militarization of society. Although Maduro is
a civilian, who was not directly involved in the 1992 coup attempts, the
power of the Bolivarian Armed Forces grew once he assumed the presi-
dency. Likewise, the number of ministers and deputy ministers with a mili-
tary background increased. Additionally, military involvement in the
control of demonstrations increased from 2013 until the time of writing.
Furthermore, in 2009 the regime began to undermine the opposition
authorities elected by public vote (López Maya 2011, 2014; Panzarelli
2012; Chaguaceda 2015). In particular, it used judicial resources and
comptroller decisions to remove opposition mayors from office. As of
2014, it became a routine practice to appoint parallel governors (called
“protectors of the State”) in the states where opposition governors had
been elected. In 2016 the electoral institutions refused to call elections for
governors and mayors and denied the organization of a referendum for
2
The trial of the opposition leader Leopoldo López and the military prosecution of 2014
demonstrators occurred while Luisa Ortega Díaz was the Nation General Prosecutor.
revoking the mandate of President Maduro. In July 2017 the executive

branch convened a constituent assembly under procedures that violated
the provisions of the constitution, and its members were elected under
allegations of electoral fraud. The Constituent Assembly arrogated itself
the powers of all branches of the State, in a step towards further authori-
tarianism. Additionally, in 2017 the government began to use the Carnet
de la Patria biometric control system tied to the supply of basic goods
(such as food and medicines) for electoral mobilization.
Participation and Collective Identity in the 2017

Protest Cycle
Contrary to what happened in 2014, when mobilization began out of uni-
versity students’ discontent, the 2017 cycle of protests started following a
call from the opposition coalition, the Roundtable of Democratic Unity
(MUD by its Spanish acronym), after the judiciary’s attempts to curtail the
power of the legislative branch. On March 30, 2017, the Supreme Court
of Justice ruled in favour of a reduction of the powers of the National
Assembly. In confrontation, the MUD called for demonstrations. Shortly
afterwards, protests spread throughout the country. The state security
forces strongly repressed demonstrations during the 115 days of mobiliza-
tion. The Office of the United Nations Human Rights Commissioner reg-
istered 124 deaths linked to the demonstrations. The security forces were
reportedly responsible for 46 of these, and the pro-government colectivos
for 27, while responsibility for the remaining 51 deaths had not yet been
determined.3 Most victims were male, under 24 years, from low socio-
economic strata, and usually labourers or unskilled workers.
Unlike what happened in 2014, this time the opposition coalition openly
supported the citizens’ right to protest. While the 2014 mobilization barely
managed to open cracks in the dominant discourse, three years later the
opposition political parties backed action-takers in their denunciation of
the autocratic character of the government and challenged the dominant
discourse. Venezuelans—who had undergone a process of politicization
over a decade—understood the ruling of the Supreme Court of Justice not
as an action against the political class but as a breakdown of democracy and
3
Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR). Human
rights violations and abuses in the context of protests in the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela
from 1 April to 31 July 2017. Geneva, August 2017. Retrieved from: http://www.ohchr.
org/Documents/Countries/VE/HCReportVenezuela_1April-31July2017_EN.pdf.
90 I. PUYOSA
the loss of freedom. There was a precise identification of those responsible:

the leadership of the regime, top government officials, the Supreme Court
of Justice, the National Electoral Council and the Bolivarian Armed Forces.
Consequently, the struggle acquired maximalist objectives and its main aim
became to bring down a perceived regime of injustice.
The main reasons for confrontation, according to the over 500 demon-
strators interviewed in this study were, to change the government, to
restore democracy, to address the national crisis, to overthrow the dicta-
torship, to express discontent with the government, to gain freedom and
to restore the rule of law (see Fig. 5.1).4 The responses related to ousting
the regime amounted to almost one-third of the reasons to protest
(31.8%). Those related to restoring democracy, achieving freedom, justice
and regaining the rule of law, amounted to more than 29%. Grievances
generated by the deteriorating situation accounted for over one-third of
the responses (33.59%) and hopes for a better future a little less than 6%.
People from all socio-economic strata and different age groups partici-
pated in massive demonstrations throughout most of the national terri-
tory, which began in early April 2017. There is no evidence of the existence
of a mobilization coordination centre, although during the first month the
protest repertoire was homogeneous and conventional (marches, gather-
ings and vigils) and predominantly peaceful. According to a 31-year-old
woman, who participated in nonviolent creative resistance in Caracas:
A very interesting peaceful protest movement emerged. Organically, people

organized or joined alternative protests. The evolution of preparedness
against repression mechanisms was also interesting. […] However, the
movement remained weak in its organization and resources.5
One of the most distinctive and original elements of the movement in

its early stage was the presence of musicians performing at the forefront
of the demonstrations and the frequent appearance of lone nonviolent
4
This was a short open question. I grouped the responses when they had the same mean-
ing. However, I considered answers such as “to change the government” different from “to
overthrow the dictatorship” and answers such as “to recover democracy” different from “to
gain freedom”. I decided to maintain these answers ungrouped in order to keep semantic
differences that may indicate different political values.
5
All translations of interviews are mine and might be slightly edited to facilitate the read-
ers’ understanding.
Fig. 5.1 Reasons to protest
contenders who performed nonviolent actions, such as fraternization

with members of the Bolivarian National Guard, standing in front of
armoured vehicles and performing naked sit-ins. A 47-year-old woman,
who had no training in nonviolent resistance, narrated her experience of
participation in the early stages of the 2017 protests:
92 I. PUYOSA
It was a women’s march. The police and the [Bolivarian] National Guard
blocked our way. So, we would not continue walking. Two elder women
went in front of the whole march. One had difficulty walking. She used a
walker. The other was her sister. They came from Caracas to run some
errands, and they joined the march. They confronted the Bolivarian National
Guard, because they were not letting us continue. They told a young female
guard: “You do not have mothers! Are you going to hit me if I continue? If
you want, kill me. I’m alone. My children emigrated. You would do me a
favour. We are alone in this country”. And the female guard broke in tears
and allowed the march to pass.
Interestingly, the 2017 civil resistance actions spread to neighbour-

hoods traditionally under the control of pro-Chávez forces. By breaking
the limits to which the regime had historically confined the opposition,
the spread of demonstrations throughout the country reflected an appar-
ent growth of pro-democratization forces. However, while demonstra-
tions moved away from occupied squares and closed neighbourhoods
towards freeways and large avenues, it became harder to build spaces of
convergence and consolidate deliberative spaces, as explained by a 52-year-
old female, who actively participated in the 2017 mobilizations.
When we began to run away from the whales [water-tank vehicles for repres-
sion], many times we were helped by people we did not know. We held
hands and ran in terror. We protected each other. Then when I looked again
and those people were not there, we did not have time to say goodbye and
thanks for the protection.
The movement did not debate its collective identity in the public space:
it built its identity in action. In so doing, it forged a counterhegemonic
identity of resistance (see Castells 1997). People who took part in the
demonstrations felt fear but also hope. They were starting a movement
together in a country that had been divided and polarized. Solidarity
became a defining feature of the movement, as the following account by a
50-year-old lawyer illustrates:
I rescued a Piaroa [indigenous person], who was shot by the [Bolivarian]

National Guard. They thought that he was dead. His ID card was in his
guayuco [loincloth used by Amazonian indigenous people]. He had lost his
people and I had to lie on top of him, so he would not continue breathing
teargas. He was unconscious … Joshua is his name. He spoke his indigenous
language. I did not understand his language. It seemed incredible to me that

among Venezuelans we did not understand each other. Now, he is in the
Amazonas state, and we are friends. He calls me, says my name and laughs.
[…] It means a lot to me. I took him to get assistance […]. The beating was
on the Francisco Fajardo highway […]. He had been left alone on the floor.
I shared my water with him. I checked it and, as I could, I took him on my
back to get to El Rosal [neighbourhood of Caracas]. We are the same peo-
ple. The same blood.
In the second month of mobilization, the movement took a different

turn. On May 3, social media spread a series of images of “the Resistance”.
“The Resistance” referred to young people between 10 and 30 years, who
became increasingly involved in public demonstrations. According to
observers and reporters, most of these demonstrators came from very-
low-income strata and did not have ties with political parties. One 51-year-
old teacher who participated in the 2014 and 2017 mobilizations talked
about how ordinary citizens related to the Resistance:
In one of the protests I was pining for the rain of tear gas bombs, but sud-
denly I looked up and watched as the youths were in the line in front of the
guards. I do not know where I got strength and courage and ran to where
they were to offer them cloths moistened with bicarbonate. And at that time
a teargas bomb fell, and adrenaline made me take it and return it. And the
boys applauded me. It was very comforting. At that time I felt as if I had put
a grain of sand in the fight for my country, for my children, my nephews, for
all the youth…
The Resistance became the vanguard of the confrontation and orga-

nized itself according to a functional, tactical division of labour, with four
groups. The first one, “the squires”, aimed at protecting the frontline of
the demonstrations with fragile shields made of medium-density fibre-
board (MDF) or zinc, or with anti-riot shields that they stole from police
officers. The second one, “the archers”, collected and returned teargas
pumps towards the police lines. The third one, “the artillerymen”,
responded with stones and Molotov bombs to the security forces involved
in acts of repression. The fourth one, “the helpers”, filled the Molotov
bomb boxes. Among the helpers, it was common to find street children or
seemingly homeless children, whose presence became notable. According
to one account:
94 I. PUYOSA
Once we were running away because the [Bolivarian] National Guard was
throwing teargas bombs. I took refuge with my husband and other people
in a building. There, I found children for the first time, from 8 to 13 years
old, hooded and fighting in the same way as adults. Later the presence of
“warrior” children, to name them in some way, would be a constant.
Each time, the Resistance acted only after the police and the National
Guard attacked peaceful demonstrators with tear gas and shotguns.
Nevertheless, their actions increasingly went beyond peaceful challenge.
This led to a decrease in participation from the middle-class opposition, as
a 55-year-old female journalist who took part in the demonstrations noted:
A number of indigent youths joined the protests to obtain food. They were
begging in the area where the protests were taking place. In general, the
violence came from these groups. At night one may hear them scream that
they were hungry. And you could tell they were under the effects of drugs.
They were the ones who burned objects in the street blockades. That and
other forms of violence probably served to make the problem visible outside
the country, but it did not help much inside […]. Little by little, the fear
grew, and people abandoned the protests.
Despite the limited spaces of convergence, action-takers went from

being isolated groups or even anonymous crowds to forging collective
identity symbols. Although not all the pro-democratization supporters
identified with the Resistance and their actions, those youths became the
vanguard of demonstrators. They included young people who embraced an
aesthetic borrowed from cyberculture, videogames and graphic novels, as
well as from the Arab Spring and the Venezuelan 2014 cycle of protests.
At the beginning of the third month of the protest cycle, a new pattern
emerged in the states of Barinas and Táchira. There, challengers attacked
PSUV regional headquarters and offices of public institutions. According to
observers, those responsible were older than typical demonstrators.
Moreover, there were reports of the participation of former civil servants
and even dissidents from security forces in Barinas (Chávez’s home state). A
54-year-old member of a leftwing opposition party explained that the con-
frontation took an insurrectionary character in some parts of the country:
I remember a lady over 70 years old saying “I’m not afraid!”. An old man
said “Here we need a revolutionary party to lead this process”. There was a
popular democratic rebellion. In some cases, there was a sort of insurrec-
tion, such as in the specific cases of Barinas, Táchira, Ciudad Bolivar.
Although this pattern did not spread to the rest of the country, it raised
fear of a possible transition from nonviolent resistance to violent
insurrection.
In parallel to the radicalization of the movement and the growing
prominence of radical flanks, towards the end of the protest cycle various
initiatives began to prompt a debate around the use of nonviolent means
of resistance. These initiatives included the Citizen Laboratory of Active
Nonviolence (Laboratorio Ciudadano de No Violencia Activa), Dale Letra
(public performances promoting peaceful public discourse and under-
standing), Billete Alzao (public performances criticizing hyperinflation),
Piloneras (women who used traditional labour songs to call for social
change) and Poesía Resistencia (who used verses alluding to different
themes of civil resistance during the demonstrations and published such
verses in Instagram). All of them emerged out of a process of deliberation
within limited spaces of convergence among nonviolent contenders, who
wanted change, democracy and peace. These action-takers gathered to
discuss the most effective and meaningful strategies of nonviolent resis-
tance and distance themselves from violent actions.
Strategy and Tactics in the 2017 Civil Resistance

Campaign
In this study, civil resistance is considered as a strategic way of promoting
political change that does not necessarily require a moral pacifist stance,
although some sort of ethical commitment with principles of justice may
be present (King 2018). Recent research (e.g. Chenoweth and Stephan
2014; Chenoweth 2017) shows that the chances of bringing down an
authoritarian regime are higher for civil resistance campaigns than violent
ones. This is the case even if peaceful demonstrators may face imprison-
ment, torture, exile or death, such as in Venezuela.
Ackerman and Merriman (2015) identified three key features of suc-
cessful civil resistance movements: (1) ability to forge and maintain unity,
(2) operational planning and (3) nonviolent discipline. According to the
authors, these capabilities are paramount for increasing participation in
civil resistance, diminishing the impact of repression and increasing back-
fire, and increasing defections from the government side. These, in turn,
are key for achieving success in nonviolent resistance campaigns. In this
study, we link the ability to unify people with the strategic use of digital
96 I. PUYOSA
communication, operational planning with the challenge of organizing a

peaceful uprising from the contentious mobilization of leaderless crowds,
and nonviolent discipline with the conditions imposed by the widespread
repression.
The ability to forge and maintain unity depends on the movement’s
capacity to gain legitimacy among diverse groups of the society that may
have different grievances. Having legitimacy is paramount for a movement
to mobilize new people and thereby increase participation in civil resis-
tance. The Venezuelan civil resistance challengers somewhat achieved this
objective during the 2017 protest cycle, although the movement overall
lacked a unified strategy, as discussed below.
Operational planning requires an ongoing assessment by the move-
ment of surrounding conditions. On the one hand, the movement needs
to take advantage of favourable conditions. On the other hand, it should
be prepared to overcome, transform or circumvent adverse conditions
through strategic choice. By setting strategic goals, selecting appropriate
targets and devising appropriate tactics within its capabilities, the move-
ment can overcome adverse conditions and make progress towards its
objectives (Ackerman and DuVall 2000; Ackerman and Merriman 2015).
The Venezuelan civil resistance organizers failed to align their strategic
goals with effective tactics, and that was one of the main reasons why the
mobilization lost impetus.
According to Schock (2005), civil resistance movements can have an
impact on the balance of power depending on their resilience and resource
mobilization capacities. The movement’s resilience in the face of repres-
sion can affect in three ways. It can lead to (1) total disruption of the
regime or serious alteration of governance, (2) fracture in repressive
organisms and refusal to continue repression and (3) withdrawal of exter-
nal support to the State. The Venezuelan civil resistance campaign obtained
greater gains in relation to breaking the image build by the international
propaganda of the regime. On the contrary, it was almost unable to coun-
teract repression and generate defections among the military.
The mobilization capacity of a movement relies on the ability to alter-
nately employ different methods of nonviolent action: (1) methods of
concentration, (2) methods of dispersion and (3) methods of tactical
innovation (Schock 2005). In 2017 the diverse repertoire of nonviolent
action covered the three types of methods (see Fig. 5.2). Methods of con-
centration are those that allow a large number of people to gather in a
public space and give them the opportunity to express their indignation
Fig. 5.2 Repertoire of nonviolent action methods
and grievances, as well as to build solidarity. Around 75% of the interview-

ees for this study took part in this type of actions. They are often combined
with actions, such as marches, caravans, canvassing and walks. Nearly 75%
of the interviewees for this study also took part in this type of actions.
Although street blockades are considered as legitimate nonviolent pro-
test actions in most contexts, in Venezuela the public opinion tended to be
against them. According to various testimonies, their rejection stemmed
from the fact that nonviolent discipline was hard to keep in those actions
and street blockades sometimes evolved into confrontation with armed
forces or pro-government militias. Less than 45% of the interviewees took
part in this kind of actions. Interestingly, a few interviewees considered
that publicly held religious celebrations for the victims of the repression
and providing first aid to wounded demonstrators were also actions of civil
resistance—a perception largely consistent with the response by the gov-
ernment to these actions, as the police detained young doctors and para-
medics for providing first aid to demonstrators.
Nevertheless, methods of concentration can easily be suppressed
through repression (Ackerman and Kruegler 1994), as happened in
Venezuela in 2017. For this reason, when faced with sustained repression,
98 I. PUYOSA
civil resistance movements often turn to methods of dispersion such as

strikes and boycotts. Around 55% of the interviewees took part in the civic
strike on July 26 against the so-called Constituent Assembly. However,
given the collapse of the Venezuelan economy, strikes and boycotts likely
had no significant impact.
Ackerman and Kruegler (1994) argue for the need to diversify the rep-
ertoire of nonviolent actions. They point out that the movement’s strategy
must contemplate the expansion of the repertoire of nonviolent actions,
based on the population’s capacities and current repertoire. Schock (2005)
calls this process “tactical innovation” and considers it fundamental for the
success of a civil resistance movement. This type of innovation refers to the
creativity of activists, who can devise new tactics when their opponents
manage to counter the effectiveness of the activists’ initial tactics.
Two kinds of tactical innovation could be observed in the 2017 non-
violent campaign against the regime. One is what Venezuelans call “cre-
ative” protest, such as performances, art activism and flashmobs. The
Citizen Laboratory of Active Nonviolence developed various interesting
initiatives of creative protest. These often tapped into festive nonviolent
repertoires of protest (such as the use of music, theatre, costumes and
humour), which according to Chenoweth and Stephan (2011) can be par-
ticularly useful in nonviolent resistance campaigns. Yet, overall, they only
involved a limited number of participants. Almost a quarter of the inter-
viewees (23%) took part in creative protests. The second kind of tactical
innovation was the use of digital protests. More than half of the interview-
ees (51%) took part in this kind of protests. Interestingly, only a quarter of
the interviewees (25%) declared that they had received some training in
nonviolent resistance. Nevertheless, they were actively engaged in the use
of nonviolent methods of resistance (see Fig. 5.3).
Although the 2017 campaign showed a great deal of festive nonviolent
actions in its first and second stages, the movement failed to further inno-
vate in its tactics after the popular consultation. The popular consultation,
or plebiscite, celebrated on July 16, was the action that gained the largest
support from Venezuelan pro-democratization activists during the 2017
protest cycle. Almost 97% of the interviewees took part in the consulta-
tion. The most interesting aspect of the consultation was that political
parties and civil society came together to organize and implement a
national (and international) plebiscite without any participation of the
State and without military control. It was an ambitious initiative of self-
Fig. 5.3 Training in nonviolent resistance methods
governance, which was peaceful and extremely well organized. This event
was therefore probably the most important civil resistance action in the
Venezuelan struggle for democratization to date.
Leaderless Crowds and the Use of Digital

Communication in the 2017 Civil Resistance
Campaign
The literature on political mobilization using information and communi-
cations technology generally considers that social media and digital com-
munication contribute to mobilization through four mechanisms: (1)
decreasing informational uncertainty under censorship; (2) spreading out-
rage, framing injustice and enabling the expression of counterhegemonic
identities; (3) reducing coordinating costs and (4) facilitating mobiliza-
tion cascades after triggering events (Gohdes 2015; Ananyev et al. 2017;
Ruijgrok 2017; Spaiser et al. 2017; Mourão et al. 2016; Puyosa 2015a;
Castells 2015; Sandoval-Almazan and Gil-Garcia 2014). In this section,
we look at the communicational environment in which the Venezuelan
2017 unrest happened and how it facilitated the mobilization of leaderless
crowds.
Internet penetration in Venezuela grew little between 2013 and 2017, in
conjunction with the deterioration of infrastructure and increasing controls
100 I. PUYOSA
imposed by the government. Nonetheless, as of 2017, the connected popu-

lation accounted for around 63% of the country’s population. The average
speed of broadband did not exceed 2 Mbps, with less than 5% of connec-
tions faster than 4 Mbps (Puyosa and Chaguaceda 2017). Additionally, the
Venezuelan government frequently intercepted emails from journalists and
opposition activists from 2011 (Puyosa 2015c).
It is worth noting that in comparison with 2014, in 2017 the commu-
nication hegemony of the regime was more consolidated; censorship had
become widespread and Internet connectivity had worsened. Just-in-time
blocking of digital media and social media (such as Facebook and
Instagram) occurred throughout the 2017 protest cycle. Moreover, the
regime conducted systematic operations of disinformation, counter-
information and propaganda through Twitter, WhatsApp and some digital
media. The government often spread false or misleading information,
including counter-information pieces presenting alternate versions of
events. A communication phenomenon that accompanied the cycle of
protests of 2017 was the circulation of anonymous voice notes through
WhatsApp, which were spread taking advantage of personal relationships
to accelerate the diffusion of propaganda (Puyosa 2018). Nonetheless,
there was a greater politicization among Internet users in comparison with
2014. Given the government control over mass media (Canelón-Silva
2014; Cañizález 2014; Lugo-Ocando et al. 2015), social media became
crucial tools for political mobilization (Puyosa 2015b, c).
Likewise, the regime maintained its practice of harassing Twitter users
using automated trolling. Government agencies also used bots to make
retweets of content produced by predetermined users (e.g. President
Maduro), create artificial trends (social spam) and hijack hashtags (Puyosa
2015c). The regime’s communicational apparatus was also actively engaged
in planting baits for journalists that may lead to publishing fabricated news,
as occurred in the case of the alleged death of Leopoldo López, who at that
moment was in the Ramo Verde military prison. Participants in the civil
resistance movement responded by building their own channels for infor-
mation dissemination and calling for demonstrations. In this regard, the
frequent use of video-streaming transmissions (Periscope and Facebook
Live) by opposition leaders and the intensive use of WhatsApp by activists
were noteworthy. A novelty in the 2017 protest cycle was the appearance
of Twitter trolls that aimed to generate social shame and deliberately used
offensive speeches, some of which might have been part of the regime’s
propaganda (Puyosa 2018). Likewise, short videos of taunting against
pro-government activists boasting their fortunes outside Venezuela

appeared frequently in Facebook and Instagram.
Another, more positive, novelty in the realm of mediactivism was the
appearance of documentaries of the protests recorded with mobile phones
(e.g. Selfiementary6) or webcams (e.g. Retrato Urgente/Urgent Portrait7).
Venezuelan musicians at home and abroad also took part in the move-
ment. During the 115 days of protests more than 50 songs related to the
movement were recorded and shared on YouTube, SoundCloud and
BarCamp. Protest songs included a wide variety of musical genres.8 These
mediactivism practices contributed to the spreading of outrage, the fram-
ing of injustices and fostered protesters’ counterhegemonic identity.
Data from public opinion polls estimate that 48% of the population
received calls for mobilization through social media in 2017 (Facebook,
Twitter and Instagram), 7% by mobile messaging (WhatsApp and
Telegram) and 15% through digital media. Thus, 70% of the population
was mobilized as a result of digital interactions. Of the rest of the popula-
tion, 8% got calls for mobilization through telephone calls or face-to-face
conversations; less than 1% through traditional mass media (TV and
radio) and 20% said they never got calls for mobilization.9 Data thus sug-
gest that social and digital media were key to reduce coordinating costs for
anti-regime mobilization and facilitate mobilization cascades after trigger-
ing events, such as the Supreme Court’s decision to curtail the functions
of the National Assembly, or the killings of demonstrators, whose pictures
disseminated online moved the population emotionally.
Likewise, 46% of the population reported that they got news about
mobilizations and repression through social media (Facebook, Twitter
and Instagram) and 9% by mobile messaging (WhatsApp and Telegram).
Mass media were a source of information for just 17% of the population.
Telephone calls or face-to-face conversations were a source of information
6
See https://youtu.be/ijoJDhf0F34 (accessed March 23, 2018).
7
See https://youtu.be/_0pA7YJUgGI (accessed March 23, 2018).
8
Some examples of these songs and videos include Los Dueños De La Calle—Gian Varela
Feat, Chyno Miranda and Tony Brouzee, available at: https://youtu.be/TZZH7ZRZTWk,
and MASBURROCK—Rodrigore, available at: https://youtu.be/1qhW6F96ov4; Eight
Moon Headdress—Felix Martin https://youtu.be/7ePkR14cbKc; Escudos—One Chot
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wkoC28hvbsk (accessed March 23, 2018).
9
Data obtained from a national poll conducted by More Consulting (http://www.more-
consulting.com.ve/consulting.html) between May 5 and 6, 2017.
102 I. PUYOSA
for 6% of the population and another 6% reported being active participants

in mobilizations; so they obtained such information directly. Meanwhile,
15% of the population surveyed reported that they had not been informed
about mobilizations.10
Decreasing informational uncertainty under censorship was possible
because pro-democratization activists actively engaged in disseminating
trustworthy information through their social networks. An ingenious ini-
tiative for breaking censorship was the Bus TV, a project in which a couple
of journalists got on public buses and made live newscasts about the coun-
try’s situation that were not covered in mass media.
We can thus argue that from 2007 to 2017 Venezuelans moved from
traditional contentious collective action towards connective action. Within
the logic of connective action individual engagement in large-scale dem-
onstrations is both highly personalized and technology-enabled, creating
diverse paths for individuals to participate in and activate their own social
networks (Agarwal et al. 2014; Bennett and Segerberg 2015; Poell et al.
2016). Crowd-enabled connective action allows groups to share resources
and coordinated actions by means of digitally assisted communication
networks (Bennett and Segerberg 2015; Poell et al. 2016). These social
networks enable the emergence of seemingly “leaderless” movements,
which often display remarkable levels of coordination while blurring fron-
tiers between street and digital protests (Agarwal et al. 2014). Effectively,
nearly half of the participants in the 2017 protest cycle interviewed in this
study stated that they mobilized in reaction to calls in social media.
The leaderless crowds that participated in neighbourhood demonstra-
tions and blocked streets in 2014 were poorly coordinated. By contrast, in
2017, the crowds were larger, somewhat more coordinated and their
actions spread to many distinct locations. Clearly, more people reached the
threshold where participating in the mobilization had reduced costs and/or
increased benefits. Since more people were imprisoned for speaking out
against the government in 2016 compared to 2013, and more people died
in the 2017 demonstrations compared to 2014, costs were higher in the last
cycle of protests. Therefore, we may infer that a larger number of Venezuelans
considered that the benefits of bringing down the authoritarian government
were worth risking imprisonment or even assassination, and crossed the
mobilization threshold (Spaiser et al. 2017; Lang and De Sterck 2016). For
Ibidem.
10
instance, one 24-year-old male student explained that he was beaten by

police officers, injured by gunshots and jailed for 78 days in 2014, but nev-
ertheless took part in the 2017 mobilizations.
Research suggests that the existence of serious grievances caused by
severe economic hardship and an illegitimate government often leads to
rebellion (Goldstone 2014; Moro 2016). Indeed, by May 2017, Venezuela
appeared to be on its way to rebellion, but political negotiations contrib-
uted to a de-escalation of the conflict, and the country returned to the
status quo. Political analysis points out that the mobilized masses lacked a
revolutionary elite to organize a successful rebellion. They were leaderless.
A 35-year-old member of Parliament from the opposition who partici-
pated in the protests admitted that “[t]he protests could have been more
effective if politicians and social leaders had developed a unified
strategy”.
Pro-government Militias and Military Repression

Isidoro Losada (2015) emphasizes that territorialization is a spatial strat-
egy to affect, influence or control resources and people, through the
establishment of control over an area; therefore, territorialization is a
power mechanism. One of the most successful political control strategies
employed by the Chávez regime and its successor was territorial control,
which limits the use of public space by citizens and restricts protest. This
strategy consisted of three main lines of action: (1) the establishment of
areas under military control in which citizens’ demonstrations were
banned; (2) the use of militia tactics by the so-called colectivos in popular
urban sectors; (3) the abandonment of public spaces in which lack of pub-
lic lighting, police patrol and other services exposed people to potential
criminal acts and caused them to abandon streets and lock themselves
inside their houses. During the 2017 protest cycle, citizens were able to
break some of the regime’s tactics of territorialization. One 32-year-old
female contender from the city of Maracaibo narrated:
Criminality prevents us from being a community, but now the politics of the
country, the desire to improve the country, brought us together again. In my
area of residential buildings where people take their cars to go out, many
neighbours met [for the first time]. They did activities in the community.
They walked the block for the first time. There was much sense of responsibil-
ity and hope with what was going on. People felt the need to do something.
104 I. PUYOSA
These efforts, however, did not prevent the regime from continuing to
use territorialization as a strategy to undermine mobilization. The Bolivarian
National Guard, in particular, was organized territorially within the
Strategic Integral Defence Regions (REDIs by their Spanish acronym11).
Beginning in 2014, it was tasked with the control of food and fuel smug-
gling, as well as attempts of looting and demonstrations. On several occa-
sions, the Guard allegedly committed executions during the 2017 protests.
For instance, a 20-year-old student reported that the Guard killed his
brother with a marble while he was a bystander in a demonstration.
In addition, the regime used the colectivos as pro-government militias to
repress mobilization in popular urban sectors. According to Carey et al.
(2013) a pro-government militia (1) is sponsored by the government
and/or provide support to the government, (2) is not part of the regular
security forces, (3) is armed and (4) has some sort of organization.
Böhmelt and Clayton (2017) also define pro-government militias as armed
groups that have informal or semi-official links to the government and
some level of organization but fall outside of the regular security appara-
tus. They support the regime and act somewhat independently from the
state security forces. They generally do not assume any regular function
but pursue a wide range of irregular duties related to population control.
State support for pro-government militias tends to be restricted to the
provision of weapons or minimal remuneration, but sometimes includes
information sharing and some operational connections (Carey et al. 2013;
Böhmelt and Clayton 2017).
Pro-government militias are an attractive security option for politically
unstable regimes as they facilitate targeting civilians and undertaking vio-
lent repression (Pilster et al. 2016; Böhmelt and Clayton 2017). Regular
troops could face difficulties in establishing a permanent presence in con-
tested communities and might not be in a position to identify radical con-
tenders to the regime, since they lack knowledge of the local population
(Carey et al. 2013; Böhmelt and Clayton 2017; Böhmelt et al. 2017).
While colectivos were initially grassroots groups that worked on commu-
nity development, they became militias after the 2002 attempted coup
against President Chávez. When Chávez was momentarily ousted during
11
The Organic Law of the Bolivarian National Armed Forces, approved in 2008, divided
Venezuela into seven Strategic Integral Defence Regions (Central, Western, Eastern, the
Plains, Andean, Guayana, and Sea and Islands).
the coup, members of some colectivos organized demonstrations support-

ing the government and worked with the military to help Chávez return
as president.
The colectivos are directly linked to the PSUV, as well as to individual
members of the regime apparatus. Their members share the Bolivarian or
Chavist ideology, and often have a loose affiliation with security forces
(such as being former agents or whistleblowers, others being bodyguards
or hitmen). According to interviewees’ testimonies, in the present case, in
addition to fulfilling security-related functions, the colectivos gradually
controlled the distribution of basic food and medicine in their areas of
operation.
At the time of writing, the Revolutionary Secretariat of Venezuela gath-
ered 107 colectivos in the Greater Caracas area. Some colectivos, such as
Alexis Vive, Tupamaros, La Piedrita and Colectivo 5 de marzo, became
famous for actions that received ample media coverage. They also acted in
16 out of 23 states. They commonly directed their attacks towards
unarmed opposition sympathizers or neighbours who expressed discon-
tent. Most frequently, they were involved in intimidation and beating, but
are known to have committed several assassinations. A 26-year-old student
affiliated with an opposition party narrated that the colectivos killed some
of her fellow action-takers:
In the protest of April 19 when Paola Ramírez was murdered in Táchira, I

was a block and a half away. We helped the wounded of that day. We were
attacked by the colectivos, who attacked us from all sides. When they could
rescue me from the place, I had to pass in front of Paola’s body, which
depressed me. I remembered that my friend Daniel Tinoco was also killed,
and I thought it could be any of us.
On April 18, 2017, President Maduro activated the Zamora Plan. In a

televised speech, he announced that the plan involved the “deployment of
military forces, militia forces and popular forces”.12 The Zamora Plan was
a military operation that combined the participation of military and civilian
elements to repress widespread mobilization. The regime initially activated
the plan in 2014 and did it again in December 2016. However, it was only
12
Albaciudad. 2016, December 28. Maduro a las FANB: En 2017 haremos una liber-
ación territorial de las lacras del paramilitarismo. http://albaciudad.org/2016/12/
maduro-a-las-fanb-en-2017-haremos-una-liberacion-territorial-de-las-lacras-del-paramili-
tarismo/.
106 I. PUYOSA
in 2017 that it incorporated pro-government militias as a central piece and

led to the killing of several demonstrators. One 20-year-old high-school
student recalled an attack by colectivos against him and others from the
Resistance:
While we were spending the night at the barricade with the other guys from
the Resistance, a group of cars without license plates arrived with armed
civilians known as colectivos and shot us without any previous warning or
something similar. They only shot to kill. Thank God that day there were no
injuries, but the situation was stressful and somewhat traumatic for all of us.
Likewise, an older woman remembered when colectivos attacked her resi-

dential compound:
My 8-year-old daughter and I had to stay in the bathroom for four hours, in
order to protect ourselves and avoid teargas, while the National Bolivarian
Guard attacked the residential compound where we live. On another occa-
sion, we were threatened with firearms by colectivos in one of the main
avenues of the city, while they shot at opposition demonstrators. They
blocked our way and were in the line of fire.
Harsh repression eventually succeeded in reducing participation in mass

mobilizations. A 60-year-old artist explains this process:
[T]he highway full of people protesting in a totally peaceful way, with whis-
tles and flags, being brutally repressed by the police and military forces firing
teargas and pellets and ambushing to those who fled by any of the possible
escape routes […] it was a systematic intimidation to instil fear and make us
stop going out to protest and express our discontent … After each battle we
faced, the next day each one doubted if people would participate again […]
and it was surprising to see that despite the repression of the previous day,
people were coming back! With fear but with determination and hope that
at some point our cries of despair and enervation would achieve their pur-
pose […] every day we are worse, and people no longer want to go out to
protest because if after four months of protests in the streets, the Armed
Forces did not become aware [of the justice of our cause] and did not sup-
port the people, it does not seem that continuing to lose the lives of brave
young people makes any sense.
After four months, mobilization eventually subsided, as less and less peo-
ple were willing to risk their lives for what increasingly appeared to be a
lost battle.
Closing Remarks
This study shows how Venezuelans embraced civil resistance as a strategic
choice to struggle against an increasingly authoritarian regime. However,
it reveals that maintaining nonviolent discipline was a challenge for various
reasons. First, most demonstrators had not been trained in nonviolent
direct action. Second, they lacked a unifying strategy to organize leader-
less crowds of demonstrators. Third, pro-government militias violently
repressed even the most peaceful demonstrations, taking the lives of
numerous nonviolent contenders. The breaking of nonviolent discipline
may have impinged on the willingness of many demonstrators to continue
to be involved in the resistance campaign.
Moreover, unifying participants in the movement would have required
a more strategic framing of the roots of the conflict that opposed many
people to the regime. Digital narratives and autonomous communication
through social networks were instrumental in identifying common values
to fight for and in fostering the convergence of the public around nonvio-
lent resistance. Yet, while many participants used digital communication,
they were unable to build a strong coalition among the different social
groups involved. Without strong coalition-building, the movement was
more vulnerable to violent repression. As a result of such a repression and
the diminishing support from political organizations, participation in the
movement gradually declined over time.
In parallel to these trends, various civil resistance initiatives emerged to
promote the use of nonviolent tactics. Despite the promising use of cre-
ative forms of civil resistance, this study showed that the resistance move-
ment overall failed to innovate tactically. The movement overused mass
concentrations while refraining from adopting more disruptive tactics.
This lack of tactical innovation made the movement more vulnerable to
repression.
Another significant weakness of the movement resulted from its lack of
strategic planning. Mobilized crowds remained leaderless, while political
elites were unable to effectively connect with grassroots initiatives and to
provide strategic leadership towards reaching achievable political goals.
The extraordinary civil mobilization achieved during the organization of
the popular consultation was not effectively seized by opposition leaders
to press the regime to negotiate a democratic transition.
108 I. PUYOSA
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CHAPTER 6
Alternative Forms of Civilian

