Revolution, Counter-Revolution and Revisionism in Postcolonial Africa
When Mozambique’s sixteen-year-long armed conflict ended in 1992, it was considered one of the most vicious wars in independent Africa. The war took one million lives, devastated the country’s economy, brutalized the population and left most people destitute. On one side stood the government, dominated by Frelimo, the ruling party which had won Mozambique its independence from Portugal in 1975. On the other was Renamo, a proxy army created and used by the dying white supremacist regimes of the region to destabilize Mozambique. The war produced no clear victor and an internationally-brokered peace deal guaranteed Renamo, widely recognized as the main perpetrator of wartime atrocities, a place in Mozambique’s post-war political system. Revolution, Counter-Revolution and Revisionism in Postcolonial Africa examines the government’s attempts to revise postcolonial Mozambique’s traumatic past with a view to negotiating the present. Alice Dinerman stresses the path-dependence of memory practices while tracing their divergent trajectories, shifting meanings and varied combinations within ruling discourse and performance. This ground breaking study investigates defining themes in the field of social memory studies as they bear on the politics of post-Cold War, post-apartheid Southern Africa. These themes include the interplay between past and present, the dialectic between remembering and forgetting, the dynamics between popular and official memory discourses, and the politics of acknowledgment. Dinerman’s original analysis will be of interest to students of modern Africa; the sociology of memory; Third World politics; and post-conflict societies. Alice Dinerman received her MA in Political Science from York University in Toronto in 1989, and her PhD in Politics from the University of Oxford in 1999. She has taught high-school-level English and Mathematics to ex-combatants and war victims of the apartheid-era regional conflict in Zimbabwe; served as an external consultant to the Africa Office of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the USA; and held academic posts at the Evergreen State College and the Henry M. Jackson School of International Studies at the University of Washington. This book is based on her doctoral research when she was a research associate of the Center for African Studies at the University of Eduardo Mondlane in Maputo.
Routledge studies in modern history
1 Isolation Places and practices of exclusion Edited by Carolyn Strange and Alison Bashford 2 From Slave Trade to Empire European colonisation of Black Africa 1780s–1880s Edited by Olivier Pétré Grenouilleau 3 Revolution, Counter-Revolution and Revisionism in Postcolonial Africa The case of Mozambique, 1975–1994 Alice Dinerman
Revolution, Counter-Revolution and Revisionism in Postcolonial Africa The case of Mozambique, 1975–1994 Alice Dinerman
First published 2006 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an imforma business © 2006 Alice Dinerman
This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2006. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN10: 0-415-77017-3 (hbk) ISBN13: 978-0-415-77017-0 (hbk)
In memory of Helen Schneider Dinerman (1920–1974) and James Dinerman (1921–1999)
Contents
List of maps Acknowledgments Notes on the text Glossary and acronyms Introduction: the making and unmaking of the Namapa Naparamas
x xi xiv xvi
1
Mozambique as a bellwether 12 Post-socialist Mozambique, recent historiographical debate and contemporary forms of mnemonic legitimation 19 1
Myth as a “meaning-making” device in post-independence Mozambique
32
Policy, politics and historiography 35 The state-idea in post-independence Mozambique 47 The Frelimo revolution 49 Renamo and counter-revolution 54 Official history, Frelimo ideology and Mozambican studies 61 Synopsis of argument and a key assumption 77 Nampula Province and Eráti/Namapa District 79 Overview, scope and sources 83 2
Aspects of precolonial and colonial Nampula Precolonial Nampula 90 Colonial chieftaincy 93 The colonial cotton regime 96 Eráti District, c.1830–1974 106
90
viii Contents 3
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production,” 1975–1987
115
The context 119 All in the family? 125 Economic crisis, war and chiefs of production 138 4
The context, 1987–1994
152
Overview: 1987–1994 152 Post-1994 developments 155 Civil war and its legacies 161 Rural markets, capital and the PRE/PRES 163 The budget crisis and the state 165 Moves toward fiscal reform 167 “Marginality” and law enforcement 169 Pre-election instability 170 5
Multipartyism, the retraditionalization of local administration and the apparent duplication of state authority: the case of Nampula Province
171
The secretary as interloper 172 The state as Leviathan? 176 The state, the party and chieftaincy, 1990–1994 179 6
Labor, tribute and authority
193
The provenance, ambiguities and uncertainties of chiefly political ascendancy 195 Traditional versus community courts and other struggles over tribute 197 Succession struggles and territorial disputes 202 Contending royals and the centrality of the state 205 Chiefs, the state and capital 207 Chiefs and the populace 213 Conclusion 215 7
In the name of the state Researching rural political authority 224 Representing chieftaincy 226 The secretary as fall-guy 229 The local and its limits 234 Evidence of early negotiations and compromise 240 The roots of rural “anarchy” reconsidered 243 Conclusion 256
219
Contents 8
Roots, routes and rootlessness: ruling political practice and Mozambican studies
ix 259
The enemies of the people revisited 259 The politics of acknowledgment, 1989–1994 261 The electoral campaign 264 The petty bourgeoisie unbound 272 Conclusion 283 Notes Bibliography Index
289 345 377
Maps
1 Mozambique 2 Província de Nampula (Nampula Province) 3 Principal roads, towns, rivers and mountains (inselbergs) in Eráti District 4 Population density by “circle” (círculo) in Eráti District, according to the 1980 census 5 Colonial map of the regedorias and “ethnic division” of what is present-day Namapa District
xxi xxii xxiii xxiii xxiv
Acknowledgments
Many people and institutions have contributed to the making and shaping of this book, which is a direct outgrowth of my doctoral thesis. I would like to acknowledge and thank the Beit Fund, the Arnold, Bryce and Read Modern History Funds, the Norman Chester Fund and the Committee for Graduate Studies at the University of Oxford, the Raymond Carr Fund at St. Antony’s College, and the Overseas Research Students Awards Scheme for their generous financial assistance while I was a PhD candidate at Oxford. Gavin Williams, my doctoral supervisor, gave me the intellectual space to write freely while subjecting the product to a careful reading and close criticism. His friendly guidance and insistence on the worthiness of this project helped me press on to the finish line. Gavin’s timely interventions during the final stages of preparing the manuscript were extremely useful and much appreciated. Research clearance and support were provided by the Center for African Studies at the University of Eduardo Mondlane, Maputo, where I was a research associate from February 1994 through January 1995. I would like to express my gratitude to Isabel Casimiro and Alexandrino José, the Director and Deputy Director of the Center, respectively, at the time of my visit: they provided me with a congenial institutional home, helped me to negotiate the state bureaucracy and affirmed the value of this study. I would also like to thank Maria Inês Nogueira da Costa, Director of the Arquivo Histórico de Moçambique (AHM) in Maputo, and the staff at AHM for facilitating my research on colonial Nampula. I owe a particular debt to António Sopa, who was enormously helpful in assisting me in navigating the archives and suggesting pertinent materials to consult. While this study does not spare the Mozambican state from criticism, it would not have been possible without the cooperation and assistance of the Provincial Government of Nampula and, especially, without the help and encouragement of then Governor, His Excellency, Alfredo Gamito. For this support, my sincere thanks. The collaboration of Leonardo White, Pedro Cavala and José Monteiro, who served as my interpreters and research assistants, was essential to the execution of field research. The work often entailed extended absences from their families, long walks and bicycle rides
xii Acknowledgments over hill and dale, less than plush accommodation, the uncertainties of catching (or not catching) lifts and more than a few tense moments. I am deeply appreciative of the diligence, integrity, good humor and resourcefulness they showed throughout. Obviously, my greatest debt is to my informants, who took time out of their crowded schedules to extend my knowledge and enrich my understanding. Many did so at considerable risk to themselves. To them, I pay tribute. Several other individuals deserve special mention: among them are John Saul, for introducing me to the history and politics of Southern Africa and for firing my interest in the region; Prexy Nesbitt, for helping me to land a consultancy for the Africa Office of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the USA, a position which afforded me the opportunity to visit Mozambique for the first time in 1990 and thus to survey the terrain for future research; Arlete Calane, for graciously hosting me in Maputo, for providing vital back-up support of all kinds and for making me conversant in Portuguese in a short space of time; Lia Raitt, for helping me with the tough translation calls; the missionaries of Namapa, for their hospitality, help and encouragement; Vera Futscher Pereira and Cristina Futscher Pereira, for hosting me in Lisbon over the years and for their interest, support and friendship; my thesis examiners, Megan Vaughan and Landeg White, whose pointed comments and queries helped to clarify for me what needed to happen to rework the text into a book; my brother, Rob Dinerman, who provided crucial editorial input at all stages of production; and Tom Brass, editor of the Journal of Peasant Studies, who recommended this book to Routledge and who kept the faith as I transitioned to motherhood and as the gestation period for the manuscript continued to lengthen, seemingly without end. The writing of Chapter 3 would not have been possible without the assistance and cooperation of the late José Bernardo de Faria Lobo, who generously opened up his home and his private archive in Galizes, Portugal. During my visit, Faria Lobo answered my innumerable questions about the recent history of Nampula Province and his own role in its making with admirable candor and infinite patience. Bill Minter and Chuck Schultz endeavored to persuade me to write in shorter sentences and a more accessible manner. While it is unlikely they will think I have gone far enough, I hope they will be able to detect at least some movement in the right direction. Bill Minter also offered gentle but much needed criticism of my first stab at revising the Introduction. To all these people, I owe a debt of gratitude. I would also like to thank the following friends, colleagues and acquaintances for stimulating my thinking, helping to define and facilitating my research, lending a sympathetic ear and/or providing hospitality and comradeship along the way: Ulisse Alberto, Jocelyn Alexander, Freddy Arana, Consuelo de Arana, Maurício Barros, Sidney Bliss, Fernando Jorge Cardoso, Lurdes Cardoso, António Carvalho Neves, Maria Eugénia de Carvalho Pen-
Acknowledgments
xiii
teado, Humberto Coimbra, Rafael da Conceição, Paula da Costa, Manuel Fernando Cotiro, Teresa Cruz e Silva, Harri Englund, Maria Teresa Varroso Faria Lobo, Jamal Habib, Margaret Hall, Sean Hanlon, David Hedges, Franz-Wilhelm Heimer, Kenneth Hermele, Adelino Zacarias Ivala, Andrea Koch, Kjell Knutsson, Mark Leopold, Gary Littlejohn, Sister Daniela Maccari, JoAnn McGregor, Titos Macie, Augusto Mangove, His Excellency, Aguiar Mazula, Eric Morier-Genoud, António Natividade, Bridget O’Laughlin, Annie Nielsen, Anders Nilsson, Mikael Palme, Joana Pereira Leite, Terry Ranger, Rozanne Rants, Notker Reinhart, Sara Rich Dorman, Rui Sampaio, Judy Scully, Tirso dos Santos, Marcelino da Silva, Pedro Simões, Roberto Tibana, Raquel Toledo, Alberto Viegas, the Most Reverend Dom Manuel Vieira Pinto, Bernhard Weimar, Ken Wilson and Phil Woodhouse. Finally, thanks to my family, Francisco Alvarado, our daughter, Jovanna Helia Alvarado, and Rob Dinerman for their forbearance and much, much more. One of the downsides of taking so long to deliver the goods is that not everyone is able to stick around to see the final results. My father, my longest-running, most constant and most enthusiastic cheerleader, died suddenly shortly after I defended my thesis. My longtime, beloved friend Susan Tepper lost her five-year-long, spirited battle against breast cancer in 2003. In the years before her death, she took the lead in helping me to get resettled in the Pacific Northwest following a seven-year absence. Arguably more than anyone, Susan taught me, simply by pursuing her daily routine and probably without even realizing it, how one might go about conceiving of and building “community” in the late twentieth century and beyond. I dedicate this book to the memory of my parents, Helen Schneider Dinerman and James Dinerman, whose love and support knew no bounds. Both encouraged me to ask questions, large and small; both encouraged me to follow my star; and both, each in her and his own way, taught me a thing or two about the value and vagaries of personal and historical memory. Their examples continue to sustain, to guide and to inspire.
Notes on the text
Terminology Colonial Mozambique, considered an “overseas province” by the Portuguese, was divided into districts which, in turn, were divided into circumscriptions and councils. After independence circumscriptions and councils were renamed districts and districts were renamed provinces. In keeping with the administrative designations adopted in independent Mozambique, I refer to colonial districts as provinces and to circumscriptions and councils as districts. The triangular tract of territory bounded by the Lúrio river to the north, the Ligonha river to the south and the Indian Ocean to the east was known as the District of Mozambique during the colonial period. After independence it took on its current name, Nampula Province. Throughout, I use the post-independence appellation. Namapa District, the focus of my research, was born as a result of a national reorganization of territorial administration in 1986. Previously, the territory was part of Eráti District, which, with the modification of Mozambique’s administrative map, was divided in two: the larger, more populous, and more economically strategic northern part became Namapa and the southern part became Nacarôa District. I refer to Namapa as Eráti when discussing the area prior to the mid-1980s. The present study departs from the premise that the qualifier “traditional” requires interrogation and explication, rather than face-value acceptance, when used to describe twentieth-century institutions, ideologies and practices which actually or purportedly derive from pre-conquest Africa and whose contemporary legitimacy is sustained by these origins, alleged or otherwise. I use the term in scare quotes when I am stressing its problematic nature. When no such emphasis is being made, I refrain from taking this recourse. The term “traditional authorities” and its functional equivalents (e.g. “traditional leaders,” “traditional hierarchies”) refer to the entire ensemble of people – mpéwé, mahumu, apuiamuene, régulos, cabos, capitães, etc. – who assert claims to the mantle of precolonial and/or colonial royal titles. The identities of informants who are classified in this manner in the foot-
Notes on the text xv notes are specified in section IX of the bibliography in the event these identities were revealed to me by the informants themselves. I use the word “chief” loosely to denote anyone who holds, has held or claims rights to the title of régulo and/or mapéwé. In general, the word “elder” is also used in the broad sense – to denote older people rather than social seniors of historically dominant lineages – although the precise meaning of the term is contingent upon the context in which it appears.
Orthography There is no standardized orthography of Makua-Lomwé, the primary language spoken in Nampula Province. For the sake of consistency, I have, where possible, relied on official spellings (which are often the same as colonial ones) of proper names. These, however, were not always available and, where they were, there was often more than one. Alternative spellings for both proper names and other Makua words appear in parentheses directly after the first reference in both the footnotes and the text, or, where applicable, in the glossary. Where applicable, these are repeated in section IX of the bibliography.
Currency Between 1910 and June 1980, the currency denomination in Mozambique was the escudo; thereafter, the metical (pl. meticais) was adopted. A conto is a thousand escudos or meticais. All currency conversions are done at the rates of exchange which prevailed at the time in question. All conversions and calculations are approximate.
