Professional Documents
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violence
Author(s): Javier Auyero and Kristine Kilanski
Source: Theory and Society , October 2015, Vol. 44, No. 5 (October 2015), pp. 393-414
Published by: Springer
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Society
Decades of research have established the durable and pernicious impact that chronic
exposure to violence has on poor communities (Brennan et al. 2007; Schwab-Stone
et al. 1995). Clark et al. (2008) have dubbed chronic exposure to violence a "mental
health hazard," in reference to its harmful developmental, emotional, and behavioral
impacts on individuals (see also, Farrell et al. 2007; Friday 1995; Holton 1995; Popkin
et al. 2010). Exposure to community violence is strongly associated with post-traumatic
Ē3 Javier Auyero
auyero@austin.utexas.edu
Kristine Kilanski
kristine.kilanski@gmail.com
1 Department of Sociology, University of Texas at Austin, 305 E. 23rd St. A 1700, Austin,
TX 78712, USA
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3 The study was approved by University of Texas at Austin IRB (protocol # 2011-05-0126).
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Daily violence
Social and criminal violence has skyrocketed in Buenos Aires metropolitan area
(ODS A 2011). Official data for the province of Buenos Aires shows that the crime
rate in the area doubled between 1995 and 2008, from 1 1 14 to 2010 criminal episodes
per 100,000 residents and from 206 to 535 crimes against persons per 100,000 residents
(DNPC 2008). Reported incidents of sexual and domestic abuse have also increased
during the last two decades (La Nación , February 24, 2008).4 This violence has been
concentrated within squatter settlements, shantytowns, and poor neighborhoods
(Auyero and Berti 2015), like Ingeniero Budge. According to the municipal Defensoria
General, homicides in Ingeniero Budge have increased 180 % since 2007, from a total
number of 17 in that year to 48 between January and October of 2012 (meanwhile the
population of the municipality where Ingeniero Budge is located grew only 4.2 %
between 2001 and 2010). The murder rate in Ingeniero Budge is 28.4 per 100,000
residents - four times that of the state of Buenos Aires. The population of Ingeniero
Budge is roughly 28 % of the total population of the district of Lomas de Zamora
(population 600,000). Out of a total 65 homicides that took place in the district during
2012, 58 % occurred in Ingeniero Budge (CSJN 2013).
In-depth interviews with physicians who work in the emergency rooms at the local
hospital and health center, and with a social worker at the local school, confirm the
sharp growth of interpersonal violence. "Today," says a doctor with 15 years of
experience in the district, "it is much more common to attend to patients with injuries
provoked by gunshots or knives ... at least one per day." The director of the emergency
room at the local hospital seconds this general impression, pointing to a 10 % annual
increase in the number of people wounded by gunshots or knives over the course of the
last decade (heridos por armas de fuego y arma blanca).
A variety of deeply intertwined factors lie at the root of the generalized de-
pacification of Buenos Aires metropolitan area. Growing inequality,
deproletarianization (which deprived poor households of their means of subsistence
and reproduction), informalization, and general degradation in living conditions at the
bottom of the social structure have fostered conditions tightly linked to increased
interpersonal violence (Auyero and Berti 2015). Lacking work in the formal economy,
the drug trade has become an increasingly important source of income for those living
in the most economically distressed regions of the state (Sain 2009). Small bands
devoted to the storage, preparation, and distribution of drugs operate in poor areas,
contributing to the rise in interpersonal violence. Police rarely if ever attempt to tamp
down the drug trade or the violence it spurs, with many viewing drugs as a lucrative
source of additional income (see Sain 2009; see also Auyero and Alcaraz 2013).
Finally, crime in Ingeniero Budge is spurred by the presence of La Salada. A site
where vast amounts of merchandise and money pass hands, the largest informal street
market in South America presents an opportunity for poor and marginalized youth in
the area, who "crushed by the weight of chronic unemployment and underemployment
4 On the diverse forms of violence experienced by the Argentine poor, see Bonaldi and del Cueto (2009); on
fear of crime and perceptions of "inseguridad," see Kessler (2009). It is important to note, however, that
although in the last three decades there has been a significant rise in crime, the overall crime rates in Argentina
remain comparatively low (see UNODC 201 1).
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During the course of fieldwork, residents told us repeatedly "there's nothing you can
do" about the widespread violence in their community. Laura (age 51), a long-term
resident, told us: "People here are scared if you do something, they [the perpetrators]
might get you and hit you or your family. They may retaliate." Similarly, Verónica (age
34) told us: "People do not report it to the police because they are scared." During a
community meeting attended by Javier Auyero, most residents seemed to agree that
fear has a demobilizing effect: "There are a lot of people who are angry about all this
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5 On the state intervention in the area and its role in the perpetuation of interpersonal violence, see Auyero and
Berti 2015.
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Despite
their deep-seated distrust
corrupt and
brutal6), residents do
a last-ditch attempt to save sons an
Driven by impotence and fear - im
substances (such as freebase cocaine
either murdered by a drug dealer
occasion, summon the punitive
provides this explanation for why
do anything against drugs. ... I die
time I think that he can die becaus
force has the same "sociological am
inmates' relatives (Comfort 2008).