Noncooperation with Armed Groups:
The Case of Samaniego in Colombia
Juan Masullo, Cécile Mouly and María Belén Garrido
In multiple armed conflicts, civilians living in warzones have engaged in

different behaviours that can be classified as expressions of civil resistance
(Hallward et al. 2017). Civil resistance has been defined as the use of
unconventional nonviolent actions by civilians in situations of asymmetric
conflict with opponents not averse to using violence to defend their interests
J. Masullo (*)
University of Oxford, Oxford, UK
e-mail: juan.masullo@politics.ox.ac.uk
C. Mouly
M. B. Garrido
Pontificia Universidad Católica del Ecuador, Quito, Ecuador
Catholic University of Eichstätt-Ingolstadt, Eichstätt, Germany
e-mail: mbgarrido@flacso.edu.ec

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-05033-7_6
112 J. MASULLO ET AL.
(Schock 2013, 277; see also Schock 2015). By “unconventional” the lit-
erature means that nonviolent actions occur outside of the regular, more
institutional channels to make claims or express dissent, street protests or
strikes being clear examples. While these actions have been commonly
studied against authoritarian regimes and/or colonial powers, the type of
relationship between resisters and their opponents contemplated in this
definition can apply to that between civilians and combatants in warzones.
Not only is there a clear power asymmetry between these two sets of actors,
but also armed organizations are more than ready to use violence if they
see threats to the advancement of their strategic goals. Therefore, when we
see unarmed civilians engaging in organized unconventional efforts to
oppose armed groups, we are entering the realm of civil resistance.
In his foundational work, Gene Sharp (1973b) distinguished between
three broad forms of civil resistance: (1) protest and persuasion, (2) non-
cooperation and (3) intervention. Even if building on a variety of theoreti-
cal approaches, civil war scholars have recently used the term
“noncooperation” to describe one course of action available to civilians to
respond to armed groups’ violence and attempts to rule in the context of
armed conflict. In this chapter, we follow this lead and use civilian nonco-
operation to refer to civilians who, in a coordinated manner, refuse to
cooperate with, let alone actively support, armed organizations present in
a given territory (Masullo 2017a). This new focus on noncooperation
stems from the recognition that the relationship between armed groups
and civilians is often that between rulers and ruled.1 Even in those territo-
ries where multiple armed actors operate and none has dominant territo-
rial control, we can think of them as aspiring rulers which, at least to some
extent, aim at receiving some sort of collaboration from communities
(Kalyvas 2006; Arjona 2016). Therefore, in such settings, the fundamen-
tal theory of power that underlies Sharp’s (1973a) understanding of civil
resistance generally applies: rulers depend upon the consent or acquies-
cence of the ruled; so if people withdraw their cooperation, their capacity
to rule lessens.
1
To our best knowledge, the first scholar to use the term “noncooperation” in the context
of civil war was Pedro Valenzuela (2001, 2009) in his analysis of neutrality in the context of
internal armed conflicts. Ana Arjona (2010) followed suit in her study of social order in civil
war. Later, Arjona (2017) and Masullo (2017a) conceptualized the term more carefully.
Masullo (2017b) theorized the conditions under which it is more likely to emerge and the
forces behind variations in form.
ALTERNATIVE FORMS OF CIVILIAN NONCOOPERATION WITH ARMED… 113
This chapter analyses civilian noncooperation in the Colombian munic-

ipality of Samaniego making use of a typology proposed by Masullo
(2017b) that distinguishes three types of organized nonviolent civilian
noncooperation: unilateral, pacted and oblique. While this novel concep-
tual lens has been used to catalogue multiple experiences of noncoopera-
tion and identify commonalities and differences across cases, here we use it
to analyse noncooperation within one case and its evolution over time. In
so doing, this chapter does not only illustrate that the typology captures
distinct types, but also that various tactics of noncooperation can comple-
ment each other. Concretely, we argue that while the experience of
Samaniego can be accurately labelled as an expression of pacted noncoop-
eration, over the course of 20 years in which villagers have refused to
cooperate with armed organizations, they have combined negotiation
with oblique and unilateral actions. This combination, we contend, has
helped civilians to sustain their noncooperation efforts for a long period of
time and strengthened these efforts.
The empirical material for this chapter stems from original data gath-
ered in the field, as well as rich secondary material from different sources.
We undertook several field trips to Samaniego, Pasto, Cali and Bogotá
between 2014 and 2017 as part of three different research projects and
conducted over 80 interviews with multiple actors linked to the process of
noncooperation in Samaniego in different ways. These included residents
of the municipality, local authorities, members of local civil society organi-
zations, external actors, former guerrilla members and members of the
state security forces. With some key informants we conducted various
rounds of interviews and engaged in some direct observation during field-
work in Samaniego. The data obtained allowed us to gain a good under-
standing of the evolution of civilian-combatant relations in the municipality
from the perspectives of different—and sometimes opposing—actors and
with a close grasp of the context in which these relations took shape and
changed. Our data collection focused on the evolving process of civil resis-
tance in Samaniego between 1997 and 2017. Tracing this process allowed
us to identify three main periods of civilian noncooperation: 1997–2000,
2004–2007 and 2008–2017.
The chapter is structured as follows. In the next section we briefly
review the recent literature on civilian agency and civilian noncooperation
and lay out our conceptual framework. We then introduce the case of
Samaniego and explore how the strategies of noncooperation and the
relationship between Samaniego dwellers and the different armed groups

evolved over the three different periods of noncooperation. In the last
section we conclude by summing up our findings and underlining the
central contributions of this chapter to an evolving research agenda on
civilian agency in war and, in particular, on civil resistance and noncoop-
eration in armed conflicts.
Civilian Agency and Noncooperation

Civilian agency has gained increasing attention in the study of civil wars in
the last decade. Following Kalyvas’s (2003: 481) observation that civilians
“cannot be treated as passive, manipulated, or invisible actors”, scholars
have taken into account the role that people living in warzones play in the
production of key civil war dynamics. These include, for example, pro-
cesses as different as the production of violence (Kalyvas 2006) and the
creation of order and establishment of governance (Arjona 2016; Mampilly
2011). To be sure, the bulk of the scholarly work on civilian behaviour has
focused on civilian support and how it contributes to armed groups’ orga-
nizational ends and favours the attainment of their strategic objectives.
However, this is beginning to change.
Recent studies have conceptualized a broader spectrum of responses
available to civilians living in warzones. In so doing, they have paid more
attention to the opposite of civilian support, that is, civilian noncoopera-
tion. In contrast to support, noncooperation involves conduct that nega-
tively affects armed groups’ strategic interests and can directly harm armed
organizations (Arjona 2017; Masullo 2017b). This work has recognized
more room for agency on the side of civilians and pushed our attention to
civilians’ responses that involve opposition to armed groups.2
In a recent paper, Arjona (2017) proposed a new way to conceptualize
the choices available to civilians in warzones and distinguished between
cooperation, noncooperation and flight. Building on this menu of
responses, Masullo (2017b) further developed the concept of noncoop-
eration and proposed the typology that we use here. In turn, these
2
Note that civilian responses that negatively affect armed groups by opposing them can
also be violent, for example taking the form of vigilante groups. See Masullo (2017a) and
Jentzsch et al. (2015). In this case, though, civilians may lose their status of noncombatants
or, at least, fall into a grey zone between civilians and combatants.
conceptual advancements have built on and stimulated empirical case

studies and cross-case comparisons on civilian responses that imply oppos-
ing armed groups in different conflict-affected areas around the world.
For example, Kaplan (2017) has explored cases in Colombia with exten-
sions to Afghanistan, Pakistan, Syria and the Philippines, and a recent spe-
cial issue of the Journal of Peacebuilding & Development on civil resistance
in contexts of armed conflict included cases from the Middle East, South
Asia and Africa (Vol. 12, Issue 3, December 2017).3
The cases documented in this growing literature not only show that
organized opposition to armed actors is possible—even if risky and
demanding—but also that there is important variation in the form that
campaigns take. For example, scholars exploring cases in the Middle East
(e.g. Seidel 2017; Stanley 2017) have stressed that everyday forms of resis-
tance are common in armed conflicts and that these differ substantially
from other forms of highly organized and sophisticated experiences of
resistance, such as the so-called “peace territories”, “peace communities”
or “zones of peace”; that is, areas in which civilians adopt an impartial
stance and refuse to cooperate with any armed faction (Masullo 2015;
Mitchell and Hancock 2007; Mouly et al. 2015). In fact, as Arjona (2017)
and Masullo (2017a) have noted, acts of resistance can vary along multiple
dimensions, such as whether they are armed or unarmed, individual or
collective, more or less confrontational and directed at specific behaviours
of armed groups or at their presence or rule altogether.
In this chapter, we use the conceptual framework of noncooperation
proposed by Masullo (2017a), who defines noncooperation as a set of
behaviours by which civilians refuse to collaborate in any possible way with
every armed organization present in their territory. This definition is
largely consistent with Arjona’s (2017) understanding of noncooperation.
For both authors, noncooperation is the flipside of cooperation in that it
entails actions that negatively affect armed groups. Arjona further disag-
gregates noncooperation into resistance, disobedience and defection.
While the concept we use here covers both resistance and disobedience, it
3
Civilian agency has been recently stressed also in the context of “communal war”, a set-
ting in which it is reasonable to expect civilian collective action to be highly unlikely (Krause
2018). While not necessarily focusing on oppositional forms of civilian noncooperation,
Krause shows that organized communities in Nigeria and Indonesia adapted and responded
to “communal war” and helped prevent the eruption of violence in some areas.
excludes defection. As defection may entail aiding the enemy by, for exam-
ple, offering intelligence or even enlisting as a part- or full-time member
(Arjona 2017; Kalyvas 2006), we take this as cooperation. Our under-
standing of noncooperation implies refusing to collaborate with all and
every armed group present in the territory, including state and non-state
forces.4 In this sense, our concept builds on the early work of Valenzuela
(2001, 2009), who linked the civilian decision to not cooperate with the
idea and norms of neutrality in international politics.
Masullo’s typology was constructed inductively based on a database of
over 50 experiences of noncooperation in the Colombian civil war, as well
as multiple experiences in past and active armed conflicts in at least 18 coun-
tries around the world. It distinguishes three ideal type of (non-violent)
civilian noncooperation, each involving different degrees of confrontation.
This typology has the advantage of allowing for the accommodation of
cases exhibiting varying degrees of organization and pursuing a multiplicity
of goals. Moreover, and perhaps more important for the analytical exercise
undertaken in this chapter, it allows for variation over time within one same
case. Also, as we argue here, even if one case can be catalogued as predomi-
nantly pertaining to one of the three types, it leaves room for an analysis of
the use of combined strategies.
The first of these types is oblique noncooperation, where civilians refuse
to cooperate with armed groups by carrying out visible actions but do so
in an indirect way, through activities that are not openly related to war
dynamics. As such, it does not imply overt defiance and allows civilians to
avoid direct interaction, let alone confrontation, with armed organiza-
tions. The second is pacted noncooperation, where action is direct and the
concrete mechanisms upon which noncooperation rests result from rap-
prochements, negotiation and dialogue between armed groups and civil-
ians. As it requires that civilians engage with armed groups and openly
express their decision to withdraw or deny cooperation, this type of non-
cooperation implies direct (and many times sustained) interaction with
4
The difference between the two understandings might come from the fact that, while
Arjona focuses on resistance against the rule of one armed actor in territories where it has
dominant control (e.g., Arjona 2015), Masullo’s work focuses on situations where multiple
armed actors are present and none exerts dominant control over the territory (see Masullo
2017). As we will see in the empirical section, the situation of Samaniego resembles more this
second scenario.
armed groups and more confrontation.5 The last one is unilateral nonco-
operation, where civilians refuse to collaborate with armed groups in a
more contentious way, rather than establishing a channel of communica-
tion to negotiate with them. In this type, civilians unilaterally declare non-
cooperation and define, design and implement the mechanisms and forms
of action. It therefore involves a higher degree of confrontation.6
This typology covers the distinction proposed by Kaplan (2017)
between covert and overt forms, but it adds a needed extra nuance. This
typology makes apparent, for example, that under the label of “overt
forms” there is variation between pacted and unilateral noncooperation,
and this variation is consequential for the outcome of noncooperation
campaigns. Previous work suggests that success hinges, at least to some
extent, on how much buy-in communities get from armed groups
(Mouly et al. 2016). As buy-in is more likely to be achieved via constant
interaction and dialogue—a feature of pacted noncooperation—commu-
nities engaged in unilateral noncooperation might have a harder time in
getting armed groups to respect their choice than those who opt for
pacted strategies.
Working with this typology not only allows for the study of a broader
manifestation of the phenomenon of noncooperation, that is, one that not
only focuses on the more sophisticated and direct expressions of noncoop-
eration, such as peace territories, it also provides rich opportunities to
explore the interaction between concepts used in different fields, studying
similar processes. For example, exploring how unilateral acts of noncoop-
eration relate and can be carried out within a largely pacted experience of
noncooperation allows us to look into how civil resistance and negotiation
can complement or hinder each other, something that has received scant
5
It might seem odd to combine the idea of “refusing to cooperate” with those of “dia-
loguing”, “negotiating” and “pacting” into one concept. In this regard, it is important to
stress that what civilians negotiate with armed groups are mechanisms and procedures to
govern their communities in a way that allows them to continue with their lives without
providing support to any armed faction. In other words, civilians pact their way out of the
armed conflict. These pacts do not involve agreeing on specific forms of civilian support. The
dialogues are premised on the non-negotiable decision to refuse to provide any form of sup-
port to any warring party. For an illustrative example of pacted mechanisms which do not
involve cooperation in another Colombian community, see Kaplan (2013) and Hernández
and Roa (in this volume).
6
For a detailed presentation of this typology and discussion of each of the types, see
Masullo (2017a).
attention both in the civil resistance and negotiation literatures (see e.g.
Finnegan and Hackley 2008; Rosen 2017; Wanis-St. John and Rosen
2017). By analysing how unilateral, pacted and oblique forms of nonco-
operation have taken form within the same case, this chapter breaks new
ground and provides new insights into nonviolent resistance strategies
against armed actors.
The variation captured by this typology is also particularly relevant as it
might be consequential not only for how wars unfold, but also for processes
that take place in the aftermath of conflict. It is reasonable to expect, for
example, that pacted forms of noncooperation have better chances to be
successful in protecting civilians in war than highly confrontational forms
that do not involve armed groups in the process, such as in unilateral non-
cooperation. Similarly, it is reasonable to expect that when it comes to
post-conflict reconstruction, the state will face different challenges and
opportunities when dealing with a community that engaged in highly con-
frontational forms of noncooperation during war, as opposed to one that
engaged in oblique ones. This is, in fact, something that the Colombian
government has already experienced when, with the aim of bringing “ter-
ritorial peace”, it has approached communities that engaged in unilateral
noncooperation in north-western areas of the country (personal commu-
nication with public officials in Apartadó and Turbo 2016).
The Case: Noncooperation in Samaniego

(1997–2017)
Samaniego is one of more than a hundred municipalities that have estab-
lished themselves as “peace territories” in Colombia. It is located in the
department of Nariño, in southwestern Colombia, near the border with
Ecuador and relatively close to the Pacific Ocean by fluvial navigation (see
Map 6.1). Due to its marginalization and geostrategic location, several
armed organizations arrived in the area. The National Liberation Army
(ELN) and the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) began
to operate in Samaniego in the late 1980s. The two guerrilla groups coex-
isted in the territory, each one exerting control in a specific area of the
municipality. While in the 1990s the FARC had superior military capacity,
during the 2000s the ELN became the dominant armed organization in
the municipality and continued to have a strong influence in the area at
the time of writing. Right-wing paramilitary groups arrived in 2000 to
fight the insurgents, but left the municipality following the demobilization
process of the United Self-Defence Forces of Colombia (AUC) in
Map 6.1 Geographic location of Samaniego. Source: Mouly et al. (2016, 131)
2005–2006. Nevertheless, this gave rise to the emergence of criminal

groups, some of which have had sporadic presence in the municipality
since then. Likewise, the FARC demobilized at the end of 2016, leaving
the ELN in control of its previous area of influence in Samaniego.
In some parts of the municipality, mainly the so-called “mountain
region”, which includes a significant portion of the rural area, insurgent
groups have had a prominent presence for more than 25 years. Yet, in
other areas, such as the urban centre, this has not been the case. Moreover,
armed actors’ presence and control over the territory has varied over time.
For example, the insurgents played an important role in civilian affairs,
even administering local justice, in the mountain region at the beginning
of the 1990s. However, this changed one decade later. The multiplicity of
armed actors present in the territory, sometimes fighting each other in
overt competition for control, and the fact that Samaniego rapidly became
a key area for coca cultivation on an important drug trafficking route to
the Pacific Ocean have added more complexity to the nature of interaction
between civilians and armed actors during this quarter of a century.
We chose this case since civilian noncooperation has been central to the
way Samaniego residents have dealt with armed groups’ presence for over
two decades, allowing us to trace its evolution over time in light of the
types discussed before. We analyse how civilian noncooperation evolved in
Samaniego over the three main periods identified above: (1) 1997–2000,
(2) 2004–2007 and (3) 2008–2017. In the next section we discuss the
declaration of the municipality as a peace territory and the diverse forms
of noncooperation that took place between 1997 and 2000. In the one
that follows, we analyse the period between 2004 and 2007 during which
municipal authorities negotiated the implementation of a local peace pact
with armed actors. In the last one, we examine the period from 2008 to
2017, in which residents from one part of the municipality used an oblique
form of noncooperation by undertaking the process of establishing their
territory as an indigenous reserve. We argue that, while pacted noncoop-
eration was the basis of noncooperation from 1997, the three forms of
noncooperation identified in our typology coexisted, complementing and
reinforcing each other in subtle but important ways.
The Beginning of Organized Noncooperation

(1997–2000)
The process of civil resistance against armed groups in Samaniego can be
traced back to 1997, when the ELN abducted Manuel Cuéllar, who was
running for Mayor and had wide popular support among the population.
Local inhabitants organized a significant march to request his release and
issued an open letter to the guerrillas asking them to refrain from interven-
ing in municipal elections by trying to impose the candidate of their choice
(Mouly et al. 2016). The guerrilla eventually released Cuéllar, who won
the November 1997 elections and assumed his new functions as Mayor in
January 1998. Shortly after, Cuéllar had the municipality declared a peace
territory in a public event in which thousands of inhabitants participated

(Diario del Sur 1998a, b). The official act, supported by the national
NGO REDEPAZ,7 involved the signing by local residents of a declaration
requesting armed actors not to interfere in civilian affairs and informing
them about their decision to not cooperate with them. This decision was,
without doubt, costly for armed groups, especially the guerrillas who con-
trolled significant portions of the territory and the populations inhabiting
them.
The ELN, nonetheless, issued a communiqué accepting the peace ter-
ritory initiative (Diario del Sur 1998b; Parra 1998; Salcedo 1998).
Evidence collected in the field indicates that dialogues with the group
regarding the establishment of a peace territory had taken place before the
unilateral declaration. In particular, a former member of the group
explained that key figures in the new administration had met with the
ELN before the official declaration and explicitly discussed the idea of a
peace territory. In that meeting, the ELN agreed to endorse the proposal
as a sign of their commitment to peace, which was an important strategic
move in that conjuncture as the rebels were seeking peace negotiations
with the national government (interview 083, January 2017). At the time,
the central government was also open to these types of local pacts (inter-
view 005, June 2014) and, therefore, the armed forces of the state also
accepted the declaration (interview 038, June 2014), even if it implied
that residents would not collaborate with the police or the army against
the guerrillas. As for the FARC, the organization did not officially endorse
the declaration and, from our evidence, it is unclear to what extent they
accepted it.
Besides these dialogues that took place before the declaration to pave
the way for the successful and safe establishment of the peace territory,
during this period (as well as subsequent ones) community leaders and the
guerrillas regularly engaged in dialogue in rebel-controlled areas of the
municipality. Through this dialogue, civilians often managed to explain
their personal situation to the guerrillas and some of them were able to
negotiate the right not to pay taxes to the insurgents or not to be sub-
jected to their summary trials (interviews 002, 037, 048, June 2014).
7
REDEPAZ had supported similar initiatives in other parts of Colombia, and in 1998 it
developed a project called “One Hundred Municipalities for Peace”, which was subsequently
funded by the European Union (Mitchell and Ramírez 2009: 245; Rojas 2007: 75).
In light of this evidence, the experience of Samaniego during this initial

period is better characterized as an instance of pacted noncooperation,
which does not preclude the use of other strategies. In fact, besides the
march demanding the release of Cuéllar and the public declaration, several
civil society-led unilateral initiatives took place during this period. These
included peace marches, sit-ins in public parks, drawing a mural with the
names of victims of the armed conflict and the use of flags and symbols
(interviews 001, 002, 003, 037, June 2014). To be sure, these were not
very confrontational in character, but they were strategic in that they
exerted pressure on the different armed groups to abide by certain norms
of behaviour and enabled civilians to gain leverage for negotiating with
these groups.
Alongside the underlying and structuring negotiation process, and the
aforementioned sporadic unilateral manifestations of dissent, the estab-
lishment of the peace territory involved other crucial activities that, even if
in an indirect way, reinforced noncooperation with armed organizations.
With the establishment of the peace territory, for example, residents
sought to put a stop to a practice common in Samaniego. For many years,
a share of the municipal funds, in one way or the other, went to the guer-
rillas, either to directly finance their struggle or in exchange for their col-
laboration with municipal works (interviews 038, 034, June 2014; 047,
October 2014; 083, January 2017). With the peace territory, the munici-
pality introduced a system of participatory budget planning. This involved
the direct participation of the population in the allocation of funds for
development works. This practice, which was central to the noncoopera-
tion campaign, was an indirect form of preventing the insurgents to
request funds for public works. Not only was this a strategy to materialize
civilians’ commitment to noncooperation in an oblique way, but also a
way to treat a contentious issue (given the importance of these funds for
the guerrillas) in a less confrontational way and one that was hard for the
rebels to oppose. As two former ELN members noted, participatory bud-
get planning was in line with the ideology embraced by the guerrillas,
which advocates for the sovereignty of the people (interviews 083, January
2017; 086, August 2017).
This combination of unilateral and oblique practices within a pacted
campaign of civilian noncooperation enabled municipal authorities to run
the local administration with little interference from non-state armed
actors, in particular the guerrillas. To a large extent this was thanks to the
organized and active involvement of (some sectors of) the local population
in decision-making processes and their commitment to not cooperate with

armed organizations. According to the municipal administration, it
“succeeded in having illegal armed groups letting [local authorities] run an
administration in the pursuit of the common interest of the community of
Samaniego without interfering in their decisions, given that all of the latter
were taken collectively” (Alcaldía de Samaniego c2000). This was a positive
outcome. However, this success soon found its limits. Other armed groups
present in the area, which were not initially included in these implicit and
explicit pacts, did not buy into the process. This was the case of the AUC,
which established a presence in the municipality at the end of Cuéllar’s
administration in 2000. The main contribution of the peace territory was
to lay the groundwork for subsequent civil resistance campaigns. Notably,
it raised awareness among civilians about their potential to shape the course
of things in spite of war and forged collective action capacities and support
networks (with REDEPAZ, for example), which, as proposed in existing
theories (Masullo 2017b), are central conditions for the emergence of
organized noncooperation campaigns. Nevertheless, as stressed by several
residents, in the long run, this experience did not yield a tangible improve-
ment of the security situation in the municipality (interviews 001, 037,
January 2014; 040, 049, May 2015).
The Consolidation of Noncooperation

Through the Local Peace Pact (2004–2007)
In 2001 the new municipal administration abandoned the peace territory
initiative, and civil resistance actions became more sporadic. However,
after a period of passivity, the civil resistance process gained new impetus
with the candidacy and eventual election of Harold Montúfar as Mayor in
2004. He put forward a local peace pact consisting of ten points, which
included civilian noncooperation with all armed actors present in the ter-
ritory (see Table 6.1). The proposal was shared with the different warring
parties and explicit efforts were made to generate buy-in. On this occa-
sion, not only the ELN, but also the paramilitaries officially endorsed the
pact in separate public communiqués.8
8
See ELN declaration at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W-HMjZUEH1s (accessed
January 29, 2018). See AUC declaration at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DTo9DFC6keI
(accessed January 29, 2018).
Table 6.1 Ten points of the local peace pact in Samaniego (2004–2007)
1. Declare neutrality, autonomy and impartiality with regards to the armed conflict
2. Demand respect for life, for civil society and for not being involved in the war
3. Build locally a social state of law with social justice
4. Not to recognize war and violence as ways to solve conflicts
5. Respect diversity of thought, cultures and beliefs
6. Support a negotiated political settlement of the armed conflict
7. Demand respect for human rights and international humanitarian law
8. Request that there shall be no obstruction to the circulation of basic goods, no
destruction of either physical infrastructure or cultural spaces
9. Request from armed groups the cessation of hostilities in cultural spaces: departmental
and national contests of musical bands, Samaniego carnival, cultural week, farmers’ sports
games, farmers’ music festival, Saint Martin’s celebrations, Samaniego’s anniversary
10. Demand respect for peace territories: schools, high schools, farmers’ house (casa
campesina), institute of culture, student residencies, town hall and municipal aqueduct
Sources: Lázaro (2010), Montúfar (2007)
Even if not immediately, the security state forces also accepted the pact.
This time they were more reluctant in doing so, in part because of the
Democratic Security Policy implemented by the central government,
which at the time rejected any civilian noncooperation campaign like the
peace territories (Mitchell and Rojas 2012; interviews P18, February
2014; 002, 003, 004, 005, June 2014; 004, May 2015).9 As for the FARC,
testimonies from both residents and former guerrillas revealed that even if
they did not officially endorse the pact, they generally complied with it in
practice (interviews 004, June 2014; 047, October 2014; 004, 066, May
2015; 048, January 2017). According to a local inhabitant involved in the
negotiations, dialogue with the insurgents and the paramilitaries served to
assuage their distrust and contributed to a significant reduction in the level
of homicides (interview 004, May 2015; see as well Lázaro (2010) and
interviews 074, 075, January 2017; 076, January 2017).
In addition to direct dialogue between local authorities and the armed
groups, the ten points of the pact were discussed in local assemblies in
various parts of the municipality. These meetings, as noted both by resi-
dents and a former ELN combatant, often counted with the covert partici-
9
See video of the High Commissioner for Peace’s speech endorsing the local peace pact
during his visit to Samaniego on December 27, 2006, at https://www.youtube.com/
watch?v=ZnlW7_5wi9s (accessed January 29, 2018).
pation of armed actors (interviews 047, October 2014; 004, May 2015).
In this way, the community knew that the armed groups were accepting
the pact and the armed groups could testify that what was pacted with
them beforehand was what the community was getting. Therefore, during
this second stage, the pacted nature of Samaniego’s noncooperation cam-
paign took form at both the community and municipal levels and involved
a larger number of stakeholders.
In general, the local peace pact impinged on armed actors’ behaviour,
with all of them showing some restraint during this period. In particular,
the pact facilitated the release of hostages, such as that of a local politi-
cian10 and two policemen (interviews 047, October 2014; 004, January
2017). Likewise, unlike in previous years, during this period none of the
armed actors interfered with cultural activities held in the municipality,
such as the festival of musical bands organized every August (Mouly and
Giménez 2017). Importantly, as part of this pacted campaign and follow-
ing the participation of Mayor Montúfar and others in peace talks in Cuba,
the ELN formally agreed to remove landmines planted in various locations
of the mountain region of the municipality (Diario del Sur 2006, 2017,
interviews 004, 066, May 2015; El Tiempo 2006).
As in the previous period, different collective actions reinforced the
pact. The repertoire of unilateral acts included marches and collective pro-
tests, as well as more symbolic actions, such as the placing of orange marks
on infrastructure to be respected by armed groups (interviews 012, 031,
037, June 2014). One illustrative example of collective protest occurred in
2004 when the FARC launched an attack against the police station situ-
ated on one side of the main square of the municipality. Immediately,
some 50 neighbours went out with white sheets, towels and flags to pro-
test against the act and put pressure on the rebels to respect point 2 of the
local peace pact—this is, respecting the life of the local population (inter-
view 048, January 2017).
Similarly, during the kidnapping of the local politician mentioned
above, people went out with T-shirts with the politician’s image printed
on them, sent letters to the guerrillas, organized radio programmes and
undertook other types of civil resistance initiatives to denounce the action
(Garrido et al. 2016; Mouly et al. 2016). According to a civilian who par-
10
See video about the release at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nBvK1IyDqvk
(accessed December 18, 2017).
ticipated in negotiations with the ELN for the release of the politician, the
commander asked the civilian delegation to stop these actions because
they undermined the insurgents’ reputation (interview 003, May 2015).
According to multiple sources, the pressure exerted by civilians through
these actions gave them leverage in the negotiations for the release of the
hostage, and was instrumental in their successful outcome (interviews
004, May 2015; 003, 012, 034, 070, January 2017). While above all the
campaign remained a clear example of pacted noncooperation, these uni-
lateral acts served to remind the different armed actors of their commit-
ment to respect the ten points of the pact.
Further, in parallel with the pact, the municipal administration once
again implemented participatory budget planning as an oblique form of
noncooperation (interviews 004, June 2014; 004, May 2015). Additionally,
the authorities hired a theatre group that went to the mountain region to
socialize the ten points of the pact and “vaccinate” guerrilla commanders
against “violence, rumour and calumny”. The campaign resulted in a
reduction of taxes (the so-called “vaccination” in colloquial language)
imposed by the guerrillas on local inhabitants at the time (interview 004,
May 2015).
Most interviewees agreed that the local peace pact represented a step
forward in relation to the 1998 declaration of peace territory and resulted
in a clearer improvement of the security situation in Samaniego. According
to various respondents, this greater effectiveness was related to the more
inclusive nature of the negotiations and pacts underlying the campaign
and the fact that the administration was open to dialogue with all armed
actors (interviews 001, 002, 003, 004, 032, June 2014; 004, 056, 057,
065, May 2015; 004, 048, January 2017), something that is coherent
with the inherent logic of pacted noncooperation (Masullo 2015, 72–78).
Nevertheless, other residents stressed that the campaign was not sustain-
able over time (interviews 003, 031, 037, 044, June 2014; 005, 040, 049,
066, May 2015; 034, 048, 074, 075, 076, January 2017). The overreli-
ance on the local authorities and the lack of ownership of the process by
many civilians were seen as problematic. In fact, proving them right, as
soon as the Mayor left office, the local peace pact crumbled and armed
violence resumed.
New Forms of Noncooperation (2008–2017)