Glossary and acronyms
abaixo, down with (e.g. “down with initiation rites”) ADN (Administração do Distrito de Namapa), Namapa District Administration AGP (Acordo Geral de Paz), General Peace Accord Agricom, parastatal agricultural marketing board AHM (Arquivo Histórico de Moçambique), Mozambique Historical Archives AIM (Agência de Informação de Moçambique), Mozambique Information Agency; also known as Mozambique News Agency aldeia, village; in post-independence Mozambique often used as shorthand for aldeia comunal aldeia comunal, communal village (pl. aldeias comunais) ambulante, itinerant trader in the rural areas ANC, the African National Congress of South Africa animador, “animator”; grassroots leader of the Catholic Church apuiamuene (apwyamwene, apiyamwene, pia-muene), a female notable vested with ritual powers; usually the eldest sister or the mother of the mapéwé and/or the régulo assimilado/a, an African or mestiço/a who was considered by the colonial government to have assimilated to Portuguese “civilization” and who, in principle, enjoyed Portuguese citizenship rights AWEPA, European Parliamentarians for Africa (formerly Association of West European Parliamentarians Against Apartheid) bairro, neighborhood; short for bairro comunal bairro comunal, communal neighborhood (pl. bairros comunais) banja, public meeting (literally: a family) cabo, popular parlance for chefe de grupo de povoações; also used to denote the territorial jurisdiction of a chefe de grupo de povoações caderneta, colonial identity card for Africans CAM (Companhia dos Algodões de Moçambique), Mozambique Cotton Company capataz, foreman or overseer capitão, popular parlance for chefe de povoação (pl. capitães) capitães, see capitão capulana, brightly colored cloth used by African women as a wrap-around skirt or as a means of securing babies on their backs
Glossary and acronyms
xvii
CCPSC (Comissão Coordenadora Provincial para a Socialização do Campo), Provincial Coordinating Commission for the Socialization of the Countryside CDAC (Comissão Distrital das Aldeias Comunais), District Commission for Communal Villages CDE (Comissão Distrital de Eleições), District Elections Commission CEA (Centro de Estudos Africanos), Center for African Studies, Eduardo Mondlane University, Maputo chefe, chief, head or boss chefe de grupo de povoações, head of a group of settlements; the colonial designation for the middle tier of the state-recognized traditional hierarchy; cabo in popular parlance chefe do posto, head of post; in contemporary Mozambique, the government official in charge of an administrative post, the tier of administration directly below the district government chefe de povoação, head of a settlement; the colonial designation for the lowest tier of the state-recognized traditional hierarchy; capitão in popular parlance cipaio, colonial designation for an African policeman CNE (Comissão Nacional de Eleições), National Elections Commission colono, Portuguese settler; also used to designate “the colonizer,” regardless of occupation (formerly an African farmer) concentração algodoeira, cotton concentration or community; type of settlement formed by the Portuguese in the 1950s and 1960s to improve the agricultural performance of African smallholders (pl. concentrações algodoeiras) concentration or cotton concentration, see concentração algodoeira conto, a thousand escudos or meticais cooperante, foreign development worker or technician curandeiro, “traditional” healer curandeirismo, the art of “traditional” healing DA (Departamento de Assistentes), Department of Assistants DDA (Direcção Distrital de Agricultura), District Directorate of Agriculture DN (Distrito de Namapa), District of Namapa DPA (Direcção Provincial de Agricultura), Provincial Directorate of Agriculture DPAC (Direcção Provincial de Apoio e Controlo), Provincial Directorate of Assistance and Control DPCCN (Direcção de Prevenção e Combate às Calamidades Naturais), Directorate for the Prevention and Combat of Natural Disasters DPF (Direcção Provincial de Finanças), Provincial Directorate for Finances EEAN (Empresa Estatal de Algodão de Nampula), State Cotton Farm of Nampula EIU, Economist Intelligence Unit enquadrador, state agricultural extension agent; also the official term for capataz
xviii Glossary and acronyms enquadramento, incorporation or integration; the act of incorporating or integrating epotha, “slave” in precolonial Makua society; also used to refer to descendants of slaves escudo, currency denomination used in Mozambique between 1910 and 1980; thereafter, the metical was adopted FAM (Forças Armadas de Moçambique), Mozambique Armed Forces; originally FPLM (Forças Populares de Libertação de Moçambique) feiticeiro, sorcerer, magician FGG (Fundo do Governo-Geral), General Government Fund at the AHM FLEC (Frente de Libertação do Enclave de Cabinda), Front for the Liberation of the Enclave of Cabinda FNLA (Frente Nacional de Libertação de Angola), National Front for the Liberation of Angola Frelimo (Frente de Libertação de Moçambique), Front for the Liberation of Mozambique; formerly FRELIMO GD (grupo dinamizador), dynamizing group GDP, Gross Domestic Product GPN (Governo da Província de Nampula), Government of Nampula Province GRANDUCOL, Société Colonial Luso-Luxembourgeoise guia de marcha, an official travel document HIPC, Heavily Indebted Poor Country humu (n’humu), chief of a lineage segment (pl. mahumu); shorthand for humuchefe de terra humu-chefe de terra, head of a mutthetthe (referred to in popular parlance and in text simply as humu) IAM (Instituto de Algodão de Moçambique), Mozambique Cotton Institute IFI, international financial institution IMF, International Monetary Fund indígena, native; term used to designate non-assimilated Africans during the colonial period IRN (Imposto de Reconstrução Nacional), National Reconstruction Tax ISANI (Inspecção dos Serviços Administrativos e Negócios Indígenas), Files on Inspection of Administrative Services and Native Affairs at the AHM JBFL, private archive of José Bernardo de Faria Lobo JEAC (Junta de Exportação de Algodão Colonial), Colonial Cotton Export Board JFS, João Ferreira dos Santos, a private company which is the majority owner of SODAN machamba, cultivated field or plot MAE (Ministério da Administração Estatal), Ministry of State Administration mahumu, see humu mapéwé, paramount chief; considered to be a descendant of, and legitimate heir to, a precolonial chief (pl. mpéwé); also known as muene mestiço/a, mestizo/a
Glossary and acronyms
xix
meticais, see metical metical, Mozambican currency from June 1980 (pl. meticais) Mf, Mozambiquefile mi-jeio, see n’jeio MIO, Mozambique Information Office mitthetthe, see mutthetthe MOA (Ministério de Agricultura), Ministry of Agriculture MOJ (Ministério da Justiça), Ministry of Justice mpéwé, see mapéwé MPoPB, Mozambique Political Process Bulletin MPPB, Mozambique Peace Process Bulletin MPLA (Movimento Popular de Libertação de Angola), Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola muene (mwene), see mapéwé mutthetthe (n’tthetthe), a well-demarcated territory within which, in principle, lineage segments belonging to different clans intermarry (pl. mitthetthe) mwene, see mapéwé não-indígena, “non-native” or “civilized” status; term used to designate Europeans, Asians and assimilados during the colonial period Naparama (Naprama, Barama, Namparahama), a rural, religiously inspired movement consisting of independent militias that fought against Renamo in central and northern Mozambique NGO, non-governmental organization nihimo, clan (pl. mahimo) n’jeio, male leader of a lineage sub-segment Nkomati Accord, “non-aggression” accord signed between South Africa and Mozambique in March 1984 n’tthetthe, see mutthetthe OJM (Organização da Juventude Moçambicana), Organization of Mozambican Youth OMM (Organização da Mulher Moçambicana), Organization of Mozambican Women ONUMOZ, United Nations Operation in Mozambique orientation, Frelimo parlance for government guidelines, instructions; widely used at the local level to denote government orders OTM, Organization of Mozambican Trade Unions PAICV (Partido Africano da Independência de Cabo Verde), African Party for the Independence of Cape Verde PAIGC (Partido Africano da Independência de Guiné e Cabo Verde), African Party for the Independence of Guinea and Cape Verde palmatória, wooden paddle with holes in it used to beat Africans in the colonial period parama (barama), “vaccine” used to initiate Naparama combatants picada, secondary (or “bush”) roads PN (Província de Nampula), Province of Nampula
xx
Glossary and acronyms
popular power, term used variously to denote Frelimo-installed political institutions, the principles which guided them, and the ultimate goal of the revolution PRE (Programa de Reabilitação Económica), Economic Rehabilitation Program PRES (Programa de Reabilitação Económica e Social), Economic and Social Rehabilitation Program rainha, queen in Portuguese; used to designate apuiamuene recuperados, civilians who have been forcibly relocated to areas under government control regedoria, the term used by the Portuguese to designate the territory administered by a régulo, a state-recognized paramount chief; also known as regulado regulado, see regedoria régulo, term used to denote state-recognized paramount chiefs Renamo (Resistência Nacional Moçambicana), the Mozambican National Resistance; formerly, the MNR Renamo-UE (Renamo-União Electoral), Renamo-Electoral Union, a Renamodominated political coalition that has contested both national and local elections since 1999 responsável, leader, officeholder, someone in charge (pl. responsáveis) revitalize, Frelimo parlance meaning to purge or otherwise shake up the line-up in the leadership of official institutions RM (República de Moçambique), Republic of Mozambique RPM (República Popular de Moçambique), People’s Republic of Mozambique SADCC, Southern African Development and Coordination Conference; since renamed the Southern African Development Community (SADC) SADF, South African Defence Force SE (Secção Especial), Special Section at the AHM shéhé (chéhé, xéhé), Islamic religious authority SODAN (Sociedade de Desenvolvimento Algodoeiro de Namialo), Cotton Development Society of Namialo STAE (Secretariado Técnico de Administração Eleitoral), Technical Secretariat for Elections Administration TA/P, Traditional Authority/Power project overseen by the Ministry of State Administration TRC, South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission UD (União Democrática), Democratic Union UEM (Universidade Eduardo Mondlane), Eduardo Mondlane University UN, United Nations UNAMO (União Nacional Moçambicana), Mozambique National Union UNDP, United Nations Development Program Unita (União Nacional para a Independência Total de Angola), National Union for the Total Independence of Angola vadio, vagrant ZANU, Zimbabwe African National Union
Map 1 Mozambique (source: Hall and Young (1997) between pages 6 and 7. Reproduced with permission from C. Hurst & Co., London).
Map 2 Província de Nampula (Nampula Province) (source: Reproduction of a map published by República Popular de Moçambique, Direcção Nacional de Geografia e Cadastro in 1988).
1 cm = 12 km
Map 3 Principal roads, towns, rivers and mountains (inselbergs) in Eráti District (source: Illustration 2b in Geffray (1987a: 40)). Note Rio = river.
50–60 40–50 30–40 20–30 10–20 ⬎10
Map 4 Population density by “circle” (círculo) in Eráti District, according to the 1980 census (source: Illustration 2b in Geffray (1987a: 41)).
Map 5 Colonial map of the regedorias and “ethnic division” of what is present-day Namapa District (source: Pegado and Silva (1961)).
Introduction The making and unmaking of the Namapa Naparamas
My research team and I were driving north on highway 360 in northeast Nampula Province in August 1994 when we noticed that an oncoming jeep was flashing its lights at us. As the vehicle approached, we saw it belonged to João Ferreira dos Santos (JFS), a private firm with longstanding agricultural interests in northern Mozambique. We stopped to find out what was up. The JFS driver leaned out and drawled, “The Naparamas in Namapa are on strike.” He was referring to independent peasant militias that formed in Mozambique’s central and northern regions in 1989–1990 to defend rural communities against Renamo. Renamo was then a rebel army which had fought the government from 1977 to 1992. It had dedicated itself to destabilizing the Frelimo government, destroying the Mozambican economy and terrorizing the population in the countryside. The war, which ended in 1992, had left some one million people, mostly civilians, dead, caused some US$20 billion in economic damage, and reduced the country to ruins. A massive United Nations (UN) peacekeeping operation was underway to secure a shaky peace and to oversee the country’s first multiparty elections scheduled for that October. The frontrunner on the ballot was Frelimo, which had monopolized political power since Mozambican independence in 1975. Its main challenger was Renamo, which, thanks to a hefty UN trust fund, had managed to transform itself from a highly effective fighting force into a fractured, less than coherent but nonetheless operational, political party. Initially, the Naparamas spurned the use of firearms in favor of “traditional” weapons, such as spears, knives, machetes and bows and arrows. For protection, they relied on religious rituals and a secret “vaccine” (parama) derived from wild plants to render them invulnerable to enemy bullets.1 The vaccine’s efficacy was vouched for by the Naparama founder and leader, Manuel António, a young, charismatic curandeiro (healer) from Nampula, the birthplace of the movement. António’s followers, some 20,000 men and boys by the end of 1990, seemed to buy into his claims. Judging from the Naparamas’ initial military gains, so did Renamo guerrillas. Within a year, the Naparamas, often working in close cooperation with the government army, had driven the rebels out of large swaths of Zambézia, an
2
Introduction
agriculturally rich and geo-politically strategic province. They had then proceeded to establish “local peace zones,” allowing tens of thousands of long displaced people to return home.2 This was no mean feat in a war that, by 1988, was killing some 88,000 Mozambicans annually, was costing the economy over US$1 billion a year, and seemed to have no end in sight.3 The conflict had erupted two years after Mozambique gained independence from Portugal. The new government was formed by Frelimo, which had prosecuted a ten-year-long armed struggle against colonial rule. Frelimo immediately offered sanctuary and other support to nationalist guerrillas fighting to overthrow Ian Smith’s illegal white minority regime in neighboring Rhodesia. In retaliation, Rhodesia’s Central Intelligence Organisation formed a terrorist organization that originally went by the English name, the Mozambican National Resistance (MNR). The group, which eventually became known as Renamo,4 would soon be “without parallel in modern Africa as a successful guerrilla movement actually formed by an external power.”5 The former rebel movement is now believed to have served as a prototype for the civilian-targeting, terror-sowing insurgencies that have racked West Africa in the post-Cold War period.6 It also arguably served as a forerunner to non-state terrorist organizations, including those of global reach and ambition, such as Al Qaeda.7 Renamo’s original core consisted of members of Portuguese special forces units who had fled Mozambique before and immediately after independence. Inmates freed from Frelimo “re-education camps” near the Rhodesian– Mozambican border during Renamo raids also numbered among the early recruits. Up to 1980, Renamo’s attacks were concentrated in Mozambique’s central provinces, Manica and Sofala, both within easy striking distance of Rhodesia.8 On the eve of Zimbabwean independence in April 1980, Renamo was inherited by South Africa. Thereupon, the rebel army was inducted into Pretoria’s “total strategy” – the name the South African Defence Force (SADF) gave to the military, political, diplomatic, economic, ideological and psychological war waged by the apartheid state against the country’s black political opposition both at home and abroad. South Africa’s policy of regional destabilization was adopted shortly after P.W. Botha was elected prime minister in 1978. The policy received a major boost over the next two years with the election of Margaret Thatcher as prime minister of Britain in 1979 and of Ronald Reagan as president of the United States in 1980. This was the golden age of “low-intensity warfare” and the counter-revolutionary “freedom fighter,” twin pillars of Washington’s foreign policy response to American defeat in Vietnam. Western-backed, anti-Marxist insurgencies in Third World countries from Nicaragua to Afghanistan flourished. The sponsors of such insurgencies aimed to topple the target regimes or to compel them to alter their domestic policies and/or international political alignments. South Africa’s total strategy neatly dovetailed with the Reagan administration’s doctrine of “rollback.” The apartheid regime cast its strategy of
Introduction
3
self-preservation as a defensive maneuver in the face of a “total onslaught” spearheaded by Soviet-backed “communist” forces. Among other things, it could point to Frelimo’s formal embrace of Marxism-Leninism in 1977 to bolster its case. It could also cite the significant influence exerted by the South African Communist Party within the African National Congress (ANC), the main liberation movement fighting for majority rule in South Africa. The gambit worked. The White House did not, in any case, need much persuading, bent as it was on waging war on militant nationalist states in the Third World, especially those seen as firmly ensconced within Moscow’s orbit. The Reagan and G.H.W. Bush administrations strongly tended to view the escalating struggle for South Africa through the prism of the Cold War. Throughout, Washington refrained from openly supporting Renamo – a posture that contrasts sharply with US foreign policy toward Angola, where Washington unabashedly supported the apartheid-backed rebel force, Unita (National Union for the Total Independence of Angola). And, at times, it even issued warnings to Pretoria to rein in its “contra” forces in Mozambique. But the policy of “constructive engagement” effectively encouraged South Africa’s onslaught on Mozambique, as it did on the region as a whole. There has been considerable debate over whether Frelimo’s abandonment of Marxism-Leninism as its official ideology, a decision it took in 1989, attests more to the success of external aggression or to the failure of state socialism, Frelimo-style. In either case, the results of total strategy were disastrous not only for the black majority in South Africa, where the escalating internal struggle for power in the 1980s captured the attention of the international media. They were equally calamitous for the entire sub-continent, producing a human tragedy of major proportions that has yet to receive much outside notice. As Terry Bell has recently put it: Throughout the decade the apartheid military, assisted by the police and national intelligence, rampaged through the region. The financial cost to countries attacked and undermined as part of the destabilisation campaign has been estimated at more than $50 billion in 2000 values. The human cost of uprooting millions of people, causing the death of hundreds of thousands of children, ruining agriculture and wrecking infrastructure nationwide can never be quantified.9 A disproportionate share of these costs, human and otherwise, fell on Mozambique. Mozambique became a leading target of South Africa’s total strategy for three reasons. First, the Frelimo government hosted ANC guerrillas, giving them direct access to South African soil. Second, Mozambique’s ports and railways offered neighboring states a potential alternative to South Africa’s transport system for access to world markets. A major step in the direction of forging such an alternative was taken in 1980. Shortly after Zimbabwean
4
Introduction
independence, nine states in the region formed the Southern African Development and Coordination Conference (SADCC; since renamed the Southern African Development Community). SADCC’s explicit goal was to diminish South African economic and technological dominance in the sub-continent. This goal was unacceptable to Pretoria, whose objective was to establish a band of apartheid-friendly, politically submissive and economically dependent states along its border. A third factor was the galvanizing effect Frelimo’s accession to state power had on black political activism within South Africa. The collapse of Portuguese colonialism and the installation of a militant nationalist regime in Maputo “helped spur the revival of black political resistance inside South Africa” in the mid-1970s.10 Under the circumstances, it is reasonable to conclude that South Africa had a stake in ensuring that independent Mozambique did not become a beacon of black revolution, socialist or otherwise. As a direct extension of the SADF, Renamo gained a second lease of life, becoming the primary instrument of South Africa’s war against Mozambique.11 The rebels expanded their fighting forces, their field of action and the scale of their attacks dramatically. After being reduced to some 1,250 men in 1980, Renamo’s rank and file stood at an estimated 5,000 armed fighters by mid-1981. Two years later, the insurgents’ leaders claimed a few thousand more guerrillas to their army’s name. Rebel units moved both southwards and northwards from central Mozambique and, by mid-1983, were operating in all the country’s provinces save for Cabo Delgado in the country’s northeast corner. A little over a year later, the entire national territory had become a war zone.12 Peace in the 1980s proved elusive. In 1984, Mozambique and South Africa had signed a “non-aggression” pact. Under the terms of the agreement, known as the Nkomati Accord, Frelimo agreed to ensure that ANC guerrillas no longer accessed South Africa via Mozambican territory. The Mozambican government also pledged to reduce the ANC presence within its borders to a small diplomatic mission. South Africa, in its turn, undertook to stop supporting Renamo. The pact was, however, repeatedly flouted by Pretoria and the war escalated in the ensuing years.13 Frelimo subsequently placed high hopes in a government amnesty program launched in December 1987. But only a fraction of Renamo’s fighting force opted to take up the amnesty offer. Two years later, the program was discontinued.14 In the meantime, it had become clear that neither side could prevail militarily. By then, the conflict had produced over one million Mozambican refugees, an estimated 4.6 million people had been displaced within the country’s borders and about 7.7 million people – about half of Mozambique’s population – needed food aid.15 The appearance of the Naparama movement on the Mozambican scene was thus the most visible, dramatic sign that ordinary rural dwellers had decided to take their destiny into their own hands. The years of waiting in vain for the two warring belligerents to reach an accord, they appeared to be