As we have shown, residents - des
numerous efforts to stem violence
acts are embodied in the form of rou
as "a regular course of procedure; a
of certain acts or duties." These pr
meaning or not, expose an ethics o
and Peluso (2012), "an ethics of the
without any concerted thought put
toast ties people
of together in acts
As a conscientious reader may ha
recorded or to report in regard to
artifact of our research design, but
field site. For one, the structure of
to be available to meet the needs o
and women residents typically wor
and "dirty" labor, women residents
goods for La Salada, as vendors at th
other hand, many of the men in
neighborhood or participate in oth
construction), work that typically
tances, away from home. As is tr
struggle to balance wage earning
poor and marginalized commun
safety and wellbeing, families
children, and work is highly in
(see Heymann 2006). These prob
families, a family structure tha
(see, for example, Neumann
Ingeniero Budge.
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The protective and coping practices and routines described above find parallels in poor
and violent communities throughout the Americas (Goldstein 1998, 2003; Hautzinger
2007; Menjivar 201 1). More enigmatic, and much less explored in the literature, is the
teaching and use of physical force in the name of the prevention of (and protection
from) violence. In Ingeniero Budge, adults teach children how to use violence to
protect themselves; forcibly (and sometimes brutally) confine children perceived as
"getting in trouble"; and beat (actual or potential) perpetrators of violence (including
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Daniel (age 20) "has been smoking pot since he was 14," his mother Fernanda
(age 42) tells us, "but it was OK, nothing terrible happened to him, until paco
appeared.... I've seen him drugged with it, and it's terrible." Last Christmas,
Fernanda lost track of him for more days than usual (he tends to disappear from
home, for a couple days, only to come back, his clothes in rags, dirty, and
exhausted from long days and nights of smoking paco). In desperation,
Fernanda went looking for him. "I searched for him everywhere.... I
ended up in an abandoned house, one of those houses the kids use to
store and consume drugs.... It was night, pitch black, and I recognized the
sound of his laughter. Two kids there wanted to stop me but I told them
to let me in or I'd call the cops. I started dialing 911 and they let me in. I
got a hold of Daniel and beat the shit out of him. He doesn't remember I
punched him, he doesn't remember where he was. He doesn't remember
anything." After that episode, Fernanda tried to monitor Daniel's move-
ments more closely - "my acquaintances send me text messages when they
see him, they tell me if he is consuming or not."
After a particularly difficult week with her son, Leonardo (age 16) who is
addicted to freebase cocaine, Ana (45) tells us: "I hit him with the broom.
I hit him everywhere, arms, legs.... I lost it.... I swear to you, I lost it, I
didn't want to stop beating him until I could see blood coming out." Her
voice trembling, her eyes filled with tears, she then adds: "Leonardo has
stolen many things from me. The first time I beat him was when he sold
a cellphone he stole from us.... I beat him really bad; I grabbed his
fingers, and told him that if he did that again, I was going to break his
fingers, one by one so that he couldn't steal again. He never took a
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Fernanda and Ana's stories both involve the recollection of their use of violence
against teenage or young adult sons who frequently used paco. In both cases, the latter
disappeared for days or weeks at a time, and when they returned home, disrupted the
household through their own threat or use of violence or engaging in theft of the
households' valuable and scarce resources. Although we cannot access exactly what
made Fernanda and Ana engage in these acts of violence against their sons in the
moment (and suspect that the driving motivations behind these acts are complex,
multiple, and likely change throughout the course of committing violence), neither
do we think that these acts can be understood as pure cruelty - that is, the intentional
imposition of physical pain with the intention of causing anguish or fear (Shklar 1985).
Hours of listening to mothers recount brutal acts against their children reveal not
only the mechanics of violence (the form of the punch, the marks left on the victim's
body), but also, and more importantly, the frustration and impotence that mothers
experience in the course of attempting to protect their children - especially when they
feel that these efforts are being actively thwarted by their children's or other loved ones'
own actions. This frustration is illustrated in Alicia's (age 55) recounting of her use of
violence against Ezequiel (age 17), a friend of her son Victor (age 27): "When Ezequiel
came back to the house," recalls Alicia, "he was about to smoke another pipe [of paco],
I struck him across his face. 'Son of a bitch,' I told him, 'Don't you see that you are
making your mother suffer? She is very worried about you. And don't you even think
about hurting her, because I'll strike you harder next time.'"
If we keep listening - as we did during the many difficult hours of ethnographic
interviewing - mixed in with this palpable, overwhelming frustration and felt-loss of
control, another possible motivation for these mothers' use of violence emerges. This
was the mothers' belief that violence was the only means remaining to prevent an even
less desirable outcome than the marks they sometimes put on their children's bodies or
the fear and trauma that they may have inspired in their children through their violent
acts. Their violence, as they saw it, was a last ditch effort to interrupt addiction, keep
their children away from bad influences who might endanger them in and out of prison,
or end the cycle of young death in the community. Violence is thus seen as an
expression of care - as a right way of looking after others.