Despite the termination of the pact, from 2008 until the time of writing
civilians have organized responses to war and engaged in a variety of strat-
egies of noncooperation, mainly led by ordinary citizens, rather than pro-
moted by municipal authorities such as in 1998–2000 and 2004–2007.
Among these strategies, one of an oblique nature, merits special attention.
Around 2008, residents of the mountain region initiated a collective
search for the best way to reduce armed violence and abuses committed by
armed actors on all sides in their territory. With the support of external
organizations, such as the UN Development Programme (UNDP), they
received training in human rights and became more knowledgeable about
the Colombian legal framework. One feature of this framework caught
their attention: the recognition of significant autonomy to indigenous
reserves. In this context, local inhabitants drafted a development plan for
the area that included as a main strategy the undertaking of a legal process
to have the territory recognized as an indigenous reserve to enable them
to elect their own authorities and have their own security forces, a so-
called “indigenous guard” (interviews 036, 046, June 2014; 036, 049,
051, 066, May 2015).
This strategy, while not framed as a refusal to cooperate with armed
groups, but instead as an effort to vindicate self-determination rights,
aimed at allowing local inhabitants to achieve more autonomy from armed
groups and limit their actions in the territory. Although the majority of
residents of the mountain region are not indigenous, they strategically
chose this option. Soon after initiating the legal process, the population
elected its self-government authorities, who together formed a council
called “cabildo”, and established their “indigenous guard”.11 Such a guard
enabled residents to legally reject the presence of the state security forces.
This, in turn, provided them with good grounds to request rebel groups
to act in reciprocity and refrain from interfering in the maintenance of
public security in the mountain region. More generally, the election of
self-government authorities allowed local people to assert their autonomy
from the state on the basis of the Colombian Constitution and from the
guerrillas on the basis of their endorsement of local forms of people’s
11
The system of cabildos (councils) was established during the colonial period to rule over
delimited indigenous territories.
sovereignty (interviews 039, June 2014; 036, May 2015). Further, it freed
local inhabitants from military conscription (interview 039, June 2014).
A process of dialogue with armed actors accompanied this oblique strat-
egy before the legal process started. According to a confidential source,
the process with the FARC was the most complicated, since the insur-
gent group put forward some conditions, such as the revision of topo-
graphic survey equipment used to delimit the reserve (interview 039,
June 2014).
Building on the experiences accumulated over years of civil resistance,
during this last period, civilians also engaged in dialogue with warring fac-
tions to achieve more autonomy and protect themselves from armed vio-
lence. Direct negotiations with the ELN took place to further demine the
ways of access to the mountain region. In 2009 in one of the villages of
this region, San Diego, after months of confinement because of landmines,
the population organized an assembly to discuss with the rebels about this
pressing issue and threatened the latter to leave the area if insurgents did
not take action to remove mines. This combined use of unilateral threat of
flight and negotiation proved effective. Shortly after the assembly, the
ELN began to remove mines (interviews 015, 036, 041, 046, June 2014;
036, 040, 049, 053, May 2015; 012, 070, January 2017). The threat to
leave the area gave civilians extra leverage in the bargaining. In effect,
should all civilians have left the village, the guerrillas would have no longer
had people to collect coca cultivation taxes from and would not have been
protected in case of an army offensive (Garrido et al. 2016, 162; inter-
views 036, May 2015; 048, 080, January 2017). In relation to this latter
point, it is important to stress that civilians can indirectly contribute to
rebels’ protection by just inhabiting the areas where armed groups oper-
ate. This entails no collaboration per se, which would go against the core
of noncooperation. By operating in areas populated by civilians, insur-
gents avoid indiscriminate attacks by the army, which could cause harm to
civilians, violate international humanitarian law and thereby generate
public outcry (Mouly et al. 2016).
In addition, through dialogue, civilians were able to make the guerrillas
understand that they were to benefit from demining the area themselves.
Doing it themselves rather than external actors, such as the Organization of
American States (OAS) or, even worse, the army, was in the rebels’ interests
for two reasons. First, they would be seen under a good light, and, second,
if they were more effective than outside actors, they would prove their indis-
pensability to tackle the issue. Effectively, the initiative resulted in the
removal of a significant number of mines, in sharp contrast with earlier ini-

tiatives by the OAS and the army, showing the ELN in good light and
underscoring the need to involve them to find a durable solution (interviews
003, June 2014; 048, January 2017). This dialogue concerning landmines
paved the way for extending the negotiations between community leaders
and the ELN in other realms that concerned the civilian population, for
instance child recruitment. The insurgents even agreed to have community
leaders to be in constant touch with them via cell phones. Community lead-
ers engaged in similar dialogues with the FARC and the state armed forces
to ask them to respect civilians (interview 036, June 2014).
When peace negotiations with the FARC began, local peasant organi-
zations negotiated an agreement with FARC commanders to demine the
areas controlled by the group in the municipality. Likewise, the same orga-
nizations contacted one former ELN commander, now in charge of pro-
moting peace, to negotiate a similar agreement with the ELN when the
government undertook peace negotiations with this second guerrilla
group (Verdad abierta 2017). These latter efforts culminated in February
2017, when the population of the mountain region, its self-government
authorities and municipal ones, together with neighbouring communities,
reactivated the local peace pact and presented it to the government and
the ELN during their first round of peace talks (see Table 6.2).12 Both
peace delegations immediately welcomed the announcement and agreed
on discussing the demining of the area as part of point 5f of the peace
negotiation agenda, which refers to humanitarian dynamics and actions.13
Further, in July 2017 an ELN spokesperson announced that they had
chosen Samaniego and the neighbouring municipality of Santacruz to ini-
tiate their demining activities under the framework of ongoing peace talks
(Diario del Sur 2017).
At the same time, unilateral manifestations of dissent continued, mainly
against armed actors’ abuses. For example, in 2013, a group of teachers
who were forced by the ELN to pay taxes and threatened with death in
case of noncompliance organized a large march to protest against this
12
Declaration of Samaniego adopted by Nariño communities, municipalities of Samaniego
and Santacruz, Sande, Guachavez and Mountain region indigenous reserves, and Minga por
la Paz de Nariño on 26 February 2017.
13
See the declaration of the government at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUPgAiFlvx8
(accessed January 29, 2018). See the ELN declaration at https://www.youtube.com/
watch?v=JkDVZE2cgjU (accessed January 29, 2018).
Table 6.2 Eight points of the Declaration of Samaniego (2017)
1. Peace is a duty of the state and a right of society to which we will not renounce,
understanding by peace not only the end of armed conflict but the full enjoyment of
human rights and dignity. That is why we decided to reactivate our local peace pact as a
space for territorial construction of peace and social fabric.
2. Our social capital for peace focuses on the following experiences: the humanitarian
demining of Sande, Chinchal and the mountain region; “durable peace” for Santacruz;
the Intiquilla project; the food-growing agricultural territories and the educational
space for peace and good living.
3. Our proposal for humanitarian demining implies, among other things, the readiness of
society to assume here and now tasks to lessen the damage left by the war, as well as
the conviction that preparing the stage for peace is also our responsibility. The
messages of support for our initiative by both the ELN and the Colombian
government strengthen our willingness to move forward in concrete humanitarian
actions in favour of the civilian population.
4. The humanitarian issue is not a negotiable matter at the negotiation table, but a
political and legal commitment of the conflict parties towards the country. The
humanitarian minimum is the unnegotiable respect for the civil population, in
accordance with international humanitarian law. Therefore, we ask the warring parties,
equally, to make a commitment, in practice and not only in words, to respect such
norms and principles without restriction. And we hope that these measures will lead to
a bilateral truce.
5. Our pact and our minga require monitoring and accompaniment for both to achieve
their objectives and to preserve their integrity. In these times of systematic violence
against activists, the viability of our peace proposal and other similar proposals depends
on effective protection against violence from paramilitary groups and other criminal
groups. That is the reason why we appreciate the current presence of national and
international accompaniment.
6. We follow the spirit of the Government-ELN agenda, especially in relation with the
participation of society in peacebuilding, the materialization of the democracy and the
formulation of necessary transformations. We believe in a participation based on
horizontal dialogue, with due recognition to the regions and against centralism. We put
forward our experience in peacebuilding, which, together with other similar experiences,
already constitute achievements in terms of participation from local territories.
Source: Declaración de Samaniego (2017)
practice (interviews 027, June 2014; 003, 048, January 2017). Additionally,
they publicly denounced the facts on the radio, emphasizing the contra-
diction between the ELN’s code of conduct and their actions in practice.
In doing so, they made use of rhetorical traps, a tactic that has been theo-
rized as having strong power to shape armed groups’ behaviour vis-à-vis
civilians (Kaplan 2017). Interestingly, this unilateral action prompted a
dialogue between teachers and the guerrillas, which eventually led to a
reduction of abuses (interview 048, January 2017). In a similar vein, fol-

lowing the insurgents’ assassination of an unarmed member of the
Colombian army, who was working in the maintenance of a road in
Samaniego in December 2014, many civilians marched to denounce the
killing (interviews 012, 048, 070, January 2017).
This more recent period therefore combined once again the use of the
three strategies of noncooperation. Notably, civilians used the Colombian
legal framework and the principles advocated by the guerrillas to assert
their autonomy by seeking the recognition of most of the mountain region
as an indigenous reserve. They also continued the practice of civil resis-
tance together with negotiation with some effectiveness. In addition, they
organized unilateral acts of noncooperation, sometimes in alternation
with negotiation, to gain “normative leverage” and persuade opponents
to act according to certain norms of behaviour consistent with their iden-
tity, values or commitments (Wanis-St. John and Rosen 2017, 10).
Conclusions
The literature on civil war and civil resistance (and more generally, conten-
tious politics) have stimulated a deeper recognition of civilian agency in
the context of armed conflict in recent years. Using some of the concep-
tual foundations that this scholarship offers, in particular the concept of
noncooperation, we presented a more thorough understanding of the sig-
nificant efforts made by the residents of the Colombian municipality of
Samaniego to navigate war over the last two decades. Samaniego dwellers
refused to cooperate with all warring parties both to counter the armed
violence that directly affected the community and to retain autonomy in
dealing with municipal affairs, such as administering the budget. These
efforts transformed residents’ lives in substantial ways and made residents
consequential agents of social and political change.
The within-case analysis offered in this chapter, in turn, contributed to
the refinement of the conceptual foundations used to make sense of these
social processes. For example, the experience of Samaniego shows that,
even if from a cross-case perspective, a given case can be accurately labelled
as an instance of one type of noncooperation, civilians can engage in activi-
ties akin to the others types of noncooperation, further reinforcing the
campaign. The three categories should therefore not be thought as fixed
over time, not even as mutually exclusive, when it comes to concrete
actions taken as part of a broader campaign.
In Samaniego, the main form of noncooperation has been of a pacted

nature, as civilians sustained dialogues with armed actors throughout the
process. These dialogues, which in no way meant to give in to armed
groups’ interests, were key for ensuring armed groups’ respect of their
decision to stay put in their territory without taking any sides. While the
stability and strength of these pacts varied over time, they yielded impor-
tant concrete results, such as the demining of the access routes to hamlets
in the mountain region and the release of hostages. Moreover, available
data show that there was a reduction of armed violence in the municipality
during the local peace pact, suggesting that such pacts can reduce the pos-
sibility of violent reprisals against the population and effectively protect
the population from violence. To be sure, more sophisticated tests are due
in order to assess whether these reductions do stem from civilian orga-
nized efforts (see e.g. Kaplan (2013) for tests in another Colombian
locality).
Our within-case analysis also shows that the population complemented
this pacted campaign with oblique tactics, such as participatory budget
planning, as well as unilateral actions, such as collective protests and
marches. Interestingly, unilateral actions were often instrumental in gen-
erating the conditions for civilians to effectively enter into a dialogue with
armed groups and gain leverage in the negotiations that ensued. They also
served to remind armed actors of commitments agreed upon. At the same
time, oblique actions were helpful to tackle more sensitive issues in those
domains where noncooperation entailed more significant costs for armed
groups and hence unilateral actions would have been considered too con-
frontational and negotiations would have been harder to undertake.
When, by opposing a particular issue, citizens were at risk of physical
attacks, carrying out oblique actions enabled people to resist while pro-
tecting themselves.
By revealing how these diverse strategies can complement and reinforce
each other, this chapter not only improves our scholarly understanding of
civilian noncooperation but also provides useful insights for the many
communities in Colombia and beyond that are struggling to limit the
abuses of armed actors and achieve more autonomy from them. The
detailed analysis of such experiences of noncooperation is also important
since they can offer lessons about how to build peace at the local level in
war-affected communities whose almost sole option has been to refuse to
take sides and run their own affairs. Samaniego is a stellar example in this
regard: in the context of the peace negotiations between the Colombian
government and the ELN that commenced in 2017, residents from the
municipality were invited to express their voice and offered concrete pro-
posals on how to deal with key challenges for peacebuilding (such as
demining).
Acknowledgements We thank our interviewees for sharing with us many valuable

insights and are grateful for the generous support provided by FLACSO Ecuador
for the three research projects that allowed us to collect our data for this chapter.
We presented a previous version of this chapter at the 2018 Annual Convention of
the International Studies Association (ISA) in San Francisco and the 2018
FLACSO-ISA Conference in Quito. We thank participants and, in particular, our
discussants Sebastián Bitar, Oliver Kaplan and Pedro Valenzuela, for useful
comments.
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CHAPTER 7
Civil Resistance and Peacebuilding:

The Experience of the Peasant Worker
Association of the Carare River
and Claudia Patricia Roa Mendoza
This chapter analyses the experience of civil resistance of the Peasant

Worker Association of the Carare River (ATCC) and its relationship with
peacebuilding. Few authors have explored the relationship between these
two concepts. One exception is Véronique Dudouet (2012), who affirms
their complementarity. However, since the beginning of this century,
some scholars have recognized the contributions of the ATCC to peace-
This chapter is the product of a research project in the field of peace research,
entitled “Latin American contributions to peacebuilding: Experiences of civil
resistance in contexts of violent conflict in Brazil, Colombia and Mexico”,
supported by the Office for Research and Transfer (VRITT) of the University of
La Salle. It was developed within the framework of the cross-cutting
commitment to peace, peacebuilding and reconciliation of the Doctoral
E. Hernández Delgado (*) • C. P. Roa Mendoza

e-mail: eehernandez@unisalle.edu.co; claroa@unisalle.edu.co

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-05033-7_7
138 E. HERNÁNDEZ DELGADO AND C. P. ROA MENDOZA
building (Hernández 2004, 2012; Lederach 2008; Valenzuela 2008). In

many ways, the development, methods and outcomes of the nonviolent
struggle of the ATCC show the complementary relationship between civil
resistance and peacebuilding (Hernández 2004, 2012; Valenzuela 2008).
The study of the ATCC and its civil resistance practice reveals other
realities of Colombia, which are either unknown or insufficiently known:
the country cannot be reduced to its multiple and recurrent manifesta-
tions of violence; it is also home to valuable peacebuilding processes, such
as the ATCC. Sometimes these peacebuilding processes stem from experi-
ences of civil resistance, punctuated and revitalized by communities
trapped in the crossfire between warring parties in the midst of the inter-
nal armed conflict (Hernández 2004, 2012; Valenzuela 2008; Kaplan
2013, 2017).
There have been academic publications about the ATCC since the
1990s. Some of them have been written by social scientists, such as Sanz
(1992) and García (1996), and others by actors involved in the process,
such as Jaramillo (1992). But this farmer experience has been approached
from the perspective of peace research only since the beginning of this
century (Hernández 2004). Some studies have identified it as a peace pro-
cess (Sanz 1992), while others have collected and documented it as an
experience of civil resistance against all the armed actors involved in the
Colombian armed conflict and armed violence more generally (Hernández
2004, 2012; Kaplan 2013, 2017). In addition, some studies have analysed
it from the theory of neutrality (Valenzuela 2008) or as an exercise of his-
torical memory (CNRR-Grupo Memoria Histórica 2011). Still others
have focused on the ATCC’s practice of mediation and intermediation in
the Colombian armed conflict (Hernández 2012), while some have iden-
tified it as pacifist empowerment (Hernández 2017).
The ATCC represents a genuine process of nonviolent struggle, one
that is rooted in its rural background, as it originated from farmers, and it
has been a pioneering experience of civil resistance and peacebuilding
Programme in Education and Society of University of La Salle, and is linked to

the Research Group in Education and Society of that doctoral programme and
the Research Group on Social Work, Equity and Social Justice of the Social Work
Programme of the Faculty of Economic and Social Sciences of the University of
La Salle. In addition, it was carried out in partnership with Facultad
Latinoamericana de Ciencias Sociales (FLACSO), Ecuador.
CIVIL RESISTANCE AND PEACEBUILDING: THE EXPERIENCE… 139
among communities of farmers in Colombia (Hernández 2004, 2012). It

has also been successful, considering its achievements during its 30 years
of existence. It has obtained regional, national and international recogni-
tion, and was awarded the Alternative Nobel Peace Prize in October 1990.
In this chapter, we argue that the ATCC is a peacebuilding experience
based on an exercise of civil resistance in a context of internal armed con-
flict, and it is a case that shows the close relationship between the academic
concepts of civil resistance and peacebuilding, and social practices. In
order to develop this argument, we draw on the theories of both civil
resistance and peacebuilding, as well as on findings from previous studies
and original research conducted by the authors. We also use practical
insights provided by ATCC representatives. In so doing, we attempt to
answer the following questions: How are civil resistance and peacebuild-
ing intertwined in the experience of the ATCC? How does the ATCC
represent a peacebuilding experience?
Applicable Concepts of Civil Resistance

Civil resistance has been relevant to the history of the ATCC. It has been
at the origin of the association as a farmer organization and, in turn, has
characterized it and invigorated it. It has also had an essentially defensive
character. It has been exercised against the violence caused by the internal
armed conflict and all its armed actors, and it has been at the origin of the
ATCC’s peacebuilding experience (Hernández 2012).
It is pertinent to ask which concept of civil resistance applies to the case
of the ATCC. Data collected between 2002 and 2004 on this nonviolent
farmer experience of civil resistance unravelled that those who generated
and put it in motion had not yet conceptualized their modality of collec-
tive nonviolent struggle, and that they did not know what civil resistance
was or that they were using such an approach (Hernández 2004). In the
words of one ATCC leader,
Nobody has trained us. Now we go to some universities, and we learn and
listen. Before, we talked but we did not put a name on things, and today we
begin to learn what dialogue is, what civil resistance is, because we used to
think that what we did was fight for life, respect that enemy. We know what
mediation, intermediation is. We did not understand before. Scholars have
taught us that. But the experience, the desire to survive, to be calm, to stay
in the territory makes all those things flourish in us. We have learned to
understand what each thing we do is called within the academy, with the
development programme and its workshops. (Interview with Cristina Serna,
December 2016)
The nonviolent struggle of the ATCC can be characterized as an expe-

rience of civil resistance for self-defence, and its use of nonviolence as
pragmatic or strategic. This approach does not go against the association’s
practice of dialogue and reconciliation, which may involve some abidance
with nonviolence by principle. A female member of the ATCC recounted
how the organization came into being:
The ATCC was created 30 years ago. At the time a group of farmers, male
and female leaders, led the process. Now it is 30 years since we have stayed
in the territory fighting for the right to live, always struggling for us to live,
to move forward, to work in order to live in this territory […]. In our pro-
cess, we said “we do not want to continue to be involved in the war”, “we
do not want any more deaths”, “all farmers are united”. In 1987, 2,000
farmers attended the last meeting that took place with the fronts 11 and 23
of FARC [the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia]. It was very
difficult at the time because we were men and women telling the FARC
“well, we have to sit down and see because we are not going to suffer any
more deaths”. At the same time, we knew that we did not want to belong to
any [armed] group. We were the surest about that. (Interview with Cristina
Serna, December 2016)
Another member likewise expressed the following:
Through its 30 years of work for peace, forgiveness and nonviolence, the
ATCC has generated a collective awareness among many people that we are
going to live without resentment because, otherwise, we are going to con-
tinue to generate violence. Let’s say that people have assumed that role of
living with others in spite of the past. (Interview with Luis Fernando Serna,
December 2016)
Civil Resistance as Defence

Civil resistance is better known in its political dimension, mainly as a col-
lective opposition to dictatorial or authoritarian regimes. It is less known
as a form of defence, owing to its recent character. This form of resistance
became more visible during the Second World War, the Cold War, the
nuclear threat and the anti-nuclear movements (Randle 1998). Adam
Roberts conceptualized it in the mid-1960s (Roberts 1967; Randle 1998).

In this dimension, civil resistance can be understood as “a prepared system
of national defence based on nonviolent forms of action and/or the actual
deployment of such means against foreign invasion or occupation, coups
d’état, or other forms of attack on the independence and integrity of a
society” (Randle 1998: 144). It can materialize into: (1) a national defence
system adopted by a country (Wright et al. 1962; Roberts 1964; Randle
1998; Drago 2008), (2) processes generated by populations that have
been the object of an occupation or foreign invasion (Sharp 2005; Randle
1998) or (3) processes generated by communities that bear the impact of
armed conflict, such as in Colombia, including the case of the ATCC
(Hernández and Salazar 1999; Hernández 2004, 2017).
This form of resistance essentially requires (1) the prior existence of an
aggression or threat, (2) the need for defence, (3) the use of non-armed,
nonviolent and/or non-military mechanisms (Petra 1997; Randle 1998;
Hernández 2004, 2013, 2017) and (4) planning or organization (Roberts
1967, 1972). From the logics of violence, this civil resistance can be con-
sidered as utopian. Nonetheless, peace history and peace research demon-
strate the contrary by documenting manifold experiences of such resistance
with significant and verifiable achievements (Hernández 2004, 2017;
Dudouet 2012).
Further, this form of resistance does not ignore the reality of war, nor
the conflicts, nor the offensive capacity of armed actors. It opposes them
by nonviolent means, which in no case amount to defencelessness, because
they represent a powerful weapon which can delegitimize the adversary
and thus redress power asymmetries (Petra 1997; Parker 1850). From this
perspective, in this chapter we adopt the concept of civil resistance as civil
defence put forward by Drago:
This problem of overcoming wars is the top political problem of the current
historic moment of humanity […] a desirable civil defence to get out of
modern war […]. In the contemporary era and, especially in the twentieth
century, the war has failed to distinguish between civilians and combatants;
borders are unclear […]. Civil defence as a paradigm shift […] for example,
the new paradigm can be found in Gandhi’s proposal; it is about changing a
whole mentality to the point that the communities perceive reality from a
new point of view: that of nonviolence, which is incompatible with the pre-
vious one, that of destruction of the adversary. (Drago 2008: 111–119)
Pragmatic or Strategic Civil Resistance

Sharp is considered to be the main theorist of the pragmatic or strategic
approach to civil resistance (Dudouet 2012). This approach originates
from the rational and pragmatic decision to exercise nonviolence, which is
supported by three key factors. The first one is the need to use more effi-
cient and less expensive means (Ackerman and Kruegler 1994). The sec-
ond is opportunity, which means that resisters do not have any better
alternative than nonviolent struggle. The third is convenience, insofar as
military or armed struggle would not be viable (Dudouet 2012). From a
pragmatic perspective, those who resist are not guided by religious or
moral principles. Hence, they do not aspire to transform their opponents,
persuading them that they are wrong or unfair, as they would do if they
were guided by nonviolence as a principle. Those who use pragmatic resis-
tance seek to transform reality by achieving their goals, that is, by having
their position prevail over that of their opponents (Boserup and Mack
1974). Similarly, this exercise of civil resistance requires intelligent strate-
gies and tactics, as well as discipline, courage and commitment on behalf
of those who resist (Weber 2001).
Context
The ATCC is located in the “Magdalena Medio” region in the Colombian
department of Santander. Its area of influence has a territorial extension of
approximately 940 km2. It comprises a village (corregimiento) and 33
hamlets, which span across six municipalities1 and are all located near or
on the banks of a river called Carare or Minero (Hernández 2004, 2012).
This area was not populated until late. The first settlers arrived between
mid-1950s and 1960s, in a process of spontaneous colonization. For this
reason, the inhabitants of this territory are diverse, consisting of Afro-
descendants from the department of Chocó and Mestizos from various
other parts of Colombia. At present, the local population is estimated at
12,000 people. Four churches (Catholic, Adventist, Pentecostal and
Evangelical) are present in the area. But, neither skin colour nor religious
belief has generated any type of conflict (Hernández 2004, 2012).
1
These are Cimitarra, Landázuri, Peñón, Bolívar, Sucre and La Belleza.
The context of violence was a determining factor in the origin and evo-
lution of the civil resistance process of the ATCC. This context was mainly
marked by the internal armed conflict, which affected this territory from
the mid-1970s, as well as by structural factors, such as poverty and exclu-
sion. This conflict had a profound impact on local farmers and became the
direct cause of civil resistance as well as its main object (Hernández 2004,
2012). In the following section, we delve into this.
The Generating Causes

The violence caused by the internal armed conflict and the degradation of
the actions of all warring parties led local farmers to engage in a process of
civil resistance and establish the ATCC. Both made local farmers realize the
imperative need to protect life, territory, their permanence in it and the
rights to work and to peace, as stated in their slogan (García 1996; Hernández
2004; Valenzuela 2008). This also contributed to the development of the
peaceful transforming power of those who set in motion this form of resis-
tance and of their ability to resist and make peace (Hernández 2017).
The Colombian armed conflict began to affect the area of influence of
the ATCC in the 1960s, following the incursion of insurgent groups. The
Ejército de Liberación Nacional (ELN) first arrived in this territory but
did not stay. Then, in 1966, a small group of insurgents of the Fuerzas
Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (FARC) arrived and later achieved
an important consolidation there. In its second conference, the FARC
undertook to establish fronts in areas of colonization without the presence
of the government. Thus, on the appointed date, 30 guerrillas com-
manded by Jaime Guaracas arrived in Cimitarra and, ten years later, their
foothold in the Carare was composed of 500 insurgents who were part of
the fronts 11 and 23. During that period, the guerrilla indoctrinated local
farmers, who overall welcomed it.
However, once consolidated, the guerrillas began to exercise social,
political and military control over the farmers, generating fear and alien-
ation. Some dissidents also started collaborating with the Colombian
armed forces and then became paramilitary commanders, such as
Hermógenes Mosquera, known as “el mojao”, and Luis Eduardo Ramírez,
identified as “el zarco”. Henceforth, the guerrillas initiated extortion
activities, kidnappings, expropriations of land and recruitment of farmers’
children into their ranks (García 1996; Hernández 2004: 317, 318; inter-
views with Cristina Serna and Braulio Mosquera, December 2016).
The presence of the army in the Carare river area had been sporadic. It
became more permanent, when the guerrillas strengthened their presence
in the area, as did counterinsurgency efforts. From 1975, the army applied
the strategy of “removing the water from the fish”, which put pressure on
the civilian population, considered to be the support base of the insur-
gents. At the same time, by 1977, the urban centres and the countryside
became militarized. The restriction of mobility of the farmer population
through the imposition of “free transit”,2 the restriction of food circula-
tion, human rights violations and torture became institutionalized (García
1996; Hernández 2004; CNRR-Grupo Memoria Histórica 2011).
The paramilitaries arrived in the area in 1982. This was specifically the
case of the group known as Muerte a Secuestradores (MAS).3 Their pres-
ence further complicated the situation and led to an escalation of the
armed conflict. The involvement of the paramilitaries resulted from coun-
terinsurgency policies and the cycle of hatred that produces and repro-
duces violence, fuelled by shifts of allegiance from former collaborators of
the insurgents, who went on to become paramilitary commanders. It was
also a response from cattle ranchers to the actions of the guerrillas and the
perception of the political growth of the leftwing party Unión Patriótica as
a threat (García 1996; Hernández 2004; CNRR-Grupo Memoria Histórica
2011). The paramilitaries imposed terror and perpetrated massacres, and
acted in this area with the active or passive collaboration of the army:
At that time, the Carare River often lost its condition and became a silent
witness of barbarism, the repository of mutilated and lifeless bodies, and it
stopped transporting boats, agricultural products and wood, to drag
cadavers, sometimes up to 15 in one day, that could not be picked up. That
cemented fear, gave an account of the horror. (Hernández 2004)
2
This document issued by the army authorized transit through the region and had an
expiration date. Local farmers had a very short time to make it permanent. According to
them, such a process was often the gateway to torture or disappearance (García 1996;
Hernández 2004; CNRR-Grupo Memoria Histórica 2011).
3
This paramilitary group arose from an alliance between cattle ranchers, members of the
state security forces and local politicians, who felt affected by the actions of the insurgents
and by the political achievements of the Unión Patriótica, which was growing politically in
this area. Other paramilitary groups present in the area included La Mano Negra, Los
Tiznados and the Autodefensas del Magdalena Medio.
These factors favoured their rapid growth and expansion in the Carare
river area. Some studies indicate that, while in 1982 the paramilitaries had
100 armed and trained men, in 1987 they counted approximately 2000
men in their ranks (García 1966; Hernández 2004).
In this context, warring parties regulated the life, relationships and the
daily activities of the civilian population. Fear, pain and silence had settled
in local inhabitants’ lives. Thus, the expression of the internal armed con-
flict, its escalation, the generalized and degraded impact on the civilian
population and the ultimatum, already explained, which offered them
alternatives immersed in violence, led the farmers to initiate a process of
nonviolent resistance. It was their response to the extreme need to protect
life, the territory, their right to stay in it and fundamental rights such as
those to work and to peace. One farmer explained:
Given the voracity of the armed groups in the region, their strategies, the
abandonment of the State, the multiple problems of one nature or the other,
transportation, improvement of roads, of so many things, there is a moment
when people get tired. With free transit, a few times we tried to go to
Cimitarra and visit the [army] battalion, throw that free transit on the table
and say “No more! No more!” […] the harassment of the guerrillas and
later the harassment of the paramilitary groups that were born in the
Magdalena Medio—well, little by little, the time came for us to rise up,
because that is one of the characteristics of human being—endure, endure,
endure until you can’t endure anymore and you revolt. We could not bear
that much load anymore, and between one comment and the other from
each one of the settlers, without wanting to and without thinking about
being main characters of the history of the region, a collective feeling that
we had to oppose this barbarism arose. (Interviews with Jorge Suárez, 2010)
An ATCC leader also recalled:
To delve further into history, when three, four, five corpses a day floated
down the Carare / Minero River, things were bad but calm. When there
were more than 500 widows in the region, that was too much. And due to
the territorial dispute due to some interests that we all know were here […].
The reality is that this is a community that conquered the territory and
peace was maintained. That makes them (the armed groups) lose that
strength because it just does not make sense that Julio kills my mother and
that I have to remain friend with Julio. (Interview with Braulio Mosquera,
December 2016)
The Exercise of Civil Resistance in the Midst

of Armed Conflict
ATCC leaders and communities have attached much importance to spiri-

tuality and recognize it as a prevalent factor in their process of civil resis-
tance. It has essentially oriented the ATCC and given it strength (interviews
with Ramón Córdoba and Simón Palacios, December 2016). This does
not contradict the pragmatic or strategic nature of the nonviolent resis-
tance process, since this process found its origin in needs, convenience
and opportunities. Two key moments evidence that the association is
engaged in nonviolent resistance for pragmatic reasons. The first one is
when local leaders decided to resist an ultimatum imposed by the army,
and the second one is after the murder of the founding leaders. This is also
reflected in the planning of the actions of the ATCC and of each dialogue
with armed actors.
As for the first moment, it is necessary to point out that farmers from
the Carare river area had endured two periods of escalation of the armed
conflict, to which we will refer in more detail in the following section. The
first occurred between 1975 and 1982, when the army and the FARC
fought for territorial control. The second one occurred from 1982 to
1988 and was the product of a more complex scenario, as the army and
the paramilitaries fought against the insurgents (Hernández 2004).
However, in practice, these armed actors often did not clash with one
other, but placed the local farmer population in the middle of the crossfire,
turning civilians into military objectives (García 1996; Hernández 2004,
2012; Valenzuela 2008). This dynamic of the armed conflict and the
actions of warring parties were characterized by cruelty and a growing
contempt for human life, and significantly impacted the farmer popula-
tion. It instilled fear in local people and resulted in the establishment of
the so-called law of silence.4
In February 1987, a captain of the army, in the presence of paramilitary
commanders and of the community assembled in the village of La India,
gave an ultimatum to local farmers. They would have ten days to decide
4
Local farmers have used the expression “the law of silence” to refer to the need to keep
quiet about what they saw as a mechanism to save their lives. For example, if the corpses of
people killed by armed actors got stuck in their locality, they could not pick them up and had
to have them follow their course, lest the farmers became a military objective.
between four alternatives, all associated with violence: to join the guerril-
las, to join the paramilitaries, to flee or to stay and die (García 1996;
Hernández 2004: 328; Valenzuela 2008: 123). Despite the limitations
imposed by this modality of violence and by the restrictions imposed by
the military authority that forbade meetings of more than three people,
local farmers looked for ways to meet and discuss how to respond to the
ultimatum. They contemplated various alternatives, from arming them-
selves to fleeing. Eventually they made the pragmatic and strategic deci-
sion to stay and resist, letting all the warring parties know that, as civilians,
they had the right not to be involved in the armed confrontation
(Hernández 2004: 329). Thus, they chose to protect their lives and remain
in the territory they had colonized and in which they had worked all their
lives. This decision and the deliberation that preceded it evidence the
pragmatic or strategic nature of this civil resistance process:
During those ten days, the idea arose of saying: we must do something,
because this is not over. We won’t side with the guerrillas, the army, or the
paramilitaries, and we won’t flee. We are going to stay here […] Josué
arrived that Sunday afternoon, and Héctor Piñerez invited him over to talk
so they could think of something. (Interview with Florencio Morrillo Parra,
cited in Hernández 2004: 329)
Likewise, another ATCC member stated:
No one was going to get armed because that was not the people’s job.
Farmers know how to manage their land; they know how to handle an axe
or a chainsaw, but not a rifle. Joining an armed group was not an option
either because that is not the way to do it. Given the situation, one of the
choices was to leave the region, which is very productive, very rich and very
attractive, and die. Then we said we would work something out so that we
didn’t have to choose any of the four alternatives suggested. Then, people
started deliberating in small groups […]. They looked for alternatives and
the only thing they decided was: all we need to do is confront the armed
groups, the guerrilla, the army, the paramilitaries, but without weapons. We
are not going to join any armed group. We are going to claim our rights. We
are not going to arm ourselves. We are not going to leave. We are not going
to die. (Interview with Norberto Viana Carrasquilla, cited in Hernández
2004: 330)
As for the second moment, the murder of the ATCC’s founding leaders
on 26 February 19905 constituted a time of crisis for the organization.
From its constitution in 1987 until the date of the assassination, the
ATCC’s process of civil resistance had reached significant achievements.
These achievements included agreements with the FARC, the reduction
of the intensity of armed violence, the overcoming of fear and the law of
silence, and the perfectible development of peacebuilding capacities, such
as self-confidence and the power of the community to interact with armed
actors and to foster change, among others. At the same time, as the auton-
omy of the farmer community grew, the power of warring parties declined
(Hernández 2004).
After the murder of its leaders, the ATCC immediately summoned a
general assembly in which its members deliberated on what decision to
adopt. Based on their own feelings of pain and rage, some considered a
violent response, and the insurgency offered them armed support.
However, other voices called for sanity and suggested that they maintain
the ATCC’s nonviolent approach in memory of the murdered leaders.
The final decision was pragmatic and strategic, and was the most conve-
nient. The assembly decided to give continuity to the farmer organization
and its exercise of civil resistance, to recover the legacy of the fallen lead-
ers, to appoint a new steering committee and not to denounce those
responsible for the murder in order not to reduce the possibilities of dia-
logue with the actors armed. Local farmers knew that this murder would
not go unpunished (Hernández 2004).
As for the methods, the rigorous planning of each of the steps to be
taken, especially of the interlocutions with the armed actors, reflects the
pragmatic and strategic resistance of the ATCC. The association identified
people or families close to the armed actors to facilitate contact and
communication with these actors. They enquired about the personality
and characteristics of the commanders with whom they were going to talk,
and they prepared how they would intervene during dialogues with these
groups (Hernández 2012).
5
The victims included Josué Vargas, leader recognized by his community as an intelligent
and direct man, who at the time was serving as president of the ATCC; Saúl Castañeda,
secretary of the steering committee of the association; and Miguel Barajas, technical director
of this organization. Journalist Silvia Duzán was also murdered.
The Methods
The farmers who founded the ATCC studied neither Gandhi nor Mandela.
They knew neither the theory of nonviolence nor the theoretical approaches
to peace. However, from their own wisdom, their experience and the
pressing needs imposed on them by the impact of the armed conflict, they
organized themselves and engaged in civil resistance. Over the course of
their process of civil resistance, they have applied methods that can be
found in Sharp’s (2005) typology. They combined these methods with
others that fall within the scope of conflict resolution and transformation:
A key overall strategy was neutrality vis-à-vis all the armed actors. It was
fundamental for the exercise of civil resistance and for its achievements
(Valenzuela 2008). The methods of the ATCC mentioned in Sharp’s
typology (2005) included various methods of political noncooperation.
The use of these methods allowed ATCC members to break the logics of
armed confrontation, empower themselves and their communities in rela-
tion to armed actors and begin the process of transforming their reality
immersed in violence. This led to the noncooperation of individuals and
the community as a whole with all warring parties, after warning these
parties to no longer count on civilians for war. They also included meth-
ods of protest and nonviolent persuasion, such as public speeches in the
presence of these actors and communities, statements in the media, pro-
test assemblies and marches by the river, which managed to gather an
estimated 2000 to 5000 people.
The decision of the ATCC not to participate in the war and organize to
exercise its civil resistance was complemented with methods of conflict
transformation. In an intelligent way, the ATCC farmers identified the
advantages offered by the combination of methods and the complemen-
tarity between them. Thus, negotiation and mediation helped civil resis-
tance actions to be more effective. In turn, civil resistance exerted pressure
on opponents, opening spaces for negotiation and mediation (Hernández
2012, 2013).
The farmers used negotiation with all the armed actors. Through nego-
tiation they reached significant agreements, some of which were signed.
The protection of these agreements became the main task of the ATCC in
its 30 years of existence. The association engaged in negotiation fully con-
vinced of its power and its ability to negotiate as equals with the warring
parties. This power stemmed from the support of the communities, their
capacity for dialogue and their spirituality. Surely, this conviction was
important during negotiation (Hernández 2012). The warring parties

accepted the agreements with the ATCC for various reasons, including
protection of their prestige and image, the pressure exerted by the farm-
ers’ civil resistance, and avoiding antagonizing the civilian population and
risking that the latter support their adversaries.
Local farmers also used mediation. Before the creation of the ATCC,
the local population used to call on armed actors to resolve all kinds of
conflicts. Afterwards, the leaders of this farmer organization started to
mediate between the parties to help them resolve their conflicts. Thus,
they intervened in family conflicts, neighbourhood conflicts, community
conflicts and in the internal armed conflict, playing the role of what
Lederach (2008) referred to as insider partial mediator or trust mediator.
Through mediation, the ATCC leaders became involved in efforts to solve
conflicts between armed actors and farmer communities as third parties.
This contributed to saving many lives and protecting other vital needs,
such as autonomy, territory and the right to peace (Hernández 2012).
Civil Resistance and Peacebuilding