Introduction
5
saying, were over. The time had arrived for defenseless civilians to attempt to rebuild their shattered lives, ceasefire or no ceasefire.16 Nevertheless, the Naparamas were not an unmitigated good. The “recuperation” of captive civilians in Renamo-held zones to government-controlled territory resulted in the dislocation and forced resettlement of thousands of people.17 And as the movement expanded, a growing number of Naparama initiates began levying local tribute, stealing, looting and setting up protection rackets. Before too long, the anti-bullet vaccine, which had initially been available free of charge, could only be secured at a steep price. Some Naparama units even began to refuse to return recuperados (people who had been “recuperated”) to their homes until their families paid a fee for their release. As António’s army became more extractive, it also became progressively more authoritarian and violent. Naparamas strongarmed people into joining or supporting the movement. They imposed a growing number of highly restrictive taboos and strictures, ostensibly designed to safeguard the vaccine’s protective powers, on both its fighters and the communities they served. And, in some areas, they gained notoriety for killing civilians, especially men, in Renamo zones.18 In the meantime, Renamo set about adjusting its military strategy to beat back the Naparama advance and to recoup lost territory. It also developed its own vaccine to counteract António’s. At the end of 1991, rebel guerrillas in Zambézia killed António. Thereafter, the tensions and fissures within the Naparama army became ever more pronounced. Some Naparama units took to freelance banditry. A few even defected to Renamo.19 In Namapa District, the Naparamas stood accused of a host of abuses and excesses. These included attacking government forces and international relief convoys; perpetrating some of the worst atrocities against civilians in Renamo-controlled territory; extorting food from locals; and fining nonNaparamas who failed to comply with the movement’s dictates. They had even been charged with duly executing the district administration’s orders to coerce smallholders to grow cotton, historically one of Mozambique’s leading export earners and, during the colonial period, a forced crop.20 Taken literally, the claim that the Namapa Naparamas were staging a work stoppage did not make sense. No Naparama forces had ever been on a formal payroll. And all Naparama units had been out of action since Frelimo and Renamo leaders had signed a peace accord in Rome in October 1992. It was now almost two years later. In popular discourse in Mozambique, however, being “on strike” held wider connotations – especially in advance of the country’s first multiparty poll then just a few months away. Widespread uncertainty regarding the electoral outcome and its effects on the country’s fragile peace prevailed. South Africa’s just-concluded transition to black majority under an ANC-led government had shored up hopes that the peace process in Mozambique could likewise be brought to a successful conclusion. Such hopes were, however, shadowed by fears that Mozambique in 1994 could turn into a replay of Angola in 1992. In Angola, a similar
6
Introduction
UN-sponsored electoral exercise designed to crown a war-to-peace transition had produced the opposite result. The renewal of armed hostilities between the ruling MPLA (Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola) and the South African- and US-backed rebel group, Unita, followed Unita’s rejection of the results, which returned the formerly Marxist MPLA to power. The UN mission in Mozambique had taken great pains to forestall a similar denouement in Mozambique – most notably by greatly expanding the number of peacekeeping troops, by offering substantial financial inducements to Renamo and by taking steps aimed at ensuring that the processes of demobilization and demilitarization were completed before the voting began. But no one could be sure what the next few months would bring. Predictably perhaps, demobilized and cantoned troops, government and private militias, and workers in state-owned companies were seeking to wrest whatever entitlements they thought were their due from the government or from their former employers as a hedge against an indeterminate future. For months the country had been awash in strikes of one kind or another. In this context, the meaning of the JFS driver’s remark was perfectly transparent. The Naparamas in Namapa were following the example set by several hundred of their counterparts in Zambézia a few weeks previously. There Naparamas had blocked the main road north of the provincial capital for three days and seized twenty-four government vehicles. The protesters, fifty of whom marched on the provincial capital to press their cause, demanded the same treatment as Renamo and government soldiers who had opted against joining the newly formed, unified national army: demobilization and, more importantly, demobilization pay. They also asserted their right to back wages for the military services they had rendered during the war.21 Namapa was our destination that day. We were all ears. The Naparamas had thrown up a roadblock, cutting the road between Nampula and Cabo Delgado to the north, the driver of the jeep informed us. We thanked him for the information and proceeded on our journey to the police checkpoint just outside of the town of Namapa, the district capital. A few dozen vehicles were parked there and stranded motorists were milling about. The Naparamas, we were told, had hauled tree trunks and the chassis of old vehicles across the highway. There was no getting through. They had also assaulted and cleaned out the best-stocked store in town, looted several stalls in the local marketplace and attacked passers-by.22 The “strike” threw a wrench in my research plans. I had hoped to spend a night in Namapa before heading west to conduct interviews on local history in Namirôa and Muanona, the most remote administrative divisions in the district. I had rented a four-by-four for the purpose and had two weeks’ worth of food and petrol in tow. In order to salvage these plans I thought my research assistant, our driver (who came with the vehicle) and I could double back to Alua, the district’s second largest town, which offers alternative access to Namapa’s western localities. But an Alua resident counseled against taking
Introduction
7
such a course of action. Naparamas from all over the district were “on the march” towards the district seat, he warned, and we would be ill-advised to risk running into them en route. Prudence seemed like the best tack. We decided to head back down the road to the Catholic mission near Alua. There we were offered hospitality for the night. With the arrival of police reinforcements from the provincial capital that evening, the rioters, whose ranks had been swelled by disaffected demobilized Renamo and government troops, fled and the roadblock was lifted.23 By morning calm prevailed and we were able to head into the district’s interior. In the week and a half that followed we had occasion to speak with both Naparama commanders and the rank and file, as well as others, about the Naparama phenomenon. We learned that the parama vaccine had entered the district by two distinct routes.24 To the west of highway 360, rural residents had heard of the existence of an anti-bullet potion in Mecubúri, the district to Namapa’s west. Some communities had acted on this information by sending groups of boys and young men across the district border to be vaccinated and trained. Elsewhere in the area, locals had invited Naparama commanders and curandeiros into their own communities to organize grassroots militias. Given that the vaccine had developed in Ribáuè District in western Nampula, it was not surprising that it had migrated to Namapa by this route. More unexpected was the revelation that the district administration had served as a conduit for the vaccine’s implantation in the vicinity of the highway 360 corridor. The district administrator, Manuel Braga, himself a military commander, had headed Lalaua District in western Nampula between 1985 and 1990 when the war raged there and a military administration had been installed. During this period, “Zinco,” an elder from Méti, Lalaua, had concocted the parama vaccine, apparently independently of António, and had created his own militias which also became known for their military prowess.25 In 1990, Braga had been transferred to Namapa where Renamo at the time held the upper hand militarily. Upon sizing up the local security situation, Braga decided to bring Zinco to Namapa. Zinco vaccinated in the area of the district seat, Alua and the communities in between. It was the Naparama militias under Zinco’s command that had, towards the end of the war, gained reputations as highway robbers. They had also allegedly committed some of the most egregious atrocities against civilians in Renamo-held territory in the southeastern corner of the district.26 These same militia members apparently accounted for the better part of the Naparamas who participated in the August riot. The disproportionate representation of Zinco’s men in the disturbance may well have merely reflected geographic circumstance: this set of Naparamas was simply closer to the district capital. Other Naparamas units were heading to Namapa town or were considering heading in that direction but had changed their plans when they heard that the demonstration had turned violent.
8
Introduction
After ten days of interviewing, we returned to Namapa with more questions about the Namapa Naparamas than answers. The day after we got back, we stopped at a local café. There we encountered a functionary of the district administration having a drink with a young man whom the functionary introduced as a Naparama “major” from Lalaua. We fell into conversation. The two men informed us that the Naparamas in Alua had thrown up a roadblock and had raided the grain warehouse of World Vision, a Christian evangelist non-governmental organization (NGO). The police had eventually intervened but, on last notice, the roadblock was still standing. The major went on to explain that he had been sent by the provincial government to recover some of the looted goods. More interestingly, he had been tasked with “undoing” the parama vaccine as a means of dispensing with the troublesome Namapa Naparamas once and for all. As we subsequently learned, the major, escorted by the Namapa police, was eventually able to recover some sewing machines, cloth, articles of clothing and cassettes, among other stolen goods. He did so by beating Naparamas believed to have participated in the Namapa and Alua riots and by pronouncing his victims “ordinary people” who henceforth possessed no supernatural powers or special immunities. Those Naparamas who were not suspect were simply sprinkled with a liquid “medicine” as a means of dispelling the parama vaccine’s effects.27 By morning the roadblock had been lifted and we drove back to Nampula City, the provincial capital, without incident. One of my first stops back in town was the local office of the Maputo-based daily newspaper Notícias. It was there I picked up two weeks’ worth of newspapers held for me while I was in the outback. I rummaged through the stack, curious as to whether the Naparama riot in Namapa had made national news and, if so, how it had been reported. The story had indeed received coverage. The most striking feature of the write-up was the manner in which an unidentified government source characterized the protesters. According to Notícias, the source maintained that “the area of Namapa doesn’t have the original ‘Naparamas’, ‘the real Naparamas’ in Nampula are in Ribáuè, Mecubúri, Chalaua, up to Moma . . .,’ ” districts to Namapa’s west and south.28 By discrediting the Namapa Naparamas’ claims to state assistance in this manner, the government representative, it seemed to me, was obliquely acknowledging the state’s own hand in the expanded reproduction of the Naparama movement and, by extension, in the production of what officialdom, in retrospect at least, saw as fraudulent Naparamas. For the functionary in question didn’t seem to be charging Zinco with quackery – many of the Naparamas of Mecubúri had also been vaccinated by Zinco and they seemed to pass the authenticity litmus test.29 Nor did it appear as though officialdom subscribed to the view that Zinco’s men in Namapa were imposters – otherwise, the provincial government would not have sent in the Naparama major to neutralize the vaccine’s reputed effects. If the Namapa Naparamas were fakes, they were apparently thoroughly unaware
Introduction
9
that they were. It seemed likely, then, that if, in the government’s estimation, the Namapa Naparamas were not the real McCoy, it was by virtue of the state’s own enabling – but also adulterating – intervention in their formation. Other observers of the Mozambican scene will, no doubt, have their own readings of the above occurrences.30 For me, the history of the government’s relationship to the Naparamas in Namapa came to stand for, and to help render intelligible, a whole concatenation of ruling ideological practice dating from independence in 1975. This history neatly illustrates two constants in this practice whose consequences have yet to be adequately plumbed. First, the Naparama experience in Namapa points up the manner in which Frelimo’s discourse has studiously disavowed the state’s own complicity in shoring up and renewing the very “traditional” leadership, institutions and practices it was publicly committed to extinguishing. Second, it discloses the ways in which officialdom has sought to derive maximum political advantage from the consequences of its unacknowledged and/or covert actions. Certainly this was the case of the evolution of the government’s interactions with chieftaincy in Nampula and beyond, as the present study is dedicated to demonstrating. As this book also aims to show, the ideological practices referenced above enabled and structured ruling mnemonic narratives and performance both prior to, and following, Frelimo’s abandonment of official Marxism in 1989 and the promulgation of a multiparty constitution the following year. However, their meaning and overall effects were fundamentally altered by the end of single-party rule and the jettisoning of socialist pretensions. Up until the transition to political pluralism, these practices served to bolster a triumphalist discourse and to legitimate the modernizing, revolutionary state. Thereafter, they became the organizing principle of state-sponsored retrospectives on why socialism had failed and, especially, why it had failed so abysmally in the outback. In this latter-day incarnation, they formed part of “a set of complex mnemonic readjustments” typical of post-conflict regimes seeking to depoliticize a highly controversial, divisive past and thereby garner the requisite measure of legitimacy for the emergent postconflict political order.31 One means of accomplishing this objective, as Richard Wilson notes, is to “expunge the ideological motivations for the conflict.” This may be a particularly attractive option in “complicated contexts of political compromise, where neither opposing side in a civil war had won an outright military victory.”32 Mozambique was one of these contexts. The peace accord was a product of the military stalemate that prevailed starting in the late 1980s. Predictably, it bore all the hallmarks of a two-way political deal, with significant concessions by both sides. In entering in direct peace talks with Renamo, Frelimo had had to abandon its longstanding stance that the rebels were mere apartheid proxies and, as such, were unworthy negotiating partners. Renamo, for its part, had been compelled to renounce its commitment to
10
Introduction
overthrowing the Frelimo government and to recognize the legitimacy of the Mozambican state. Neither the electoral results nor political arrangements over the past decade have unambiguously vindicated either side. The 1994 elections forever buried the notion that Frelimo, as a self-styled “vanguard,” represented all of “the people”: Renamo won over 33 percent of the presidential vote and captured majorities in five of Mozambique’s eleven provinces, all of which are situated in the country’s long mid-section. The poll showed unambiguously that Mozambique was deeply divided and that regional disparities in economic and educational opportunities, living standards, income and life expectancy were one major source of political division. However, despite Renamo’s unexpectedly strong finish and despite substantial international pressure on Frelimo to follow the example set by the ANC in South Africa and form a “government of national unity,” Renamo found itself excluded from the halls of executive power in the first elected government. This scenario was repeated after Mozambique held its second general elections in 1999 when Renamo, now leading a coalition of opposition parties, significantly narrowed Frelimo’s margin of victory, winning 48 percent of the presidential vote. In the event, Renamo has had to settle for playing the loyal opposition in the national parliament and the not insignificant perquisites that come with it.33 Postwar Mozambique approximates the general scenario portrayed by Wilson in another respect: namely, political conditions have been ripe for the production of a revisionist history that eliminates ideological considerations from its frame. The peace accord was not followed by a Mozambican equivalent of the Nuremberg trials; no truth commission was set up; thus far, no attempt has been made, by either the Mozambican government or private citizen groups, to prosecute apartheid-era generals or operatives; the postwar period has been marked by a dearth of calls, either from the government or the various political parties, for mounting a nationwide reckoning with the past; and demands along these lines that have been voiced by the public have not given rise to a concerted campaign, let alone a social movement.34 The one official inquiry that could have potentially shed light on (and attracted significant international press coverage of) the apartheid regime’s responsibility for producing the Mozambican tragedy, the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC), was hamstrung to a great extent in its investigations of South Africa’s border wars by the paucity of amnesty applications submitted by current and former SADF personnel.35 In addition, even before peace gained a foothold, there was little separating Frelimo and Renamo ideologically. Both parties are formally committed to creating a liberal democratic order and establishing the rule of law. Both endorse policies aimed at alleviating poverty, restoring social services and reconstructing the national infrastructure. Both are for spurring economic growth through market reforms. And both favor strong foreign investment and the formation of a national bourgeoisie.
Introduction
11
Frelimo’s ideological reorientation helps explain its uneasy relation to its recent past. The ruling party has evinced little appetite for defending its socialist interlude, the early years of which witnessed the consolidation of an authoritarian regime whose politics were exclusionary, commandist and often coercive, whose policies were totalizing in design, and whose rural interventions prejudiced the livelihoods of most smallholders. Of late, some high-ranking members have gone so far as to openly rue and even disavow the party’s former radicalism.36 Renamo, for its part, has been even less inclined to dwell on the details of its history: most notably the circumstances of its genesis, the identity of its handlers and its combat tactics. Indeed, Renamo’s leaders have sometimes seen fit to complement their strategy of avoidance with one of blanket denial.37 Political developments over the past decade have no doubt heightened the two sides’ mutual, if divergent, interest in glossing a violent and traumatizing past. While Frelimo continues to dominate Mozambican politics, the emerging political dispensation also exhibits some of the defining characteristics of “an elite powersharing regime,” with Renamo as Frelimo’s power-sharing partner.38 The entrenchment of such patterns of political interaction could have only strengthened the tendency toward erasure.39 However, purging the conflict of ideological content was not the primary purpose of mnemonic revisions that took place in the 1990s. Rather, it was to minimize the government’s own responsibility for engendering and aggravating the national trauma of dictatorship and war by shoehorning that responsibility into a single source: Frelimo’s initial hostility to tradition and especially its animus toward chiefly rule. At the national level, memory practices designed to promote this version of events were conjoined with attempts to redefine the conflict’s protagonists in ideologically anodyne terms – terms more suitable to the post-Cold War global order. In the early stages of destabilization, party propagandists portrayed armed hostilities as a showdown between the forces of global socialist revolution and those of counter-revolution. In contrast, by the 1990s, Frelimo politicians tended to depict the confrontation as pitting defenders of Mozambican sovereignty against those implacably opposed to national independence and black rule, along with a handful of locals who had long ago sold out to them. At this stage, one found a rather different ensemble of story lines in Nampula. There, state-sponsored inquiries into the crisis of state legitimacy in the rural areas took a curious twist: more often than not they deleted Renamo, and by extension foreign destabilization, from the picture altogether. This maneuver effectively eliminated not only the ideological impetuses for the war but also the fact of the war’s occurrence. The rather perplexing upshot was that the government and a supposedly tradition-bound population became the sole protagonists of post-independence conflict. This book examines the genealogy of official and standardizing mnemonic practices, counter-intuitive or otherwise, and chronicles these practices’ varied combinations and significations.