Ana, for example, explains her use of violence in these terms:
Last night, he [Leonardo] came back home high, drugged up, aggressive. He still
obeys me and he has not tried to hit me yet, but the friend with whom he does
drugs, does not even respect his mother, he is out of control.... What if
[Leonardo] is the next one to die? I'm really anguished. When he comes back
drugged, I can't do anything else other than beat him, because he doesn't
understand me, because I've spoken to him and he never listens. And I don't
want to hit him anymore, for him, for me, for my daughters who see
everything....
For Ana, violence is constructed not as a practice she wants to engage in, but rather,
as the only option ("I can't do anything else other than beat him") for keeping her son,
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While the mother, Gloria, may have acted out of anger and frustration, her actions
are also a response to feeling as though no other choices existed to protect her son.
Concluding remarks
In recent years, we have seen a surge in interpersonal violence across Latin America,
concentrated in the region's most impoverished and marginalized regions. While a host
of studies have explored the devastating impact of this violence on the men, women,
and children relegated to the urban margins, far fewer studies have explored what
people do to protect themselves and to care for one another, despite, and in response to,
the challenges they face.
In part, this is probably because the people whose lives are inundated by violence
tend to express futility in its face (Bandura 1982). In conversation with researchers and
with each other, they emphasize the paralyzing and isolating effects of violence
(Caldeira 2001; Rotker 2002), telling us "there's nothing you can do" in response to
the robbings, murders, and rapes in their community. Our 30 months of ethnographic
data, however, reveal that despite what they say, residents engage a wide variety of
strategies to stem violence in their communities and homes and to protect those they
love. These practices have largely become routinized, a matter of course, in their daily
lives. Recognizing that these practices are also gendered - it is generally women who
set family curfews and organize groups to go to the bus stop, for example - we draw on
the notion of "protective carework" (Elliott and Aseltine 2013) to describe these under-
acknowledged efforts to cope with the uncertainty that chronic danger produces.
Having drawn on Michael Lambek (2010) and Veena Das 's (2012) concept of
"everyday ethics" (or the notion that it is the actions that people carry out on a day-
to-day basis that are reflective of an ethical stance) to make visible the expression of
care amidst violence through "small" and often routine acts such as "making toast," we
extend our gaze to other, frequent, if less routinized, acts that take place on-the-ground
in our field site. The same residents that organize trips to the bus stop or implement
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Coda
Reflecting on the role of writers as cultural producers, David Morris (1997) states that
they "can expand the borders of the moral community and force us to acknowledge
suffering where we normally do not see it." Along these lines, we see our work as an
attempt both to make the suffering of the marginalized visible (Das 1997) and to
unearth the many things that people, individually or collectively, do to cope with the
violence that affects them. This effort takes the form of scholarly articles written for
Anglophone audiences (such as this) and of other cultural products such as a short book
in Spanish written in accessible, jargon-free language (Auyero and Berti 2013) and op-
ed pieces written for mainstream Argentine newspapers. This combined endeavor
hopes to challenge misperceptions of the marginalized as too paralyzed by fear to
respond to interpersonal violence. Contesting misrepresentations with widespread
currency among officials and pundits is, we believe, a form of public intervention in
line with what Pierre Bourdieu (2010) dubbed "scholarship with commitment." We are
certainly not alone in this effort at challenging misconceptions and silences about the
horrific conditions in which the urban poor dwell - human rights organizations such as
Centro de Estudios Legales y Sociales and feminist collectives such as La Casa del
Encuentro have been active in the denunciation of different forms of violence and in the
examination of the political and economic causes of violence.
Acknowledgments Special thanks to Raewyn Connell, Senior Editor of Theory and Society, and three
Theory and Society reviewers for their extremely helpful comments. An earlier version of this article was
presented at the Urban Ethnography Lab at the University of Texas-Austin. Thanks to the participants for their
insightful suggestions. The National Science Foundation (Award SES- 1 153230), the Harry Frank
Guggenheim Foundation, and the Teresa Lozano Long Institute of Latin American Studies at the University
of Texas at Austin provided funding for this project.
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Javier Auyero is the Joe R. and Teresa Lozano Long Professor in Latin American Sociology at the University
of Texas- Austin where he directs the Urban Ethnography Lab. He is the author of several books, including
Poor Peoples Politics (2000) and Patients of the State (2012). Together with Kristine Kilanski and other
fellows from the Urban Ethnography Lab, Auyerohas been examining modern forms of social suffering in
Austin, Texas. The results are published in Invisible in Austin. Life and Labor in an American City (2015).
Kristine Kilanski is a PhD candidate in the Department of Sociology and a Graduate Fellow of the Urban
Ethnography Lab at the University of Texas at Austin. Kristine 's primary research interests are gender, work,
and poverty. Her research has appeared in Work & Occupations and Gender & Society.
Springer