Some scholars have identified differences and similarities between civil
resistance and peacebuilding. They have pointed out that civil resis-
tance can be exercised to address both structural and direct violence
(Dudouet 2012). This form of resistance places emphasis on active and
conscious opposition, it is appropriate when power relations are asym-
metric and it is defined as direct action since its exercise alters public
order and established orders (Sharp 1973). Scholars emphasize that
conflict resolution applies more to direct violence, in situations of con-
flict between clearly identified parties (Curle 1971). It usually employs
recognized methods and is more appropriate in cases of symmetric
conflicts. By contrast, peacebuilding seeks to address structural and
cultural violence.
Overall, several analysts agree on the similarities and complementarity
between the concepts of civil resistance and peacebuilding, and correspond-
ing social practices. Some argue that both intend to achieve social change
through nonviolent methods (Lederach 1994). Others affirm that civil
resistance contributes to the peaceful transformation of conflict, and must
therefore be considered as an integral part of peace studies. They also
emphasize the relevance of civil resistance as an “early phase” of conflict
transformation because of its capacity to empower those who resist and

help redress power asymmetries (Dudouet 2012).
The ATCC experience shows precisely the complementarity and inter-
dependence between civil resistance and peacebuilding, understood as the
“transition from destructive violence to constructive social agreements”,
according to Lederach (2008). In this experience, civil resistance became
the gateway to the “pacifist empowerment”6 of farmer communities. It
also paved the way to dialogue, negotiation and mediation. In turn, it
evidenced that methods of conflict resolution and transformation can con-
tribute to the success of civil resistance.
The first nonviolent resistance campaigns of the ATCC farmers allowed
them to position themselves vis-à-vis armed actors, which was the gateway
to their subsequent practice of negotiation and mediation to deal with
conflict (interview with Donaldo Quiroga, 2010). One ATCC leader
narrated:
the origin comes, first, from our exercise of resistance and that opposition.
We then put forward some conditions to the [armed] actors. First, you need
to respect our lives: a farmer cannot be tortured or threatened or anything
of the sort. Second, there is no reason for [armed] actors to get involved in
any of our problems. Third, we are not your enemies but you need to respect
us. From then on, we are going to be independent. You should respect that
way of thinking and we should respect yours. Fourth, we are free to seek the
development we want, and we will look for our own way to survive. Fifth,
we did not prevent anyone from getting involved in any armed group, and
nobody was forced to join the association. (Interview with Donaldo Quiroga
cited in Hernández 2012)
It also enabled them to establish contacts with the warring parties and,
fundamentally, it created the conditions to speak “from power to power”
with each one of them, that is, from the power of civility to the power of
arms. At the same time, it enabled some fundamental changes in the
awareness of the local population and in the relationships between local
farmers, without which their negotiation and mediation practices would
likely not have been successful. For example, it made it possible to over-
come fear. It restored the farmers’ and their communities’ trust in their
6
Pacifist empowerment can be understood as capacity-building, powers and powers that
humans have to make peace (Muñoz 2001).
collective power. It restored the power of words, made unity possible,

allowed mistakes from the past to be recognized and to assume the com-
mitment to overcome them, among others (Hernández 2012).
The ATCC’s Achievements

The achievements of the ATCC throughout its 30 years of civil resistance
are diverse and significant. The organization succeeded in breaking the
logics of the armed conflict through the option of civil resistance. It
reached agreements with all the warring parties in order to assert its deci-
sion not to be involved in the armed conflict and not to belong to any
armed group. These agreements served to ensure the protection of local
farmers. When the armed conflict escalated, the pacifist empowerment of
the ATCC farmers contributed to their capacity-building in civil resis-
tance, dialogue, negotiation, mediation, planning, organization, negotia-
tion and reconciliation.
Additionally, the experience of the ATCC generated a culture of dia-
logue among the farmers involved in the association. It contributed to the
peaceful transformation of conflicts between the warring parties and the
farmer communities. The methods used and the combination thereof
increased the effectiveness of the ATCC’s process of civil resistance. It had
an impact on the factors that fuelled armed violence, contributing to a
cessation of armed hostilities in its area of influence.
The farmers have continued to remain alert to any possibility of resump-
tion of hostilities. However, the ATCC has come to understand the impor-
tance of currently focusing on reducing structural violence as a key element
in their exercise of civil resistance. The accumulated experience of the
association in terms of civil resistance and peacebuilding has strengthened
the organization and local communities. The ATCC has protected the life
of the population and the territory in their area of influence. It has reached
a significant level of organization and has achieved national and interna-
tional recognition.
Conclusions
The ATCC shows the power of civil resistance in context of internal armed
conflict. This exercise of civil resistance helped redress the power asym-
metry between civilians and armed actors and became the gateway to dia-
logue, negotiation or mediation. It has been characterized by the pragmatic
or strategic use of nonviolence. It arose from the needs of the local farmer
population to cope with the armed conflict and the escalation of armed
violence in their locality. These needs mainly consisted of protecting life
and finding alternatives to those put forward by the state armed forces in
their 1987 ultimatum, that is, searching for ways neither to collaborate
with any of the armed actors, nor to have to flee or die. In this search for
alternatives, the farmers found that resisting without violence was the
most convenient approach to deal with the situation that they faced at that
moment.
The pragmatic nature of this resistance is also evident in the moment of
crisis generated by the murder of their founding leaders in 1990. The ques-
tion of how to respond to this act of violence led to diverse reactions, delib-
eration, proposals and decisions. The ATCC took the decision to continue
its nonviolent resistance taking into account the needs of the organization
and local communities as well as the convenience of the decision for them.
Similarly, the farmers’ step-by-step planning of dialogue with armed actors
and their respective interventions in processes of negotiation or mediation
reflect their strategic approach to nonviolent resistance.
The ATCC also represents a process of civil resistance for self-defence.
It arose out of the need to protect life, in the broadest sense, in the face of
threats and aggressions by warring parties in the organization’s area of
influence, especially when armed violence escalated. The farmers responded
to this reality by engaging in nonviolent resistance and used planning and
organization to strengthen their process of resistance.
This case shows the complementarity and interdependence between
civil resistance and peacebuilding. This form of resistance allowed the
transformation of the destructive violence caused by the internal armed
conflict. It did so through the pacifist empowerment of local farmers,
which led them to develop capacities to build peace: resistance, resilience,
dialogue, negotiation, mediation, community organization, reconcilia-
tion. Simultaneously, it opened the door to dialogue and negotiation with
all warring parties, as well as to mediation in conflicts between civilians
and armed actors.
This experience also highlights the importance of selecting appropriate
methods of civil resistance and the usefulness of combining them with
methods of conflict resolution and transformation. The selected methods
allowed local farmers to redress power asymmetries with their opponents,
and the combination of methods contributed to the various achievements
of this exercise of civil resistance.
Additionally, the experience evidences the dynamic nature of civil resis-

tance. For thirty years the ATCC resisted the violence of the internal
armed conflict and all the actors involved in armed violence. At the time
of writing, armed hostilities had ceased in the area. While local farmers
remained alert to the possibility of a resumption of violence, they now
placed emphasis on resisting the structural violence embedded in socio-
economic inequalities and marginalization. Also, they began to resist the
violence caused by megaprojects or the extraction of natural resources in
their territory. Two ATCC leaders describe these changes. We conclude
with these statements. According to the first one,
I say that the armed conflict in the area is over. What is sad about it? The
organization was born with a dream. Born from a need to defend life, but,
like all human processes, it wants to move forward. Because the protection
of life implies not only that you are alive, but that you can have dignity. The
first thing that Josué and the leaders of that time thought was how to over-
come the poverty that at that time was less than today. People back then
were less poor than people are today. Today there is a lot of poverty com-
pared to when they were here. For many reasons. Today the ATCC fights to
overcome poverty, achieve equity, education because it is what the world
demands today so that violence does not return, not only to silence rifles.
(Interview with Luis Fernando Serna, December 2016)
Meanwhile, the second one stated:
The ATCC is still resisting after 30 years, still expecting those agreements
to continue to be fulfilled. It continues to hope that development will
come with the postconflict, that the quality of life of local inhabitants and
settlers will improve, as well as education in every sense of the word, that
hunger will end, that people will no longer be in so much need […] The
ATCC is the mother of all these processes, including the contributions that
we have made to other organizations as leaders. The ATCC comes first
[…]. When we arrive, we say “I am one [of the ATCC members]”. Since
the ATCC received the [alternative] Nobel Peace Prize in 1990, things
have been very different … when we talk about the Nobel Peace Prize, all
eyes turn to us. We want that Nobel Prize to continue to prevail and that
development will come with it, not only for us as inhabitants of the Carare
river area, but for the entire country. (Interview with Braulio Mosquera,
December 2016)
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CHAPTER 8
Nonviolent Resistance in the Struggle

for Housing in Urban Areas of Brazil:
The Direct Action of the Roofless Workers’
Movement
Mario Ramírez-Orozco
What is the use of a house if it does not have a tolerable planet to sit on?
Henry David Thoreau
The Roofless Workers’ Movement (MTST) emerged as a response to the

serious marginalization of a majority who does not have access to housing
in the peripheries of Brazilian cities in an organized and politicized man-
ner, regardless of the progressive or conservative nature of the govern-
ments in place. The exploration of the various forms of civil resistance
employed by the MTST and its different objectives, through semi-
structured individual and collective interviews with grassroots militants,
social leaders and social and academic researchers in these areas of exclu-
sion during November and December 2016, evidenced the use of “direct
M. Ramírez-Orozco (*)
e-mail: marioramirez@unisalle.edu.co

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-05033-7_8
158 M. RAMÍREZ-OROZCO
action”—a term employed by the movement to refer to nonviolent actions

to obtain concessions from opponents in the struggle for decent housing
in Brazil. It is striking that the movement mainly opted for nonviolent
resistance actions, given its lack of consciousness or prior knowledge of the
ideas that underpin this form of resistance used in different parts of the
world.
Owing to the magnitude of the problem, since its creation in 1997, the
MTST has gathered thousands of workers displaced from rural violence
who, used their previous experience in the struggle for the right of access
to rural land and for an agrarian reform to subsequently organize them-
selves in settlements in the urban peripheries of large and medium-sized
cities of Brazil and fight for an urban reform. However, since the decades-
long housing problem in the country was not exclusive to organized
workers, the movement included not only a significant number of formal
workers in poor labour conditions, but also millions of urban or semi-
urban informal workers, tens of thousands of seasonal harvesters and
unemployed people, who shared the common goal of securing access to
decent housing for everyone.
In addition, in order to be consistent with this overarching goal, the
MTST redefined its status in its 2005 Charter of Principles and clarified
that “it is not [only] a housing movement. We fight for housing, but we
understand that this fight is part of a greater fight for decent living condi-
tions” (MTST 2005: 4). Thus a key objective of the movement is to
defend the right of the urban or semi-urban poor to a dignified life that
includes not only their constitutional right to possess their own housing,
with the coverage of basic public services, but also challenges the “city
model” imposed on societies, where cities are managed as profit-making
businesses and for the benefit of the private economic sector. Consequently,
they have had to withstand the pressure from powerful private construc-
tion groups and their political and economic allies who wish to make the
most of the urban space for the speculative exploitation of the land (MTST
2005: 5).
An important event occurred in 2003, when the struggles for housing
in the urban peripheries gained prominence: the arrival of the Workers’
Party (PT) to the Brazilian government—a party that claimed the right to
decent housing, along with other basic rights. Despite sharing a common
objective, the MTST did not immediately adhere to the government’s
proposals to solve the housing problem. On the contrary, it remained
NONVIOLENT RESISTANCE IN THE STRUGGLE FOR HOUSING IN URBAN… 159
distant from the government, owing to the latter’s criticism of the fre-
quent occupations carried out by the MTST in the peripheries of the main
cities of the country. The government indeed considered the occupations
not only inopportune but argued that they favoured the rightwing opposi-
tion. This situation prevailed even in 2008, during the second PT govern-
ment, when the latter launched the My House, My Life Programme
(PMCMV), under the auspices of the Ministry of Cities.1 While it was
expected that the programme would allow the legal recognition of the
occupations undertaken by the MTST, this only occurred sporadically. In
the words of MTST leaders, the My house, My life programme was:
A programme designed and built by the construction companies in partner-

ship with the management of the Caixa Econômica Federal (Federal Savings
Bank), which defined how the univocal source of housing policies for the
low- and middle-income population would be throughout the decade of its
implementation […] Despite being used as an argument against the housing
deficit in Brazil by the Lula and Dilma governments, in the first place, the
PMCMV did not manage to satisfy the housing demand of the most disad-
vantaged sectors of society. On the contrary, it was largely stimulated as a
popular line of credit for financing houses and apartments for middle-
income families. (Freitas 2017: 2)
As a result, the leadership of the MTST decided to distance itself from

state institutions in its fight for decent housing and asked members of the
movement to refrain from participating in the housing projects promoted
by the different Brazilian states. The leaders argued that the MTST could
negotiate with the government but could not compromise on the princi-
ples of the movement, which would have to be upheld in any type of
negotiations. Accordingly, the MTST stated that
Our most important form of action is urban land occupation. This allows us
to put direct pressure on the owners and the government, denounce the
social problem of housing and build a process of autonomous organization
1
The PMCMV programme contracted 4.2 million housing units until the beginning of
2016, out of which 2.7 million were actually delivered. During the seven years of implemen-
tation since 2009, the programme reportedly invested R$300 thousand billion. According to
Carolina Freitas, journalist and social researcher, “it is a number that, proportionally in time,
makes it the largest housing programme in the history of the Brazilian government” (Freitas
2017: 2).
of workers. The occupations are always accompanied by pressure on state

bodies, with marches and occupations of public buildings. (MTST 2005)2
As we can see from this statement, the MTST saw the use of civil resistance
methods, particularly land occupations, marches and occupations of pub-
lic buildings, as the most effective means to achieve the movement’s objec-
tive, given the perceived inadequacy of institutional channels to tackle the
issue of access to decent housing for the urban poor.
As a result of the MTST’s pressure and in an effort to seek greater
coherence with its social democratic ideology, the PT government
decided a year later, in 2009, to introduce a substantial reform into the
PMCMV programme and open an alternative for the exclusive participa-
tion of the entities that brought together the members of popular orga-
nizations. Although the resources for this initiative were very limited,
several of the popular organizations involved, including the MTST, had
sufficient autonomy in the contracting process, which allowed them to
lower the costs, make selective purchases of low-risk lands in areas with
access to main roads and public services, and therefore obtain substantial
improvements in housing quality. However, operational and bureaucratic
difficulties delayed the delivery of the houses significantly, which gave the
false idea of bad management by some popular organizations (Freitas
2017: 2).
Over the course of the following years, the relationship between the PT
government and the MTST was characterized by many ups and downs,
until in the second half of 2016, when a crucial event changed the strategy
of the MTST. This event was the impeachment of President Dilma
Rousseff, driven by an alliance of rightwing opposition parties and by a
2
In order to better understand the inner workings of the social base of those who partici-
pate in the occupations, Carolina Freitas points out some peculiarities of the MTST mili-
tancy. Accordingly, a study of occupation in the periphery of São Paulo revealed that the
occupiers mainly consisted of women (54%), black men and women (61%), young people
(26% of young people up to 14 years old and 15% of young people from 15 to 24 years old).
Many attended school until the age of 14. Many lived in rented buildings (69.3%), others on
plots of land in leased houses (21.5%) and some in favelas. Still others acquired their own
house, but were unable to pay the loans. It is important to highlight that 73.1% are economi-
cally active in some occupation. The rate of wage earners was 60.4%, which means that more
people in these settlements had temporary work or were self-employed (Freitas 2017).
broad group of parliamentarians representing evangelical Christian groups.

This alliance propelled Michel Temer, a centre-right politician to the
presidency in a questioned parliamentary vote.3 This situation compelled
the MTST, under the pressure of its social base, to join other social and
political organizations and form an alliance called Frente Povo Sem Medo
(Fearless People’s Front—FPSM), which would not only oppose the so-
called coup d’état, but also the fiscal measures immediately implemented
by the new government against the most disadvantaged social groups,
who make up most of the social base of the MTST.
Thereafter, the MTST, in addition to its struggles for housing and what
it called “democratic restoration”, decided to expand its social base beyond
the borders of Brazil. That is how, thanks to the recognition of its experi-
ence, on 11 December 2017 it joined the transnational Urban Resistance
Front, Territories for a dignified life and good living. The goal of the front
was to fight peacefully for the right to decent housing in Latin America,
and also, as indicated in the manifesto of the MTST’s participation in the
front: “to claim full access to all rights like health, education, work and
culture”.4
Furthermore, as its political awareness of the problem of land occupa-
tion increased, and in order to reinforce the effectiveness of its claim, the
MTST had to include forms of “direct action” in the fight for dignity and
recognition of their rights. As a result, in The political lines of MTST, the
movement stated that “part of this process is always in line with mobiliza-
tions and direct actions of pressure” (MTST 2005, emphasis added). This
invites us to consider the MTST’s resistance process for peaceful social
change in the general framework of the social struggles that were initiated
when Michel Temer assumed power, in order to facilitate the legalization
of lands and the political recognition of the constitutional right to decent
housing.5
3
See: “Taque à democracia. Impeachment de Dilma é golpe de Estado, decide Tribunal
Internacional”, retrieved from: http://www.redebrasilatual.com.br/politica/2016/07/
impeachment-de-dilma-e-golpe-de-estado-decide-tribunal-internacional-2792.
html (accessed February 20, 2018).
4
The celebration of the 20 years of the MTST took place from 8 to 10 December 2017 in
São Paulo, where the initiative to join the “Urban Resistance Front, Territories for a dignified
life and good living” emerged. See: http://www.lohaine.org/20-anos-del-mtst-un (accessed
February 5, 2018).
5
See MTST website: http://www.mtst.org/quem-somos/as-linhas-politicas-do-
mtst/ (accessed February 28, 2018).
In the following section we examine the meaning of direct actions from

a historical perspective and the ways in which such actions have been used
in the social struggle of the MTST in favour of housing and the fulfilment
of citizens’ rights enshrined in the 1988 Political Constitution of Brazil.
Civil Resistance and Nonviolent Direct Action

One of the first to enunciate direct action as a political action was William
Mellor, a member of the English labour movement, who, while in the
troubled London of post-World War I in 1920, asked himself “What is
direct action?”. In an effort to make clear the link between this type of
action and its role in claiming fundamental rights, he extended its meaning
from an economic perspective to a political one and to its social conse-
quences. This is evidenced in his definition, which describes direct action as
the use of some form of economic power to secure the desired ends by those
who possess that power. If it is on the part of the workers, it is an attempt to
control the economic life of society; but when it is used by employers, it is
used to close companies. (Mellor 1920: 15)
It is striking that Mellor stated that direct action could be exercised in

relation to the interests of those who fight for power over economic prop-
erty and how they use it and that, therefore, it was not a reactive action.
Accordingly, it is not a simple tactic as understood by the anarchists. It
must be understood as a strategic tool to wield power. Therefore, the main
thing was to conquer the economic power to carry out activities for the
benefit of the large masses of workers who have no economic power after
World War I (Mellor 1920: 72–78).
In a simultaneous context in history, direct action was associated with
the violent practices of the anarchists who, through “action for the action”,
assumed this type of tactic with the intention of weakening the power of
the State or other public institutions until the rule of the latter became
unnecessary (interview with Pazello 2016). However, the need for alli-
ances with socialist and communist activists forced them to acknowledge
that power does not disappear but that, owing to people’s dominance
drive, it adapts to circumstances. Power becomes invisible or displaced,
but it always maintains its dominant historical capacity, as Mellor (1920)
assumes, to safeguard the status quo or to join the changes in the structure
of power.
Later, direct action found its way in the ideas of social liberators who
fought against colonialism, such as Mahatma Gandhi, who promoted the
Satyagraha (or force of truth), or of social activists against racism and
apartheid, such as Martin Luther King Jr. or Nelson Mandela, who, after
leaving prison, opted for nonviolent resistance and subsequently assumed
the presidency of his country (Nepstad 2013: 591). Assuming the particu-
larity of each context, these leaders used nonviolent direct action, or in
other words “civil resistance”,6 to generate a crisis and create a tension in
order to force their opponent, who had held the economic and political
power until then, to accept a “negotiation” between equals, where they, as
leaders of movements with a broad social base, were a potential economic
counter-power and presented themselves as a central factor of governance
and peaceful coexistence.
The civil resistance literature highlights three exemplary cases of the use
of nonviolent direct action to challenge the status quo and shift power in
favour of resisters. The first one is India where Gandhi and his followers
used nonviolent direct action against the use of inputs produced in the
colonial metropolis, whether it was salt or textiles. This generated signifi-
cant costs for the British, who eventually accepted India’s independence.
The second one is Southern United States, where the Blacks used boycotts
against segregated buses, sit-ins in lunch counters reserved for Whites or
peacefully entered universities to demand the constitutional right to edu-
cation for all. These tactics, which revealed the empowerment of the Black
population and the untenability of segregation measures, eventually led to
the repeal of segregation laws. The third one is South Africa, where, even
before Mandela got out of jail, the multitudinous “one person, one vote”
silent marches in favour of elections and full citizenship shifted the balance
of power in favour of the Black majority.
In the case of Brazil, filmmaker Glauber Rocha (1965) adopted a dis-
course of vindication of the poorest in the face of the great social frustra-
tion that prevailed during the dictatorship of the time in the country
(1964–1985), which he explains very well in his political film manifesto
“Aesthetics of Hunger”. In it, he points out that social movements can
channel social discontent, even if they do so violently and therefore
illegally. He sees such a response as emerging as a result of the disregard
for the movements’ legitimate requests, which forces its members to
6
“Nonviolent direct action” and “civil resistance” are near-synonyms (Roberts 2009: 3).
assume a collective voice against injustice and marginalization. In so doing,

Rocha (1965) does not justify violence, but he explains it. In his view, the
violence of the helpless and the humiliated of the world is beautiful, as it
carries the voice, the plural voice of those who want to be heard (Rocha
1965: 3).7 This view later coincided with the ideas of those who rejected
the passivity of pacifism because it did not seek to confront the establish-
ment, and through non-action, served to legitimize the oppressive power
and deny a reality in which fundamental rights needed to be respected,
starting with the dignity of the people. Yet, as Gene Sharp (1973) or Mark
Kurlansky (2015) argued, civil resistance and direct action are not the
same as pacifism. Kurlansky, in particular, clearly distinguishes between
pacifism and nonviolence:
Nonviolence is not the same as pacifism, for which there are numerous
terms. Pacifism is considered to be almost a psychological state. It is a men-
tal state. Pacifism is passive, but nonviolence is active. Pacifism is innocuous,
and therefore it is easier to accept that nonviolence, which is dangerous.
(Kurlansky 2015: 18)
This explanation is helpful to understand how social movements opt for

civil resistance, rather than violent resistance or simple pacifism. In par-
ticular, it enables us to understand what happens in those contexts in
which, prior to the use of direct action, especially before any mobilization
that affect material goods, social movements hold long discussions about
the convenience or not of a confrontation to affect the interests of those
who hold real power. According to professors Goulart and Pazello, who
are also social activists, nonviolent mass movements generally prioritize
principles of moral strength, which ought not to be confused with the
rejection of acts of violence and need to overcome the perception that
nonviolent struggles can only be waged at a symbolic level (interviews with
Goulart and Pazello 2016). This has been the case of the MTST, as will
now be discussed.
7
This is in tune with Nelson Mandela’s statement during a visit to the United States in
1990, according to which “nonviolence is a good policy when conditions permit”, cited in
Arlene Tickner “Mandela and (non)violence”. El Espectador, Opinion Section, December
10, 2013, retrieved from: http://www.elespectador.com/opinion/mandela-y-la-no-
violencia-columna-463422.
The Use of Nonviolent Direct Action by the MTST

On the social level, the poorest communities or those with economic limi-
tations were forced to group together without ideological, racial or ethnic
distinction, in a country with one of the highest indicators of social
inequality worldwide,8 to assume the claim of the right to land and the
right to housing. Although these rights are enshrined in the 1988 Political
Constitution of Brazil, they have been barely recognized or—which is
even worse—poorly implemented, despite the left-wing governments that
stayed in power during the period 2003–2016.9 The MTST emerged in
this context as a movement in favour of the rights of workers who were
mostly displaced by rural violence and who, thanks to their accumulated
experience in the agrarian struggles within the Landless Movement
(Movemento Sem Terra—MST), organized themselves in settlements in
the urban periphery of large and medium-sized cities in Brazil.
Since its creation, the MTST has sought to achieve a reform of urban
property, as a conscious and politicized response to the serious marginal-
8
Although with a slight improvement as compared to measurements taken before PT-led
administrations, in 2014, Brazil scored a total of 51.1 out of 100 in the GINI index of
inequality. See World Bank’s data at: http://datos.bancomundial.org/indicador/SI.POV.
GINI?locations=BR (accessed March 10, 2018).
9
Paragraph 22, Chapter 1 of the 1988 Political Constitution of the Federative Republic of
Brazil states: “the right to property is guaranteed; XXIII private property will serve its social
function; XXIV the law shall establish the procedure for expropriation for reasons of necessity
or public utility, or for social interest, through just and prior compensation in money, except
in the cases provided for in this Constitution”; Article 7 of Chapter II states: “These are the
rights of urban and rural workers, as well as others that tend to improve their social status”,
and paragraph 19 states that they “establish guidelines for urban development, including
housing, basic sanitation and urban transport”. This is complemented in Article 23 of
Chapter II, which assumes that “It is a common competence of the Union, the States, the
Federal District and the Municipalities […] [to] promote housing construction programs and
the improvement of habitability and basic sanitation conditions”. Finally, Article 184 of
Chapter III states that “The Union has the power to expropriate, for social interest and for
purposes of agrarian reform, the rural property that is not fulfilling its social function, through
prior and fair compensation in agrarian debt securities, with a preservation clause of the real
value, redeemable in a term of up to twenty years, starting from the second year of its issu-
ance, and which use will be defined in the law.” Article 191 further provides that “He who,
despite not being the owner of a rural or urban property, holds as his own, for a period of
five consecutive years and without opposition, a plot of land in rural area not exceeding
50 hectares that he has brought into production with his work or that of his family, and lives in
it, shall acquire the property.” [emphasis added].
ization of a majority of Brazilians who live in the peripheries of cities.

Therefore, and as already mentioned, from its very first meetings, the
MTST included, in addition to formal workers, independent ones in con-
ditions of precarious work, temporary harvesters and a large mass of
unemployed people, with the common goal of giving them access to hous-
ing.10 All of them earned very low incomes, mostly under the legal mini-
mum wage, and the role of the single women in charge of young children,
as heads of household was preponderant.11
In the specific case of the MTST’s political action, Professor Débora
Goulart explained that the movement carried out nonviolent direct action
partly because of the lack of possibility of negotiation through democratic
avenues. According to her, the MTST was influenced by the MST’s use of
direct action (see e.g., Schock 2015) and therefore decided not:
to attempt conquests by legislative or executive means, but by direct action

to force the State to negotiate, in a direct confrontation with the State. In
any case, the State is still the negotiator. (interview with Goulart 2016)
In this context, and in the face of an indolent bureaucracy, the MTST

deemed it fundamental to insist on short-term solutions to the problem of
housing and the construction of public service infrastructure. Professor
Goulart explained what the MTST meant by “direct action” in the follow-
ing way:
Direct action is the action against property or against the government with-
out employing weapons. For instance, the MTST occupies a large estate or
it occupies public property or a government secretariat peacefully. In the
case of the MTST, it occupies a plot of land and, during the negotiation with
the State, it may occupy the government’s or City Hall’s housing secretariat.
It can also block a street or avenue by igniting tires and thus forcing a nego-
tiation, or conduct a march that leads to the occupation of a public property
in a peaceful manner. However, in Brazil, this is seen as something violent,
especially in recent times. The government sees it as an invasion, as a viola-
tion of the citizens’ right to mobility. (interview with Goulart 2016)
10
See MTST website at: http://www.mtst.org/quem-somos/a-organizacao-do-mtst/
(accessed February 20, 2018).
11
In an environment of high inflation, product of the political and economic crisis, on 1
January 2017 Law No. 13.152/2015 established that the minimum salary would be
R$937.00, equivalent to US$299 at the time.
According to this definition, direct action is nonviolent and it is the com-

bination of civil resistance with institutional proceedings to achieve the
movement’s objectives. Hence, the MTST has carried out acts that gener-
ate a climate of confrontation on the margin between legitimacy and legal-
ity, and, at the same time, has sought the political recognition of a social
subject whose fundamental rights have been violated as well as the legal
recognition of the legitimate right to decent housing. This combination of
strategies also draws on the weight of symbolic value that transcends the
limits of merely territorial occupation in search of an occupation of the
imaginaries around property (Bentes 2016: 110). In particular, direct
actions by the MTST have been accompanied by a “pedagogy of strug-
gle”, which has emphasized that the responsibility of the State towards its
citizens cannot be traded for market laws, which privatize the obligations
of the public sector (interview with Pazello 2016). Further, according to
Brazilian academic Ivana Bentes,
to occupy is the citizens’ way of narrating a decisive social and political dis-
pute. The social use of unproductive lands, idle public and private estates,
transformed into spaces for family farming, the dwelling and the rooms or
simply in spaces of coexistence or work. Real or symbolic occupations, ter-
ritorial occupation, more also of the imaginary. (Bentes 2016: 110)
Through acts of nonviolent direct action, the MTST has sought to

achieve possession by occupation, understood as the beginning of a fact
that aims, with the appropriate time and conditions, for a legal recognition
to validate the ownership of the property. In other words, occupation
provides a legal justification to reconsider what the system describes as an
“invasion”, an unlawful conduct sanctioned by law, and interpret it as the
recognition of a basic right that needs to be respected. In so doing, it
breaks the notion of absolute ownership of the territory, particularly urban
territory, which lends itself to real estate speculation when staying idle for
years. In order to achieve this objective, the MTST has socialized with its
members how occupation is a way to fulfil a social right and how it is the
obligation of the State to ensure the realization of this right. It has done
so through talks in the occupied lands themselves and through alternative
media (Barbosa Pinto 2014: 4).
Importantly, land occupations occurred in a context of repeated provo-
cation on the part of state officials and private agents, who did not hesitate
to intervene violently to forcefully evict occupiers (Barbosa Pinto 2014: 5).
Further, Brazilian law did not only deny a majority of its citizens access to
decent housing, but also permitted landowners to request law enforcement
officials to forcefully evict occupiers. Yet, as argued by Gene Harp (cited in
Nepstad 2013: 592), such acts of violence against people most in need only
serve to “expose […] [the regime’s] brutality when they attack unarmed
civilians” and generate “an increase in the support from third parties for
civil resistance while support for the State decrease”. Indeed, in the face of
repression, the movement maintained nonviolent discipline, and violent
repression backfired. Interestingly, the MTST did so without explicitly pro-
moting it, making “a conscious association between mass political action
and the ideal of nonviolence [in which] nonviolent discipline was empha-
sized” (Schock 2013: 278). This was possible because of the work done by
the MTST to train its members and teach them to be disciplined when
taking part in occupations and avoid the action of agents provocateurs as
much as possible.
This happened in a context in which we cannot ignore the govern-
ment’s creation of several housing programmes, which overall gradually
contributed to the realization of the rights of thousands, not to mention
millions, of citizens, with incomes higher than three minimum wages. Yet,
such programmes were insufficient because they did not cover a majority
of the population with monthly incomes lower than those three minimum
wages. This justified the need to continue the struggle of the majority of
MTST members, who, on average, did not meet this requirement (Rocha
2015: 23). This situation tended to aggravate following the measures
adopted by the government, led by President Michel Temer, since the end
of 2016, to cut down public spending.
Another important event was the creation of the Ministry of Cities in
2003, which was headed by scholars of urban studies, characterized by
their social approach and close relationship with the PT. However, as soci-
ologist Belmiro Texeira affirms, owing to a need to maintain governance,
these people who were highly qualified to promote housing projects did
not last long in the Ministry:
when the first crisis affected the PT government, the PT relinquished that
ministry to other political parties in order to expand its support base. The
Ministry was given to conservative parties, the right wing itself and, thus,
everything that had been done [by those highly qualified people who had
led the Ministry] was undone and no progress was made in all the work that
had been planned. (interview with Texeira 2016)
This generated frustration in the MTST and reinforced the movement’s

belief that the struggle was far from over.
Similarly, and related to the way access to property and direct action are
understood, the MTST challenged the dominant role assigned to electoral
processes as ways for people to acquire the recognition of their rights. As
stated by Professor Goulart, this reading according to which “the only
legitimate form of manifestation is the vote” is biased and fails to recog-
nize the surrounding context of extreme political patronage, vote buying
and political parties without ideology or political doctrine. According to
her, political parties are real electoral companies, which, in the same fash-
ion as criminal enterprises, only want to loot public affairs (interview with
Goulart 2016).
In this context, many in the MTST started to reconsider the perverse
characteristics of Brazilian urbanization, in which occupation could not
always be deemed to be positive. This was the case of settlements in the
urban periphery, which, in the long run, could make it easier for construc-
tion companies, lawyers and unscrupulous politicians to promote the legal-
ization of such lands and, in a relatively short time, to acquire these
regularized properties directly or through front men and force their inhabit-
ants to settle in a new periphery and occupy new land. As the sociologist
Belmiro Texeira of the Federal Institute of Paraná (IFPR), Paranaguá cam-
pus, points out, “first, the poor arrive and occupy the peripheries; then, they
are regularized, until the market gets there and, owing to the high prices,
they are unable to stay there and they sell” (interview with Texeira 2016).
This is why Professor Goulart explained that it was important to change
the perspective of land tenure, “not only from the perspective of land
ownership, but of capital ownership over urban property” (interview with
Goulart 2016). In this context it was necessary to acknowledge the advan-
tage that occupation may represent not for the small land of poor occu-
pants, “but [for the big] capital over urban land; that is why they [investors]
have associated with Odebrecht and other great construction companies.
The MTST therefore states that it is against property and capital in the
city” (interview with Goulart 2016). Through direct action, the MTST
changed the meaning of land occupation:
not only from the perspective of land ownership, but from the capital own-
ership over urban property, to begin demonstrations in front of the contrac-
tors who are those that end up carrying out urban intervention projects for
the construction of condominiums, which eventually generate a process of
real estate speculation. (interview with Goulart 2016)
Under these circumstances, the training of MTST members stressed the

need to consider the risks of misunderstanding the sole use of direct
action, specifically of occupation, as a process of privileged accommoda-
tion to the system of domination through the particular achievement of
eventually acquiring a property. The MTST emphasized the need to avoid
the negative effect “of consensus-building between employers and employ-
ees, the State and the population” (Barbosa Pinto 2014: 4). This was so in
a context of social dispute with a strong ideological component. Hence,
although the MTST’s struggle in essence had the burden of pragmatism
of the need to urgently solve a basic problem such as housing, it sought a
long-term objective, that is to become a social alternative that contributes
to change the structures of hyper-concentration of land and, consequently,
challenges the power of all those political and economic agents on which
they are sustained. This comes with the understanding that pushing away
the ghost of a mere individualistic claim could only be done with a critical
option so that this claim could be assumed collectively. It also served to
remove the risks of the conservative mentality of the new owner who is
satisfied with the regularization of his property and distances himself from
the political understanding of the struggle for the urgent and necessary
global democratization of urban land in Brazil.
Final Considerations
The MTST used civil resistance in the form of nonviolent direct action in
its social struggle for decent housing in Brazil. It did so, even if some
actions might indirectly benefit its opponents given the legal provisions
that play in favour of the interests of large landowners and in spite of vio-
lent responses by agents of the State and the private sector. Interestingly,
without knowing it, MTST members coincided with “civil resistance
academics [who] have focused on nonviolence in broader terms: as a the-
ory of political power, a moral ideology, a strategy, and a technique to turn
state repression into an advantage of the movement” (see Nepstad 2013:
590). They did so by following the guidelines agreed during their assem-
blies to avoid any violent confrontation with their opponents and, rather,
to seek solidarity from human rights organizations, other social move-
ments and the support of the population in general.12
12
In the alternative press in Brazil, it is common to find press releases of human rights orga-
nizations expressing solidarity with members of the MTST who have been violently repressed.
In addition, in the Brazilian social imaginary, the MTST succeeded in