12
Introduction
Mozambique as a bellwether One of the primary objectives of the Frelimo revolution was to eliminate rural-based social practices and institutions that the ruling party deemed to be embarrassing holdovers from an oppressive, “feudal” precolonial past. In Frelimo’s estimate, some of the legacies of feudalism had been rendered even more degenerate, corrupt and “obscurantist” after the 500-year-long colonial encounter. Chieftaincy, the cornerstone of Portuguese indirect rule, ranked foremost among them. Accordingly, chiefly rule was statutorily abolished and chiefs who had served the colonial administration were initially barred from holding public office. In abrogating chiefly privileges and prerogatives, Frelimo was following in the tradition of the late Julius Nyerere, the first president of independent Tanzania. Nyerere was instrumental in the founding of Frelimo in 1962, one year after his own country gained independence. He also facilitated Frelimo’s armed struggle by offering Tanzanian territory as a safe rear base from which to launch and prosecute guerrilla operations. Prior to that, on the eve of decolonization in most of British- and French-ruled Africa, Nyerere distinguished himself among African nationalists as the foremost champion of “a single, unified citizenship, both deracialized and deethnicized,” in a postcolonial political dispensation.40 Deracialization meant extinguishing the invidious, race-based legal distinction between citizen and subject that, across the continent, differentiated between “natives,” on the one hand, and white settler populations and “assimilated” or “evolved” Africans, on the other. “Deethnicization” (or “detribalization”) meant dissolving ethnic-based distinctions that had defined and divided colonial subjects ruled by the “Native Authority” under the auspices of supposedly “tribal” chiefs. In calling for deracialization, Nyerere’s voice formed part of a continent-wide chorus. The Tanzanian leader’s insistence on wedding deracialization to deethnicization, however, resonated much less widely. The consequences of African nationalisms’ differential response to the question of detribalization were soon to become apparent: Deracialization signified the general achievement [of post-independence reform]; it was a tendency characteristic of all postindependence states, conservative and radical. The outer limit of postindependence reform was marked by detribalization, a tendency characteristic of only the radical states.41 Frelimo arguably pushed the envelope the furthest in establishing that outer limit. It not only dismantled the dualist juridical system inherited from the colonial regime, dispensing with the “customary” as a separate, residual body of law. It also established a network of newly created people’s tribunals which were presided over by locally elected judges. The brief of these tribunals was to nurture the positive aspects of customary law and suppress the
Introduction
13
negative ones in accordance with constitutionally-enshrined revolutionary principles.42 Frelimo’s uncompromising stand on the question of rural political and juridical authority, and its dim view of many rural-based cultural practices, gave rise to numerous excesses and abuses. In the first years of independence lobola (bridewealth), polygyny, initiation rites, rainmaking ceremonies, divination, witchcraft accusations and exorcism were subjected to repeated official denunciation and, in many localities, to government proscription. Many chiefs, irrespective of their personal and political histories, were ridiculed and politically repressed. When Renamo arrived on the scene, traditional authorities were often viewed by Frelimo officials with suspicion or were automatically branded as collaborators. Some were killed. The dark side of detribalization did not come to the attention of an international audience until the late 1980s, the eve of the Naparamas’ formation. The extent to which Frelimo representatives, at various levels of authority, struck early compromises with chiefly hierarchies, or tolerated or actively encouraged such arrangements, also remained below the radar screen of many viewers. Rather, the stories that circulated were those that the leadership wanted the outside world to hear – stories that fit and furthered the epic, heroic narrative the ruling party was busy propagating. These emphasized that the most politically conscious element within the population had gained local leadership posts.43 Such stories also highlighted the determination of rural inhabitants to “out” party-nominated candidates for local representative bodies who, unbeknownst to the Frelimo authorities, had collaborated with the colonial regime. Chiefs and other traditional authorities reportedly ranked high among those who were exposed and rejected by newly enfranchised voters.44 The propaganda worked. Leftists and progressives worldwide lionized Frelimo’s tangible commitment to transcending the legacy of indirect rule. They trumpeted its apparent ability to act on this commitment in a manner that seemed designed to foster democratic practice at the grassroots. And they applauded the rural population’s favorable response to the new government’s objectives on this front. Frelimo’s position on chieftaincy and “custom” was not the only one that earned the party international acclaim. The ruling party’s political project was part of a “second wave” of socialism that swept over the continent.45 Like their co-religionists, Frelimo leaders were as critical of the ideology of “African socialism,” as espoused by the likes of Nyerere, Leopold Senghor of Senegal and Kenneth Kaunda of Zambia, as they were of the “false decolonization” embraced by conservative postcolonial regimes, such as the Ivory Coast, Nigeria and Kenya. Like other devotees of “scientific socialism” on the continent, Frelimo leaders were highly skeptical of the African socialist claim that, prior to colonial conquest, a communitarian ethos had held sway from the Cape to Cairo. To the extent that such an ethos had existed, party intellectuals argued, it had all too often served as a cover for the relations of domination that had characterized a feudal society. They were dismissive of
14
Introduction
the notion that genuinely egalitarian communal traditions had not been seriously impaired by the momentous socio-economic changes wrought by colonial occupation and capitalist development. Foremost among these were processes of class formation, a historical development African socialists strongly tended to downplay or completely overlook. As a direct consequence of these changes, Frelimo leaders reasoned, there was little prospect that, once liberated from the yoke of colonial oppression and exploitation, the continent would evince a natural proclivity to evolve in a socialist direction, as the African socialism’s proponents liked to think. Rather, a truly socialist society could only emerge as a consequence of a vanguard-led, peasant- and worker-driven class struggle against entrenched domestic interests that would actively oppose such a denouement. Whereas proponents of “first-wave” socialism defined the continent’s main nemesis as externally based, emanating as it did from the metropolitan countries, Frelimo, like other professedly Marxist parties, insisted that Western imperialist interests worked with and through locally-rooted clients, who constituted the “internal enemy.”46 With respect to the specific case of post-independence Mozambique, Frelimo figured as follows. Since most of the 250,000-strong settler community had bolted in the years leading up to, and in the immediate aftermath of, independence, the internal enemy consisted of whatever remnants of the colonial bourgeoisie had stayed put plus elements within the African petty bourgeoisie that were not willing to “commit suicide as a class.”47 Both groups were constitutionally antagonistic to socialist politics. Although Frelimo’s accession to power had left them politically weakened and off balance, there was the ever-present danger that they could regroup with a view to subverting the revolution. Under the circumstances, nothing less than a knock-out blow would do. Frelimo’s application of class analysis to Mozambique’s domestic landscape received high marks from political progressives of various stripes. By the time Frelimo’s Marxism began to crystallize in the late 1960s, the ideology of African socialism was on the wane.48 The reasons for this were multiple. First, the weight of the evidence produced both by historical research and contemporary social scientific analysis belied the assertion that Africa, either in the past or present, was classless. Second, some of the governments most closely associated with a non-Marxist socialist pathway were registering less than impressive economic results. Moreover, certain of their number had shown themselves to be no less prone to political malaise and instability than their “neo-colonial” neighbors. Accordingly, many observers had come to the conclusion that African socialist ideology was simply “devoid of genuinely transformative strategies.”49 Frelimo’s unsentimental appraisal of the social relations that had characterized precolonial Africa, its much more sharp-eyed view of the fundamental transformations engendered by colonial and capitalist penetration and its embrace of the universal corpus of socialist thought were three factors that
Introduction
15
conspired to make post-independence Mozambique “a bellwether for the future of socialism in Africa.”50 There were others, most notably Frelimo’s record as a national liberation movement between 1962 and 1974, when a coup staged by the armed forces in Lisbon paved the way for the independence of Portugal’s African colonies. The official story of this period runs as follows.51 In guerrilla-captured territory, or “liberated zones,” there emerged a synergistic, mutually transformative dynamic between the nationalist guerrillas and the local peasant population. Force of circumstance played no small part here. The guerrillas needed to secure the active cooperation of rural residents to advance militarily and to consolidate their territorial gains. They relied on the locals for food, intelligence, ferrying supplies to and from Tanzania, fresh recruits and personnel for popular militia. The locals, in their turn, depended on the guerrillas to protect them from Portuguese reprisals. They likewise depended on Frelimo to help them reorganize their lives and livelihoods in the radically altered circumstances of a rural insurgency. Getting rural assistance and allegiance required political work both prior to the infiltration of Frelimo fighters to areas under Portuguese control and following the capture of new territory. But the process of politicization was not a one-way street. In the course of moving and living amongst the peasantry, the guerrillas learned about local needs, grievances, experiences and aspirations. As a result, they acquired a deeper understanding of the struggle they were prosecuting, as well as of the form and direction that struggle should take. The upshot was that the guerrillas radicalized the peasants and the peasants further radicalized the guerrillas. This self-reinforcing dynamic found tangible expression in the spread of collective forms of agricultural production in the liberated zones. Indeed, Frelimo would later claim that, by the early 1970s, a proto-socialist agriculture had, by and large, displaced household farming in these areas.52 The emerging peasant–guerrilla alliance was a key determinant in the outcome of power struggles at the summit of the movement. Internal political tensions, which dated from Frelimo’s inception, erupted into an escalating confrontation after the advent of the armed struggle in 1964. At issue were differences regarding strategy and tactics, as well as concerning how to administer the liberated zones in Cabo Delgado and Niassa. The long brewing internal crisis came to a head with the assassination of Eduardo Mondlane, Frelimo’s first president, in 1969. According to official history, these internal feuds pitted “reactionary” (or “liberal-reactionary”) nationalists against their “revolutionary” counterparts. In the former camp stood black racists, aspirant capitalists and elitists. Secessionists and tribalists also figured prominently within its ranks. In the case of the latter group, ethnic exclusivism was inextricably bound up with its members’ vested interest in perpetrating patriarchal social relations. The “reactionaries” tended to oppose mounting a protracted people’s war that would, in their view, unduly politicize the populace. To their
16
Introduction
mind, national liberation boiled down to deracialization and nothing more. This camp thus strenuously opposed transforming social relations in the liberated zones or in a future independent Mozambique. The counterrevolutionary faction also tended to favor maintaining a strict separation between the political and military arms of the movement and a command structure in which the guerrilla army would be subordinate to a civilian leadership. The opposing camp consisted of anti-tribalists and anti-racists who championed women’s rights and a transethnic, territory-wide nationalism. This group, the revolutionary wing, equated decolonization with sweeping socioeconomic transformation and believed that social relations in the liberated zones should herald the future postcolonial social order. The radicals also insisted that the relationship between combatants and non-combatants should be one of absolute parity and that all cadres should undergo both political and military training. The reason the revolutionary wing wound up carrying the day and succeeded in expelling its political adversaries from the movement was because it had been bolstered politically by the decisive support of the ever more robust and ever more radicalized alliance between Frelimo guerrillas and the peasantry in the newly liberated zones. Even some of Frelimo’s early supporters were willing to concede that the line-ups in Frelimo’s internal battles were not as fixed as official history later made them out to be and that factors other than purely ideological ones were in play.53 Frelimo’s critics and non-partisan scholars have gone further, interpreting the power struggles that racked the movement and their eventual resolution in a wholly different light. In their majority, they have tended to portray the conflicts as, first and foremost, a product of ethnic, ethno-regional or regionally- and sociologically-distinct “creole” elites. (Some analysts have also added personal rivalries to the mix.54) According to one influential account,55 the revolutionary faction prevailed because its leaders commanded the loyalty of the guerrillas. On this reading, the alliance that powered the radical wing to victory was not that between the guerrillas and the peasantry. Rather, it was between an assimilated elite, the preponderance of whose members hailed from Mozambique’s south, and a guerrilla army, whose ranks were filled disproportionately by Makondespeakers who formed the bulk of the population of northern Cabo Delgado, where the armed struggle was launched. By the same token, the merging of the front’s political and military wings in 1966 and the subsequent ascendancy of the “revolutionary line” were signs of the movement’s progressive militarization rather than of its leftward tilt and the radicalization of its peasant base. Army commander Samora Machel’s accession to the presidency of Frelimo in 1970 unambiguously exemplified this trend. This counter-narrative insists that, at the very least, Frelimo hyped its accomplishments within the liberated zones. Farming operations in these areas remained predominantly a family affair. Collective agriculture, to the extent that it was practiced at all, was always subordinate to, and dictated
Introduction
17
by, the strategic imperatives of the armed struggle. Communal undertakings were merely one way of guaranteeing the subsistence of the guerrillas, who also continued to rely on produce harvested from household fields. Following the triumph of the revolutionary faction, Frelimo’s Defense Department assumed sole responsibility for the organization and control of collective production, a development that prefigured both Frelimo’s militarization and the statization of post-independence Mozambique. Social relations in the liberated zones could be accurately described as socialist only to the extent that a historically-contingent and evanescent “war socialism” emerged, a state of affairs “in which everything must be shared: objectives, resources, sacrifices, aspirations and fears.”56 The historical record vindicates many aspects of the above account, the main lineaments of which have been outlined by scholars belonging to what I call the “revisionist” school. The evidence shows that Frelimo exaggerated its accomplishments within the liberated zones, the amount of territory it seized and the number of people living under its pre-independence administration. Historical research also bolsters the thesis that Frelimo gravitated toward statist, highly centralized and commandist solutions to the challenges posed by development prior to independence – a finding that seriously undercuts arguments that assign a large measure of blame for this orientation to the baneful influence exercised by the legion of Soviet and East European advisers who arrived on the Mozambican scene after 1975.57 At the same time, post-independence developments have greatly strengthened the case that the armed struggle left a debilitating legacy of militarism. In addition, these developments leave little doubt that official history and pro-Frelimo scholarship gave short shrift to non-ideological factors in their renderings of Frelimo’s formative years. That said, the armed struggle achieved considerable “nationalist success,”58 as measured by Frelimo’s demonstrated ability to achieve the following: (1) build and maintain nationalist unity; (2) mobilize rural dwellers politically; (3) defend the civilian population in the liberated zones from colonial military reprisals; (4) work diplomatic circuits to its political advantage; and (5) sustain its commitment to the primacy of politics in pursuing the goal of decolonization on the terms of its choosing: namely, the immediate transfer of full sovereignty to Frelimo itself without any conditions attached – including the condition of an electoral mandate of any kind.59 On the basis of these criteria, the efficacy of Frelimo’s armed struggle was, in the context of Africa in the 1970s, second only to that of the PAIGC (African Party for the Independence of Guinea and Cape Verde), the nationalist movement that fought a contemporaneous guerrilla war to liberate Guinea-Bissau and Cape Verde from Portuguese rule. It is also widely accepted that the years of nationalist armed struggle produced a leadership that was remarkably unified, disciplined, politically astute and diplomatically adroit; at independence, Frelimo was forwardlooking; and it was bent on pursuing a program of radical reform in the
18
Introduction
name of socialist construction. Most close observers would also agree that Machel, the first president of independent Mozambique, was a politician very similar to the first generation of African nationalist leaders for whom the ideals of anti-colonial struggle and of non-tribal, non-racial nationalism were a real motivating force, in marked contrast to the military dictators and corrupt politicians who were soon to succeed them and who were protected by the superpowers during the Cold War.60 If in the mid-1970s three former Portuguese colonies, Guinea-Bissau, Mozambique and Angola, were seen as “the last great hope of Third World ‘socialism’,”61 by 1980, the burden of that hope was shouldered by Mozambique alone. In Guinea-Bissau, the PAIGC had, by that stage, opted against assuming the mantle of a vanguard after independence, settling instead on “a policy of national unity.” The Leninist model of revolution, the PAIGC concluded at its 1977 congress, was precluded by the absence of “a proletariat in the sense of a class conscious of its interests and prepared to assume its historical responsibilities.” While the congress didn’t say so, national demographics no doubt also figured in the equation: out of a total population that was then well shy of one million, the industrial labor force was a mere 1,800-strong and only some 24,000 people enjoyed the benefit of regular employment.62 By 1980, “the PAIGC’s nationalist legitimacy had largely dissipated” and longstanding internal divisions erupted in a coup that year which splintered the movement.63 In Angola, the MPLA had managed, with the aid of Cuban troops and Soviet armament, to repulse a combined and coordinated assault mounted by South Africa and two rival independence movements, Unita and the USbacked FNLA (National Front for the Liberation of Angola), on Angola’s capital, Luanda, on the eve of independence in November 1975. With the assistance of its foreign allies, the MPLA had even forced the SADF to withdraw its armored columns from Angolan territory altogether in March 1976. Victory over the South Africans did not, however, spell a halt to the security challenges faced by Luanda. The new government remained distracted by small-scale but destabilizing guerrilla attacks launched from Zairean territory by remnants of the FNLA and by FLEC (Front for the Liberation of the Enclave of Cabinda), a secessionist movement seeking independence for the oil-rich province of Cabinda in the north. In May 1977, the government sustained an abortive but bloody coup attempt, in which several MPLA cabinet members were killed. The putsch greatly heightened the MPLA’s sense of siege and contributed to the Angolan state’s authoritarian and repressive tendencies. And, on the heels of Zimbabwean independence, South African military incursions into southern Angola recommenced, along with renewed attacks by Unita, which, following the virtual collapse of the FNLA, stood poised to become a US, as well as a South African, client.64
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19
As William Minter notes, “While Angola was facing this new conventional assault, Mozambique was celebrating the independence of Zimbabwe and chalking up military victories against the remnants of the MNR.” In 1980, Renamo “attacks were still small-scale, and largely limited to remote areas of Manica and Sofala provinces.”65 It was not until the following year that rebel military activity gradually began to pick up and “low-level harassment” gradually deepened into a “massive sustained assault.”66 At the top of the decade, then, it was reasonable to conjecture, as Crawford Young did, that An ultimate verdict on the Afro-Marxist pathway will probably hinge on the political evolution and economic performance of Mozambique in the 1980s . . . Only in Mozambique are all the elements of the exemplary experience assembled: a sophisticated and united leadership; a relatively clear-cut ideological identity; a coherent political underpinning in FRELIMO. The 1980s will be a critical decade for this interesting experiment in political economy.67