achieving a greater rejection by people of the legal notions that negatively
characterize occupations and criminalize them as “invasions of urban land
and buildings” so that they could be understood, with the support of
popular lawyers, as the vindication of the right to housing. These efforts
also succeeded in obtaining certain recognition of occupations consistent
with the constitutional right that grants legal ownership of uncultivated or
unexploited territories to its occupants in compliance with the social func-
tion of land (Constitution of Brazil, 1988: Art. 23 and 184). Overall, the
MTST contributed to the provision of housing to many and the obtention
of broader support for the movement’s struggle through raising awareness
of the problem and of what had been achieved thus far. These relative suc-
cesses are consistent with Chenoweth and Stephan’s (2011) findings on
the effectiveness of civil resistance movements.
After the arrival of Michel Temer to the government, which, in the view
of a significant number of Brazilians, meant a return to repressive policies
and the criminalization of those who fought for their fundamental rights,
the struggle of the MTST gained further legitimacy among the public. In
particular, violent repression against MTST members backfired, generat-
ing more support for the movement. Further, the direct actions carried
out by the MTST demonstrated to a large part of the Brazilian population
that civil resistance for the achievement of rights was viable and that State
institutions did not represent the population at large but, in the case of
housing, only unrepresentative small groups of construction companies in
alliance with unscrupulous politicians.
In other words, according to the MTST, nonviolent direct action has
been a political act of double meaning because, on the one hand, it has
involved solving a concrete and immediate problem and, on the other
hand, it has sought to build spaces of systemic confrontation that can gen-
erate alternatives of power. This occurred in a context in which the MTST
prioritized people’s claims for land through their physical and symbolic
occupation from the beginning. This implies recognizing the key role of
the nonviolent resistance struggle of the MTST in the introduction of new
meanings, many of them symbolic, within the imaginary of the fundamen-
tal social rights transgressed historically in Brazil.
As a result of these efforts, it was possible to decriminalize the occu-
pation of idle lands; that is, no one should be trampled on, prosecuted
and put in jail for that occupation, since the claim is for the right to
housing. The laws themselves recognized that nonviolent direct action
was a political manifestation of democracy that granted and recognized

fundamental rights, and therefore it was not possible to incriminate
movement leaders and their followers, or even fine them or imprison
them for taking part in such types of actions.
All in all, in 20 years the MTST helped thousands of families to solve
their housing problem through territorial appropriation and the construc-
tion of housing and urban environments that meet basic standards. It also
fostered a process of social organization from the bottom up through gen-
erating a collective awareness about housing as a fundamental right, as a
duty of the State. This endeavour had concrete and symbolic impact
because “occupations are acts of resignification” (Bentes 2016: 111),
which play a paramount role in generating allies within society. By becom-
ing aware of the situation, such allies can be helpful to reveal the asym-
metry of territorial power, which is originally almost always fraudulent and
is exercised through physical violence by the police or private actors.
Likewise, the experience of the MTST reveals that through nonviolent
direct actions, such as land occupations, the members of the movement
upheld the principles of direct democracy to the extent that they elimi-
nated the usurpation of representation of people in decision-making pro-
cesses. This has been fundamental in the process of empowerment of
MTST members and their assumption of social responsibility. In such pro-
cess, each participant has played a protagonist role as a direct agent of
transformation of an unjust order.
Despite the positive experience of introducing a factual urban reform
with the popular acquisition of housing through the occupation of land by
movements such as the MTST and similar ones in the urban peripheries of
Brazil, the Temer administration resorted again to police and legal
repression. Most of the time, large landowners, beneficiaries of the histori-
cal hyper-concentration of productive lands, used the legal framework to
justify repression by the police or private actors against many poor citizens
who struggled to satisfy their basic human needs and subsist decently. In
parallel, Temer and his administration gradually dismantled part of the
effective housing measures adopted by the three PT administrations
(2003–2016) that anteceded them. This leads us to foresee that in the
near future further nonviolent resistance actions by movements such as
the MTST will be required for many people to achieve the legal possession
of urban properties. This involves raising the awareness of movement
members through a pedagogy of struggle for the fundamental rights that
people seek to realize through this type of occupations.
Finally, as shown in this study, Brazilians have had to face not only the
violence perpetrated by landowners but also the institutional violence that
manifests itself in a variety of legal instruments that do not recognize their
right to housing. In this context, civil resistance can play a key role in citi-
zens’ struggle for the State to recognize and protect the human right to
housing and in the struggle for the social recognition of the benefit for all
citizens to have their basic needs met, starting with shelter, as the ground-
work for the achievement of other rights.
References
Barbosa Pinto, Marina. 2014. Movimentos sociais e estratégia de classe. Revista
Territórios Transversais 1 (1).
Bentes, Ivana. 2016. Ocupa tudo! Extinção, resurreição e insurreição da Cultura.
In Golpe 16, Renato Rovai (org.). São Paulo: Edições Forum.
Freitas, Carolina. 2017. Brasil: 20 años del MTST: un hormiguero contra el
neoliberalismo. Retrieved from: http://www.resumenlatinoamericano.
org/2017/12/18/brasil-20-anos-del-mtst-un-hormiguero-contra-el-
neoliberalismo/ (accessed February 20, 2018).
Kurlansky, Mark. 2015. No violencia: 25 lecciones sobre una idea peligrosa. Bogotá:
Debate.
Mellor, William. 1920. Direct Action. London: Leonard Parsons.
MTST. 2005. As linhas políticas do MTST [The political lines of MTST]. Retrieved
from: http://www.mtst.org/quem-somos/as-linhas-politicas-do-mtst/ (accessed
January 10, 2018).
Nepstad, Sharon E. 2013. Nonviolent Civil Resistance and Social Movements.
Sociology Compass 7 (7): 590–598.
Roberts, Adam. 2009. Introduction. In Civil Resistance and Power Politics: The
Experience of Non-violent Action from Gandhi to the Present, ed. Adam Roberts
and Timothy Garton Ash, 1–24. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Rocha, Glauber. 1965. Uma estética da fome. Revista da Civilização Brasileira (3).
Rocha, Josué. 2015. Forjado na luta. Revista Territórios Transversais 1 (1).
Research 50 (3), 277–290. https://doi.org/10.1177/0022343313476530.
———. 2015. Rightful Radical Resistance: Mass Mobilization and Land Struggles
in India and Brazil. Mobilization: An International Quarterly 20 (4): 493–515.
https://doi.org/10.17813/1086-671X-20-4-493.
Sharp, Gene. 1973. The Politics of Nonviolent Action (Part One): Power and
Struggle. Boston: Porter Sargent.
Interviews
Goulart, Débora, interviewed by Mario Ramírez-Orozco, 22 November 2016.
Pazello, Ricardo Prestes, interviewed by Mario Ramírez-Orozco, 30 November
2016.
Texeira, Luiz Belmiro, interviewed by Mario Ramírez-Orozco, 23 November
2016.
CHAPTER 9
Frames in Conflict: Discursive Contestation

and the Transformation of Resistance
Michael S. Wilson Becerril
In November of 2015, in the Andean town of Otuzco in northern Peru, I

witnessed as a small contingent of community leaders from the provinces
of Otuzco, Sánchez Carrión and Santiago de Chuco gathered to discuss
resource governance in their area.1 Attendees worked to identify the natu-
ral resources, current and potential industries, and immediate needs of
each province, drawing these onto a map. As the delegations presented
their conclusions and discussed next steps, one man from Sánchez Carrión
1
Peru’s subnational political units are broken down as follows: at the local level, thousands
of neighbourhoods (or caseríos) are organized into 1854 districts (or municipalities), which are
spread unevenly into 196 provinces, which in turn belong to 24 regions (or departments).
This research was supported by generous financial assistance and intellectual

mentoring from the US Institute of Peace, the International Center on
Nonviolent Conflict, the Chicanx/Latinx Research Center at the University of
California, Santa Cruz (UCSC) and the UCSC Department of Politics.
M. S. Wilson Becerril (*)
Colgate University, Hamilton, NY, USA
e-mail: mwilsonbecerril@colgate.edu

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-05033-7_9
176 M. S. WILSON BECERRIL
suggested that they proclaimed the formation of an Environmental

Defence Front. Several members countered the motion, some suggesting
that this wording was dated and unhelpful. This title had been used (and
in some ways discredited) by many movements resisting mining for more
than a decade. “What would be different if we adopted this name?” some-
one asked. Prompted by the workshop organizers, the delegations instead
appointed representatives as contacts with the host organization—a local
religious and environmentalist group. As they wrapped up their agenda,
participants agreed to draft a public statement about their vision for the
region, to be sent to political representatives and media. First, however,
one of the host organizers offered a few words:
Mining companies […] discredit us: they say our work is worthless. They do
it in local and national media. It’s good to be denigrated. It would be bad if
they endorsed our work! They distort laws, and have lobbies like the “Peru-
Can Project,” which is only meant to alter environmental legislation. They
try to divide the social organizations that oppose them. They bring parallel
groups like a ‘new’ ronda to discredit and replace local authorities. They
distort how we organize, and they accuse us of being anti-mining terrorists.
They criminalize us. Meanwhile, they do not comply with the agreements
that they sign. We are not anti-mining. What we want is spaces of justice to
exist, and that they stop pursuing those who defend the rights of people.
Justice, peace, prosperity, and respect. We must start a process of land use
planning and organize ourselves. We must stop applauding with a single
finger.2
As the debates within the workshop crystallized, narratives of damage,

victimhood and legitimacy are severely understudied sites of conflicts.
This chapter will demonstrate how contests over “the story” of a conflict
influence the negotiation strategies of actors involved. I focus on a subna-
tional analysis of Peru, where by far the most common and deadliest con-
flicts today are related to natural resource extraction, especially in the
mining sector.3 According to Peru’s ombudsperson, an estimated 270
2
Anonymous environmental leader, speaking to the workshop in Otuzco, November 19,
2015. Rondas campesinas, or rondas in short, are rural, autonomous vigilantes whose juris-
diction is enshrined in Peruvian law.
3
In late 2012, Peru’s ombudsperson registered 229 social conflicts, of which more than
two-thirds were linked to resource extraction, predominantly in the mining sector (Defensoría
FRAMES IN CONFLICT: DISCURSIVE CONTESTATION… 177
people were killed and 2369 injured in conflicts over natural resources
between 2006 and 2016. Every year, dozens of mining projects and oper-
ations—old and new, big and small, corporate or clandestine—transition
to overt conflict in Peru.4 How do movements avoid escalation into vio-
lence, and what leads actors already entangled in it to shift towards non-
violent means of waging conflict?
Studies of civil resistance offer possible answers: they have demon-
strated that the success of nonviolent protest depends greatly on strategic
framing, among other factors. The causal story is that nonviolent or civil
resistance works because it highlights the violence of oppressors, and it
thus generates moral outrage and encourages further resistance
(Chenoweth and Stephan 2011; Sharp 2005; Zunes 1999).5 This chapter
argues that even when social movements do not receive much media
attention, activists often learn that civil resistance is strategically a prefer-
able method to pressure their opponents and gain concessions from them.
Indeed, it may be precisely because the public debate is so one-sided that
individuals and groups engage in creative forms of civil resistance.
Fieldwork, participant observations, interviews and comparative analysis
demonstrate how, within a context of discursive and legal criminalization,
social movements learn—sometimes the hard way—how their opponents
del Pueblo 2012). More recently, its January 2017 report found that the overwhelming
plurality of conflicts registered (76 of 214) are still those related to mining (Defensoría del
Pueblo 2017). The country ombudsperson interprets conflict as a complex social process
where actors with contradictory interests might derive into violence. For this chapter, I share
its operationalization of violence as a “destructive manifestation of conflict.”
4
I use the terms “transition” and “overt” here to recognize how subtler aspects of conflict
may already be present in these cases, although they are less noticeable. Robert Nixon (2011)
uses the term “slow violence” to describe the insidious, gradual and invisible ecological
violence that is damaging particularly to the world’s poor. Defensoría’s definition (in the
previous footnote) recognizes conflict as ever-present and even “inherent” in human rela-
tions, in its attempt to emphasize that conflict is not strictly negative.
5
For the purposes of this chapter, “nonviolent” and “civil” resistance are equivalent. While
the latter is an academic artefact and may be seen as euro-centric, its use is meant to add
precision to the former. It is all too common to confuse everything that is not violent (which
could be a number of things, including the act of breathing) with nonviolence (which refers
to a refusal to engage in violence, especially as a strategy of political resistance). Therefore,
the language of “civil resistance” is analytically and practically useful.
use frames of “violence” and “terrorism” to delegitimize and demobilize

their struggle. Additionally, discursive criminalization is often accompanied
by (and helps to justify or legitimize) direct physical repercussions such as
imprisonment and police beatings. Noticing this, and in order to sustain
their movement against such attacks, organizers adopt strictly nonviolent
tactics, train their group members in the importance of these methods and
discipline their actions. Activists undertake this process of learning and
transformation not only when they want to appeal to a bystander public for
support, as the literature would expect (e.g., Sutton et al. 2014), but also
when they lack outlets to contest publicly the repressive and criminalizing
power of their opponents.
This result may be due to particular legal and cultural aspects of the
Peruvian context, but it could apply elsewhere, where activists face the
combination of criminalizing discourses, repressive legal frameworks and
little access to media that can influence the public debate. At least in Peru,
the risk of being framed as a violent criminal may be a stronger explanation
for activists’ adoption of civil resistance than the value of framing them-
selves as nonviolent in order to solicit outsider support. And while Peru-
level systemic pressures lead to this transformation, case-level contextual
factors alter its extent and quality. For example, the cases show that com-
pany actors’ behaviour (whether they are repressive or more open) impacts
the kinds of transformation adopted, as well as the potential effects of
actors’ civil resistance methods.
In the following pages, I make this argument in three steps. The first
section details the theoretical, cultural and legal terrain of the study. It
surveys both the literature and the political context that may help to
answer why some of Peru’s resource conflicts become more violent, and
how violent conflicts transform away from violence. The second part of
the chapter provides summaries of two cases of gold mining in northern
Peru, which are constructed drawing on a qualitative, systematic analysis
of ethnographic observations, interviews and archives. The cases, repre-
sentative of conflicts over formal gold mining in Peru, were selected
because of their range of variation on factors such as corporate strategies,
state repression, outside attention, media contestation and social move-
ment tactics. For all their similarities, each case offers a different conflict
process, and their contrast reveals useful theoretical insights.6 The third
For more on these case-level differences across key factors or variables, please see Table 9.1.
6
part provides a comparative analysis and conclusions. There, I discuss the

implications and limitations of this analysis, and offer some routes for
future research into transformations to civil resistance.
Theory in Context: Contentious Mining

and Violence in Peru
The recent and tremendous expansion of extractive industries in the global

South has fed and enriched theoretical debates about the causes of
extraction-related conflicts.7 However, a key problem is that most of these
works mistakenly conceive of conflict as equivalent to violence, and thus
ignore how resource conflicts might escalate and intensify in nonviolent
ways (see WRI 2009, 47).8 A separate, extensive body of research has
theorized the reasons behind the adoption of violent escalation in other
contexts.9 Yet these explanations are predominantly structural. They omit
and obscure the important role of local agency. Therefore, literature on
civil resistance is instructive here, as it presents a ground-up framework to
7
Common explanations, from within as well as outside Peru, can be roughly classified
according to their focal points: institutions, structures and agents. The first of these point to
the negative impacts of resource abundance on democracy and development (Arellano-
Yanguas 2008; Karl 1997; Ross 1999), such as inefficient and exclusionary institutions
(Meléndez 2005; Ponce and McClintock 2014) and eroded state credibility as a mediator of
company-community relations (Puma and Bedoya 2015; Urkidi and Walter 2011). Structural
explanations centre on the unequal distribution of the benefits and burdens of extraction
(Arce 2014; Bebbington et al. 2008) and on social and economic dislocations (Bury 2004;
Salas 2008; Weyland 2002). Third, studies focused on agents signal competition among local
political factions (Arellano-Yanguas 2011), environmental ideologies (Bebbington and
Bebbington 2009; Taylor 2011), and claims about territorial autonomy and identity (Greene
2006; Treakle 1998; Vásquez 2014).
8
One example of this conflation, within the literature on contentious politics, is the cor-
relation—likely multi-directional—between state repression and violent protests (Fox 1996;
Ondetti 2006). However, protesters rarely respond to repression with riots, looting, prop-
erty damage or violence (Huizer 1972).
9
Violent outbursts result from a large number of possible, highly contingent factors. An
issue with some of these foci is over-determination. For example, while attention to griev-
ances is useful, these exist in much of the world, but they rarely lead people to violence. In
contrast to this overly deterministic perspective, scholars such as Donatella della Porta (2006)
have provided path-breaking, contextualized insights into the role of friendship and kinship
groups in violent activism, noting that young militants are radicalized by group pressures,
social status and personal significance.
study the ideas, conversations, learning environments, institutions, prac-

tices and symbolic systems of non-elites who are moved into political
action (see Ackerman and Rodal 2008), despite their cultural or political
differences and despite the risk of violent repression or authoritarianism
(Martin 1993; Nepstad 2011; Roberts 1967; Schock 2004).
Civil resistance literature suggests social movements’ internal pro-
cesses—including leadership structures, cohesion, decision-making and
collective learning—may explain their transformation from violent and
spontaneous actions to organized, “disciplined,” and intentionally nonvi-
olent resistance (Dudouet 2014, 2015; MacLeod 2015). For instance,
Pearlman (2012) has argued that groups can sometimes build cohesion
and discipline to remain nonviolent, despite intensifying political pressure
and even violence from actors with more influence or firepower.10
This same body of work has elaborated the importance of media as a
witness in situations of violent repression. News coverage of excessive use
of force against activists can encourage public indignation, defection and
resistance, thereby increasing activist recruitment and tipping the balance
of power towards activists (Chenoweth and Stephan 2011; Sutton et al.
2014). This “backfire” effect of repression is most effective when activists
can maintain a frame of legitimacy or “righteousness” by using unarmed
resistance (Hess and Martin 2006; Martin 2006).
The effort to attract support is therefore tightly linked with the will or
capacity to remain nonviolent (Martin and Varney 2003; Gould and Moe
2012). An extension of this argument is that the search for favourable
attention and support from third-party audiences may be a key incentive
for activists to shift from violent tactics to civil resistance. The need for
outside support could have this disciplining function, but the cases I stud-
ied suggest that movements have multiple other incentives to shift their
tactics, even when they lack access to sympathetic media.
10
They might do this because they perceive institutions as corrupt and unaccountable
(Beyerle 2011, 2014), because their ideas of justice surpass their fear of repression
(Thalhammer 2007), because they think of these methods to be superior to others, both
ethically and strategically (Chenoweth and Stephan 2011; Coy 2013; Helvey 2004; Sharp
2005; Zunes 1999), and even because performances and spectacles of “mischief with a pur-
pose” are attractive, entertaining and help to define their social identities (Crawshaw and
Jackson 2010, 15). The factors that attract people to civil resistance are clearly embedded in
systems of symbolic meaning, encompassing identities, ideologies, commitments and
justifications.
Peru’s political context and legal framework may hold additional clues
about the behaviour of activist movements. This context consists of three
relevant and interrelated factors: First, Peru has one of the most extractive
industry-friendly legislative frameworks in Latin America. Second, judicial
authorities—police and courts—have licence to inflict harsh punishment
on protest. And third, Peru’s media, politics and economics have generated
an industry-friendly hegemonic discourse. Each of these factors and their
possible effects deserve some brief elaboration.
Peru’s Extractive Framework

As is clear from its concentration of the world’s mining investment, as well
as the importance of this sector on its macro-economic growth since lib-
eralization in the 1990s,11 Peru has adopted one of Latin America’s most
neoliberal, no-holds-barred approaches to regulate resource extraction.
Although mining law has existed and been reformed several times since
before Peru’s independence from Spain (see Morales and Morante 2009),
the 1990s mark a profound shift in Peru’s institutional design to accom-
modate mining investment. Alberto Fujimori’s administration (1990–2000)
enacted a series of liberalizing reforms meant to attract investment and
reduce the regulations seen as a “barrier” to it.12 In addition to changes in
the tax and customs codes, legislative decrees 662, 664 and 818 created a
framework for private, largely foreign investment in natural resource
exports (Thorp and Zevallos 2001). More forcefully, Legislative Decree
708 in 1991 established mining as an activity of “national interest,” and
modified a wide range of previous labour, land and environmental regula-
tions to fast-track mining concessions, construction and expansions.13
In the meantime, the world price of metals steadily climbed, reaching
record highs by 2013, all along creating a powerful incentive for the state
11
In 2015, minerals represented roughly 65% of Peru’s export income. Gold alone repre-
sented 16%, making it the second largest mineral source of Peru’s income, after copper
(23.5%) (see OEC 2017).
12
A common word for these regulations nowadays is “trabas,” which literally means
obstructions.
13
Production boomed and the value of Peru’s mineral exports grew by 6000% during the
1990s (Damonte 2012). From 1990 to 2011, over 300 foreign mining firms established a
base in Peru (Gurmendi 2011).
and mining companies to pursue and expand operations. In turn, subse-

quent governments have maintained, expanded and mildly modified these
codes (see Arellano-Yanguas 2016). Alan García’s government
(2006–2011) altered forestry laws and indigenous land rights in a series of
reforms that became the central concern of the 2009 protests in the
Amazonian province of Bagua, where indigenous-led protesters occupied
roads and an oil duct. That particular conflict resulted in 33 deaths in one
day (Defensoría del Pueblo 2009). Later on, the quintessential example of
these kinds of legal changes under Ollanta Humala’s presidency
(2011–2016) is a series of reform “packages”14 the government approved
in 2014, which, among other things, allow the executive to dispose of
protected reservoirs and communal lands.
Instrumentalizing Law to Punish Protest

The reforms outlined above resulted in a vast expansion of mining invest-
ment, and were succeeded by an explosion of socio-environmental con-
flicts in the country. In 2004, when the total value of mining investment
in Peru was about 1 billion USD, Peru was beset by less than 50 socio-
environmental conflicts. Six years later, when mining investment amounted
to 4 billion USD, the ombudsperson registered about 120 socio-
environmental conflicts (Damonte 2012, 110). Successive governments
adopted slow and uneven responses to these conflicts. One positive step
was the creation of a dialogue and conflict resolution agency, created
under Humala. However, Humala’s approach to protests remained heavy-
handed. While carrying a discourse of dialogue, his government reacted to
rising levels of conflict by expanding police and courts’ authority to punish
protesters. In the words of a human rights attorney, the penal code was
“instrumentalized” to prosecute protestors, delegitimize movement lead-
ers and facilitate police repression (CNDH 2014).
A key example of this was the 2013 law 30151, known as the “license
to kill” law, which gave police the right to kill protesters. Separately, many
activists detained by the armed forces alleged that they were tortured
14
Critics refer pejoratively to these cluster reforms as “paquetazos ambientales,” which
could be blandly translated as “environmental packages,” but the term connotes, because of
the -azos suffix, both magnitude and the action of striking or hitting (e.g., as in latigazos,
which means “lashes from a whip”).
while in custody.15 But the less publicized forms of repression through

courts, rather than through police violence in the streets, are equally prob-
lematic. Whereas the criminalization of protest under the Fujimori regime
was already heavy-handed, and often excused under a context of the inter-
nal armed conflict against terrorist groups (spanning roughly between
1980 and 2000), this was deepened by the García and even more the
Humala administrations (Triscritti 2012).16 García’s judiciary added quali-
fiers to the penal code such as “extortion” and “hostile groups,” both of
which were used to crush resistance movements such as the Bagua
indigenous- led protests (Vásquez 2012). As of March 2016, in the
Cajamarca region alone, more than 300 activists were criminally processed
on charges ranging from disturbing the peace to support for terrorism.17
Media Bias and Hegemonic Discourses

The third legal factor that makes Peru a particularly contentious context is
the insufficient regulation of corporate media. Namely, the Peruvian state
has permitted the concentration of media into monopolies such as Grupo
Comercio, which controls 78% of print newspapers as well as a large share
of other broadcast media (Fowks 2013). This allows the big players in the
15
Key cases of these allegations of police-inflicted torture on detained protesters include
those of Marco Arana, congressperson since 2016 and, prior to that, a key leader of the pro-
tests against Yanacocha in Cajamarca, and of Antonio Coasaca, a farmer detained during a
protest against the Tía María mine. Besides being beaten under police custody, Coasaca was
also the subject of an exposed attempt by national police to plant weapons on him, incrimi-
nate him and frame him as a violent protestor—all with the full complicity of the nationwide
daily El Correo (El Búho 2015; CNDH 2015).
16
According to officials from the National Dialogue and Sustainability Office, García’s
approach towards mining protests borrowed heavily from the state’s approach in dealing
with the Sendero Luminoso terrorist group. That militarized response to internal insurgent
groups, infamous for its scant regard for human rights, shaped the response to mining con-
flicts. I would like to thank Kent Eaton for this insight.
17
That these charges are often trumped up to dissuade other protestors is apparent in cases
where members of the rondas campesinas—rural vigilante groups whose authority and juris-
diction are recognized by the Peruvian constitution—are being tried for “kidnapping” when
they arguably have a legitimate right to detain suspects and turn them over to police. One
example, among many, is the case of Dina Mendoza, a well-known social organizer and com-
munity leader who participated in a water march and was condemned to four years in jail
(although she was given a suspended sentence) and a fine of 3000 soles (about 1000 USD)
for obstructing public roads. (Mirtha Vásquez, personal interview, March 12, 2016.)
corporate sector to corner and dominate the public debate over politically
salient issues, such as mining-related conflicts. To put it one way, Peruvian
corporate media are concentrated, economically entangled (because they
belong to conglomerates that often have direct investments in mining),
bought (because they receive advertisement revenues from mining com-
panies) and ideological (almost uniformly pro-business).
What could be the effects of this on how social movements behave?
Scholars who have analysed the role of communication and media in
Peru’s resource conflicts recognize that there is a hegemonic—although
highly contested—pro-mining discourse in Peru’s mainstream media and
public debate (Damonte 2014; Macassi and Acevedo 2015). My analysis
confirms this. Peru’s established media, corporate public relations and
official ideology (manifested in policies, official pronouncements and poli-
ticians’ speeches) have entrenched a highly circulated rhetoric consisting
of two general positions: first, that mining is central to Peru’s identity and
that the country’s natural endowments must be utilized to foster invest-
ment and grow its economy; and second, that Peru’s infamous resource
conflicts are caused by shady protestors who are “anti-mining,” “violent,”
“anti-development,” and even “environmental terrorists”—“criminals”
who, motivated by greed and ignorance, are denying their country and its
people the development they rightly deserve.18
These contested discourses may drive conflict escalation and erode res-
olution efforts, especially the dismissive and polarizing tones with which
state officials and media pundits portray mining-related activists as violent
ideologues, corrupt manipulators, or ignorant and manipulated. Their
narratives not only miss the nuances of conflict, but also exacerbate dis-
trust and alienation.19 Such effects are harsh in Peru, where the recent and
18
Out of many examples of this, a recent and exemplary case is the rhetoric adopted by the
right-wing economist Hernando de Soto. In mid-2016, de Soto publicized the notion of
mining-related activism as being a “Sendero verde” or a “green” version of the Shining Path
guerrilla. In his words, “they are former terrorists who have fulfilled their sentences. They are
not armed. They are all ecologists.” This same rhetoric has since been adopted by other
media observers (see La República 2016.)
19
In my experience and my lecture, the vast majority of protesters are not anti-miners.
During my fieldwork, I heard repeatedly that people do not oppose extraction, but rather
seek fair treatment. And in some cases, people in favour of extractive projects are the ones
who organize protests (Bebbington et al. 2008: 2893). In short, the idea that protesters are
“violent anti-miners,” working knowingly or ignorantly for some “NGO conspiracy” against
the country’s heroic impresarios, might be easy to digest and to sell. However, it reduces and
divisive experience of internal armed conflict gives terms like “violence’

and “terrorism” a particular cultural resonance. Alas, due to ideological
bias and economic interest in selling “violence” as a spectacle, media have
exaggerated the violent aspects of these conflicts while erasing their non-
violent aspects. In sum, contested and mainstreamed discourses are cen-
tral—but in uneven, not perfectly straightforward ways—to Peru’s social
conflicts, and perhaps especially its natural resource conflicts.
Contentious politics take place on physical, legal and discursive levels.
Resource conflicts are notoriously at the centre of Peru’s political agenda,
and media figures frequently refer to them as “our daily bread.”20 Their
complexity cannot be fully captured if they are not analytically situated
within Peru’s economic model, legal framework and public discourses. In a
setting marked by extractivism, repression and monopolized debates, it is no
surprise that mining conflicts become explosive so often. Because of the
varying levels of violence and the multiplicity of contested narratives that
have emerged around them, Peru’s resource conflicts have generated unique
patterns in the links between discourse and material circumstances.
Cases of Gold Mining

Mining in Peru has generated an alarming rate of conflict. Given the num-
ber and diversity of these conflicts, they present a prime context in which
to study movement strategies in subnational politics. In other words,
when the stakes are not bringing down a dictator or a regime, but instead
are about resource use, redistribution and broader claims about sustain-
able development, why do people resort to one type of tactics versus
another? To answer this question, between 2014 and 2016 I conducted
14 months of field-intensive, ethnographic and comparative research of
several cases of gold mining in northern Peru, out of which two are anal-
ysed here.21 I interviewed more than 230 people, attended dozens of
harms the complex relations between diverse actors in state institutions, companies, local
groups and outside organizations. On the other hand, many interviewees, some even from
the mining sector, recognized these problems of adopting conspiratorial, demeaning and
polarizing discourses.
20
I heard this repeatedly from Lima-based radio and newspapers (e.g., see Ruíz and Pérez
2007).
21
I surveyed conflicts specifically about gold given this mineral’s particularly contentious
properties, which are mainly due to two factors. First is the touted importance of gold for
Peru’s export income and macro-economic growth. One-fifth of the country’s export
events and processes, and collected more than 900 documents.22 The
summaries below are constructed from critical analysis of these sources.
La Zanja: Media Frames, Criminalization and Slow Learning