Post-socialist Mozambique, recent historiographical debate and contemporary forms of mnemonic legitimation The 1980s did indeed prove decisive but not in the way Frelimo’s champions had hoped. The decade witnessed the rapid unraveling of the Mozambican revolution and the onset of a large-scale humanitarian catastrophe. Once considered a virtually peerless pioneer in forging a socialist pathway in Africa, Mozambique now enjoys an equally exceptional, if diametrically opposed, status: today the country is, in the eyes of the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Bank, a flagship of neoliberal principles on an otherwise growth-challenged, hopelessly neopatrimonial continent. The de facto two-party system that has evolved since 1992 enjoys a further distinction: it is considered by international diplomats as a paragon of UN-sponsored “pacification,” national reconciliation and democratization. These self-congratulatory images soft-pedal or ignore several disconcerting realities. By the time the peace accord was signed, Mozambique was one of the poorest and most aid-dependent countries in the world; the economy and infrastructure had been devastated; two-thirds of the population had been reduced to extreme poverty, a condition from which they, in their majority, have yet to exit; disparities in living standards both between and within regions were widening, a trend that continues to the present day (and is widely believed to have fed the war); and official corruption, which had been inconsequential up until the mid-1980s, had become endemic. In addition, Mozambique stood on the cusp of “effectively becom[ing] a free-trade area,” where all manner of smuggling operations (primarily to and from
20
Introduction
South Africa) flourished; and the underground networks involved in these operations would, in short order, generate powerful crime syndicates, whose sway over state institutions has become notorious.68 Mozambique’s breathtakingly speedy transformation from a Cold War, Third World battleground to a model of post-conflict, capitalist development has, it bears emphasis, occurred on Frelimo’s watch. Predictably, many leading government and party officials rank among the primary beneficiaries of the new political and economic dispensation. Those who enthusiastically promised that Mozambique would be turned into a graveyard of capitalism are now leading advocates of, and avid accumulators in, capitalism’s recent, full-blown resurrection. The big surprise has been Renamo’s remarkable transformation from a military proxy at its inception into a postwar political party that, since 1994, has dominated oppositional politics both within and beyond the halls of the national parliament. And, despite severe organizational defects, a long history of fractiousness and a weak political program, the former rebel army has, until recently, posed an unexpectedly strong challenge to the ruling party at the ballot box.69 The demise of Frelimo’s socialist experiment, combined with Renamo’s stunning metamorphosis, the apparent ease of Frelimo’s conversion to neoliberal doctrine and the ruling party’s ability to maintain its grip on power, have raised many questions – concerning the nature, merits and demerits of the Mozambican revolution; the various factors, both structural and conjunctural, that contributed to the revolution’s defeat; the character and causes of rural dissent; and the main determinants in Renamo’s evolution and postwar staying power. Here we confine ourselves to those questions relating to Frelimo’s politics, policies and practice. To what extent did Frelimo’s version of state socialism and its often heavy-handed tactics enhance Mozambique’s inherited vulnerability to external aggression and facilitate Renamo’s wartime military success? To the extent that mounting rural alienation with the Frelimo state played into Renamo’s hands, how much of this can be chalked up to widespread indifference to both parties to the conflict and how much to rural people’s alignment with and/or active support for the rebels? To what extent was broad-based opposition to the regime, especially in the rural areas, a reaction to the specifically socialist content of state interventions? A backlash against government counter-insurgency measures? A response to the government’s failure to deliver on its pledges and/or to defend the civilian population from rebel atrocities and predations? Mozambique’s rather singular post-independence trajectory has also prompted discussion and debate as to the meaning and the authenticity of Frelimo’s commitment to socialism. There is general agreement that Frelimo’s embrace of the socialist option is only intelligible within the specific geopolitical circumstances arising from the Cold War. During the armed struggle, members of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization
Introduction
21
(NATO) spurned Mondlane’s appeals for military assistance and aligned themselves unambiguously with Portugal. This was hardly surprising given that Portugal was itself a NATO member and, in the era of superpower confrontation, NATO was unwilling to jeopardize its access to strategicallysituated military bases in the Azores. In the event, Frelimo was compelled to seek aid and assistance elsewhere. In the early stages of the war for independence, it got military hardware and training primarily from non-aligned countries, such as Egypt, Algeria, Zambia and Tanzania. Subsequently, China and the Soviet Union supplied the lion’s share of money, arms and diplomatic support.70 There is also scholarly consensus that the prevailing international climate, however critical, only provides a partial explanation for Frelimo’s radicalization. The leadership’s ideological dispositions were no mere opportunistic bid for superpower resources in a bipolar world. Had that been the case, Frelimo would not have joined the non-aligned movement; nor would it have refused the Soviet Union’s request, following independence, to host a Russian naval base; nor would it have resisted pressure to take up sides in the Sino-Soviet dispute (a stance that made it one of the lone hold-outs among liberation movements throughout the continent); nor, in all likelihood, would it have retained its socialist identity following Moscow’s rejection of Mozambique’s application to join the Council for Mutual Economic Aid (Comecon) in 1981 – by which point China had sharply receded from the picture.71 In view of this history, most political analysts have sought to identify domestic political and sociological factors that contributed to this outcome. Frelimo sympathizers have tended to adopt Frelimo’s explanation for its ideological trajectory as their own. They cite the radicalizing effect of Lisbon’s obstinate refusal to decolonize, of the brutal nature of Portuguese colonialism and of the extremely repressive conditions in which popular struggles within and against this system of domination and exploitation were waged.72 In response, the revisionists have raised a series of pointed questions. Was the language of Marxism and vanguard-led revolution merely an ideological patina on what was, at bottom, a straightforwardly nationalist project? To what extent did Frelimo’s radical oratory serve merely to lend legitimacy to the core of the leadership, most of whose members hailed from a numerically insignificant, cosmopolitan, subaltern elite – one drawn to the cause of “armed nationalism”73 primarily because its upward mobility within the colonial order had been frustrated by institutionalized racism and white racial prejudice? If ruling political rhetoric chiefly served a legitimating function, to what degree was the leadership convinced of its own propaganda? And in what ways, if at all, did its rhetoric shape, rather than merely legitimate, policy choices? Many of the debates that swirl around the foregoing lines of inquiry bear intimately on questions relating to historical change and continuity. To what extent did the revolutionary Frelimo state mark a radical break from
22
Introduction
its colonial predecessor? In what respects does the post-socialist Frelimo state represent a departure from the self-styled revolutionary regime that preceded it? Which features of the emerging postwar political economy unravel the changes (whether understood as gains or otherwise) enacted by Frelimo in its socialist incarnation and which are constants dating back to the colonial period? Such questions inform M. Anne Pitcher’s criticisms of the argument that market reforms have produced patterns of economic ownership and production relations that hark back to the period of Portuguese occupation. She maintains that the “recolonization” thesis, a staple of many radical critiques of post-socialist Mozambique, misleads insofar as it understates the degree of continuity that characterized the transition to independence and, by and large, is blinkered to the enduring legacy of the command economy.74 According to Pitcher, what the recolonization thesis fails to appreciate is the path-dependency of the country’s historical development. This failure unduly complicates the task of distinguishing adequately between “interrupted continuities,” as manifested, say, by the re-emergence in the 1990s of a colonial-style cotton concessionary system (described in Chapter 2), and long-term, unbroken continuities, such as the history of state intervention in the economy.75 Where does the Naparama phenomenon fit into all of this? The conventional wisdom is that the Naparama story starkly revealed that Frelimo’s longstanding offensive against rural obscurantism had quietly fallen by the wayside. Writers such as R.M.A. Gonçalves and Malyn Newitt have emphasized the ways in which the government’s alignment with António’s warriors unambiguously signaled a sea change in the government’s stance on things “traditional.”76 The improbable military partnership that ensued showed as much as anything that Frelimo had completely forsaken its project of remaking the rural populace in its own image – that is, as assimilated, universalizing cosmopolitans. Indeed, Frelimo’s enlistment of the Naparamas in its counter-insurgency strategy demonstrated that the ruling party had bowed to the pressure of popular culture to ensure its own survival. That pressure, others have argued, likewise resulted in the realignment of official and chiefly authority in the late 1980s, effectively, if not officially, reversing Frelimo’s detribalization policy. But, as I have already suggested, the Naparama experience in Namapa recounts a rather different tale, one which conveys hitherto underappreciated continuities, whose implications have yet to be fully understood: namely, the proclivity of state and party representatives to conveniently overlook the role of official institutions in reproducing obscurantist practices – and even, as in this case, facilitating their geographic spread – while, at one and the same time, capitalizing on the consequences of these past actions to further ruling political interests in the present. This aspect of Naparama story is one manifestation of a recurring syndrome whose origins lie in the often overlooked reality that Frelimo’s detribalization policy was severely compro-
Introduction
23
mised from the outset. The cumulative weight of three closely related factors ensured this outcome: (1) the limited capacity of state institutions; (2) the refractoriness of rural social relations; and (3) what political scientist JeanFrançois Bayart would call “the reciprocal assimilation of elites”77 – in this case, between former Portuguese-recognized chiefs, their relatives and underlings, on the one hand, and local government and party officials, charged with executing Frelimo directives in the rural areas, on the other. To the extent that Frelimo’s detribalization policy was undermined by these factors, semi-formal moves toward the retraditionalization of rural administration in the 1990s represented the alignment of state policy with longstanding ruling practice. In Pitcher’s terms – and as Pitcher herself points out – these moves represented a long-term, or uninterrupted, continuity. The question then becomes why so many discourses (e.g. popular, academic, policy, partisan, donor) pertaining to contemporary Mozambique privilege the notion of rupture and portray the post-independence state’s relationship to chiefs as one of a clean break followed by total reversal – that is, as an instance of interrupted continuity? This book limits its sights to one aspect of that question: why does post-socialist Frelimo itself remain invested in the discourse of rupture with respect to its early relations with chiefs and why is this discourse such a prominent feature of official mnemonic practice in the present? More broadly, the present monograph explores the kinds of memory work a postcolonial, post-socialist and postconflict regime of long standing undertakes in the African context. And it asks: if, as is now generally accepted, “remembering and forgetting are contingent and linked practices,”78 what are the specific modes and sites of this dialectic in such a setting? Again, the story of the Namapa Naparamas is pertinent. For it is symptomatic of a pervasive amnesia within ruling circles and state institutions concerning first, the limits of Frelimo’s writ; second, the limits and proclivities of state power; and third, attempts on the part of state and party representatives at various levels of authority and operating from diverse institutional sites to come to terms with, compensate for and/or make the most of prevailing realities. This complicated state of affairs and its suppression – both at the time and in retrospect – are pivotal to understanding forms of state legitimation in the postcolonial period. Whereas in the heyday of the revolution what I call the “myth of revolutionary rupture” served to bolster the discourse of Frelimo resolve, capacity and triumph, after 1990 this myth became Exhibit A in official explanations as to why the revolution engendered social turmoil, economic distress, civil strife and anti-Frelimo sentiment in the rural areas. In its latter-day incarnation, the myth of revolutionary rupture acted as a screen in two senses of the word. In the first sense, it functioned to obscure from view the disruptions and trauma experienced by rural dwellers as a result of subsequent state policies and interventions.79 In the second, it provided a canvas onto which these later disruptions and traumas were
24
Introduction
retrospectively projected.80 In this latter capacity, it has paradoxically also served as a portal through which memory traces produced by subsequent traumatic events can be accessed. Demonstrating that this is the case, and seeking to provide a historically-rooted explanation of how it came to be so, constitute the main preoccupations of this book. The Frelimo regime’s reshaping of its memory practices occurred in the geo-political context of the end of the Cold War, the global ascendancy of neoliberal doctrine and the demise of apartheid. On the domestic front, the context was one of a manifold transition: from war to peace, from a command to a market economy and from single-party rule to democratic constitutionalism. It was also one of extreme dependence on external patrons. The dimensions and modalities of this dependence are discussed elsewhere in this text. Here I examine other factors, both national and global, that combined to make the 1990s the beginning of a mnemonic watershed. First, issues relating to the inter-generational transmission of memory have come to the fore. The Mozambican population is “overwhelmingly young.” In 1997, about 45 percent of the population was less than fifteen years old and thus was born well after independence.81 A high proportion of this section of the population was born in the midst of Mozambique’s postindependence war. Whatever their particular circumstances, all members of this age category would, at most, have only heard about Frelimo’s major accomplishments in the fields of preventive medicine, public health and education, almost all of which were wiped out by destabilization. In all likelihood, they would not have any firsthand memories of Machel, who was killed in a plane crash in 1986 and who, arguably more than anyone, personified the spirit, values and attributes of the Frelimo revolution: its martial and commandist character, its centralizing tendencies and its political certitude, on the one hand; its ramrod moral integrity, can-do attitude, relative responsiveness to public criticism and capacity for self-critique, on the other.82 It was with national demographic realities such as these in mind that the late president’s family and friends recently launched the “Samora Machel Documentation Centre” in Maputo to preserve his legacy.83 At the same time, many within the party leadership have found it in their interest to overlook the more “inconvenient” aspects of Machel’s legacy – that is, those aspects which would highlight how far Frelimo as a whole and many members of the leadership in particular have drifted from the revolution’s more virtuous or admirable attributes.84 The opposing approaches to the memory of Mozambique’s first president, an icon of the African revolution, are but one indication that the Frelimo elite is contending with the challenge of judging which aspects of its past qualify for conversion from “primary” memory – the memory “of a person who has lived through events and remembers them in a certain manner” – to “vicarious” memory – what we do when “we evoke our shared myth” of a given historical experience.85
Introduction
25
Second, in the postwar period, Frelimo has also had to confront more squarely than it hitherto had the question of generational replacement and renewal within its own ranks.86 Efforts to draw younger party cadres into the leadership date from the 1980s. However, the question of inter-generational succession within Frelimo has been both complicated and slowed by the ongoing importance of participation in the armed struggle as the chief badge of party loyalty, as proof positive of one’s nationalist bona fides and as a key credential for high-ranking posts. The year 1995 marks the first important milestone in the protracted and fitful process of retiring the “historic generation” – party militants “whose ideas and identities had been forged in the liberation struggle.”87 It was then that the party secretariat unexpectedly resigned en bloc and the Central Committee proceeded to elect a wholly new secretariat, only one of whose members had joined Frelimo prior to independence. More recent events illustrate how progress on this front has been anything but linear. When, in 2001, Joaquim Chissano, Machel’s successor, announced his intention to step down upon completing his second elected term in office, he strongly hinted that the time was ripe for the party to choose a member of the upcoming generation as its candidate in the 2004 presidential election.88 Apparently, however, the Central Committee was of a different mind: it voted overwhelmingly for Armando Guebuza, a member of the top leadership since 1968.89 Generational change within the highest echelons of the executive branch of the government has been even slower: it was not until 2004 that Luisa Diogo, who, at forty-five, had been too young to serve in the armed struggle, was appointed prime minister. Upon her appointment Diogo assumed the highest office ever attained by someone who was not a veteran of the independence war.90 In summary, the period under review here was marked by the tension between the looming imperative of intra-party generational replacement, on the one hand, and resistance within Frelimo’s upper echelons to acceding to this imperative’s inexorable logic, on the other. Third, turning to the world stage, recent and ongoing epochal changes to memory itself merit special attention. According to Jay Winter and Emmanuel Sivan, the twentieth century saw political leaders not only opportunistically “massage” but ruthlessly “massacre” memory.91 The century’s final decades, however, witnessed the acceleration of memory discourses and a proliferation of “memory sites”92 (e.g. museums, memorials, commemorative events, re-enactments, celebrations, emblems) in Europe and the United States. This escalation, which continues unabated to the present day, was “energized by the broadening debate about the Holocaust . . . and by media attention paid to the fortieth and fiftieth anniversaries of events in the history of the Third Reich.”93 Especially after the fall of the Berlin Wall, it both spurred, and was spurred by, “the increase of redress claims, the rise of identity politics, a politics of victimization and regret, and an increased willingness of governments to redress wrongdoing.”94
26
Introduction
While the memory boom and the politics closely allied with it have been variously read,95 social critics have warned that the current unprecedented obsession with the past and with securing the future of memory leaves us exceptionally susceptible to forgetting to remember the future itself. Such warnings, however, appear to apply only to the “North Atlantic societies” where these “mnemonic convulsions” originated and where memory itself has undergone commodification.96 As Andreas Huyssen has observed, the global spread of these convulsions has given rise to a rather different dynamic in other parts of the world: What here appears by now largely as an increasingly successful marketing of memory by the Western culture industry . . . takes a more explicitly political inflection in other parts of the world . . . raising fundamental questions about human rights violations, justice, and collective responsibility. And, as he goes on to emphasize, to the extent that memory discourses have been globalized, this has occurred through their localization in different national settings.97 The case of contemporary Mozambique bears out Huyssen’s remarks. To be sure, the globalization of memory discourses has left its mark on the country: for instance, what Huyssen calls “the universal trope for historical trauma,”98 the Holocaust, has been applied to Mozambique’s postindependence war.99 And it may well be the case that the crystallization of “a global atoning community” in the late twentieth century, and the political cachet conferred on this fast-expanding community’s members,100 facilitated the birth of a Frelimo-specific politics of acknowledgment that has become a signature feature of the ruling party’s post-Marxist ideological liturgy. However, it is also true that Frelimo’s tradition of self-criticism has a long, well-established pedigree and, as will become apparent in these pages, officialdom’s contemporary memory practices are most fruitfully seen in light of this history. More importantly for our purposes is that Frelimo’s post-socialist mnemonic practices provide confirmation of the proposition that “If we want to understand the configuration of a discourse on the past, we have to take into account the fact that that discourse was constructed from the beginning of the event, that it is rooted there.”101 In this case, the “event” in question is the period bracketed by Mozambican independence, on the one hand, and the transition to political pluralism, on the other. I define the “beginning” of the event rather expansively to encompass the early years of the revolution, roughly 1975–1979/80. This was an especially fluid period politically,102 one which saw the crystallization of a discursive configuration that survived the transition to multipartyism and Frelimo’s embrace of neoliberal doctrine. I show the ways in which this configuration has undergone modifications to accommodate these changes in a manner that pre-
Introduction
27
serves the centrality of the myth of revolutionary rupture while investing it with new meaning and significance. The social, cultural and political categories that constituted, and continue to constitute, the core of Frelimo’s discursive repertoire are, I demonstrate, constitutionally relational and, in many cases, contrastive or binary. The changing meaning of one may prompt compensatory adjustments in the meaning of others and their consequent rearticulation. By the same token, the withering away of a founding category may register in the increased ideological or explanatory freight carried by another. Which categories came into play at any given time and how they did so depended on the politicalinstitutional context, among other things. Two such contexts are examined here: that of Nampula and of the summit of state power. My findings corroborate that “statist narratives are constructed within the context of specific challenges to state power”103 and problematize how these challenges are met at different levels of social agency within official hierarchies. Discursive configurations are not, of course, self-referential. What, then, of the relations between memory and history? As Dominick LaCapra has observed, these “have still to be sorted out, and exceptionally vexed is their import for aesthetic, ethical, and political issues.”104 With an eye to such complexities, Elizabeth Jelin has recently identified three ways in which to think about these relations: first, there is memory as a resource for research – as part of the process of obtaining and constructing “data” about the past; second, there is the role that historiographic research can play in the “correction” of false or equivocal memories; and finally, there is memory as an object of research itself.105 Elements of all three approaches can be found, to a greater or lesser degree, in this book. I say something about the oral sources I have used in the last section of the introduction. As for the second approach, the accent here is arguably less on “correcting” faulty memories than on two other emphases: first, showing that the Mozambican case instantiates the general proposition that the “real can be mythologized just as the mythic can engender strong reality effects”;106 and second, examining the ways in which social memories that rest on empirically shaky ground may nonetheless convey something important about the object of mnemonic narratives that an unyieldingly positivistic approach would, in all likelihood, overlook.107 As the foregoing discussion suggests, the third approach is the dominant one employed here. Recent writing in this vein has sought to navigate between two extremes: that of presentism, “which claims that the past is continually modified at the service of the interests of the present,” and “taxidermism,” which emphasizes the refractoriness of the past and thus its resistance to undue manipulation.108 The present text draws on the insights of these strategies of mediation. It confirms the contention that memory
28
Introduction
discourses, like development trajectories, are path-dependent, “that later versions depend not just on immediate circumstances but also on the history of earlier formulations.”109 And it shows that, in the Mozambican case, which earlier formulations are invoked by officialdom, how, with what apparent intent and to what effect were site-specific. This book further examines how the divergent pathways under review coexisted – albeit not always easily – within the same newly emerging “legitimation profile,”110 whose crystallization was occasioned by the abandonment of Marxism-Leninism as official ideology, the transition to a pluralist political system, the move to a post-command economy and the looming prospect of peace. And it suggests that the more disposed statist reformulations of official history in the post-socialist period were to register divergent, at times conflicting, currents within popular mnemonic narratives, the greater the likelihood that they also reproduced the tensions, ambiguities and antinomies that inhered in Frelimo’s Marxist discourse. Finally, I explore the reasons why the myth of revolutionary rupture, conceived of as a fateful founding moment, lends itself to resignification and instrumentalization by the ruling party in the post-socialist period. As with any attempt to situate memory in a mutually interrogative relation with historical events, especially extremely traumatic ones such as Mozambique’s post-independence war, I have courted the risk of becoming “a prisoner of the syndrome I am describing.”111 In view of such a dynamic, several questions arise. To what extent does this book repeat what it accuses the myth of revolutionary rupture of doing – namely, of muting or mitigating Mozambique’s wartime trauma? More specifically, to what degree does the present text’s principal focus on Frelimo’s excesses and abuses and its subsequent efforts at damage control provide fresh fodder, even if inadvertently, for interpretative frameworks that tend to blur or obliterate the differences between Frelimo and its wartime adversaries?112 Alternatively and at least as problematically, to what extent does this focus give added impetus to the tendency to “blame the victim,” where “the victim” is understood as being the Mozambican government?113 I’m aware that this text in no way does justice to the severity of the trauma or the extent of the losses Mozambicans experienced during, and as a result of, the war. Nor is that its intent, which is to examine the discursive and performative mechanisms by which officials in the party and state have sought to displace the source of trauma and loss on to Frelimo’s detribalization policy. Turning to the second and third questions, my response is twofold. First, I am of the view that the excesses perpetrated by Frelimo’s apartheid-cum-imperialist enemies and their surrogates should not be adduced to somehow mitigate (let alone exculpate) those committed by Frelimo itself – not least because by no means were all of these excesses derivative of the struggle against apartheid. It may well be that “[w]hatever its mistakes, FRELIMO stood for the brightest of hopes; Renamo for the depths of human savagery.”114 And it is no doubt the case that “[a]s in any
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29
conflict, there is more than enough blame for every party involved. But while there may be no innocents, some should bear a heavier responsibility than others.”115 However, modes of historical specification, differentiation and contextualization are one thing; a “conception of solidarity which involves at least the muting of criticism”116 is another. If we have learned anything, it is that such a conception is not always bad politics; it is also a serious impediment to historical understanding. Second, one of the principal arguments of this book is that the myth of revolutionary rupture, as enunciated by Frelimo representatives in the postsocialist period, not only strongly tends to diminish the historical liability of the ruling regime for human rights infringements committed on its watch and for the enactment of policies that were prejudicial to the livelihoods of the majority of Mozambicans; at one and the same time, it also enables memory discourses that tend, even if only incidentally and unintentionally, to unburden Renamo of the full measure of its guilt and responsibility for its terrorist past. As anyone who has written on Mozambique’s post-independence war knows, the tendency toward transference, especially with respect to extremely traumatic events, “arises even on the basic level of terminology, for no terms are innocent.” It is generally accepted that, as Carrie Manning has put it, “The war in Mozambique began as an effort by external forces to destabilize the new government and ended up a very different animal.”117 Starting in the mid-1980s, Renamo was forced by South Africa to root itself more firmly in the Mozambican countryside. This campaign of selfentrenchment achieved a considerable measure of success, although the effort exerted by Renamo and the results it achieved varied from region to region and even from locale to locale. In many areas, the rebels managed to exploit and fuel an ever-shifting palimpsest of regional and grassroots tensions and conflicts. Arguably more often than not, pre-existing and emergent antagonisms and frictions were aggravated by the rapidly deteriorating economy and the unraveling of the social fabric, both of which were, in no small degree, direct consequences of the war itself. It is at this stage that many observers of the Mozambican scene contend that the conflict acquired an indigenous dynamic, distinct from, and autonomous of, foreign agendas. It was at this stage, if not before, that, these observers maintain, what had started out as a war of external intervention devolved into a “civil war.” I have no objection to the “civil war” label when it is applied to the conflict’s latter stages as long as its use is framed in a manner that recognizes three realities. First, Renamo’s war effort remained heavily dependent on external sponsorship throughout. South African support continued although much of it was privatized. Other governments and right-wing private groups pitched in.118 (Frelimo, it bears noting, also relied on foreign sources, primarily the Soviet Union, for its war matériel. The difference is that, in principle at least, it was obliged to pay for them.119) Second, as the fighting
30
Introduction
ground on, a growing number of Mozambicans came increasingly to view the conflict as “a war between two armies, with neither of them ‘representing’ the people.”120 Third, the war remained a destabilization campaign from start to finish. Prior to Nkomati, this was primarily because “forming a RENAMO government was not part of the agenda of the South African military”121 – and it was not part of the agenda in large measure because the SADF was well aware that, given Renamo’s many limitations, forming such a government would have been a taller order than South Africa was willing to seriously contemplate filling. Under the circumstances, Pretoria’s main strategic objective was to discipline Frelimo and force it to make the policy changes favorable to the apartheid state. Following Nkomati, after which point Renamo set about building up the political and administrative wings of the movement, it was because South Africa’s agenda remained unchanged and because the rebel leadership never serious [sic] entertained the belief that it could challenge FRELIMO’s historical place in contemporary Mozambique. Indeed, politically RENAMO always defined itself in relation to, as a mirror image of, FRELIMO. Its future acceptance as a legitimate political [opposition] organisation depended entirely on its eventual recognition by the FRELIMO state.122 In view of this history, the present text uses the term “destabilization” to cover all stages of the war. This terminological preference is reinforced by my belief that Minter’s position on the war’s genesis and evolution is closer to the mark than not. Minter has argued that post-independence Mozambique under Frelimo would have been marked by a high degree of political dissatisfaction and “perhaps even . . . some measure of violent conflict” irrespective of the regional or global political climate; however, in the absence of foreign intervention, this state of affairs, in all probability, would not have led to the outbreak of war.123 He has also made the case that, even after the conflict acquired an unmistakably local texture and dynamic, transnational factors remained decisive in sustaining and shaping it, as well as in winding it down: the wars of the 1980s [in Angola, as well as in Mozambique] attained their deadly height as a result of external forces which raised destruction to levels far beyond the capacity of the societies to resist. It was, above all, the intertwined pacing of apartheid’s death struggle and the end-game of the Cold War that determined their rhythm and intensity.124 While I find Minter’s argument on the whole persuasive,125 I have nonetheless chosen, on occasion, to allude to Mozambique’s “civil war” in passages
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31
devoted to the conflict as it developed in the late 1980s and early 1990s. My attempt to mix it up terminologically reflects my agreement with LaCapra that, in certain circumstances – such as the ones presented by the Mozambican case – “the best option may be to use various terms with an awareness of their problematic nature and not to become riveted on one or another of them.”126
1
Myth as a “meaning-making” device in post-independence Mozambique1
According to the French arbiter of morals, Ernest Renan, historical amnesia is an unavoidable, congenital malady of nations and nation–states.2 As John Lonsdale paraphrases Renan’s argument, “Nations have a great deal to forget. Nations must have a history and they must get it wrong.”3 Mozambique is no exception to Renan’s rule. The story I tell in this book concerns the post-independence state’s evolving relationship to rural political authority in Nampula Province during the first two decades of independence. It also concerns the selectivity and vagaries of public and official memory about crucial aspects of this relationship.4 When Frelimo acceded to state power in 1975, the nationalist and increasingly radicalized front immediately proceeded to abolish statutory chieftaincy, the institution that had served as the main pillar of colonial rural administration. Why did Frelimo take such a sweeping action on the morrow of the revolution? One answer is that the Frelimo leadership was motivated primarily by a commendable desire to create a unitary jural and political system.5 A second response is much less charitable: that the overriding objective of Mozambique’s new rulers was to eliminate an independent, potentially oppositional, power base firmly rooted in the country’s overwhelmingly peasant population.6 In all likelihood, Frelimo’s motivations were mixed – much as they were for other radical nationalist regimes.7 In either case, the belief that, on the question of rural leadership, Frelimo triumphed in its bid to wreak wrenching change by decree is both widespread and firmly held. On this account, the new government succeeded in refashioning political institutions in the countryside in the early independence period in the manner it desired. Chieftaincy was replaced by the organs of “popular power” and Portuguese-recognized chiefs, known as régulos, were, in their majority, summarily and unceremoniously supplanted by local, often fresh-faced, party militants, known as “secretaries.” This founding myth of epochal change came to serve as a baseline against which to measure and interpret subsequent developments. The most notable of these developments was the outbreak of Renamo’s rural insurgency in 1977 and the war’s dramatic spread and intensification in the early 1980s. The South African-backed rebels soon gained no small measure of notoriety
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 33 for widespread atrocities inflicted upon the Mozambican civilian population.8 They also proved to be a formidable fighting force. Renamo adopted an inverse position to that of Frelimo on the question of tradition – much as it did on most other social, economic and political questions. The rebel army’s contrarian stance was in keeping with the doctrine of counter-revolutionary warfare, one of whose leading tenets is to apply the revolution’s “strategy and principles in reverse.”9 Whereas Frelimo denigrated and, in many localities, proscribed an array of rural-based cultural and religious practices, Renamo pointedly appealed to cultural meaning. Whereas Frelimo sought to emasculate chieftaincy as a political force, Renamo actively cultivated traditional authorities as local political allies. Whereas Frelimo was committed to building a unitary jural and political system, Renamo revived the institutions of indirect rule in many areas where it established some semblance of a wartime administration. The conventional wisdom has it that, in this respect, Renamo’s strategy of rural mobilization helps account for the guerrilla army’s military gains. The argument runs as follows. Frelimo’s anti-traditionalist stand seriously eroded popular support for the post-independence government. It also handed Renamo the critical mass of rural constituents required to transform itself from an instrument of external aggression into an autonomous, indigenously-rooted, social movement. Peasant adherence to Renamo was motivated by a burning desire for cultural renewal in the face of a culturally oppressive, relentlessly modernizing dictatorship. The insurgency appeared to hold out the promise of just such a renewal. Renamo’s armed intervention, combined with the resurrection of chieftaincy in rebel-administered zones, enabled chiefs in government-held areas to reassert their power and authority. The growing prominence of chiefs on the rural political landscape was both assisted and acclaimed by the general populace. It at once bore testimony to and helped accelerate the revolutionary state’s rollback.10 By the time the war ended, state institutions in much of the countryside were either totally absent or only nominally present. In stark contrast, chiefs were the only de facto authorities operating in large tracts of the national territory. Recognizing and formalizing that reality was the postwar state’s best bet for extending the reach of its enfeebled, highly circumscribed administration beyond Mozambique’s cities and towns and for re-legitimizing its rule. Such a move was called for not only on pragmatic grounds but also as the most politically desirable outcome, one consistent with the interests of Mozambican peasants.11 An alternative, dissenting, view implicitly turns on the premise that the conventional wisdom reverses cause and effect. On this account, Frelimo’s “retreat to tradition”12 constitutes a kind of natural fall-back position on the part of both the peasantry and the state in the face of one or both of the following developments. The first of these was the rural goods famine, “a deliberate Frelimo policy”13 in the early years of independence which helped to underwrite the revolutionary regime’s (disastrous and eventually aborted)
34
Myth as a “meaning-making” device
strategy of state-centered accumulation. This strategy deprived smallholders of store-bought commodities upon which they had come to depend, pushing them into sub-subsistence levels of production and consumption. One ideological manifestation of the Frelimo-enforced lowering of rural living standards was the “resurgence of traditional rural culture.”14 The second development had a similar effect. This was the state’s retreat from the countryside in the mid to late 1980s under the twin pressures of an anti-popular war and an equally anti-popular structural adjustment program.15 In this telling, traditional institutions, leadership and practices are residual phenomena that somehow become reanimated when – and only when – official institutions and the market recede on the horizon.16 Both the conventional wisdom and the critique hinge on the often unstated assumption that the post-independence regime succeeded in standing traditional hierarchies on their head. Both additionally assume that this arrangement persisted until the progressive weakening of the state during the war-riven 1980s restored the pre-existing balance of power.17 They thus share the same starting and end points. What sets them at odds is divergent explanations as to the ways in which intervening processes and events converged to produce the same presumed, undisputed outcome. Much of the narrative that follows is devoted to challenging these shared presuppositions. Claims for the efficacy of Frelimo’s frontal assault on hereditarian principles commit the same error as Frelimo itself: like the ruling party was wont to do in the first years of independence, they confound revolutionary “aspiration with achievement.”18 In the language of political theory, such claims conflate the project of state-building – “a conscious effort at creating an apparatus of control” – with long-term, ongoing and unorchestrated processes of state formation – processes that bear testimony to “conflicts, negotiations and compromises between diverse groups”19 with divergent, often antagonistic, interests and agendas, as well as highly differentiated and fluctuating capacities to pursue these. The findings of numerous case studies cast doubt on the proposition that Frelimo-installed institutions ran roughshod over rural power structures. Rather, they suggest that descent-based hierarchies and incipient or actual class relations insinuated themselves in, and were constitutive of, government-mandated local institutions.20 By all appearances, the new institutions were seized upon by certain sections of the rural population as resources to be used in the pursuit or defense of security, material gain and/or influence.21 If the effects of Frelimo’s actions against chiefs and chieftaincy have been overdrawn, so, too, have those of Renamo’s politico-military intervention on behalf of traditional institutions and their leading representatives. In the near-term, Renamo’s reinstatement of chiefs to positions of authority in areas under its administration may have altered the balance of forces between traditional authorities and local government representatives in zones nominally controlled by Frelimo. But this shift, where and when it occurred, was not as decisive or as dramatic as the received view asserts or
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 35 presumes; nor was it irrevocable. Indeed, what was striking to this observer in 1994, two years after the war’s conclusion, was the variability of local political arrangements in Nampula and the fragility of the power of incumbents of all stripes. Equally noteworthy were the rapidity with which claims on officially-recognized local offices were proliferating and the extent to which this gathering trend was accentuating the political crisis at the grassroots level. To students and residents of Africa, it should come as no surprise that, in Mozambique, chieftaincy is “a tense political cockpit,”22 much as it is elsewhere in sub-Saharan Africa. Nor should it constitute earth-shattering news that, in Mozambique, as elsewhere on the continent, the intensity of factionbased power struggles for political supremacy within chieftaincy is (and historically has been) rivaled only by the degree of widespread local antagonism toward the institution of chieftaincy per se. Indeed, this antagonism was a driving force behind mass-based militant nationalism in the post-World War II period.23 However, given the widespread influence of cultural essentialism in scholarly production, political discourse and policy formulation on rural Mozambique, demonstrating the non-exceptionality of the Mozambican experience in these respects is an exercise whose value is more than merely academic. And demonstrating Nampula Province’s nonexceptionality on these same counts carries political and policy implications that are national in scope for reasons which will become apparent presently. While setting the historical record straight is one of my objectives, it is not the only one. After all, deflating a myth “is not to be done with the matter. On the contrary, myths are socially and cosmologically productive; in this sense, they require to be analyzed, and not just refuted.”24 They are productive because they “[give] form to an understanding of the world, providing a set of categories and premises that continue to shape people’s experiences and interpretations of their lives.”25 This is certainly true of the myth of revolutionary rupture in Mozambique, whose anatomy, derivations, functions and effects are the subject of this book.