In the final decade of the twentieth century, farmers in the Andean region
of Cajamarca in northern Peru entered what would become a heated,
region-wide struggle against large mines. Cajamarca was already home to
South America’s largest gold mine, Minera Yanacocha, which had drawn
protests since the mid-1990s.23 Nonetheless, the companies that owned
Yanacocha (Denver-based Newmont and Lima-based Buenaventura)
began exploration in the isolated province of Santa Cruz in 1998.24 Under
the name Minera La Zanja, they purchased lands and installed a campsite
atop a mountain headwater—a water source for communities extending to
the Pacific coast.
income derives from gold alone. As of 2013, Peru was the world’s sixth largest gold pro-
ducer, and it had been the largest in Latin America since 1996 (Triscritti 2013). The second
factor is the immense disparity in the distribution of its benefits and burdens—for example,
while gold extraction is known to be hugely destructive to soil and water in the areas of
extraction, its monetary gains are highly concentrated. Additionally, gold carries a symbolic
salience historically (i.e., one in which it is associated with Pizarro’s conquest of the Inca) and
economically (where gold is typically associated with prestige, victory and luxury). It there-
fore embodies an epicentre of symbolic and material contestation.
22
Interviews cast a broad net, and include mining area residents in various occupations;
movement leaders and participants; mining employees, managers and executives; members
of local, national and international organizations (such as Cooperacción, EarthWorks, the
US Agency for International Development, the World Bank’s International Finance
Corporation and Earth Rights International); government officials, in various levels and
offices; and journalists and academics (including those near the mines, in regional capitals
and in Lima). Archived documents include stakeholder publications, signed agreements,
proclamations and hundreds of news media clippings.
23
Early protests decried the low prices the company paid for land. Then in 2000, a semi-
trailer carrying mercury from the mine spilled its contents on several miles of a road, includ-
ing near the urban centre of Choropampa, where at the time of writing residents continue to
suffer from the health effects of mercury poisoning. For more on the spill in Choropampa,
see the New York Times’ (2010) follow-up coverage.
24
Newmont owns 51.35% of Yanacocha, Buenaventura has 43.65% and the World Bank’s
International Finance Corporation owns 5%. In contrast, La Zanja is a dual-partnership, in
which Buenaventura is the majority holder and operator (with 53% of stocks), and Newmont
is the minority shareholder (47%).
Locals in the mine’s district, Pulán, began by registering complaints to

municipal and regional authorities, although their communities were
divided. About one-third of people in the area supported the mining
firm’s entrance, according to one resident, but most were concerned
about issues of water availability and quality, vis-à-vis the possibilities of
scarcity and pollution.25 A strong protest movement was formed, although
its rallies were localized and ignored. The area received little attention
from the regional government—located eight hours away via muddy,
mountainous roads—and even less from the central government in Lima.
They also lacked contact with the then loose network of non-governmental
organizations that today is active in most of Peru’s mining conflicts.
Tired of being ignored, the movement escalated tensions. The local
association of rondas campesinas organized a strike and a protest near the
company’s campsite in November 16, 2004. Hundreds of people walked
the 15 kilometres uphill from Pulán, nearby neighbourhoods, and adja-
cent provinces. Some people used cars and motorcycles to shuttle others.
Once atop the mountain, a large crowd of protesters gathered and sur-
rounded the camp. They chanted and issued an ultimatum to the com-
pany. But the miners were prepared. First, company security opened fire at
the protesters, killing the rondero activist Juan Montenegro Lingán. Then,
with a camera recording from within the campsite, the company and its
private security awaited the local’s response, which was immediate. The
enraged protesters advanced into the campsite and set fire to vehicles,
mineral samples, computers and other property. The company swiftly
released edited videos from the event, and media outlets reported on the
“barbaric,” “radical” and “violent” nature of these “attacks”.26
Company supporters claimed that some protesters carried weapons,
such as field hunting rifles. However, one witness told me that most only
had sticks and stones.27 One industry consultant suggested that the left-
wing party Patria Roja was paying and arming protesters.28 An executive
from Buenaventura accused the protesters of firing weapons and
25
Anonymous, personal interview, March 28, 2016.
26
Journalists’ language is indicative. La República reported how “the attack that locals
effected last night on the La Zanja campsite left one person dead and various wounded”
(Mayorga and Roncal 2004).
27
Robert Santillán, personal interview, March 11, 2016.
28
Adolfo Orejuela Chirinos, personal interview, March 8, 2016.
throwing rocks.29 And in separate interviews, several Buenaventura offi-

cers claimed that the protesters were interested in keeping out the proj-
ect because they were drug traffickers, who did not want the attention
and progress that the mine would bring.30 I investigated, but could not
confirm the presence of drug producers in the area.
Five days after the confrontation at the campsite, a popular assembly was
held in the provincial capital of Santa Cruz. In attendance were members of
labour unions from across the region, as was Roberto Becerra Mondragón—
at the time, the mayor of Tongod district and one of 26 people wanted for
arrest for allegedly burning the campsite.31 The Lima-based newspaper La
República mentioned the strike and interviewed Buenaventura’s CEO,
Roque Benavides, who reminded the public, “We have authorization from
the state, the deeds to the surface lands; our projects are developed in accor-
dance with the law. Our country has its rules and laws, which we respect.
However, we are conscious that we must respect the rights of locals, who
decide to use force.” He continued, “We are against violence. We believe
intelligent people do not opt for aggression. I opt for the development of
Santa Cruz, Cajamarca, and Peru” (Roncal 2004).
The local movement opted for an institutional and electoral strategy.
First, they pressured the district government in Pulán to create a conserva-
tion zone protecting the site, prohibiting the mine, but a federal law later
removed this authority from municipalities, and the decision was over-
turned. Meanwhile, another one of Buenaventura and Newmont’s pro-
spective projects in Cajamarca, at Cerro Quilish, generated a conflict that
resulted in that project’s suspension. Reading the tense environment
across the region, Minera La Zanja allowed for a period of cool-down.
They left the area for a couple of years before returning with a new s trategy:
the firm sent academic consultants from the regional capital and from the
Lima-based development organization FADRE to win the hearts and
minds of the communities in the area.32
29
Anonymous, personal interview, February 11, 2016.
30
Jimmy Guarnizo, personal interview, February 11, 2016.
31
La República’s journalist wrote that “The Court of San Miguel has issued arrest warrants
for 26 locals who were found guilty of the fire in the mining campsite, damaging the
Buenaventura company” (emphasis added). Perhaps the word choice (“were found guilty”
versus “are suspects”) is a minor detail, an unconscious mistake attributed to lack of legal
expertise—but it is still inaccurate and criminalizing.
32
Rodolfo Orejuela Chirinos, personal interview, March 8, 2016.
In 2007, as the mining project regained steam, organizations from the

area staged a two-week strike demanding the withdrawal of the La Zanja
campsite. Later that same year, locals and an environmental organization
documented the deaths of 5000 trouts in the river Pisit—allegedly due to
lead poisoning from the miners’ exploration activities. The resistance to La
Zanja also managed to elect one of its leaders, Salatiel Romero Malca, as
the mayor of Pulán. His signature was now legally required for the project
to move forward. However, a few months after his election, Romero died
in a car accident, leading to allegations of foul play and distrust in the
community (El Maletero 2007).
The following year, the company arranged to have a mandatory public
audience to present its EIA to nearby communities, but thousands of
farmers were not allowed to enter the meeting. According to a journalist
present, “[the company] had bussed people in from their other mines.
They removed everyone who had gotten there early, then only let in peo-
ple who had an invitation—and only their employees had invitations.”33
Police surrounded the facilities, creating a barrier between attendees and
the consultation. The clamouring of the protesters outside made it impos-
sible for those inside to hear the presentation, and the company left within
an hour, declaring the meeting a success. Upon hearing that the EIA had
gained state approval, protesters blockaded the road from the regional
capital to Santa Cruz in November 2008. In 2010, despite street block-
ades and declarations of opposition to mining, the regional president
announced the project’s renewal (EJA 2014).
Since the mine was built, conflicts over work, contracts and water qual-
ity have sparked again in 2013 and 2015. In 2013 a long-time local leader,
Estinaldo Quispe Mego, was given a sentence of four years in jail, allegedly
for disrupting the public order. In jail he was beaten and tortured, denied
medical treatment and threatened with death. Meanwhile, his partner
back in Santa Cruz was also subject to intimidating calls. Another promi-
nent environmental leader and head of the opposition to La Zanja, Carlos
Vásquez Becerra, was found dead on June 26, 2013. A member of the
mothers’ club in Pulán remembered this as the second mysterious death of
a resistance leader in the area, alluding to the suspicions about the former
mayor’s death in a car accident.34
33
Anonymous member of Cajamarca’s regional government, personal interview, March 8,
2016.
34
Anonymous member of the mothers’ club, personal interview, March 27, 2016.
Some media covered the confrontations with police in 2013, but

focused on how protesters threw rocks at police. The tone in reports of
the events is surprisingly partial, defending or failing to mention how
police fired at protesters (e.g., see La República’s coverage: Jara 2013).
Most of the activists with whom I spoke were acutely aware about the
criminalizing, delegitimizing language that had been used against their
movement. They reported their rejection of all forms of violence, and
some turned this narrative on its head, accusing of “terrorism” those who
impose extractive projects against the will of locals. “We want to organize
and not fall in acts that may seem violent, because they’ll paint us as ter-
rorists. We want peaceful demonstrations, etc. We hope international
NGOs will get interested in helping and that we can do all of this,” said a
man in Pulán.35
It is clear that the threat of harsh repression played an important role in
activists’ thinking during this time, but their opposition did not end.
Rather, they found ways to resist the mining project while minimizing
their risk, such as through non-cooperation. A group in Pulán noted how
they refused to provide food to mining affiliates. Other interviewees said
the ronderos detained a woman working for FADRE, the NGO hired by
Buenaventura to “work on development projects” in the region, and
forced her to drink from the water stream that descends from the mine to
their town. She became very ill and never went back.36
Case specificities shaped the type and extent of activists’ tactical shift.
Compared to other cases, the movements that have resisted La Zanja have
been subjected to harsher repression. At least two people died because of
their activism, and a third died under suspicious circumstances. Many pro-
testers were criminally prosecuted and even jailed. This may explain the
movement’s failure to prevent the mine’s construction. Still, as of 2016,
conflict is latent in the districts near the mine. Activists reported the diffi-
culty in mobilizing their communities, but resentment against the company
among area residents was widespread. Many people said they felt betrayed
by the promises of development and economic assistance, and bitter about
repression and pollution.37
35
Anonymous environmental activist, personal interview, March 28, 2016.
36
Anonymous, personal interview, March 27, 2016.
37
Anonymous group of elderly women, personal interviews, March 4, 2016.
The movement appeared deflated, but many continue to organize.

Local leaders were conscious of their need to exercise self-control against
police provocations. Moreover, when public activism and organizing
became dangerous as a result of repression and criminalization, locals
found creative ways to resist the mine’s operation. The overall and quite
noticeable change in strategies as the conflict developed suggests perhaps
a “learning process” resulting from a violent confrontation and subse-
quent repression. All of this was occurring within a context of broader
tensions in Cajamarca as a whole; so in many ways the movements that
formed against otherwise-isolated projects gradually learned from one
another—even across regional boundaries. As one small example of this,
one interviewee mentioned how a delegation of activists organizing against
mining in nearby Tambogrande in fact attended a meeting in Cajamarca
hosted by anti-Yanacocha protesters.38
Lagunas Norte: A Complicated Set of Lessons

Barrick, the world’s largest gold-producing company, discovered deposits
in La Libertad region’s highlands in the early 2001. At the time, it drew
protests from nearby Andean communities. Many of the people in the
company’s impact area practised subsistence agriculture, but many also
worked seasonally in one of the region’s few mines. Barrick proposed to
build its mine in a headwater zone containing dozens of lakes, and the
state’s agency in charge of mining granted the concession.
Locals’ concerns at the time centred on water which they identified as
a source of identity, ancestral heritage and life. Much of the water in the
concession area’s lakes descended towards both the coast and the Amazon,
supplying farmers, small towns and cities along the way. But Barrick
already had experience establishing a large mine in Peru, and it acted
quickly: it offered petty cash and jobs to many local families, and the pro-
tests largely ceded. In the meantime, it took advantage of reforms to
mining law that accelerated the project approval process. It declared its
requirement to hold public audiences complete in 2003, and began oper-
ating by mid-2005. The Lagunas Norte project would soon become one
of the ten largest gold mines in the world.
38
Anonymous academic and social movement leader in Cajamarca, personal interview,
February 29, 2016.
The mine was located near a district with a long tradition of mining,
dating to the colonial period, which made resistance difficult to organize.
But when the company courted the idea of expanding operations to some
of the area’s lakes, starting in 2011, a movement having broad support
from the provinces around the mine (Santiago de Chuco, Otuzco and
Sánchez Carrión) was formed. Many interviewees cited anger stemming
from unfulfilled promises, overpriced and useless “corporate social respon-
sibility” programmes and health concerns as the reasons behind this con-
flict wave.39 Others reported that their initial indignation resulted from
realizing that the company had “taken advantage” of those who sold land
to the company, locals persuaded to accept a fraction of their lands’
worth.40 And this time, the movement was larger than the initial opposi-
tion. It had the support of at least one district mayor, as well as urban and
rural residents, farmers, young activists, women and even the area’s sea-
sonal miners. The words of one company employee summarized what
many interviewers expressed, when he said that his community supported
mining, “but these lakes are untouchable.”41
The way the company handled this conflict is key. Noting the economic
costs caused by the strike, Barrick quelled the protest by offering private
contracts and cash to opponents, and by staging a “dialogue table” in
which it verbally agreed to finance various construction projects.42 This
established a pattern of conflict that would reignite again in 2013 and
2015. In each of these conflict waves, the company responded to physical
disruption such as roadblocks by adopting the same slow, state-mediated
and not-binding process of installing a dialogue table. Because they were
slow and the promises reached during these negotiations were not binding,
in the words of many interviewees, these dialogue tables appeared like a
strategy of conflict avoidance, rather than of resolution. “Roadblocks are
the only way for [protesters] to be heard, but then the company makes
promise after promise, and it all stays in paper. This is how they shut the
39
Anonymous official in the municipal development office, personal interview, November
11, 2015.
40
Anonymous local attorney, personal interview, November 9, 2015.
41
Anonymous rondero and miner, personal interview, November 12, 2015.
42
However, an area mayor lamented how the company provided very little of the work
opportunities and social development investment it had promised to quell conflict. He also
argued that the social movement had not been violent, unlike police. Anonymous area
mayor, personal interview, November 9, 2015.
people up,” said a man in the natural resources department of a local

municipality. “They make promises, get people drunk, and that’s it.”43
Not surprisingly, then, as in the La Zanja case, strikes and road block-
ades have been recurrent in the conflict surrounding Lagunas Norte. The
strike in June 2015 was violently dispersed by police. Barrick’s lowest-paid
workers and their families, including women and children, were demand-
ing higher wages and more opportunities for the area’s mine employees.
Their strike involved withdrawing their work as well as blocking access to
the mine’s entrance, which they did for two weeks before national and
regional police were sent to break up the blockade. Police opened fire, and
younger activists responded by throwing rocks and setting fire to company
vehicles and equipment.
The flames acted as a vindicator for the use of force, and police injured
dozens of protesters. The limited media coverage of the event focused on the
confrontation, barely mentioning the movement’s goals (see Castro 2015;
UCV Satelital 2015). Afterwards, the movement’s leaders agreed to no lon-
ger allow youths to their actions, realizing the cost of these activists’ reaction.
They instituted an innovative rule for their protests: they ensured that only
people who had been debriefed on their rules of engagement could attend
their actions by requiring them to show their state-issued ID cards.44 This is
an impressive type of innovation, learning not to play into the trap of provo-
cation, and is likely tied to the strength of local organizations and the move-
ment’s representativeness. However, this case adds nuance to the theory I am
proposing, which bears qualification because many interviewees also said that
the lesson of these rounds of conflict was that only violence could help make
their voices heard.45 It is useful to interrogate what the activists who felt vio-
lent tactics were necessary truly meant by violence; certainly, property dam-
age is not on the same analytical level as attacks on human beings, even if it
does carry a symbolic aggression and causes physical damage.
It is noteworthy that some of the people with whom I spoke and spent
time seemed to believe that violence was not only a way to get attention
from others, but also a tool to legitimize themselves and to mobilize locals.
Repressive laws, the trigger-happy behaviour of police actors and Barrick’s
43
Anonymous municipal environmental officer, personal interview, November 11, 2015.
44
Anonymous official in the municipal development office, personal interview, November
11, 2015.
45
Anonymous Ministry of Energy and Mining official, personal interview, November 23,
2016; anonymous rondero and activist, personal interview, November 13, 2016.
conflict management strategies pushed actors in multiple directions, even

among the groups involved in this single conflict. The idea that violence is
the only way to garner attention shows that the lessons of these conflicts
have been mixed. It is useful to question whether resources or attention
from outside allies could alter this. Several contacts within NGOs in the
global North intuited this during our conversations, but previous research
has shown that neither is a sufficient explanation for movements’ tactical
transformations (Dudouet 2015). For the time being, it does not appear
that the lessons learned uniformly pointed towards nonviolent resistance
in this case (see Table 9.1).
Table 9.1 Civil resistance in the cases

La Zanja (Buenaventura/ Lagunas Norte (Barrick Gold)
Newmont)
Movement narratives Ecological opposition Ecological opposition

(pre-construction), then (pre-construction), then
protests to attain company protests against expansion and
concessions to demand concessions
Leadership Leadership from mining- Medium-to-high
representativeness and service contractors in the representativeness, cross-
legitimacy community provincial legitimacy
Direct actions and From property destruction Road blockades, but now
tactical innovation (2004) to road blockades, requiring activists’ ID cards to
other disruption, and everyday ensure cohesion and discipline
non-cooperation at protests
Communication Province-level radio, but Province-level radio; some
strategies and media diluted within the region’s regional coverage, but it focuses
interventions context of polarized mining solely on violent confrontations
discourses
Role of external actors Hardly any present, and no Hardly any present, and no
resources directed towards resources directed towards
assisting local groups assisting local groups
Company management Philanthropy plus reliance on Philanthropy plus reliance on
of the conflict police, division of locals, police, criminalization of
alleged intimidation and other opponents, alleged intimidation
forms of coercion
Level of repression Very high—Deaths, injuries, High—No deaths, but police
intimidation, & legal violence, injuries, & legal
persecution persecution
Presence of backfire None—Repression, low Mixed—Repression has
attention and divisions have provoked property damage, but
been demobilizing also outrage and resistance
Nonviolent discipline Medium—Gradual and Medium—Protesters are divided
ongoing, slowly becoming but many are striving to change
institutionalized tactics
Lessons, Challenges and Future Agenda

This study sheds light on some of the learning processes that explain why
groups might adopt a transformation of tactics, from impromptu riots or
violent responses to police provocation, to disciplined and strictly nonvio-
lent means of struggle. At least since Mohandas Gandhi, copious works
have argued that media representations are key to waging successful strug-
gles, and that civil resistance is particularly suited to getting the right cov-
erage or frame in media.46 Images of people courageously standing up to
injustice, refusing to be provoked by violent reprisals, can spark moral
outrage among audiences. This erodes the aggressors’ authority and gen-
erates support for the movement. Activists can rely on this dynamic to
reach a “critical mass” of support and tip the balance of power in their
favour. But what happens when access to media is severely constrained,
and indeed most media are resolutely pro-mining? Then, a shift towards
nonviolence is less about cultivating allies, and more about the dangers of
repression. Such repression is not only justified by, but also the outcome
of, a polarized and criminalizing discourse.
Discursive Contention in Context

Analysing the cultural context of post-conflict Peru is crucial to under-
standing the strategic choices that movements there have made. First of
all, Peru has only recently emerged from a period of internal armed con-
flict, during which many people directly and indirectly experienced some
form of political violence from the state or from armed groups.47 One
legacy of this conflict is that words such as “violence” and “terrorism” are
loaded concepts that resonate with recent memory, carry a certain weight
and hold a lot of power to remove public legitimacy.
46
Gandhi himself was influenced by Tolstoy, as well as by Jainism’s principle of ahimsa, or
nonviolence. However, scholars have found a far longer history of nonviolent resistance tra-
ditions in many parts of the world, including in Islamic and Christian teachings (see
Bartkowski 2013).
47
About 69,280 people died as a result of this conflict, and countless people were injured
and otherwise affected by it. Throughout the conflict, Peruvians endured terrorism, corrup-
tion and authoritarianism. For a thorough review, see the Truth and Reconciliation
Commission’s final report (CVR 2003).
A second but likewise key aspect of Peru’s political, cultural and institu-
tional context is the hegemonic influence of mining interests. Industrial-
managerial groups, lobbies and conferences are only some of the sites in
which Peru’s extractive economic model is unquestionable. It seems that the
state also internalized this model as a sort of official ideology that cuts across
the country’s main parties. Peru is not the only Latin American country to
have adopted an extractive economy, but its reliance on it has been critical, as
is clear from the low tolerance it shows towards dissent to extraction.
Meanwhile, concentrated, economically entangled and ideological
media have reinforced the importance of mining for development. In
political speeches, news media, networking websites and public discus-
sions, extractive capitalism is touted as beneficial and advantageous to “the
nation” as a whole. Such narratives are contested, especially by left-wing
politicians, activist groups, ecological organizations and alternative media.
However, these opponents’ access to media pales in comparison with that
of mining advocates, as can be measured through both large-scale public
opinion polls and more specific speech events and interactions. Whether
one analyses everyday conversations, online commentary or mass surveys,
the prevalence of pro-mining attitudes becomes quickly apparent.
Pro-mining discourses pit those who would criticize extractive projects
as standing against the country and its people. Protesters become obsta-
cles to the right of all Peruvians to progress and embrace modernity. Seen
as enemies, they can be treated as “second-class” (as Alan García referred
to the indigenous protesters at Bagua), and as “ungrievable” or undeserv-
ing of empathy (Butler 2009). This otherizing power has real repercus-
sions, blatant and subtle: it helps to justify repression, which takes place
both through police violence and court sentences; but it also leads com-
mentators to—strategically and sometimes unthinkingly—adopt blasé
criminalizing tones (e.g., referring to protestors as violent and guilty
before a court formulates a decision). These accusations and the physical
punishment that they justify strongly influence resistance movements’
contentious strategies, especially in their responses to police attacks.
Both the legacies of recent conflict and the hegemonic power of mining
interests over legislation and public discourse have repercussions on Peru’s
political institutions and everyday practice. The former has granted Peru’s
governments the licence to slowly expand the counter-insurgency state
apparatus, under the guise of persecuting enemies to national security,
prosperity and order. The latter has shaped Peru’s economic model and
institutional framework to accommodate mining investment (at the
expense of alternative industries and of local concerns about water, for

example). Together, they create a political, legal and cultural environment
that is favourable to the extractive economy and unfavourable to people
who may oppose extractive projects. These circumstances generate a vio-
lent context under which activists’ methods of civil resistance take particu-
lar forms—discursively and physically.
Nonetheless, it is important to question to what extent these findings
may apply elsewhere, outside of the Peruvian context. These dynamics of
discursive and physical repression, and their effects on social movement
tactics, are noticeable in many Latin American countries that adhere to
what Arturo Escobar calls the “colonization of reality” through a develop-
mentalist discourse (Escobar 1994: 5). And they are noticeable in the
global North, including the United States, where indigenous peoples have
led a massive movement to protect a prominent river from the encroach-
ment of oil companies into their territory.48 Ultimately, contextual differ-
ences in the Peruvian case do matter.
Social Movement Learning

Factors that raise the risks of activism tend to directly influence social
movement strategies. Where discourses of “violence” and “terrorism”
have such strong cultural resonance, the costs of being framed as violent
radicals is very high in terms of the damage it can cause to individual pres-
tige, social movements’ reputation, external support and incrimination.
As a result, movements have a powerful incentive to innovate their means
of struggle to ensure that these frames cannot apply to them. Indeed,
many activists reported this as the main incentive for them to shift and
transform their resistance and negotiation strategies. In many cases, they
have thus made themselves less prone to provocation, more disciplined in
their tactics and less likely to escalate violent confrontations.
48
To be sure, these cases are quite distinct. In the United States, news about protest events
circulates through alternative and social media—even if mainstream media refuses to cover
the brutality of state force. Most people in countries like the United States have greater
access to devices, and social media is far more ingrained in their lives, than most people in
rural Peru. There is also a thicker stream of English-based activist media that disseminates
activist-journalism, which is lacking in places like most of the Andes and the Amazon. While
these findings may apply elsewhere, locally situated research is needed to develop complex
analyses.
The two cases show different forms of innovation, all responding to the
same mutually reinforcing dynamics of discursive delegitimization, media
criminalization and legal repression. Respectively, social movements in the
cases began requiring IDs (Lagunas Norte) and traded road blocks for less
dangerous forms of non-cooperation (La Zanja). Movement members
reflected on the importance of framing within a context of concentrated
media and a strong delegitimizing discourse. In La Zanja and Lagunas
Norte, activists had very limited access to any media in which to contest the
criminalization frame. Instead of bringing innovation into their strategies
because they wanted to change the perceptions of distant publics and would-
be supporters, activists adopted new forms of civil resistance purely to avoid
discursive criminalization and its physical manifestation: repression.
At the same time, not having access to media has taken conflicts in vari-
ous directions. While conducting my fieldwork at Lagunas Norte, a lot of
people complained to me that the company strategically suppressed con-
flict, and this meant its underlying conditions were never addressed. Grief
was silenced with token gifts and public investment projects. This created
a sense that escalating conflict—by any means necessary—was needed to
attain concessions from the state and from the company. Confrontations
surrounding this mine grew in intensity from one campaign to the next.
In theoretical terms, since they rarely get sympathetic attention from out-
siders, some activists think that violence is the only way to get the state to
mediate and the company to offer concessions. Some activists may place
greater importance on getting the state’s attention than on the means to
do this. To be sure, Peru’s institutional frameworks bear a lot of
responsibility for the extra-institutional escalation and entrenchment of
conflicts within its territory. This perception and its short-term prioritiza-
tion remain a major challenge to activists navigating these violent contexts
and organizing sustained resistance.
Conclusions: Coping with Violence

When the state is likely to use repression, activists’ efforts to disprove the
notion that they are the violent ones can be immensely productive. The
frame itself becomes a site of struggle (Polletta 1998). These conflicts over
narratives and meanings are shaped by, and influence the directions of,
material conflicts. This understudied factor may explain not only why non-
violent resistance is more effective, but also why social movements adopt
tactical innovations and transform their tactics and strategies.
Sometimes criminalization is so blatant that social movement organiza-

tions are driven to learn the importance of framing. Moreover, they do
this whether or not they have outsider attention and a venue to publicly
contest these frames. The delegitimizing power that discourses of violence
have within Peru’s political culture and the repressive effects of these dis-
courses are crucial to understand this learning. But activists’ learning the
trappings of frames does not directly result in discipline. Limited resources
make it difficult to train members and organize disciplined actions. Clearly,
coping with violent environments requires more than reframing and com-
mitted organizing: it requires resources to train activists and build resilient
networks.
Research based in other contexts is necessary to better understand the
combined effects of repression and lack of access to sympathetic, widely
diffused media on movements’ frames and strategies. Finally, repression
takes many shapes, and corporate counter-protest tactics reach far beyond
efforts to discredit, criminalize and repress opponents. More research is
needed to understand the multiple methods used by companies to sup-
press and avoid conflict. Some companies may altogether refuse both oth-
erizing discourses and violent repression, with direct effects on the type of
strategies used by the movements organized in their vicinities. It may be
that companies themselves are learning, so there is a lot of room for
research to expand our collective understanding of the relationships
between company strategies and the movements’ use of violent and civil
resistance.
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CHAPTER 10
Nonviolent Resistance in Plurinational

Bolivia: The TIPNIS Case
Theo Roncken
Bolivians do not typically plan their protests or resistance actions to use

tactics of nonviolence. Consequently, local media often report violent
responses to suffered, or perceived, harm and injustice. Bolivia’s recent
history, however, provides several cases of enduring social conflict in
which massive nonviolent campaigns offered opportunities for change
rather than an immediate restoration of law and order. Frequently com-
mented examples are the 2000 “Water War” in which the branch of a
multinational company was expelled from the country, and the 2003
“Gas War” that led to the ousting of the then president of Bolivia. As the
popular names of these campaigns illustrate, little attention has been paid
to the particular relevance of nonviolent methods. This chapter analyses
how in recent years, grassroots nonviolent resistance helped to reverse
preposterous attitudes and generated opportunities for the peaceful
transformation of highly volatile conflict situations. This was the case of
two indigenous protest marches held in 2011 and 2012 in defence of the
Territorio Indígena y Parque Nacional Isiboro Sécure (Isiboro Sécure
T. Roncken (*)
Acción Andina, Cochabamba, Bolivia

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-05033-7_10
206 T. RONCKEN
national park and indigenous territory or TIPNIS by its Spanish acro-

nym) and in opposition to government plans to build a highway right
through the heart of the national park and indigenous territory.
Nonviolent Resistance in Bolivia

In 2013, the Journal of Peace Research published a special issue on the
study of nonviolent resistance as a strategy for political change. Guest edi-
tors Chenoweth and Gallagher (2013: 271–272) argued that conflict
scholars, particularly those focused on empirical analysis, largely ignored
nonviolent resistance, and suggested a major relation to dominant view-
points that consider violence as a more pressing problem and nonviolent
resistance as too difficult to measure in practice. Besides, nonviolence was
often seen as a “‘passive’, ‘weak’, ‘pacifist’ or ‘activist’” endeavour (Schock
cited in Chenoweth and Gallagher 2013: 272). While challenging such
assumptions, the volume sought to demonstrate the value of bridging the
divide between scholars of conflict and of civil or nonviolent resistance.
An article in the special issue that explored major elements of the
observed division also seemed to pinpoint a historic reason for the lagging
interest in the field of civil resistance. The author, Kurt Schock (2013:
278), stated that it was only until the nineteenth century that civil resis-
tance methods emerged “as a consistently consequential political force […
and were] increasingly used as a means to struggle against injustice and
oppression where in the past violent rebellion or war would have seemed
the only appropriate or viable response”. Schock (2013) also quoted
Chenoweth and Stephan, who linked the rise of a frequent and large-scale
use of civil resistance for political purposes to the twentieth century.
These observations, however, may have been biased by traditional, per-
sisting limitations in the scope of the empirical research on social conflict.
As Schock recognized, there still is little understanding of “how cultural
elements, such as beliefs, attitudes, goals, values, and lifestyles, inform the
selection and implementation of strategy and tactics [of resistance]”
(Schock 2013: 286). Combined with his reference to the fact that con-
temporary practices of many indigenous movements in the global South
are, as a rule, nonviolent, this raises questions about the possible presence
of a relevant but undervalued culturally rooted dynamics of nonviolent
resistance among these populations (meaning: How is it culturally under-
stood?). Schock (2013: 286) described a closely related and equally under-
addressed area of research as “the extent to which theories and concepts
pertaining to struggles to topple dictators apply to struggles against eco-
nomic inequalities and exploitative economic relations”.
NONVIOLENT RESISTANCE IN PLURINATIONAL BOLIVIA: THE TIPNIS CASE 207
In the context of current social conflict in the Plurinational State of Bolivia,

both issues—the cultural factor in the selection of tactics applied in popular
resistance and the use of civil resistance to tackle structural violence—are of
special relevance. The presidential election of Evo Morales in December 2005
opened up new opportunities for collectively addressing longstanding prob-
lems such as political centralism, social exclusion and economic dependence
that social movements and civil society alliances had tried to address for several
years, while building up the resistance and leverage that eventually led to a
major shift in power elites. By the time of Morales’s election, a large and varied
constituency supported what became known as the ‘process of change’. At its
early start in 1990 it united over 30 ethnic populations of the lowlands in the
First Indigenous March for Territory and Dignity that, by nonviolently claim-
ing collective rights, managed to put “the defence of territory, understood as
a space that encompasses community life”, on the national agenda (Delgado
2016: 149). Notably, two decades later, the Morales government faced similar
protest actions, conducted by a broad alliance of indigenous populations who
united in defence of threatened collective rights over a protected territory
known as TIPNIS, which is part of the same lowlands from where the first
indigenous march departed in 1990. This suggests a continued or renewed
presence of structural causes of conflict and underscores the need to revisit the
outcomes of earlier indigenous mobilizations in the light of more recent
developments. This chapter does so while inquiring into the cultural compo-
nent of the chosen means of resistance and the effectiveness of these means to
address structural violence, in light of Schock’s aforementioned propositions.
As discussed elsewhere, while social conflict has been an essential ele-
ment for democratic development in Bolivia, incidents of large-scale vio-
lence have been uncommon in recent history (Roncken 2016: 8, 14).
George Gray Molina (quoted in Roncken 2016: 14) attributed this fea-
ture to “a political modus vivendi built on alliances of power between weak
elites and strong social actors […that] resulted in what may be described
as an institutionalized popular constitutionalism, whereby popular mobili-
zation drives social change, which is subsequently incorporated by the
popular State […] and marks a new starting point for social conflict”
(2009). While such dynamics avert violence, they also leave social and
economic issues largely unaddressed, which may explain why Bolivia has
had a particularly high incidence of social unrest, but with low levels of
violent confrontation generally. Occasional exceptions invariably led to an
early interruption of overt violence in protests or repressive actions, as a
result of immediate public outcry and a serious risk of backfire.
208 T. RONCKEN
At the same time, manifestations of social unrest do not reveal a moral

commitment to nonviolence in the sense of Gandhi’s satyagraha “which
roughly means firmness relying on truth” (Schock 2013: 278). They
rather seem to respond to a pragmatic choice in order to achieve goals by
the best possible means. Nonviolent transgressive actions were, as a rule,
associated with Christian notions of personal sacrifice and, as such, rejected
as nonviable in the given context. This is consistent with global trends,
according to which people involved in nonviolent struggles most often do
so instrumentally, rather than out of moral commitment (Chenoweth and
Gallagher 2013: 273). Given this pragmatic choice, it is useful to frame
the study of the nonviolent campaign to resist the building of a road in the
TIPNIS in terms of Gene Sharp’s concept of ‘nonviolent resistance’,
which he defines as “a general class of non-routine political actions that
[do] not involve violence or the threat of violence”, without consideration
of “moral beliefs or codes to which practitioners must adhere” (Sharp
cited in Schock 2013: 279).
This chapter also follows Schock’s suggestion to inquire into mobiliza-
tion, resilience and leverage as central elements of civil resistance dynam-
ics. Mobilization “refers to the process of acquiring resources, people, and
support for a campaign” and is deemed necessary for its success (Schock
2013: 282). Once the people have mobilized, they will most likely face
some kind of repressive response and be in need of sufficient resilience,
defined as “the ability […] to withstand and recover from repression”
(Schock 2013: 283). A civil resistance movement can exert leverage, when
it has the “capacity to sever the opponent from the sources of power upon
which it depends, either directly or through allies” (Schock 2013: 283).
Schock refers to this last concept in order to clarify a major difference
between the sources of power of violent and nonviolent resistance. While
the first “works like a hammer […] through direct armed assaults or asym-
metric wars of attrition”, the ways in which nonviolence is effective are
similar to a lever, undermining opponents’ pillars of power and legitimacy,
or catalysing the withdrawal of key support (Schock 2013: 283).
Precursors and Origins of the TIPNIS Conflict

The TIPNIS indigenous territory and national park covers 1.2 million
hectares in the border area of the Bolivian departments of Beni and
Cochabamba. Until recently it was mainly inhabited by Yurucaré, Mojeño-
Trinitario y Tsimane-Mosetene indigenous people, organized in over 60
communities with a major concentration along the borders of the Sécure

River in the eastern part of the TIPNIS. Neither the establishment as a
national park in 1965, nor its classification as communal territory in later
years prevented the TIPNIS from being subject to the increasing penetra-
tion of settlers and extractive industries. Partially in response to these
growing incursions, the indigenous communities organized themselves in
1987 as the ‘Subcentral TIPNIS’ (Delgado 2016: 149), and in 1992 the
tensions brought along by the push of coca growers to the north from the
neighbouring tropical area known as the ‘Chapare’ led to a joint effort to
mark out a red line that defined the boundaries between colonized land
and the reserve.
This created the so-called Polygon 7 towards the south, which today is
said to be “mainly populated by 20,000 colonizing families (some 100,000
people), organized in 52 agrarian unions” (McNeish 2013: 225). These
belong to the Federación del Trópico, which is one of the six federations of
coca growers from the Chapare, and their total number largely exceeds
that of the indigenous population of the Subcentral TIPNIS. This demo-
graphic factor became a relevant issue when recurrent tensions between
indigenous people and coca growers led to the creation of the Indigenous
Council of the South (CONISUR), a mixed local organization mainly
composed of TIPNIS settlers living proximate to the red line but open to
include indigenous families from that area. In response, local community
leaders of the Subcentral TIPNIS decided at a meeting—said to have been
held in 2008 or 2009—to not recognize CONISUR as a social organiza-
tion of the TIPNIS territory (Carrillo 2017).
From the start of Morales’s presidency in early 2006, indigenous peo-
ples from the Bolivian lowlands, organized in the Confederación de Pueblos
Indígenas de Bolivia (CIDOB), and the highlands, organized in the
Consejo Nacional de Ayllus y Markas del Qullasuyu (CONAMAQ), insis-
tently advocated for the respect of their communities’ right to prior con-
sultation about any project undertaken in their territories, in accordance
with Convention 169 of the International Labour Organization and the
United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (Delgado
2016: 147). Before the electoral victory of Morales’s political party
Movimiento Al Socialismo (MAS), both CIDOB and CONAMAQ had
joined with three major peasant and coca farmer confederations into the
Pact of Unity. Subsequently, these organizations played a key role as
“watchdogs of the Constitutional Assembly” convened to prepare the
legal framework for a re-founded State based on popular demands for
210 T. RONCKEN
structural change (Zegada et al. 2008: 88). During this time indigenous
and peasant members of the Pact set aside some major differences regard-
ing political positions or priorities for later discussion. The resulting
Constitution of the Plurinational State of Bolivia of February 2009 incor-
porated the right to prior consultation as proposed by the indigenous
organizations. However, the communal indigenous territories were
renamed as “native indigenous and peasant” ones (TIOCs according to
the Spanish acronym). As Ana Carolina Delgado (2016: 149) said, the
organizations in the Pact endorsed the decision in spite of divergences
between indigenous people and peasants (including settlers and coca
growers), who, generally speaking, respectively regard communal life and
private property as the basis of their production and their relationship with
the land.
While visibly present from the start, these contrasting perspectives
within the Pact did not pose a major challenge to the stability of this politi-
cal alliance until after the presidential election of December 2009. Starting
in early 2010, the MAS party used the overwhelming majority of seats it
won in both chambers of the Plurinational Legislative Assembly to rule
without consulting non-allied stakeholders or hearing allies who expressed
fundamental critiques. In that first year of Morales’s second term, several
indigenous organizations thus came to question the passing of specific
legislation on autonomous local governance which established new pre-
conditions for registering TIOCs. These demanded that territories, in
order to get recognition, ought to have a minimum number of inhabit-
ants, be contiguous and even conform to departmental boundaries
(Delgado 2016: 154). While not all indigenous territories were under
threat of being affected, the new norm added to a general sense of dissent
within the Pact of Unity. By that time, the Subcentral TIPNIS had already
obtained formal ownership over its vast territory. However, a second
incongruence came to the fore, as in 2009 the Bolivian government signed
a contract with Brazilian constructor OAS and the Brazilian National
Development Bank (BNDES) for the construction of a road that would
cross the TIPNIS to connect San Ignacio de Moxos in the northern
department of Beni with Villa Tunari, 300 kilometres to the south in the
Chapare region.
This project predated the Morales government. However, legislation
approved in 2006 marked its final design and implementation as a national
and departmental priority (Crespo 2010). When the construction plan
became known, critical observers pointed out that the road was meant to
be built right through the TIPNIS. Anthropologist Sarela Paz, who was

later contracted to conduct environmental studies, said that the authori-
ties had designed and approved the plan without consulting the commu-
nities living in the TIOC (Roncken 2011). The initial plan had even been
given green light without the required evaluation of environmental
impacts, and in May 2010 a special meeting of local leaders rejected the
construction of “any piece of road that affects our territory or common
home [casa grande] vehemently and without any possibility of negotia-
tion” (Subcentral TIPNIS cited in Crespo 2010).1 The leaders proposed
instead that the road should follow the River Sécure, which would help
connect local communities to necessary services and markets outside of
their territory, while allowing to safeguard the park against deep, harmful
incursions (McNeish 2013: 229).
Researcher Pablo Villegas anticipated that a highway through the
TIPNIS would strongly benefit loggers, cattle farmers and settlers (mostly
coca growers) as well as “Brazilian soybean growers who win a shortcut to
the Asian markets for their products”, and would therefore jeopardize the
integrity of the protected territory (Villegas cited in Roncken 2011).
National authorities and supporters of regional integration such as the
Union of South American Nations (UNASUR) through its Iniciativa
para la Integración de la Infraestructura Regional Sudamericana (IIRSA)
shared the interests of this last group. Additionally, environmental activist
and researcher Marc Gavaldá mentioned oil companies and drug traffick-
ers as probable future users of the road, and observed that penetration of
the TIPNIS by outsiders interested in its natural resources had already
started, “with little State capacity for intervention and regulation”
(Gavaldá cited in Crespo 2010). Naturally, people who lived in the TIOC
could also get actively or passively involved in irreversible extractive proj-
ects. As inhabitants and community members, however, they would not
want to endanger the health and safety of their common home.
In June 2010 member organizations of CIDOB organized a march to
protest against the lack of State attention to many of their concerns. It was
their seventh march from the lowlands to La Paz from 1990. Along with
the proposed departmental division of indigenous territories, a major issue
of protest was the number of indigenous representatives to be included in
the Plurinational Legislative Assembly. As later explained by Lázaro Tacóo,
1
The translations of citations from Spanish into English in this chapter are mine.
212 T. RONCKEN
a local leader from the Bolivian area of Chiquitanía, “We had submitted a
proposal for 18 representatives […so] each group of people would feel
represented. When we spoke to the president, he reduced the number to
14 […] and as they were drafting the law, it suddenly became 11, then 7”
(Delgado 2016: 153). In public, Vice-President García Linera called the
demands “unjust, discriminatory, in conflict with the Constitution and not
in line with the right course” (ABI 2010), while sustaining that “only
right-wing ideologists talk about changing the Constitution” and that “the
people cannot attack [it] because it is the fruit of their work, blood of their
blood, flesh of their flesh” (ABI 2010). In the following year these contro-
versies grew with each new law approved without consulting affected
indigenous populations or taking their proposals into account. Meanwhile,
preparations for the road through the TIPNIS territory continued. In June
2011, after president Morales attended a public event to officially launch
the construction works, local community leaders from the area gathered at
an emergency meeting, denounced the inauguration for violating their
constitutional rights and demanded the immediate halt of all related activi-
ties (Subcentral TIPNIS 2011). John-Andrew McNeish narrated that two
months later “2000 marchers left the city of Trinidad, the lowland regional
capital of the department of Beni, to follow a route that would take them
66 days and 600 kilometres of walking through heavy rain and burning sun
before reaching the capital city La Paz” (McNeish 2013: 224). This was
the eighth indigenous march, which would later bring about important
reconfigurations within the country’s political landscape.
The TIPNIS Marches: Features of Civil Resistance