Policy, politics and historiography The policy implications of historical explanations that stress Frelimo’s hostility toward “tradition” as a root cause of rural discontent, dissent and dissidence are easy enough to discern. As critics have been quick to note, such explanations help to justify calls for a return to colonial-derived relations of domination.26 By the early 1990s these calls could be heard within policymaking circles, as well as elsewhere in the state administration. They culminated in the promulgation of legislation, in 1994, providing for a renewed role for traditional authorities in rural governance. The Municipalities Law, as it was known, cast such a policy shift as an integral component of a much broader World Bank- and donor-driven program to decentralize the Mozambican state administration and, in so doing, to make local government more
36
Myth as a “meaning-making” device
responsive to popular needs and demands. Local authorities were called upon to “listen to the opinions and suggestions of traditional authorities recognized by the communities as such, so as to coordinate with them the realization of activities aimed at satisfying the specific necessities of the communities in question.”27 While shying away from formalizing chiefly functions and making no provision for chiefly prerogatives or privileges, the law specified areas of potential collaboration between traditional authorities and district governments. These included land management; tax collection; maintenance of social harmony and peace; dissemination and implementation of government decisions; opening and maintenance of access routes; population censustaking; gathering and furnishing of pertinent data; maintenance of health; prevention of epidemics and infectious diseases; prevention of illegal fires, hunting and fishing; protection of the environment; wildlife and natural resource conservation; promotion of productive activity; and preservation of physical and cultural patrimony.28 The envisaged roster visibly strains to juggle “an idealized vision of chiefly authority with a set of duties which might have been drawn from a Portuguese manual on administration.”29 The Municipalities Law was subsequently thrown out on an unrelated technicality. Because subsequent legislation specified that local elections (which have been held in 1998 and 2003) in the initial stages of administrative reform would only take place in thirty-three cities and towns, the question of what form rural governance would take in a decentralized Mozambique was postponed.30 Nonetheless, in the early 1990s, final drafts of the Municipalities Law, most especially the sections relating to the “integration” (enquadramento) of traditional authorities, were seen as providing a blueprint for future rural administration and, thus, as a justification for the state’s open alignment with chiefs in the present. The practical repercussions of “culturalist” accounts reach beyond the scope of issues bearing directly on the contours of postwar local governance. Representations of Mozambique’s rural populace as strongly attached to traditional values, practices and leaders tend to go hand and hand with images of the peasantry as an undifferentiated mass of subsistence-oriented, small-scale producers only nominally dependent on off-farm income. The policy recommendations which have flowed from such understandings tend to focus single-mindedly on promoting smallholder production as a strategy of rural recovery and to neglect the degree to which rural dwellers throughout Mozambique rely on wage labor and/or non-agricultural selfemployment to sustain themselves and their families.31 Culture-based explanations have also reverberated politically beyond Mozambique. Frelimo’s treatment of chiefs is, for instance, viewed in post-apartheid South Africa as yet another sorry chapter in the cautionary tale told by the Mozambican revolution – a prime “example of what not to do” if the ANC-led government is to maintain legitimacy and thereby minimize its own vulnerability to destabilization.32
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 37 Controversy over the effects of Frelimo’s uncompromising stand on the question of rural political authority is just a subset of a broader debate over the reasons Renamo’s rural insurgency succeeded in implanting itself within the social fabric of Mozambique and, in the course of doing so, created its own self-reinforcing, indigenous logic. Early monographs on post-independence Mozambique, as well as more recent scholarship by Frelimo sympathizers, ascribe blame for both the conflict and the tragedy it produced to Frelimo’s foreign enemies, both in the region and further afield. According to this perspective, the low-intensity war waged against Mozambique skillfully fed off of and, in the process, fueled local conflicts. It just as adroitly capitalized on the Frelimo state’s weaknesses and mistakes. However, the conflict never transcended its beginnings as an externally-imposed and -driven destabilization campaign. These analysts highlight both structural and conjunctural factors which aided and abetted the war’s indigenization: the fragility of Mozambique’s inherited infrastructure and economy, and the ways in which the massive dislocations attendant upon an unforeseen, ill-planned and hastily implemented decolonization had only accentuated this attribute; the paucity of literate, politically-trained state and party cadres, a dearth that become ever more pronounced the closer one got to the grassroots level; the tenuousness of the institutional links between rural communities and the fledgling state and thus the ease with which these links could be disrupted or severed; the downturn in the global economy in the late 1970s and early 1980s which hit Third World raw material-exporting countries especially hard; among others.33 By the late 1980s, an alternative, revisionist view had crystallized and quickly gained currency. The scholars who helped forge this new perspective and brought it to prominence insisted that, irrespective of Renamo’s incontrovertibly dubious origins and ruthless military tactics, the conflict had, fairly early on, become a bona fide civil war and could only be conclusively resolved if this reality was addressed. These writers place the burden of blame for this outcome on Frelimo itself, emphasizing the ruling party’s authoritarianism and militarism,34 the totalizing pretensions of Frelimo’s political project, the leadership’s cultural hubris and its stunning ignorance of the socio-cultural heterogeneity of the country it inherited. On this view, Renamo had merely succeeded in tapping a vein of mounting peasant resentment.35 The revisionists fashion themselves as advancing a long overdue and sorely needed left critique of Frelimo – and, by extension, of what they see as the party’s academic apologists. For them, the crux of the problem was not socialism per se but, rather, Frelimo’s particular brand of ersatz socialism. This was utterly devoid of democratic content, intrinsically coercive in nature, and ultimately self-serving in its aims. Intentions aside, much of the thrust of the revisionist critique is compatible with, and has served to bolster, anti-left positions. By 1991, Joseph Hanlon, a longtime Frelimo
38
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supporter and chronicler of post-independence Mozambican history, felt compelled to insist that The primary cause of suffering in Mozambique is destabilization and foreign intervention. Without that, the crisis would have been much less severe. No conceivable set of Frelimo errors could have resulted in a million dead and $18 billion in economic losses. To put the primary responsibility on Frelimo or socialism makes nonsense of history; it is blaming the victim. With evident exasperation, Hanlon went on to note, “Not only are Frelimo and socialism increasingly blamed for the havoc wrought by destabilization, but the attempt is made to erase from memory Frelimo’s successes,” the most celebrated of which are the ruling party’s achievements in the field of social services delivery.36 This book directs attention to, and analyzes, the complicity of Frelimo’s socialist and post-socialist ideological practice in fostering, and even exploiting, the very same kinds of revisionism Hanlon and others deplore and are dedicated to combating. Predictably, in advance of Mozambique’s first multiparty elections, held in October 1994, Frelimo leaders and partisans had little to say about the post-independence state’s political and policy failures. Foremost among these were Frelimo’s strategy of state-centered accumulation, its rural collectivization program, and generalized state authoritarianism and repression. More perplexing but little noted either at the time or since was that the ruling party declined to mount a robust defense of its post-independence accomplishments and the overall political vision that inspired them. Indeed, on these subjects Frelimo militants at all levels of authority had next to nothing to say.37 It is in this global context that post-1990 official discourses concerning Frelimo’s detribalization policy have been both anomalous and revealing. At the level of the national leadership, references to this policy in the run-up to the 1994 vote were fairly elliptical; nonetheless, the implication was clear: at independence, Frelimo had simply overestimated the peasantry’s readiness for socialist revolution and, conversely, it had underestimated the peasantry’s attachment to “tradition.” In contrast, in Nampula, the discourse of civil servants and government officials at various levels of the state administration in Nampula tended to be much more explicit. That testimony was both oral and written. At times it was meant for public consumption; at others it was intended for internal bureaucratic use. Irrespective of the form it took or of the identity of its target audience, official pronouncements in the province were, in the main, categorical in their insistence that the statutory abolition of chieftaincy, combined with the new system of local government installed by Frelimo, constituted the Achilles heel of the Mozambican revolution. To hear local government employees tell it, Frelimo’s attempt to sideline chiefs politically bore the lion’s share of culpability for a wide range
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 39 of contemporary social, economic and political ills. These included the breakdown of the structure of authority within the family and in the society at large; precipitous declines in smallholder agricultural production and labor productivity; the outbreak of local struggles for power; and the erosion of morals, as evidenced by the rise of a panoply of social pathologies, such as crime, labor indiscipline and social parasitism. At first blush such claims would appear to be a slap in the face of the central authorities and a vindication of the culturalist position. Weren’t government employees in Nampula simply speaking truth to power? Weren’t they merely voicing what ordinary Mozambicans had known all along but had been unable to say publicly given the stringent strictures on political discourse under a quasi-Stalinist regime? And hadn’t political liberalization in the 1990s paved the way for people, both in and outside of the government’s employ, to finally speak their minds? Scholars, politicians and policy-makers wedded to a culturalist interpretation of Mozambique’s postindependence travails would no doubt answer in the affirmative to all of the above questions. The present study arrives at a different set of conclusions. Its central thesis is that official “memory” about the purportedly injurious effects of, and political backlash against, Frelimo’s ham-handed attempt to detribalize rural administration has aided and abetted the ruling party’s historical amnesia about equally – and usually more – incriminating aspects of its tenure. This book argues further that the obverse side of the leadership’s lapses in memory about less than laudable aspects of its early policies and practices is its apparent inability to recall some of the worthy political goals it had pursued. None of this is to imply that the culturalist critique has no purchase on reality. Even if the myth of revolutionary rupture was promulgated by Frelimo, it would not have resonated as it has if it had been bereft of any material or social referent.38 The fact of the matter is that, in Nampula, some former régulos, as well as chiefs who had not served under the Portuguese, had entered into dissidence upon Renamo’s arrival in the vicinity. Moreover, these traditional leaders had reportedly taken many of their former colonial subjects with them. This phenomenon came to international attention by way of the research of the late Christian Geffray, an anthropologist, a leading member of the revisionist school and the first scholar of Mozambique to formulate the culturalist position. It is, in fact, as a result of his findings and interpretations that this position first crystallized and gained prominence. Geffray’s account of the war’s outbreak and evolution in Eráti District was path-breaking. It is also problematic on several counts. I rehearse only a few of them here. First, there is the question of accuracy. What actually happened, when and why? Was the pulling power of chiefs in the region really as comprehensive as Geffray suggests? As Minter has pointed out, no local study to date “is fine-grained enough to trace the complex pattern of voluntary and involuntary relocation as rural people sought to survive,
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insurgents attacked and kidnapped villagers [as Renamo did as a matter of course], and government troops recuperated escapees from Renamo,” overran Renamo strongholds, and forcibly resettled civilians in order to isolate the guerrillas from the general populace.39 Second, assuming for the moment that many rural dwellers did follow the lead of chiefs, there is the question of why they did so. Social scientists have long underscored the difficulties and potential dangers of imputing motivations, perspectives or forms of “consciousness” solely on the basis of people’s actions.40 Apparent rural fealty to individual chiefs and to the institution of chieftaincy has proven no exception.41 Under the circumstances, isn’t it possible that, of those people in Eráti who voluntarily sided with Renamo at the war’s outset, that they did so for different reasons?42 If indeed male youth were alienated from the local structure of power, as Geffray himself argues they were, than could it be that all of the people who followed “their” chiefs into dissidence or responded to Renamo’s call to arms supported a return to royal rule? Was Frelimo’s detribalization policy more decisive in generating rural dissidence than, say, the rural goods famine?43 Third, questions arise concerning the wartime motivations and situational calculations of chiefs themselves. The available evidence suggests that many traditional authorities cooperated with Renamo during the war only because the military balance of forces was such in the areas in which they lived (or had fled to) that they felt they had no other reasonable choice.44 Fourth, there is the question of the generalizability of the Eráti case. Did the local political dynamics which Geffray identifies pertain to other locales within or beyond Nampula or even, for that matter, within the area that formerly fell within Eráti’s administrative boundaries? The weight of the available evidence, including my own, suggests that such an extrapolation, even within the confines of Eráti itself, would mislead.45 The persistence of asymmetries of power at the grassroots was well known to government authorities at the sub-district, district and provincial levels. In many instances, these same officials had licensed – or witnessed their colleagues or superiors licensing – the reproduction of late colonial political arrangements. Official awareness of these arrangements periodically crops up in the testimony examined in the present text. It asserts itself, for instance, when government officials and bureaucrats are intent on bolstering the case that chiefs are indeed up to the exigencies of governing in a postcolonial context and, in particular, of diligently and faithfully serving the Frelimo government. After all, hadn’t chiefs, in the name of the socialist state, assisted in mobilizing the population to enter communal villages, the residential areas which Frelimo saw as the linchpin of rural agricultural development and political empowerment (see Chapter 7)? Similarly, the longstanding, prominent role of royals or their appointees in the institutions of popular power is invoked as the main reason the semi-official return to chiefly rule in the province had not, in the main, sparked major protests from Frelimo secretaries (see Chapter 5).