As of mid-2018 the TIPNIS conflict remained unresolved and the final
outcome was uncertain. Since 2011 it has involved many scenarios, actors
and strategies. The most significant episodes, however, were related to
two major mobilizations, known as the eighth and the ninth indigenous
marches, held in 2011 and 2012 respectively. While much has been writ-
ten on the course of these events by participants, supporters and scholars
(see e.g. Ninth March 2012; Rivera 2012; Delgado 2016), this chapter
takes a particular approach by analysing the dynamics of civil resistance,
including the characteristics of mobilization, resilience and leverage.
The communities of the TIPNIS sought support from CIDOB in orga-
nizing their protest campaign against the road project. Such strategy not
only added substantial power to their mobilization; it also broadened the
range of issues addressed. Stopping the road directly related to first-

priority issues such as the practice of indigenous autonomy and the defence
of collective territorial rights. Therefore, an additional 15 demands were
listed before the march reached La Paz. According to McNeish (2013:
238) this revealed the presence of “a complex matrix of contrasting, over-
lapping and at times conflicting demands and interests” amongst the
indigenous communities involved, which not necessarily would have con-
tributed to positive outcomes of their march. For example, the inclusion
of a demand for a ‘carbon fund’, meant to compensate indigenous com-
munities for climate mitigation projects within their territories, provoked
accusations from the government, who associated the indigenous organi-
zations from the lowlands with a general interest of transnational players
in privatizing the Bolivian forest (McNeish 2013: 230). In the context of
Bolivia, however, it is common for key players to make coalitions in pro-
test campaigns and expand their respective lists of demands, which remain
subject to prioritization at the start of negotiations. In the TIPNIS case,
the marchers seem to have done well by strategically linking their protest
against the road project to broader issues of concern such as the impact of
extractive activities supported by the State, and the violation of the collec-
tive right to prior, free and informed consultation by the State. It provided
them with the platform for mobilization they needed to raise their local
claim at the national level and with a reasonable possibility to build up
effective leverage.
A sign of success of the enhanced focus on the exploitation of lands and
natural resources in communal territories was that it brought together
indigenous populations from both the lowlands and the highlands, all of
whom faced the same threats. Similarly, linking the construction of the
road to other infrastructural works affecting or threatening indigenous
territories, such as water dams and technology for new forms of gas extrac-
tion, helped the alliance to reach out to environmental groups, human
rights organizations and other civil society actors. In this way the TIPNIS
conflict became a showcase for grassroots resistance to economic exploita-
tion, a form of structural violence reproduced by, or with the acquiescence
of, the Bolivian State.
When the marchers approached La Paz, even broader questions came up
in social networks and the local press. For instance, some started to express
doubts about the quality of democracy, and were especially concerned
about the centralization of power in the MAS and the latter’s c ontrol over
“strategic social organizations” (Komadina 2012: 6). The contrast between
214 T. RONCKEN
discourse and practice was particularly striking since the ruling party had
positioned itself from the start as the nationwide representative of indige-
nous claims (Quiroga 2014: 20).
The eighth march also became a catalyst of critique about the way in
which the MAS used its dominant position in parliament to impose its
views, and about the perceived economic interests of the Bolivian govern-
ment hidden behind the discourse of decolonization and sovereignty.
Such criticisms had already emerged after the failed attempt to eliminate
government subsidies on fuel for domestic consumption in December
2010. The ensuing increase in prices had triggered a vigorous wave of
protests which took president Morales by surprise and prompted him to
annul the order. In that context the TIPNIS conflict indirectly contrib-
uted to public debate about the increasing economic dependence on the
export of natural resources without evidence of significant industrializa-
tion at the domestic level, and the consequences of prioritizing industrial
soybean production over a receding agricultural activity for local con-
sumption. Although public attention dwindled out after the conclusion of
the ninth indigenous march in defence of the TIPNIS in mid-2012, it set
the stage for renewed thinking and exchange of ideas on structural change
and the conflicting policies adopted by the MAS government.
In 2011, the perceived inadequacy of the responses of the authorities
and the MAS leadership to the TIPNIS protest boosted the level of public
support for the marchers. While the government tried to downplay the
possible impacts of the programmed road and refused to discuss its route,
allied organizations of settlers set up a blockade in the small town of
Yucumo in order to prevent the marchers from moving forward. The
blockade was then reinforced by policemen officially dispatched to “pre-
vent confrontations between the social sectors”, who effectively impeded
foods and medicines from reaching the marchers (Roncken 2011). In that
scenario, Foreign Minister Choquehuanca “was sent in a final effort to
negotiate with the marchers and […] build a rapport with the protesters
on the basis of his own ethnicity” (McNeish 2013: 227). But, as protesters
realized that the Minister was bound by the same restrictions as delegates
sent previously to stop the march, a group of female protesters persuaded
him to walk along with them for several kilometres towards the police “to
make him understand what the march had cost them” (McNeish 2013:
227). Mainstream Bolivian media, however, reported the “kidnapping” of
the Minister and in response to that, a spokesperson for the largest farm-
ers’ union named the protesters “savages” (McNeish 2013).
Despite continuous efforts by the State to discredit the marchers, the

latter demonstrated their resilience by upholding nonviolence in the face
of increasing provocations. This was particularly striking when the march-
ers faced a violent police intervention on 25 September 2011, one day
after the largest farmers’ union called them “savages”. On that day, a
respected Bolivian NGO reported that “500 troops surrounded the indig-
enous camp near […] Yucumo and started to harass the marchers, using
tear gas and sticks, savagely beating up women, men, and children, sepa-
rating family members from each other, taping their hands and feet and
gagging their mouths, and forcing them to enter vehicles which then
departed to an unknown destination” (CEJIS cited in Roncken 2011).
While this violent intervention managed to temporarily stop the march,
it backfired, provoking sound and energetic responses from Bolivian soci-
ety. Vigils and other public actions of protest and solidarity with the
marchers were organized in major cities. In particular, the marchers
received support from people in San Borja, who “prevented the buses and
pick-up cars with our hijacked brothers and sisters from taking off” and in
Rurrenabaque and surrounding towns, who took “the airport to prevent
our forced transportation […] in an aircraft rented by the Bolivian Air
Force” (Eighth March 2011). The marchers also decided to strategically
skip the Yucumo area to avoid confrontations with settlers and to restart
their protest in Quiquibey, about 42 kilometres further away on the road
to La Paz.
The violent intervention eventually led to the resignation of the
Ministers of Defence and Home Security and three other top government
officials. At their arrival in October 2011, the marchers had gained signifi-
cant overt support from the population. The President officially received
them, apologized again for the unfortunate repression by state security
forces and promised the conduct of an investigation in order to identify
those responsible. He also signed several acts of understanding, and pro-
claimed Law 180, which declared the park intangible, prohibiting any
project in the TIPNIS that directly affected its inhabitants.
By then the Brazilian National Development Bank had also withdrawn
its financing for the project. The eighth march thus transformed the
TIPNIS conflict, restoring confidence among first-time allies of the
Bolivian process of change. While the marchers returned to their homes,
however, authorities and farmer union representatives within the MAS
were discussing ways to shirk the agreements reached with protesters.
Members and leaders of CONISUR maintained the social pressure in
216 T. RONCKEN
favour of the road that in February 2012 would justify the adoption of
Law 222. This new law called for consultation within the TIPNIS territory
on “whether or not the area shall be off-limits for furthering the develop-
ment of activities of the Mojeño-Trinitario, Tsimane, and Yurucaré indig-
enous people, and for the construction of the road Villa Tunari—San
Ignacio de Moxos” (Law 222 2012: Art. 4a) and on measures to be taken
to protect the park from, and clear up, existing illegal settlements (Law
222 2012: Art. 4b). The legislation aimed at annulling Law 180 while at
the same time opening up consultation, including with CONISUR mem-
bers and “illegal occupants [who] will be allowed to decide or have influ-
ence on the measures that are to be taken against them” (Villegas 2012).
Besides, the consultation process was to be directed by offices of the gov-
ernment with an interest in constructing the road, and its planning pro-
cesses did not involve the Subcentral TIPNIS. According to Villegas
(2012) this contradicted the constitutional obligation of the State to con-
sult indigenous peoples “in particular through their institutions”.
In spite of new protests and the public announcement by numerous
TIPNIS communities that they would boycott the proposed official con-
sultation, the government chose to ignore them and go ahead. Along the
way, as Delgado observed, “the government discourse about indigenous
communities changed from one of formal apology for prior injustices to
an attempt to convince them to accept the road and, finally, to discredit
them” (Delgado 2016: 156). While indigenous leaders of the Subcentral
TIPNIS and CIDOB were steadily accused of profiting from illegal timber
exploitation and dubious foreign support, spokespersons for the settlers
warned the resisting communities that their negative answer to the consul-
tation would mean that they also renounced any development and gov-
ernmental support (Delgado 2016; CEPS 2013).
According to the government, 80% of the 69 communities consulted
supported the road (McNeish 2013: 231). Between November and
December 2012, however, a commission composed of representatives of
the Catholic Church and the Human Rights Assembly visited the TIPNIS
to inquire into the outcomes of the official consultation and the way in
which it had been conducted. Apart from concluding that only three out
of the 36 communities visited accepted the proposed road, while 30
rejected it and another three conditioned their vote in favour of changes
in the construction plans, the commission observed that the authorities
had systematically misinformed the communities, stating that declaring
the territory intangible “would take away their possibility to keep up the
way of living that had sustained them for hundreds of years” and told
them “that a vote against intangibility obliged them to support the road”
(CEPS 2013: 207).
In the meantime, CIDOB and their supporters organized a ninth indig-
enous march entitled “In Defence of Life and Dignity, Indigenous
Territory, Natural Resources, Biodiversity, the Environment, Protected
Area, Compliance with the Constitution and Respect for Democracy”,
which started in May 2012 (Ninth March 2012). This time the govern-
ment did not respond with overt physical violence but maintained its strat-
egy of discrediting the protesters’ claims, arguments and leadership. After
the marchers arrived in La Paz, the national authorities ignored them.
When they set up camps and rallied for sustained public attention and sup-
port, they met with a reinforced effort to weaken their collective resis-
tance. In particular, the government approached individuals and
communities within the group making tempting offers of personal gain.
While some observers said that this eventually undermined the protesters’
endurance by generating internal divisions and forcing them to retreat,
testimonies provided to the author by female leaders of the ninth march
rather suggest that protest organizers deliberately decided to decentralize
their efforts once again in the given circumstances and continue to build
resistance in alternative ways (Roncken 2013). This successive use of tac-
tics of concentration and dispersion (see e.g. Schock 2005) proved to be
strategic. Indeed, the protesters’ decision to “disperse” enabled them to
“strengthen work in the communities”, and resulted in post-event reflec-
tion and learning.
Means, Ends and Outcomes of the TIPNIS Conflict

As pointed out by Schock, civil resistance studies “[tend] to focus on why
a series of specific actions—methods of nonviolent action—may or may
not be successful” (Schock 2013: 281). In part, this emphasis on under-
standing the connection between strategic logic and outcomes may
respond to a perceived unmet need to have nonviolent approaches recog-
nized and/or included in public agendas. It also seems to relate to a spe-
cial concern with how means may prefigure ends. In general, as is argued,
nonviolent resistance provides a better chance to “lay the groundwork for
a more cooperative post-conflict society, in terms of behaviour and
attitudes as well as in terms of political structure” while it “may also reduce
feelings of humiliation, hatred, and desire for revenge, which are often the
218 T. RONCKEN
seeds of future conflict” (Schock 2013: 285). Such direct interrelation

between means and ends points to the prevalent relevance of mid- to long-
term outcomes over immediate results, and adds interest to the concept of
“strategic capacity” which “emerges from an interactive process of experi-
mentation, learning and adapting [and] enables a movement to capitalize
on opportunities by turning the resources they have into the power they
need to attain their objectives” (Schock 2013: 285). This part of the chap-
ter analyses the effects of the civil resistance campaign against the building
of a road through the TIPNIS with a focus on experiential learning
processes.
Towards the end of 2012, when the aforementioned independent com-
mission visited TIPNIS communities to inquire about the official consul-
tation, it had become clear that the government’s strategy of weakening
organized resistance by discrediting local and national leadership was not
yielding the expected results. Many felt that “depicting lowland indige-
nous peoples as criminals or profiteers merely replace[d] older notions of
them as ‘savages’, or peoples with ‘no discernment’ […and was similarly
being] used to justify the government’s domineering attitude towards
indigenous communities” (Delgado 2016: 157). CIDOB and CONAMAQ
were still part of the Pact of Unity, and the fact that they announced their
formal withdrawal from this alliance with the government as late as January
2013 showed that this decision was a last resort (Delgado 2016). In the
final days of the ninth march, the MAS and allied social organizations
conducted a controversial replacement of CIDOB’s highest leadership
and forcibly occupied the organization’s main office. At the end of 2013,
the CONAMAQ, who had assumed an increasingly critical position against
the line of action of the government, suffered a similar fate. Regardless of
the impact of these interventions on their organizational capacity and
working conditions, both organizations continued to function as autono-
mous confederations, self-named as “organic” to emphasize their grass-
roots essence and distinguish themselves from the parallel, newly created
official structures.
In 2011, CIDOB’s Vice-President Nelly Romero qualified indigenous
peoples from the lowlands as “constructors of change” rather than “a part
of the process of change” (Romero cited in Roncken 2011). In December
2013, the National Confederation of indigenous women from the Bolivian
lowlands (CNAMIB), affiliated to CIDOB, held its annual Congress.
CNAMIB’s leadership had been working for over a year without office or
equipment—which had been taken over by MAS allies—and the organiza-
tion maintained its claim for the restoration of their institutional rights.
However, an analysis of the general situation of the national indigenous
movement after the TIPNIS marches concluded that the civil resistance
movement needed to be strengthened by reinforcing community work
and its direct connections to similar national and regional movements.
Indigenous women realized that the first aspect was key for them to build
a strong, collective leadership that could be more resilient and effective in
the face of external threats, while the second one would allow them to
inform national and international audiences in due time about the situa-
tion on the ground, such as harmful extractive activities undertaken in
indigenous territories (Roncken 2013).
Based on a different institutional experience, Pablo Solón, a former
ambassador to the United Nations from MAS, reached a similar conclusion
for the areas of civil society he related to. In September 2011, three months
after resigning from that post, and days after the violent intervention
against the protesters involved in the eighth TIPNIS march, Solón asked
President Morales in a public note to suspend the construction works on
the road and “start an ample, participative national debate in order to
define a new action agenda within the framework of Living Well [Vivir
Bien]” (Solón cited in Página Siete 2011). The concept of Living Well was
included in the 2009 Constitution as a major principle to follow. In a sub-
sequent article Solón explained it as “less concerned with wellbeing (which
is a person’s condition) and more with the essence of being a good person”
making people necessarily “caretakers”, not “conquerors”, of their natural
environment (Solón 2017: 22, 24). With hindsight, Solón argued that a
key mistake he himself and others had made was to believe that Living Well
“could fully develop in the wake of State power while in reality, it is a pro-
posal in construction emerging from society”, and concluded that “prob-
ably one of the biggest shortcomings of this last decade was to not develop
alliances among social and indigenous movements who are independent
from the progressive governments” (Solón 2017: 41, 53).
No matter how small, subject to critique and scarcely visible they may
be or have been, such movements and alliances have existed throughout
the years and continue to build resistance today. A visible example is the
indigenous women from the lowlands, grouped into CNAMIB, who have
managed to organize protests on a regular basis and receive national and
international support for their calls to stop the road through the TIPNIS
and other megaprojects affecting TIOCs in other parts of the country,
despite ongoing challenging tactics of ‘low-intensity warfare’ applied by
220 T. RONCKEN
the government and its allies. As for the TIPNIS, a law proposal was pre-
sented in parliament in March 2017 and later disseminated among leaders
of CONISUR, Chapare settlers and departmental authorities in
Cochabamba. Women’s organizations from the TIPNIS immediately
responded to this new attempt to formally suspend Law 180 and enforce
the construction of the renamed “ecological” road, supposedly in accor-
dance with the results of the official consultation of 2012, in a manifesto.
The resulting public attention and expressions of support for their cause
deterred regional authorities from undertaking the redesigned govern-
mental project but did not deter leaders of CONISUR from presenting an
adapted version of the proposed law for approval in Congress in early July
(Tedesqui 2017). By then, the Bolivian press disclosed that construction
works had restarted three months earlier (Estremadoiro and Ortiz 2017).
Although these events suggest that the government’s tactics were pay-
ing off, the final outcome of the TIPNIS conflict remained uncertain at
the time of writing. On the protesting side, postponing the building of the
road may be as far as their unique example of nonviolent resistance may
get. However, the proposed focus on experiential learning yields further
interesting insights into a possible evaluation of outcomes. As described
above, after the two marches, organized indigenous women decided to
turn their attention to strengthening community work and bottom-up
networking, while a former representative of the government identified a
need to break away from State power in order to prioritize the develop-
ment and interconnection of systemic alternatives. These ‘learning out-
comes’ relate to Schock’s proposal to inquire into the effectiveness of civil
resistance in addressing structural violence (or helping generate structural
change). The ownership of the first learning experience (indigenous
women from the lowlands) and Solón’s reference to the concept of Living
Well as a systemic alternative based on indigenous visions also suggest a
possible connection to a principled choice of nonviolent means of
resistance.
Solón argues that Bolivian authorities promote an interpretation of
Living Well which “is potable, including to financiers such as the World
Bank” (Solón 2017: 15). This official version, adapted to suit priorities of
today’s capitalism, has been subject to structural critique. But also notions
of Living Well that oppose modernism have been questioned. Carlos
Crespo (2013) called the concept, as it is currently understood, unfit to be
put in practice and suggested that instead of trying to define what Living
Well is, the focus of inquiry should be on the ways in which it becomes
operative and how it relates to domination and power relations. On his

part, Eduardo Gudynas (2013) argued that, as a rule, contestant visions of
Living Well become manifest in ways that are not common in academic
discipline or governance practice and may thus not be fully understood
from such perspectives. As a way out, Gudynas proposed to acknowledge
the diversity of perspectives as an opportunity for renewed dialogue with
critical, nonindigenous viewpoints.
Some of that seems to have happened in the course of the TIPNIS pro-
tests. Commenting on the outcomes of the two marches, Silvia Rivera,
who in 2009 had said that indigenous discontent was still expressed in
unorganized ways, highlighted the convergence of organized indigenous
peoples with a diversity of social organizations (namely environmentalists,
cultural activists, feminists, pro-indigenous groups and anarchists) as an
accomplishment without precedent in recent social struggles (Rivera
2012). As Solón and Gudynas, albeit in her own way, Rivera recognized a
need for connecting the quest for systemic change to the vast universe of
indigenous knowledge, experiences and understandings. From a global-
ized perspective these relate to nonviolent ideals and practices, as they
“consider the world as a living being […] who sends signals, communi-
cates with humanity”, in which leadership is “not a function of domina-
tion, but a space for taking common decisions that do not delegate but are
being made to be complied with from the bottom up” (Rivera cited in
Carvajal 2015). In short, civil resistance in the context of the TIPNIS
conflict, although not necessarily successful in reaching its concrete goal
(stopping the building of the road), seems to have contributed to new
learning, insights and practices that can help improve the means and out-
comes of strategic action for structural change in the future.
Conclusions
This process of civil resistance reveals the instrumental use of a variety of
tactics on both sides of the conflict divide. State actors and allies aimed at
bypassing or substantially weakening overt social protest, first by ignoring
or discrediting it, then by co-opting or criminalizing individual leaders
while deploying state security forces for counter-mobilization and direct
intervention, and, as a last resort, by feigning an apparent retreat and
change of policy. The use of such actions by the governments and its allies
demonstrated a significant knowledge of processes of organized resistance,
and was particularly effective.
222 T. RONCKEN
On their part, the protesters applied a mix of methods of civil resistance

which allowed them to increase public mobilization, exert leverage over
opponents and maintain resilience. Some of these were clearly rooted in
the country’s culture of social protest, such as broadening demands in
order to increase mobilization and strengthen the movement. Also, the
prominent peaceful leadership role taken on by indigenous women in situ-
ations which made them subject to violent repression strongly appealed to
the Bolivian population at large, helped to raise solidarity with the move-
ment and enhanced its leverage.
Anthropologist Alison Spedding, however, questioned the need and
stated reasons for taking along children on challenging protest marches, in
particular the fact that these children had not been temporarily taken to a
safe place when violence could be expected. While images of State violence
against children surely helped the marchers to raise public support, expos-
ing them to violent confrontations raised ethical concerns (Spedding
2011). This critique was not well received, and many questioned Spedding
for blaming the marchers for the harm done rather than State authorities.
But, all in all, it was a call for protesters to engage in a reflection on how
to improve their tactics of civil resistance. Last but not least, the decision
to de-mobilize when no further immediate results were to be expected was
a sign of the movement’s capacity to prioritize long-term goals and remain
resilient.
Bolivian school students are constantly reminded of violent episodes of
indigenous resistance in the region. Their textbooks highlight a sequence
of armed rebellions against the Spanish colonizers conducted by local
leaders, ranging from the Peruvian central valleys (1742–1756) and high-
lands (1780–1781) to the mountains of Bolivia, where indigenous com-
batants surrounded the city of La Paz twice in that same year (1781). They
also revisit uprisings of the post-colonial period in which, for example,
“during the so-called Federal War of 1898, the fearful Zárate Villca
claimed the rights of the Aymara” (Canaviri 2016: 14). As in many other
parts of the world, the narrative that seeks to clarify the course of events is
essentially structured around selected cases of violent conquest and ruling,
and equally violent responses. Another interesting feature is that these
books invariably depict the outcomes of these violent episodes of indige-
nous resistance as ultimately unsuccessful.
In spite of renowned examples of nonviolent resistance campaigns in
recent Bolivian history, the textbooks do not explicitly recognize the pur-
poseful use of such means. In the 1970s, a hunger strike organized by
women of mining unions successfully mobilized masses, effectively paving

the way for the downfall of General Hugo Banzer’s dictatorship. Banzer’s
come-back as legally elected President in the 1990s, however, marked the
limits of these outcomes in terms of structural change. Similar questions
may be raised on the outcomes of the essentially nonviolent popular pro-
test of October 2003 against the government policies regarding the expor-
tation of gas (misleadingly called the Gas War), which was started by urban
dwellers of indigenous origin in El Alto and led to the downfall of the
Sánchez de Lozada government. Looking back on the course of events in
more recent years, observers argued that despite the successful 2003 pro-
test there had been a continuity in terms of neoliberal nationalism in MAS
policies, which challenges the likelihood of significant fundamental change
(see e.g. Rivera 2012; Rivero 2012; Quiroga 2014).
A comparison of these historical examples in Bolivia thus suggests that
nonviolent means of resistance have been effective in achieving immediate
goals, but not lasting, structural change. Such interpretation, however,
largely ignores political, economic, social and cultural contexts and how
these have changed throughout the years. A major factor that intercedes
in such processes is experiential learning, which may provoke a change of
tactics or strategies on both the ruling and the resisting sides in a social
conflict. As such, learning from experience must be considered an inher-
ent part of the outcomes of a civil resistance campaign. This chapter iden-
tified some learning practices on the resisting side of the TIPNIS conflict
that may contribute to shifting power relations in the future. Key elements
include the protesters’ capacity to remain resilient at the community level
and to build instrumental connections with strategic actors for systemic
change nation- and worldwide.
The discourse of civil resistance became manifest on both sides of this
conflict and often referred to the presence of an essential, indigenous com-
ponent said or thought to be rooted either in culture or in experience. The
means of resistance used by organized indigenous peoples involved in the
TIPNIS conflict were generally coherent with that discourse, as are the
lessons learned that were later identified at an assembly of indigenous
women from the lowlands organized by CNAMIB. This does not provide
a conclusive answer to questions about indigenous people’s supposed
preference for using nonviolent methods. But the learning component
offers a new perspective on how the evolution of strategies and tactics of
civil resistance may impinge on the outcomes of a nonviolent campaign for
structural change.
224 T. RONCKEN
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CHAPTER 11
Conclusion: Civil Resistance in Latin

America—A Viable Alternative for Ordinary
People to Defend Their Rights
This edited volume examined various Latin American experiences of civil

resistance in contexts of violent conflict from Mexico to Bolivia through
Honduras, Nicaragua, Venezuela, Colombia, Brazil and Peru. While some
experiences documented in this book have gone on for a long time, they
were all continuing at the time of writing, revealing the current relevance
of nonviolent resistance as an alternative to violent struggle to fight for
one’s rights against powerful opponents. Likewise, all the processes dem-
onstrated certain achievements, even though none fully reached its objec-
tives. In this concluding chapter we focus on these achievements, on the
methods used in order to reach them, on how movements coped with
C. Mouly (*)
E. Hernández Delgado

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-05033-7_11
violence, and on the potential legacy of these processes. We conclude by

suggesting some potential avenues for future research.
Wielding Power and Redressing Power Asymmetries

As discussed in the Introduction of this book, people around the world
have used civil resistance to leverage power in order to defend their
rights in situations of asymmetric conflicts. The different cases featured
in this volume are compelling examples of how ordinary people have
succeeded in bridging, or at least reducing, the gap between them and
their opponents in terms of material capabilities (particularly regarding
the use of physical force) through the exercise of civil resistance. They
have done so by wielding different forms of power and refusing to obey
powerful actors, such as the state, multinational companies or non-state
armed groups.
Gene Sharp (1973, 2012) theorized how the power of dictators and
colonial regimes stemmed from the consent of the people. Further, he
identified six sources of power: authority, human resources, skills and
knowledge, intangible factors, material resources and sanctions. The case
studies covered in this volume show that this theory of power may also
apply to other types of opponents, such as non-state armed actors and
private sector companies, and that identifying the key sources of power on
which an opponent depends can be fundamental for resisters to under-
mine this opponent’s power and achieve their goals.
In Venezuela, for example, nonviolent activists used different strategies
and tactics to question the legitimacy of the regime and withdraw their
consent. They did so mainly through mass protests, but also employed
other tactics. In particular, they organized a plebiscite on 16 July 2017,
the same day that the regime had called for elections for a constituent
assembly. A significant number of voters turned out in the plebiscite and
massively rejected the so-called constituent assembly, resting credibility to
the newly elected body. Likewise, the ensuing civic strike against the
assembly ten days later further rested credibility to it. This said, while non-
violent activists successfully challenged the authority of the regime, under-
mining one of its essential sources of power, at the time of writing they
had not yet been able to undermine the regime’s sanctioning power,
which remained almost intact, and had not been able to provoke a regime
change (Puyosa in this volume).
CONCLUSION: CIVIL RESISTANCE IN LATIN AMERICA—A VIABLE… 229
In various cases civil resistance movements were able to exert leverage on

their opponents by depriving, or threatening to deprive, them of material or
human resources, or skills and knowledge through methods of noncoopera-
tion. In Mexico, for instance, the Guarijio refused to sell their lands to pro-
moters of the Pilares dam (Hernández in this volume). Meanwhile, in
Colombia Samaniego residents decided to declare their municipality as a
peace territory, refusing to collaborate with any armed groups in their terri-
tory (Masullo, Mouly and Garrido in this volume). Similarly, the ATCC
rejected the ultimatum that did not offer them any alternatives other than
allying themselves with armed actors, fleeing the municipality or fearing for
their lives. Instead, the members of the community united to oppose all the
armed actors and refuse to cooperate with them (Hernández and Roa in this
volume). In some cases, however, certain methods of noncooperation were
less effective, as opponents did not depend so much on the sources targeted
or had access to alternative resources.
While nonviolent resistance movements used a variety of methods of
noncooperation to erode their opponents’ sources of power, one interest-
ing method used in Samaniego to protest against landmines was the uni-
lateral threat of flight (what Gene Sharp (2010: 81) refers to as “protest
emigration”). This was particularly effective given the insurgents’ reliance
on local residents and their fear that, should all residents leave, the guer-
rillas would lose human and material resources to protect themselves and
sustain their struggle (Masullo, Mouly and Garrido in this volume).
More generally, various groups innovated tactically by engaging in cre-
ative forms of civil resistance, such as removing smelly boots in Honduras to
scare away government officials (Maher in this volume) or using traditional
labour songs or poetry to press the regime for change in Venezuela (Puyosa
in this volume). Table 11.1 summarizes some of the main methods used by
the civil resistance movements studied in this book to leverage power.
Yet, shifting power not only occurred through undermining the oppo-
nents’ sources of power. It also happened through increasing grievance
groups’ power, notably through: (1) mobilizing masses and striking alli-
ances, (2) enhancing social organization and cohesion (“unity makes
force”) and developing autonomous institutions, (3) capacity-building
and (4) drawing on a common identity and/or worldview.
In all the cases nonviolent movements used civil resistance methods,
such as marches, rallies, road blockades and media communications, not
only to undermine the power of their opponents, but also to raise aware-
ness among grievance groups about injustice and generate ‘power within’.
Table 11.1 Civil resistance methods used to leverage power

Case Methods used Main source of power targeted
Mexico Public statements, petitions, marches, Authority

(Yaqui) rallies, media communications
Road blockades Material resources
Mexico Media communications, rallies Authority
(Guarijio)
Refusing to sell properties to the Material resources
promoters of the dam
Honduras Autonomous/parallel institutions, use Authority / human resources
of alternative media / skills and knowledge /
intangible factors
Local referendums Authority / human resources
Rallies, sit-ins, removal of boots Authority
Boycott of international financial Human resources
institutions on their lands
Road blockades Material resources
Spiritual resistance Intangible factors
Nicaragua Public statements, media Authority / intangible factors
communications, including rhetorical
traps
Mass protests, marches, rallies Authority
Venezuela Mass protests, sit-ins, digital protests Authority
Use of alternative media Intangible factors
Boycott of elections, alternative Authority / human resources
plebiscite
Civic strike Human resources / material
resources / skills and
knowledge
Creative resistance methods (songs, Authority / intangible factors
letters)
Road blockades Authority / material
resources
Religious celebrations Intangible factors
Colombia Declaration of peace territory, i.e. Authority / human resources
(Samaniego) noncooperation with armed actors / material resources /
(material and human resources) intangible factors / sanctions
Public statements, petitions, marches, Authority / intangible
sit-ins, symbols, mural, T-shirts, media resources
communications, rhetorical traps
Participatory budget planning, theatre Material resources
plays against taxation
(continued)
Table 11.1 (continued)
Case Methods used Main source of power targeted
Establishment of indigenous reserve Authority / human resources

/ sanctions
Protest migration Human resources / skills and
knowledge / material
resources
Colombia Rallies, public statements, media Authority
(ATCC) communications
Noncooperation with armed actors Authority / human resources
(material and human resources) / material resources /
intangible factors / sanctions
Brazil Civil disobedience of illegitimate laws, Authority / human resources
land occupation, occupation of public / material resources
buildings
Marches Authority
Use of alternative media Intangible factors
Peru Mass protests, rallies/sit-ins Authority
Strikes Human resources / skills and
knowledge / material
resources
Everyday noncooperation Authority / human
resources / skills and
knowledge
Road blockades, occupation of mining Material resources
campsites
Public statements Authority
Bolivia Marches, vigils, mass protests, public Authority
statements
Boycott of official consultation, Authority / human resources
alternative consultation
Note: This list is not exhaustive.
These methods played a key role in educating people, mobilizing them

and increasing participation in the civil resistance movements. The Yaqui,
in particular, organized a march through various states of Mexico, in
which like-minded groups participated, to raise awareness about their
nonviolent struggle for their water resources and established a broad alli-
ance of indigenous and non-indigenous groups fighting for the preserva-
tion of their land and/or natural resources (Hernández in this volume).
Various grievance groups also established autonomous institutions (a
form of constructive programme), which enabled them not only to under-
mine their opponents’ power, but also to develop ‘power with’, that is, the
form of power that comes from collective action, as well as ‘power to’, that
is, the form of power that comes from empowerment. By developing
self-reliance, these groups were particularly effective in achieving their
goals. Brian Martin (1989) indeed argues that, if resisters do not rely
much on their opponents, they are more likely to succeed in opposing the
latter through nonviolent resistance.
A case in point is that of the Lenca indigenous people, who built their
own institutions to reduce their dependence on the state and external
actors. This provided them with more leeway to reject projects imposed by
these actors, such as the construction of a dam on their sacred river. Their
organization COPINH, in particular, helped organize more than a hun-
dred referendums in local communities to enable people to have a voice in
projects affecting them and deny their consent if they believed that these
projects would go against their interests (Maher in this volume). Similarly,
residents of the mountain region in Samaniego decided to establish an
indigenous reserve in order to elect their own authorities to administer
their territory and have their own security forces, which enabled them to
gain more autonomy from state and non-state armed actors and reduce
armed violence in their locality (Masullo, Mouly and Garrido in this vol-
ume). The ATCC similarly assumed a critical role in mediating conflicts
between residents in its area of influence, thus preventing armed actors
from applying their own justice (Hernández and Roa in this volume).
Additionally, various civil resistance movements acquired ‘power to’
through capacity-building. The Roofless Workers’ Movement in Brazil is
one of them. Indeed, it placed much emphasis in the training and prepara-
tion of its members in order to carry out land occupations (Ramírez-
Orozco in this volume). Likewise, COPINH established its own training
centre (Maher in this volume). The residents of the mountain region in
Samaniego also developed their capacities through training, which enabled
them to devise better strategies of civil resistance, such as the establish-
ment of an indigenous reserve (Masullo, Mouly and Garrido in this vol-
ume). By contrast, Puyosa (in this volume) stressed that most protesters in
Venezuela had not been trained in nonviolent resistance, which was
reflected in the lack of capacity of the pro-democratization movement to
maintain nonviolent discipline.
An important source of ‘power within’ and ‘power with’ in the case of
indigenous groups, such as the Yaqui, the Guarijio and the Lenca, has
been these groups’ worldview and spirituality (Hernández; Maher in this
volume). Indigenous worldview and spirituality, as sources of power, have

been little theorized. Yet, they may impinge on what Sharp calls “intan-
gible factors”, which refer to “the habits and attitudes of the population
towards obedience”, which may be affected by “a common faith, ideology
or sense of mission” (Sharp 2012). In particular, shared beliefs regarding
the importance of preserving the environment may yield people to ques-
tion the state’s imposition of a model of development based on the extrac-
tion of natural resources. While the literature has documented how
churches can play a key role in challenging “ideologies of obedience” to
powerful opponents, such as incumbent regimes (Nepstad 2011), little
has been written about how indigenous worldview can challenge models
of development based on the extraction of natural resources, as promoted
by most Latin American governments, multinational companies and cer-
tain intergovernmental organizations.
Additionally, worldview and spirituality can give resisters strength to
oppose powerful actors, like they did in the case of the Lenca, Yaqui and
Guarijio. In particular, they made these indigenous groups more resilient
and provided them inspiration to innovate tactically in the face of new chal-
lenges raised by their state and private sector opponents (Maher; Hernández
in this volume). Importantly, the Lenca eventually succeeded in obtaining
the withdrawal of the Chinese multinational company Sinohydro and the
World Bank from the dam project (Maher in this volume).
Challenging Official Discourses and Disseminating

Alternative Ones
Various cases in this book emphasized the importance of discourse in con-
flicts between grievance groups and their opponents. As a result, various
civil resistance campaigns analysed in this volume sought ways to chal-
lenge dominant discourses as a key element to win their struggle. In
Nicaragua the ‘No al Canal’ movement did so through the use of rhetori-
cal traps, publicly exposing contradictions between the regime’s discourse
and what occurred in practice (McCall and Taylor in this volume).
Similarly, a group of teachers who refused to pay taxes to insurgents in
Samaniego used rhetorical traps and succeeded in achieving their objec-
tives (Masullo, Mouly and Garrido in this volume).
In places with a more open media environment, several civil resistance
movements used media communications to raise awareness about their
grievances and elicit solidarity from a broad range of people. This was the
case, for instance, of the Yaqui and the Guarijio in Mexico (Hernández in
this volume) or the anti-canal movement, which received good coverage
in opposition media outlets (McCall and Taylor in this volume).
Meanwhile, in places characterized by a hostile media environment,
some civil resistance movements used alternative media to counter official
propaganda and disseminate information about their grievances, their
objectives and their actions, as well as the abuses of their opponents. In
Venezuela, for instance, protesters used several alternative means of com-
munication, like Bus TV, to challenge official narratives, avoid censorship
and circumvent efforts by the government to delegitimize protests and
manipulate information. Social networks and digital communication
played a fundamental role in this regard (Puyosa in this volume).
The Lenca were also able to question dominant discourses about devel-
opment and disseminate counterhegemonic discourses based on their
worldview through alternative media, such as community radios. Such dis-
courses advocated for a model of development that is respectful of local
populations and natural resources. Their leader Berta Cáceres was con-
scious of the power of communication in civil resistance, conceiving of it
as a “weapon” (Maher in this volume). Likewise, in Brazil, the MTST
used alternative media to advance their cause and raise awareness among
the public about the state’s obligation to guarantee people’s right to
decent housing (Ramírez-Orozco in this volume).
Meanwhile, anti-mining activists in Peru learnt the importance of stra-
tegic framing if their civil resistance campaigns were to be successful. In
particular, they gradually understood the need to counter the narratives
spread by their opponents to delegitimize them and portray them as vio-
lent. Yet, anti-mining movements overall lacked access to alternative
media, and their dearth of resources hampered their ability to train their
members in nonviolent discipline in order to counter official discourse and
propaganda to delegitimize activists (Wilson in this volume).
Experiential Learning
Several contributors emphasized the role of experiential learning, espe-
cially learning from past mistakes in order to make strategic choices for the
future. Long-term processes of civil resistance, in particular, reveal that
movements can learn from setbacks. Even in the case of Venezuela, where
the 2017 protests ended in apparent failure, as demonstrators did not
manage to bring about a regime change, there was significant learning in
the pro-democracy movement, as demonstrated by the increasing number

of creative protests. These forms of tactical innovation came into being as
a result of the growing awareness of some in the movement that the use of
violence was detrimental to their cause, that protests had reached their
limits, and that the movement could not afford many more victims among
protesters because of violent repression. As a result, it was important to
shift tactics, maintain nonviolent discipline and find ways to mobilize peo-
ple without making them take too many risks, as well as ways to circum-
vent state repression and propaganda (Puyosa in this volume).
Meanwhile, the TIPNIS case in Bolivia and that of civil resistance
against mining in Peru showed that both the resisters and their opponents
learnt from experience. Particularly noteworthy in Bolivia was the nonvio-
lent resistance movement’s decision to shift from concentration tactics to
dispersion ones, based on an assessment of the conflict situation at the
time and opportunities to achieve its objectives (Roncken in this volume).
In Peru civil resistance campaigns not only learnt from past experience but
also from other similar campaigns, which could provide useful lessons
learnt to improve strategies and tactics (Wilson in this volume). Likewise,
the Lenca civil resistance movement in Honduras placed much emphasis
both on the training of members and on learning from previous experi-
ences to improve its strategy (Maher in this volume).
The Yaqui also learnt from experience, especially from their historical
process of resistance (both violent and nonviolent). This enabled them to
enhance their organization skills and confidence in their ability to resist,
and had a positive impact on their exercise of civil resistance (Hernández
in this volume). In a similar vein, the ATCC learnt from a past of losses
and pain resulting from civilians caught in between armed groups, and this
learning was a catalyst of their process of civil resistance (Hernandez and
Roa in this volume).
Combination of Methods
In most case studies grievance groups combined civil resistance with the
use of other methods, mainly negotiation and legal proceedings. Such a
combination was useful for these movements to achieve their objectives.
As Anthony Wanis-St. John and Noah Rosen (2017) and Finnegan and
Hackley (2008) argue, the two approaches are complementary in many
ways. In particular, civil resistance can pave the way for negotiation to
take place, as happened in the Yaqui case (Hernández in this volume).
According to Wanis-St. John and Rosen (2017), opponents might want

to make concessions through negotiation with the resisters in order to
reduce the pressure exercised on them by the civil resistance campaign.
Further, by redressing power asymmetries, nonviolent resistance gener-
ates more favourable conditions for negotiating with opponents.
Negotiation may also serve to reach agreements to satisfy the demands of
the resisters thereby consolidating the gains achieved through civil
resistance.
The cases of the ATCC and Samaniego in Colombia also exemplify this
synergy between civil resistance and negotiation. In both cases, negotiation
with armed actors was instrumental to ensure their respect for the decision
of local communities to maintain their autonomy and not to cooperate
with any warring party. In the Carare River area, the ATCC negotiated
with all the armed groups to protect the local civilian population from
armed violence and defend civilians’ right not to be part of the armed con-
flict. In so doing, it reached agreements with these groups in support of its
strategy of noncooperation (Hernández and Roa in this volume).
Likewise, in Samaniego, negotiation helped to reinforce civilian nonco-
operation, as can be mostly evidenced during the local peace pact.
Reciprocally, civil resistance was instrumental in ensuring armed groups’
compliance with what had been pacted, and in exerting pressure on these
groups to engage in dialogue. For instance, local inhabitants used nonvio-
lent direct actions to remind armed actors of their commitments to respect
the civilian population or press them to negotiate a solution to limit civil-
ians’ suffering (Masullo, Mouly and Garrido in this volume).
Similarly, the combination of civil resistance with legal proceedings was
useful in various cases documented in this volume. In some instances,
achievements through legal proceedings, such as sentences or changes in
the legislation, consolidated the gains made through nonviolent resis-
tance, while in others, such achievements served as a basis for nonviolent
struggle and such struggle helped to press for the implementation of legal
achievements. For example, the Roofless Workers’ Movement resorted to
land occupations to achieve “possession by occupation”, that is, a legal
recognition of the occupants’ ownership of a property in accordance with
the right to housing, enshrined in Brazilian law. In so doing, it strategically
combined civil resistance with legal avenues to attain its objective of
defending people’s right to housing in the urban peripheries of medium-
and large-sized cities in Brazil (Ramírez-Orozco in this volume).
Meanwhile, the Yaqui in Mexico obtained favourable rulings through

judiciary proceedings, which condemned the state’s and private sector
companies’ failure to conduct the environmental impact assessment stud-
ies required for the building of the Independence aqueduct, and recog-
nized the indigenous group’s ownership of water resources from the Yaqui
river. These sentences helped them legitimize their nonviolent struggle,
maintain cohesion and demonstrate achievements in their civil resistance
process. Reciprocally, civil resistance was useful to put pressure on institu-
tions to implement these rulings, especially when such institutions proved
to be inefficient or biased (Hernández in this volume).
Another common strategy found in most cases in this volume was the
search for external support for civil resistance processes, especially allies
who could exert different kinds of pressures on opponents. The ‘No al
Canal’ movement, for example, raised international awareness about
human rights violations against anti-canal protesters, and this enabled it to
obtain a certain level of protection for high-profile leaders, such as
Francisca Ramírez (McCall and Taylor in this volume). Meanwhile, the
Guarijio forged alliances with the Yaqui and Mayo indigenous people and
joined the Kaweruma Network, which included a variety of actors, in
order to increase their power. Similarly, the Yaqui allied with other indig-
enous people, scholars and NGOs with similar concerns about the threats
posed by megaprojects to communities’ territory and natural resources
(Hernández in this volume). External support provided resisters more
leverage, amplified their voices, made repression against them more costly
when opponents cared about their image and offered useful resources.
Strategies to Cope with Direct Violence

The case studies in this volume showed how resisters used different strate-
gies to cope with direct violence and highlighted the need for resisters to
maintain cohesion and nonviolent discipline when faced with violent
repression. Unity, in particular, strengthened civil resistance movements
vis-à-vis their opponents and helped them build resilience. The case of the
ATCC illustrated the importance of joining force, organizing and plan-
ning in order to confront armed violence. In particular, the association
drew on the support of thousands of farmers from their area of influence
to assert their autonomy and tell armed groups that local civilians refused
to collaborate with any of them (Hernandez and Roa in this volume).
Maintaining nonviolent discipline, meanwhile, was key for at least two

reasons. First, opponents find it more difficult to violently repress peaceful
crowds because of prevalent social norms and might therefore exert more
restraint. Second, when opponents do use violent repression, the mainte-
nance of nonviolent discipline makes it more likely for repression to gener-
ate outrage and backfire (see e.g. Hess and Martin 2006; King 2018; Martin
2007). Wilson, in particular, argued that “activists’ efforts to disprove the
notion that they are the violent ones can be immensely productive” (Wilson
in this volume). Brian Martin (2007) refers to this as “Redeem”, which is
one of the five methods that nonviolent movements can use to increase the
chance of backfire. In this regard the way a civil resistance movement is
portrayed in the media and social networks can be crucial. As discussed
above, it is therefore important not only to maintain nonviolent discipline
but also to counter propaganda aimed at criminalizing a resistance move-
ment and depicting it as violent (Wilson in this volume).
Various case studies in this book highlighted the fundamental role of
training in preparing resisters to respond nonviolently to repression and to
deal with agents provocateurs in order to avoid justifying their opponents’
use of violence against them by discrediting them as violent and/or crimi-
nal groups (e.g. Ramírez-Orozco; Wilson; Puyosa in this volume). In
addition, Puyosa (in this volume) argued that strategic planning and a
unified strategy were essential for resisters to maintain nonviolent disci-
pline and avoid playing into the hands of their opponents.
Raising awareness, nationally and internationally, about violent repres-
sion was another strategy that could provide some protection to resisters
in the face of threats, as demonstrated in the case of Francisca Ramírez,
leader of the Nicaraguan anti-canal movement (McCall and Taylor in this
volume). It also helped to build support for civil resistance movements
and enhance the likelihood of backfire.
When the costs of violent repression are too high, nonviolent activists
can also switch from concentration methods to dispersion ones, as in
Bolivia and to some extent in Venezuela, in order to protect themselves
and continue their struggle (Roncken; Puyosa in this volume). Or, they
may innovate tactically and engage in less confrontational actions, as
Venezuelan activists did when resorting to some forms of creative protest
(Puyosa in this volume). Alternatively, they may adapt their strategies to
avoid confrontation, such as marchers did in Bolivia when they decided to
skip a location where confrontation with state security forces was likely
(Roncken in this volume). Additionally, as stated by Mary King (2018)
and exemplified in the case of Samaniego, when risks are elevated and
issues are overly sensitive, grievance groups can employ “concealed”
tactics of civil resistance to avoid outright confrontation with their oppo-
nents (Masullo, Mouly and Garrido in this volume).
Interestingly, the cases of Samaniego and the ATCC revealed that
reaching out to opponents could be a useful strategy to prevent violent
repression or avoid its recurrence. The ATCC, for instance, accompanied
its strategy of noncooperation with ongoing dialogue with armed groups,
thereby establishing a relationship of trust with these groups that enabled
it to request them to refrain from using direct violence against civilians
and complain when these actors committed abuses. This strategy was
effective in significantly reducing the level of armed violence in the area
and avoiding the recurrence of abuses against civilians (Hernández and
Roa in this volume). According to Kaplan (2017), the fact that local resi-
dents suffered much less from direct violence than their counterparts in
neighbouring communities evidenced the usefulness of the ATCC’s
approach. Likewise, the significant reduction of homicides in Samaniego
during the local peace pact showed that engaging with opponents in a civil
resistance campaign could be an effective way to prevent the latter’s use of
direct violence. Table 11.2 provides a summary of the main strategies used
to cope with direct violence in our case studies.
Table 11.2 Main strategies for civil resistance movements to cope with direct
violence
Strategies Objectives
Maintain nonviolent discipline; Avoid playing into the opponents’ hands,

redeem the civil resistance movement helping to justify discrediting and violent
response;
increase the chance of backfire
Raise public awareness about violent Compel opponents to exert restraint;
threats and actions nationally and elicit solidarity / build support;
internationally increase the chance of backfire
Move from concentration methods to Avoid the costs of violent repression when
dispersion ones; these are too high;
adapt methods to avoid confrontation or protect members of the grievance groups;
use less confrontational methods; enable grievance groups to continue their
use concealed methods nonviolent resistance and build resilience
Reach out to the opponents Prevent violent repression or avoid its
recurrence
Legacies
The experiences of civil resistance analysed in this book, even the more
recent ones, show that they are more than particular episodes. They are
processes that encounter setbacks, reach achievements and learn along the
way to avoid past mistakes and try to improve their strategies and tactics
to enhance their future chances of success. Perhaps the most important
legacy of many of the civil resistance processes documented in this volume
is their contribution to what we may call a culture of nonviolent activism,
that is, a contribution to a general awareness that the use of nonviolent
means is more effective and convenient than resorting to violence to
achieve social change. The case of the ATCC exemplified this (Hernández
and Roa in this volume). This said, this did not happen in all the cases, at
least in the short term. Harsh repression in Peru and Venezuela, in par-
ticular, led some participants in the civil resistance campaigns under study
to question the effectiveness of nonviolent methods and envisage the use
of violence to wage their struggle (Puyosa; Wilson in this volume).
Another legacy of civil resistance campaigns highlighted in the litera-
ture in the case of struggles against authoritarian regimes is the increased
likelihood of the establishment of a democratic regime if the previous
authoritarian regime desintegrates as a result of such a campaign instead of
violent rebellion (e.g. Chenoweth and Stephan 2011). While only one
case in this volume, that of the civil resistance movement in Venezuela, can
be considered one of resistance against an authoritarian regime, all the
nonviolent movements studied promoted social practices that fomented a
democratic culture. For instance, the experiences of Samaniego and the
ATCC instituted local practices of participatory democracy through col-
lective decision-making, including participatory budget planning and
open councils (cabildos abiertos) (Masullo, Mouly and Garrido; Hernández
and Roa in this volume). Similarly, the MTST in Brazil placed emphasis on
upholding principles of direct democracy within the movement (Ramírez-
Orozco in this volume).
Civil resistance experiences can also contribute to the strengthening of
social organizations and movements, helping to build cohesion among
grievance groups and strengthening their capacities of organization and
planning. The ATCC is a case in point, where local farmers gained strength
through the establishment of a representative and cohesive farmer organi-
zation, which has endured for over 30 years, representing farmers, chan-
nelling their demands and giving them more leverage by enabling them to
speak with one voice (Hernández and Roa in this volume). Further, as
argued in the case of Bolivia, civil resistance is a learning process that
empowers those who participate in it and may yield to the formation of
new civil resistance movements, which build on the previous experience of
participants in earlier movements (Roncken in this volume). The chapter
on Brazil provides an example of it, as the Roofless Workers’ Movement
drew on the experience of the Landless Movement and learnt from it
(Ramírez-Orozco in this volume).
Further, as Minoo Koefoed (cited in Hallward et al. 2017: 6) suggests,
“civil resistance can reduce civilians’ dependency on oppressive structures,
enabling them to become agents in their own processes of social and polit-
ical change and to build a desirable alternative to the dominant order”. We
can see this kind of legacy in the case of the Lenca’s constructive pro-
gramme in Honduras (Maher in this volume) or in that of the ATCC
(Hernández and Roa in this volume) and the residents of the mountain
region in Samaniego (Masullo, Mouly and Garrido in this volume).
Additionally, civil resistance may help prevent future violent conflict by
promoting more cooperative relationships between grievance groups and
their opponents, and contribute to peacebuilding. Roncken (in this volume)
cites Kurt Schock (2013: 285) saying that nonviolent resistance provides a
better chance to “lay the groundwork for a more cooperative post-conflict
society, in terms of behaviour and attitudes as well as in terms of political
structure”, while it “may also reduce feelings of humiliation, hatred and
desire for revenge, which are often the seeds of future conflict”. Hernández
and Roa (in this volume) further note that civil resistance can enhance the
capacity of those who engage in it to build peace—something referred to as
“pacifist empowerment” (cf. Hernández 2017).
In Colombia, for instance, while the ATCC engaged in civil resistance
against armed actors in its area of influence to confront abuses by these
actors, at the same time it humanized its opponents and promoted a cul-
ture of dialogue, nonviolence and tolerance (Hernández and Roa in this
volume). As Verónique Dudouet (2017: 23) argued in a recent study, civil
resistance against armed actors in a war setting can “contribute to peace-
building by encouraging constructive engagement with conflict actors as
well as prefiguring post-war peaceful societies”. Likewise, Hallward et al.
(2017: 2) stated that “by incorporating an attention to matters of cultural
and structural violence in addition to direct violence, civil resistance
movements can help build societies oriented toward inclusive peacebuild-
ing and development practices”.
The case of the ATCC evidences such legacies. Indeed, more than
30 years after its creation, the association continues to play a significant
role in dealing with conflict and avoiding the resort to violence. Likewise,
as the level of armed violence in the ATCC’s area of influence drastically
decreased with the demobilization of the paramilitaries in 2006 and the
end of insurgency in this area, the association persisted in its efforts to
promote peaceful coexistence in its territory but shifted the focus of its
exercise of civil resistance towards the defence of natural resources and
fighting against different forms of structural violence (Hernández and Roa
in this volume).
This said, civil resistance is not a panacea. For instance, some campaigns
may achieve positive outcomes in the short term, but do not lead to struc-
tural change in the long term, making it likely for new conflict to erupt in
the future. Hernández (in this volume) states that, while the exercise of
civil resistance can contribute to a reduction of power asymmetries, sur-
rounding structural conditions (e.g. socio-economic exclusion and racial
discrimination) can also hamper resisters’ efforts, only enabling them to
achieve limited outcomes, short of significant and durable social change.
By contrast, other civil resistance campaigns may not attain immediate
objectives but may enhance participants’ capacities to generate structural
change in the long term. The TIPNIS experience of civil resistance is one
such case. As Roncken argued, “although not necessarily successful in
reaching its concrete goal (stopping the building of the road)”, it appar-
ently “contributed to new learning, insights and practices that can help
improve the means and outcomes of strategic action for structural change
in the future” (Roncken in this volume).
Concluding Remarks
To conclude, we expect that this book offers useful insights into civil resis-
tance practice in settings of violent conflict in Latin America that can help
current and future nonviolent resistance campaigns to improve their effec-
tiveness and scholars to further theorize about this modality of struggle. We
believe, in particular, that the case studies provide useful lessons learnt on
how to cope with violent repression and how to wield power and exert
leverage on a variety of opponents. They also draw our attention to the
importance of discourse, and the need to wage nonviolent resistance strug-
gles at the discursive level to confront attempts by opponents to discredit
grievance groups and their causes. Additionally, they provide insights into
how civil resistance can be combined with negotiation and legal proceedings
to enhance the effectiveness of a campaign. Further, they point at a number
of significant consequences that civil resistance may have for the develop-
ment of democratic practices and a culture of nonviolent activism, the
strengthening of social organizations and movements, increased autonomy
from oppressive structures and peacebuilding.
In addition to these practical insights, the book suggests various ave-
nues for future research. In particular, while many civil resistance studies
focus on campaigns against authoritarian regimes and colonial powers,
this collection reveals that a broader range of civil resistance campaigns
deserve our attention. We therefore hope that it stimulates further research
on campaigns against megaprojects, armed violence or the deprivation of
housing rights, which have gained prominence but remain under-studied.
We also encourage the study of other types of civil resistance that are not
covered in this book, but are increasingly relevant in Latin America and
other parts of the world, such as nonviolent campaigns against corruption
or against organized crime.
Additionally, it would be interesting to conduct further inquiry on
strategies to cope with violence, all the more as opponents use increasingly
sophisticated means of violent repression. It would also be worth looking
in more depth at the legacies of a broad spectrum of civil resistance cam-
paigns in terms of democratization, violence prevention, peaceful coexis-
tence and a reduction of structural violence. Likewise, additional research
on the combination of civil resistance with other methods, such as nego-
tiation and legal proceedings, would not only help develop theory but
would also provide practical insights for activists regarding how to make
the most of these distinct approaches. Finally, in today’s increasingly glo-
balized world, it would be useful to examine processes of learning across
cases of nonviolent struggles in Latin America and beyond.
References
Dudouet, Véronique. 2017. ‘Powering to Peace: Integrated Civil Resistance and
Peacebuilding Strategies’ Special Report. Vol. 1. Washington, DC: International
Center on Nonviolent Conflict.
https://doi.org/10.1080/15423166.2017.1376431.
Hernández, Esperanza. 2017. Resistencia civil y empoderamiento pacifista.
PAZSOS Revista Paz Sostenible 1 (2), Mayo–Agosto.
Hess, David, and Brian Martin. 2006. Repression, Backfire, and the Theory of
Transformative Events. Mobilization 11 (2): 249–267. https://doi.
org/10.17813/maiq.11.2.3204855020732v63.
Kaplan, Oliver. 2017. Resisting War: How Communities Protect Themselves.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
King, Mary Elizabeth. 2018. The Ethics and “Realism” of Nonviolent Action. In
The Oxford Handbook of International Political Theory, ed. C. Brown and
R. Eckersley, 273–285. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Martin, Brian. 1989. Gene Sharp’s Theory of Power. Journal of Peace Research 26
(2): 213–222.
———. 2007. Justice Ignited: The Dynamics of Backfire. Lanham, MD: Rowman
and Littlefield.
Nepstad, Sharon Erickson. 2011. Nonviolent Revolutions: Civil Resistance in the
Late 20th Century. New York: Oxford University Press.
Research 50 (3): 277–290. https://doi.org/10.1177/0022343313476530.
Sharp, Gene. 1973. The Politics of Nonviolent Action (Part 1): Power and Struggle.
Vol. 1. Boston: Porter Sargent.
———. 2010. From Dictatorship to Democracy: A Conceptual Framework for
Liberation. 4th ed. Boston: The Albert Einstein Institution.
———. 2012. Sharp’s Dictionary of Power and Struggle: Language of Civil
Resistance in Conflicts. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Wanis-St. John, Anthony, and Noah Rosen. 2017. Negotiating Civil Resistance.
Washington, DC: United States Institute of Peace.
Index1
A Colombia, 2, 6, 7, 10, 12, 19,

Armed conflict, 3, 5, 6, 19, 47, 111, 112, 111–133, 138–142, 227,
112n1, 114–116, 117n5, 122, 124, 229–231, 236, 241
130, 131, 138, 139, 141, 143–150,
152–154, 183, 185, 195, 236
Armed groups, 2, 11, 104, 111–133, D
140, 145, 147, 151, 152, 195, Democratization, 85–107, 170, 243
228, 229, 235–237, 239 Digital media, 43, 100, 101
Authoritarianism, 87, 89, 180, 195n47 Direct action, 12, 107, 150, 157–173,
194, 236
Discourse, 7, 9–11, 78, 89, 95, 163,
B 178, 181–185, 185n19, 194–199,
Bolivia, 2, 6, 9, 10, 13, 205–223, 227, 214, 216, 223, 233–234, 242
231, 235, 238, 241
Brazil, 6, 10, 12, 157–173, 227, 231,
232, 234, 236, 240, 241 F
Frames, 12, 51, 175–199, 208
C
Canal, 2, 9, 11, 65–82 G
Civilian noncooperation, Guarijio, 10, 17–37, 229, 230,
11, 111–133, 236 232–234, 237
1
Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-05033-7
246 INDEX
H Mining, 2, 6, 7, 12, 31, 44, 176–196,

Honduras, 3, 6, 10, 41–61, 227, 229, 176–177n3, 181n13, 183n16,
230, 235, 241 184n18, 223, 231, 235
Housing, 6, 12, 157–173, 234,
236, 243
N
National park, 13, 206, 208, 209
I Natural resources, 6, 9, 10, 30, 31,
Indigenous, 2, 6, 7, 9, 10, 13, 18–24, 43, 61, 154, 175–177, 181, 185,
27–29, 33n4, 34–37, 41–61, 70, 193, 211, 213, 214, 217, 231,
75, 92, 120, 127, 127n11, 233, 234, 237, 242
129n12, 131, 182, 196, 197, Negotiation, 7, 10, 27, 29, 31, 32, 34,
205–223, 231–233, 237 37, 59, 87, 103, 113, 116–118,
117n5, 121, 122, 124, 126,
128–132, 149–153, 159, 163, 166,
J 176, 192, 197, 213, 235, 236, 243
Judiciary, 29, 31, 81, 89, 183, 237 Nicaragua, 2, 6, 8, 10, 11, 65–82,
227, 230, 233
Nonviolent discipline, 8, 11, 12, 66,
L 95–97, 107, 168, 194, 232, 234,
Land occupation, 159–161, 167, 169, 235, 237–239
172, 231, 232, 236
Learning, 7, 9, 12, 13, 47–48, 52,
178, 180, 186–191, 193, 195, P
197–199, 217, 218, 220, 221, Peacebuilding, 12, 18, 37, 43, 51, 55,
223, 234–235, 241–243 115, 130, 133, 137–154, 241, 243
Lenca, 10, 11, 41, 43, 43n2, 46, 47, Peru, 2, 3, 6–10, 12, 175–188,
50–58, 61, 232–235, 241 175n1, 176n3, 181n11, 181n13,
185–186n21, 191, 195, 196,
197n48, 198, 199, 227, 231,
M 234, 235, 240
Megaproject, 6, 10, 18, 19, 30–34, Political parties, 32, 80, 86, 89, 93,
37, 44, 70, 75, 79, 154, 219, 98, 168, 169, 209
237, 243 Power, 1–13, 18, 28, 29, 34–37, 41–61,
Methods, 2, 8–10, 18, 19, 23, 27, 29, 66–70, 79, 85, 87–89, 96, 103,
31–37, 51, 81, 96–99, 138, 112, 130, 141, 143, 148–153,
148–153, 160, 177, 178, 151n6, 161–165, 170–172, 178,
180n10, 197, 199, 205, 206, 180, 195, 196, 199, 207, 208,
217, 222, 223, 227, 229–231, 212, 213, 218–221, 223, 228–234,
235–240, 243 236, 237, 242, 243
Mexico, 2, 6, 7, 10, 17–37, 58, 227, Private sector, 6, 7, 9, 25, 170, 228,
229–231, 234, 237 233, 237
INDEX 247
R 80, 90, 112, 115–118, 116n4,

Radical flanks, 11, 95 120–124, 126, 127, 127n11,
Repression, 3n2, 4, 7, 12, 27, 29, 130, 132, 139, 140, 142, 143,
42–46, 50, 60, 66, 74–76, 78, 145, 147, 150, 152, 154, 161,
80, 81, 86, 87, 90, 92, 93, 161n4, 167, 171, 197, 198,
95–97, 101, 103–107, 168, 206–213, 216, 217, 219, 229,
170–172, 178, 179n8, 180, 230, 232, 237, 242
180n10, 182, 183, 185, 190,
191, 194–199, 215, 222, 235,
237–240, 242, 243 V
Rhetorical trap, 8, 10, 66, 77, 78, 81, Venezuela, 2, 8, 10, 11, 85–87,
130, 230, 233 87n1, 89n3, 95, 97, 99,
101, 103, 104n11, 105,
227–230, 232, 234,
S 238, 240
Strategies, 7–11, 13, 31, 34, 35, 43, Violent conflict, 1–13, 19, 178, 227,
47, 48, 51, 55, 56, 58–60, 78, 241, 242
81, 86, 95–99, 103, 104, 107,
113, 116, 122, 127, 128, 131,
132, 142, 144, 145, 149, 160, W
167, 170, 176, 177n5, 178, 185, Water, 11, 19, 21, 26, 27,
188, 191, 192, 194, 196–199, 30–34, 42, 44, 53–55,
206, 212, 217, 218, 223, 228, 57, 58, 74, 93, 183n17,
232, 235–240, 243 186, 186n21, 187, 189–191,
Student, 29, 46, 85, 86, 89, 103–106, 197, 213, 231, 237
124, 222 Women, 33, 43, 46–48, 53, 60n8, 66,
72, 76–78, 92, 95, 140, 160n2,
166, 192, 193, 215, 218–220,
T 222, 223
Tactical innovation, 59, 96, 98, 107,
194, 198, 235
Territory, 6, 8–10, 12, 13, 19–32, Y
34–37, 42, 45, 52–54, 68, 73, Yaqui, 7, 10, 17–37, 230–235, 237

Civil Resistance and Violent Conflict in Latin America: Mobilizing For Rights

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STUDIES OF THE AMERICAS

Civil Resistance and

More information about this series at

Studies of the Americas

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018966865

Cover image © ETrayne04 / Alamy Stock Photo

This book is the product of a joint research project between Facultad

the International Center on Nonviolent Conflict (ICNC) team for their

Quito, Ecuador Cécile Mouly

1 Introduction: Civil Resistance in Contexts of Violent

2 The Civil Resistance of Yaqui and Guarijio in Sonora,

3 A Rebellion of Spirituality: On the Power of Indigenous

4 Qué Diría Carlos? The ‘No al Canal’ Movement and the

5 Venezuelan Struggle Towards Democratization: The 2017

6 Alternative Forms of Civilian Noncooperation with

7 Civil Resistance and Peacebuilding: The Experience of the

8 Nonviolent Resistance in the Struggle for Housing in

9 Frames in Conflict: Discursive Contestation and the

10 Nonviolent Resistance in Plurinational Bolivia: The

11 Conclusion: Civil Resistance in Latin America—A Viable

María Belén Garrido is a research lecturer at the Pontificia Universidad

Iria Puyosa, PhD, is a researcher in political communication and civil

unarmed civilian peacekeepers with Nonviolent Peaceforce and a member

Fig. 5.1 Reasons to protest 91

Map 4.1 Location of the proposed Nicaragua canal 69

Introduction: Civil Resistance in Contexts

© The Author(s) 2019 1

where nonviolent struggles are increasingly taking place against powerful1

Arguably, many civil resistance campaigns take place in contexts of vio-

social movement literature, such as Stahler-Sholk et al. (2008) or Alvarez

For instance, several of the resistance campaigns examined in this book

of a road across ancestral territory, with many non-indigenous members

Civil Resistance Strategies and Methods

of founders of the Sandinista movement to publicly expound contradictions

In a similar vein, Chap. 10 by Theo Roncken draws our attention to the

The Civil Resistance of Yaqui and Guarijio

Civil resistance is a social practice and a relevant concept for various

This chapter is the product of the research: “Contributions to peacebuilding

© The Author(s) 2019 17

constituting a mechanism of opposition, struggle and defence of

I define unarmed insurrections as organized civilian-based popular challenges

The historical recurrence of civil resistance, its meanings, methods and

Findings in peace research show the importance of the civil resistance

The Yaqui Tribe: Transition

Until 1937, the Yaqui resorted to violence in their exercise of resis-

In 1937, Mexican president Lázaro Cárdenas returned part of their

The Guarijio Tribe: Transition from Passive to Civil Resistance

Likewise, a local scholar explained that landowners:

In 1975, Canadian anthropologist Edmund Faubert came to the terri-

A passive resistance then became visible. It first manifested during the

A second expression of this form of resistance is found in the 1930s. At

The Civil Resistance of the Yaqui

The Civil Resistance of the Yaqui

A relevant aspect of the Yaqui civil resistance is the meaning of space,

Another important factor in the analysis of this experience of civil resis-

Specifically, in 1937, President Cárdenas ratified the Yaqui’s possession of

An important feature of the Yaqui’s experience of civil resistance is

This nonviolent strategic resistance is also reflected in the importance

The Civil Resistance of the Guarijio

In addition to these factors, it is worth mentioning the resistance capacity

Yaqui and Guarijio Civil Resistance in Defence

The Yaqui Civil Resistance Against the Independence Aqueduct

The Guarijio Civil Resistance Against the Pilares Dam

Quito, Ecuador Cécile Mouly

1 Introduction: Civil Resistance in Contexts of Violent

2 The Civil Resistance of Yaqui and Guarijio in Sonora,

3 A Rebellion of Spirituality: On the Power of Indigenous

4 Qué Diría Carlos? The ‘No al Canal’ Movement and the

5 Venezuelan Struggle Towards Democratization: The 2017

6 Alternative Forms of Civilian Noncooperation with

7 Civil Resistance and Peacebuilding: The Experience of the

8 Nonviolent Resistance in the Struggle for Housing in

9 Frames in Conflict: Discursive Contestation and the

10 Nonviolent Resistance in Plurinational Bolivia: The

11 Conclusion: Civil Resistance in Latin America—A Viable

Fig. 5.1 Reasons to protest 91

Map 4.1 Location of the proposed Nicaragua canal 69

Sobre La Concesión del Canal Interoceánico de Nicaragua (López-