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 41 The insistent intrusion of official knowledge of continuities in rural power structures within the main narrative on radical rupture and its adverse effects neither modified this narrative’s thrust, nor qualified its conclusions. To understand why such knowledge expressed itself as an aside and only as an aside, and why alternative accounts of rural dissent were suppressed or minimized, one needs to direct one’s attention away from the local evidence that helped give rise to the culturalist critique to the political requirements and ideological dispositions of those at the summit of power. Geffray’s field research on the war serves as a useful segue into a discussion of these latter considerations. La Cause des Armes, the book which presented his findings, not only roiled the terms of academic discussion; it also made waves in Western diplomatic, donor and NGO circles.46 Frelimo was keenly aware of La Cause’s influence and had, in fact, anticipated it. According to former Minister of Information José Luís Cabaço, the Frelimo leadership’s interest in the manuscript, to which the party had access prior to publication, was largely confined to how they believed it would be received by its foreign benefactors.47 Under the circumstances, it is tempting to conjecture that the ruling party was politically invested in fostering an official discourse that played back to powerful outsiders what it had reason to think they wanted to hear.48 In the early to mid-1990s, Frelimo had good cause to believe that important donors wanted to hear that traditional authority was pivotal to the material, social and spiritual well-being of rural communities and that post-independence developments had illustrated this in a quite dramatic fashion. Another reasonable inference was that Western donors wanted the government to confirm that, under the circumstances, chieftaincy distinguished itself as the most promising rural institution to serve as the local anchor for a future decentralized, slimmed-down state administration. Finally, there was ample reason to believe that donors were seeking reassurance from Mozambicans themselves that a return to some semblance of chiefly rule was compatible with a wide-ranging program of democratization. Such compatibility was a must given that one of the proclaimed goals of decentralization was (and continues to be) to clear the ground for (if not necessarily to guarantee) greater popular participation in, and control over, local government.49 Whatever donors were actually thinking at the time – and no doubt they were not of one mind – one thing is clear: powerful aid agencies, such as the Ford Foundation and the United States Agency for International Development (USAID), evinced a strong interest in securing some sort of a role for traditional authorities in postwar Mozambique, as a series of donor-sponsored, state-administered studies and officially-hosted forums on the question of contemporary traditional leadership and institutions attests.50 As to why Frelimo leaders were willing to oblige the donors in question on this score, several possible explanations suggest themselves, all of which are compatible with one another. The readiest explanation is that certain
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elements within the leadership were primarily motivated by a desire to curry favor with Western benefactors, whose credit and other financial assistance had become the lifeline of Mozambique’s wrecked economy. In the early 1990s, “Mozambique was arguably at its weakest and most dependent.”51 The country’s reliance on aid was unmatched, with international assistance averaging some $US1 billion annually between 1989 and 1993. By 1992, the country’s foreign debt, non-existent in 1982, stood at a staggering $US5.5 billion, a sum that represented about five times the country’s Gross Domestic Product (GDP).52 It is important to stress that aid-dependence, however extreme, does not necessarily translate into political servitude.53 The Mozambican case bears this out: in 1994, Frelimo skillfully and defiantly parried intense donor pressure to accept a “government of national unity,” no matter how narrow a margin of victory it might achieve at the ballot box; and after the elections, it just as staunchly and successfully resisted donor demands to give gubernatorial appointments to Renamo in the provinces where the former rebels captured electoral majorities. Frelimo’s leaders probably calculated that echoing donor views on, and interest in, the question of traditional authority was the minimal price to be paid for resisting a power-sharing arrangement at higher levels of authority.54 The reason the price would have been considered minimal brings us to the second, and arguably the most important, explanation: a strategy of compliance dovetailed neatly with, and helped to further, Frelimo’s then ongoing attempt to mend fences with traditional authorities and their constituents. Such an exercise in reconciliation was part of a wider campaign to broaden the party’s social base so as to be able to maintain power in a new, multiparty political dispensation.55 Third, in all likelihood, some highranking officials in the party and government had already arrived at the conclusions donors seemed to want them to reach.56 How were local government employees affected by all of this? There are several reasons to believe that they were as mindful of official strictures on evidence, interpretation and speech as ever.57 Constitutional change had brought numerous new political parties, an independent press, and an expansion of personal freedoms and rights to the domestic scene. It did not, however, have any immediate, discernible effect on the internal organization or decision-making processes of Frelimo itself. Lower rungs of the party hierarchy were still required to carry out decisions taken at higher levels and the formation of political tendencies within the party continued to be proscribed.58 What’s more, contrary to Frelimo claims that the depoliticization of official institutions had reached completion with the advent of multipartyism, in the early 1990s the state bureaucracy remained a Frelimo bastion (see Chapter 5). And the institutions of government remained – and remain – rigidly hierarchical and “top-down” in orientation.59 Not surprisingly, many of the pronouncements by government personnel in Nampula were formulaic irrespective of whether or not the personnel in question were
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 43 party members – although most of them were. Official claims for the uniformity of post-independence rural experience in the face of documented – and implicitly acknowledged – variation are symptomatic of the ongoing pressures and influences exerted by senior state and party representatives on their underlings. Two higher-up officials bear mention. The first is Irae Baptista Lundin, at the time the “technical coordinator” of the “Traditional Authority/Power” (TA/P) working group for the Ministry of State Administration (MAE), the body that conducted or presided over state-sponsored retrospectives on rural political authority in the post-independence period. An anthropologist by training, Baptista Lundin is a passionate advocate of an extreme variant of the culturalist perspective. This variant has an especially one-sided, romantic, ahistorical view of “African tradition.”60 It is perhaps no surprise that the studies conducted under Baptista Lundin’s tutelage – both during the period under review here and closer to the present, both in Nampula and elsewhere – bear the stamp of this particular perspective.61 The second was the then governor of Nampula. Alfredo Gamito, who was appointed as Minister of the MAE after the 1994 elections,62 was another enthusiastic supporter of chiefly power although, one imagines, more for pragmatic and instrumental, rather than for romantic, reasons. In highlighting the importance of pressures, constraints and personal influences “from above,” I am not suggesting that the on-the-record discursive practices of Nampulan government personnel were wholly dictated by high-level government and party officials. Africanists have long noted the skill and ingenuity with which local interlocutors of power-wielding outsiders – from European conquerors to state agricultural extensionists; from anthropologists to NGO representatives; from missionaries to armed insurgents of various stripes – “adopt and adapt” the rhetoric of their interrogators themselves, “making the outsiders believe more than ever that the problems they have identified and the solutions they have proposed are genuinely inherent in a given state of affairs.”63 My purpose here is to show the ways in which a similar dynamic asserted itself within the (largely overlapping) hierarchies of the state and party bureaucracies, if not exactly between “insiders” and “outsiders” per se. The primary impetus for adaptation and innovation was the need local officials apparently felt to tackle a complex set of ideological tasks: first, to reconcile crucial aspects of revolutionary discourse with post-revolutionary forms of state legitimation; and, second, to reconcile both with the complex, variegated realities posed by contemporary Nampulan history and the diverse, cross-cutting and at times competing currents within popular memory discourses in the province. The mnemonic narratives produced by local state representatives that went the furthest in pursuing this ambitious agenda were considerably less formulaic than those fashioned by their superiors either within the MAE or within the political leadership. They were also more likely to contain the makings of a much more trenchant, far-reaching political critique of the
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ruling party than that on offer by academic versions of the revisionist perspective. But precisely because they evinced a greater receptivity to the complexities and variability of the early post-independence rural experience, as well as to the diversity of popular retrospectives on this experience, they were encumbered to a greater degree by internal tensions, inconsistencies and contradictions. Whatever the outcome, the overall purpose of harmonization was to provide a plausible, politically acceptable explanation for the ruling party’s loss of popular support in the countryside and, at the same time, to further – or at least not to be seen as interfering with – the party’s then most pressing political priorities. It is true that local discourse in official circles underwent considerable change as a result of the onset of political liberalization. However, I find that the main impact of reform in this regard was to modify the criteria of selection and the process of harmonization. This is not to deny that state personnel have felt freer to express themselves on matters political in post-socialist Mozambique. But richer understandings of the nature of the Mozambican revolution and the reasons it failed were not incorporated into statist narratives; nor did they work their way into the supply of stock explanations. And, crucially, they did not feature at all in official dealings with the populace. One additional point bears mention here. It is that the culturalist position, in the particular form it has found its most forceful and influential expression in contemporary Mozambique, tends to sanitize and soften the repressive aspects and harmful impact of Frelimo’s rural interventions even when the narrator in question is less bound by the discursive constraints and taboos that shaped the onstage speech of government employees in Nampula and even when this subverts the narrator’s apparent intent. The writing of Baptista Lundin neatly illustrates this tendency, as we shall see. All state-sponsored retrospectives on the manifold consequences of Frelimo’s circumvention of chieftaincy, as they played themselves out in the Nampula, recapitulate the myth of revolutionary rupture. Such a recapitulation not only upheld the illusion of state strength, unity of purpose, determination and performance on the morrow of the revolution, images which Frelimo had so assiduously fostered. It was also a precondition for presenting the ruling party’s public embrace of chieftaincy as a radical departure from Frelimo’s previous institutional practice, as well as from longstanding official policy. And projecting the ruling party’s bow to tradition as a dramatic break with its past modus operandi, in turn, helped supply a plausible rationale for the political rehabilitation of the policy of indirect rule in the 1990s. So, too, did claims for the fateful consequences of the de jure abolition of hereditarian-based rural rule. The discourse which was so prevalent in official circles in and with respect to Nampula in the early to mid-1990s would, one imagines, have held appeal to the Frelimo leadership on at least three additional counts. First, by foregrounding the allegedly destructive effects of Frelimo’s past
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 45 treatment of chiefs, this discourse had the overall effect of downplaying or eclipsing the iniquitous impact of, and political fall-out from, other aspects of Frelimo’s political project and practice which were at least as blameworthy and much less defensible. First and foremost among these is the ruling party’s strategy of rapid accumulation based on heavy investment in state enterprises, a development path that not only failed on its own terms but seriously undermined smallholder income-earning strategies. The widespread, often severe, hardships that the rural population in Nampula experienced as a result of villagization in the 1980s, as well as the human rights abuses that were perpetrated by the provincial authorities, government army and paramilitary forces in the course of the resettlement process, were also conveniently glossed. These latter lacunae are especially noteworthy given that Geffray’s monograph on the war concluded that villagization was as important a source of peasant discontent and dissent as Frelimo’s attempt to reinvent rural hierarchies. This aspect of Geffray’s findings either conveniently fell by the wayside altogether or the violence and deprivations entailed by rural resettlement were chalked up to rule – or, more precisely, misrule – by secretaries. The proclivity of official discourses in Nampula to lay blame on Frelimo secretaries for the widening breach between party and people brings us to the second count. This was the closely related and concurrent tendency to reassign many of the most notorious attributes of “the class enemy,” previously cast as the primary nemesis of the revolution on the domestic front, to the person of the local secretary in the outback. Tellingly, the rural secretary’s metamorphosis from a frontline Frelimo militant to a convenient fallguy coincided with the publicly unremarked demise of the class enemy – and of class per se – on the national political scene. The simultaneity of these developments was not, self-evidently, fortuitous: the rapidly fading political relevance of class foes neatly dovetailed with mounting evidence that many Frelimo leaders not only ranked among the country’s “aspirants to the bourgeoisie,” to borrow from Frelimo’s now discarded revolutionary lexicon, but were also well along the road to seeing their aspirations fulfilled. Third, the explanations for the demise of the Frelimo revolution proffered by these discourses often consign Renamo to a bit part in shaping the course of post-independence history. In particular, they tend to accord Renamo little to no agency in reversing the political fortunes of chiefs or in forcing the incumbent regime to reassess its long-held convictions concerning the nature of the colonial-inherited system of indirect rule. Rather, the rebel army’s wartime strategy of rural mobilization – and indeed the war itself – are depicted as extraneous to the evolution of official–local relations – that is, to the extent that they receive mention at all. The peculiar treatment of Renamo and the conflict as a whole is striking not only because it is hard to imagine any narrative on postcolonial Mozambique which does not feature the war front and center. It is especially curious because it constitutes the second major departure from the narrative
46 Myth as a “meaning-making” device strategies and interpretative framework of the culturalist variant of the myth of revolutionary rupture which, as we have seen, ascribe to Renamo a leading role in reshaping state–peasant relations. But it is precisely the deviation of these discourses from culturalist interpretations on this score that helps to account for the appeal they would have held for the Frelimo leadership in the run-up to the country’s first multiparty poll, a contest in which the incumbent party and Renamo were the leading contenders. For this particular permutation of the myth of revolutionary rupture underscores Frelimo’s capacity and willingness to revise its political perspective and policy prescriptions of its own accord, apparently independently of external political pressures save for those exerted by rural dwellers themselves. In doing so, it deftly denies the party’s main political adversary any credit, if you will, for having forced such a revision. In summary, one “code of oblivion” or “ellipsis” begot another.64 While the discourses that prevailed in Nampula in the early 1990s appear to have been localized, they had national implications. There are two closely related reasons why this was the case. First, chieftaincy is believed to be more “politically embedded” and “socially powerful” in Mozambique’s three northernmost provinces, Cabo Delgado, Niassa and Nampula, than elsewhere in the country.65 The north’s particularity in this regard has been attributed in good measure to “the fact that the colonial pattern of forced peasant cash cropping which prevailed in [this region] permitted the survival of pre-colonial political institutions to a far greater degree than in the more developed colonial economies of southern and central Mozambique.”66 What’s more, in the case of Nampula, the presumptive strength and legitimacy of chieftaincy, in both relative and absolute terms, have been identified as important reasons why the collision between the Frelimo socialist state and the rural populace in the province was more violent than elsewhere.67 It follows that if the strength and legitimacy of chiefs in Nampula are called into question, then the political pull and social power of chiefly institutions elsewhere would likewise be subject to reassessment. Second, the available evidence suggests that in the 1991–1994 period, official efforts to return to some semblance of indirect rule in Nampula were significantly more advanced than they were in other provinces.68 It follows that, if continuities between late colonial and early post-independence rural power structures had been publicly acknowledged on the part of the provincial government, and the political implications of these continuities had been considered, then the argument that the statutory abolition of chieftaincy was at the root of peasant alienation and antagonism toward the Frelimo state would have carried much less weight. It also follows that, had cracks in the façade of chiefly power and legitimacy received greater exposure and a modicum of critical scrutiny in official discourses, the whole project of formally “recognizing” chiefs anew would have been subjected to sharper questioning much earlier than it was. In the actual event, it was only in the second half of the 1990s that a more robust interrogation of this
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 47 project and its presuppositions – undertaken by local-level state officials, among others – began to take place. By then, a heavier administrative reliance on chieftaincy throughout the national territory had been shown to reproduce the abuses and violence associated with colonial-era indirect rule.69 The renewal of the debate regarding the role of chieftaincy in state restructuring and government reform reflected, to a certain degree, the reautonomization of the Mozambican state with respect to its main benefactors in the West. Paradoxically, it was also facilitated by shifts in donor thinking. By the late 1990s, key donors had begun to show signs of losing interest in the project of decentralization, so much in vogue earlier in the decade. Indeed, “Donors have now shifted back to wanting central control of funds . . . This, in turn, reinforced the view of those in Frelimo and the government who oppose decentralisation.”70 Changing donor priorities, in turn, appear to have reinforced the political weight of the anti-chieftaincy lobby within ruling circles. Whether or not the new balance of forces will prove long-lasting and whether or not it augurs a diminution of the importance assigned to Frelimo’s detribalization policy in statist memory practices remains to be seen. The myth of revolutionary rupture enjoys a certain degree of autonomy from the political process, for reasons this book seeks to illuminate, and thus may well remain relatively impervious to recent developments.
The state-idea in post-independence Mozambique This book seeks to show that myths about official–local relations in postindependence Mozambique are an illuminating prism through which to view myths about the Frelimo state itself. For the late sociologist Philip Abrams, the state in advanced capitalist society was nothing but an ideological artifact “which,” in Linzi Manicom’s words, “in its appearance of unity and externality to society and social classes obscures the very relations and practices through which rule is effected.”71 The way forward for Abrams was to abandon the postulate of the state and to focus instead on the ways in which “the idea of the state” provides “an alternative reading of and cover for” a “historically specific process of subjection.”72 This did not mean forgoing analysis of the organization and workings of official institutions, the nucleus of what Abrams (following Ralph Miliband) referred to as “the state-system”73 – the sense in which the term “the state” is used in the present text. Nor did it mean abandoning analysis of the relationship between these institutions and other forms of power. But it did imply giving up the search for “an entity, agent, function or relation over and above the state-system and the state-idea” (e.g. as a factor of societal cohesion, as an expression of the common will, or as an agent of capital, capitals or capitalism). Such a move was necessary, in Abrams’ view, because the quest for the “state,” in this more abstract sense, had hitherto only served,
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and could only serve, to reify politically institutionalized power. And for Abrams (as for Engels) reification inevitably led to deification.74 Unlike the national contexts which commanded Abrams’ attention, Mozambique is a poor country on the periphery of the international economy – one whose rulers were avowedly presiding over a state-led transition to socialism between 1977 and 1989. Although, in the immediate aftermath of independence, Frelimo’s leaders believed that the state (and the party) “could be isolated from the rest of society,”75 this conception was short-lived. Starting from 1980, if not before, the officially-propagated idea of the state in Mozambique distinguished itself from that which prevails in the capitalist West in two critical respects. First, the revolutionary Frelimo state was consistently portrayed as exogenous only to those sectors of society stigmatized as “obscurantist.” Second, this state was projected as a homogenous, unified and unifying whole only to the extent that it was implicitly defined as “modern” or, at any rate, as categorically antithetical to obscurantist assertions purportedly rife in the wider society. In other respects, and in marked contrast to its advanced capitalist counterparts, the Mozambican state, to hear Frelimo’s leaders tell it, was riven by social contradictions and political conflict. It is only in the post-socialist period that the state-idea as projected by the leadership began to resemble the one which prevails in countries situated at capitalism’s core. Socialist Frelimo’s representation of the state, in particular its internal social relations and exogenous ties, also differed markedly from that which has been typically projected by other incumbents in postcolonial Africa. In their renderings, “the state considered itself simultaneously as indistinguishable from society” – itself portrayed as “devoid of conflict” – “and as the upholder of the law and keeper of the truth.”76 This book analyzes those aspects of the state-idea that are heavily implicated in the politics of memory and the telling of revisionist history. Specifically, it examines officially-propagated and, in some cases, widely held notions concerning (1) the Frelimo state’s immanence and capacities; (2) the “enemies” seeking to subvert the socialist state both from within and without; and (3) the nature of dissent directed against it. I also chronicle and analyze the evolution of ruling ideas concerning the post-independence state’s spatial and social positioning with respect to various social forces within the Mozambican polity, including vis-à-vis the Frelimo party, “traditional-feudal society” and social classes. Following the lead of scholars who have argued that social arenas (e.g. the state, the economy, the domestic sphere) and the jurisdictional divides that define and delimit them are culturally constituted in the historical process,77 I address the following questions: Under what circumstances were objects of state rule marked as “obscurantist” and thus framed as a social and/or political problem in need of redress? How did the framing of the problem in this manner influence the terms of its resolution and to what effect? What attributes, moral or otherwise, distinguished bearers of obscurantism from the rest of the ruled popu-
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 49 lation, from the social relations encapsulated in the state and from the state’s local representatives? What political meanings were assigned to these distinctions and how did these change over time? The elaboration of my argument calls for a more detailed understanding of the Frelimo revolution and the war Renamo waged against it than I have had occasion to give thus far. The following two sections provide a brief overview of that history.
The Frelimo revolution Frelimo was founded in exile in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, as a broad nationalist front.78 Its decade-long guerrilla war (1964–1974) against colonial rule helped sap the resolve of the Portuguese armed forces and helped spur the 1974 military coup which toppled the Caetano government in Lisbon. The “revolution of carnations,” as it is known, ended forty-eight years of dictatorship in the metropole and paved the way for the decolonization of Portugal’s claimed African possessions. Mozambique gained independence in June 1975 following a nine-month-long transitional government. The Frelimo leadership which came to power was remarkably united. It was also multiracial in composition, including Asians, whites, mestiços (mestizos) and Africans within its ranks. Frelimo’s “rainbow” complexion constituted as eloquent a statement as any to the movement’s commitment to ending centuries of white supremacy (and racialism per se) in the African sub-continent. So did the leadership’s decision to honor United Nations-sponsored sanctions against Rhodesia by closing the international border between Mozambique and the neighboring illegal regime of Ian Smith in March 1976. For an economy heavily dependent on transit fees from international trade passing through its ports, the move was not an easy one to make: it ended up costing the fledgling Frelimo government more than US$500 million in revenue.79 The price of abiding by international sanctions was not merely economic. Mozambique had already become the victim of cross-border attacks by the Rhodesian military in retaliation for Frelimo’s support for ZANU (Zimbabwe African National Union), one of the nationalist movements fighting to liberate Rhodesia from white minority rule.80 The border closure was certain to heighten bilateral tensions. Frelimo inherited an economy on the verge of total collapse. The vast majority of the 250,000-strong Portuguese community had left Mozambique in the years immediately preceding and following independence. Many members of the (numerically small) literate and semi-literate African and mestiço population had followed suit.81 The exodus took with it virtually all of the administrative, technical and managerial skills with which colonial Mozambique had been endowed. Key posts in government and the private sector were left vacant. Urban unemployment soared as businesses and entire industries closed. The white-dominated rural marketing network ground to a halt. The collapse of trading circuits in the outback jeopardized the access
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of millions of smallholders to foodstuffs, household essentials, seeds and tools. In addition, it meant the loss of a vital outlet for their agricultural surpluses.82 Marketed agricultural output plummeted by 43 percent between 1973 and 1975.83 Settler flight also imperiled food supplies to urban centers. These supplies had previously been produced mainly by white farms, most of which were situated near sizeable trading centers and occupied the country’s most productive land.84 The crisis was compounded by the many acts of economic sabotage perpetrated by departing Portuguese. It was further aggravated in 1976 by Pretoria’s decision to sharply reduce the number of Mozambicans allowed to work in South Africa’s mines. As a result of these cutbacks, unemployment was especially acute in Mozambique’s southern provinces and living standards throughout the region fell. At the same time, the Mozambican government, which had received a portion of migrant laborers’ wages in gold that it could then resell for a substantial profit, lost badly needed revenue.85 Frelimo sought to cope with the multifaceted crisis it faced in a manner consistent with its emerging ideological orientation and long-term strategic goals. Land, rental property, health care and education were nationalized. So were law, the insurance industry, funeral homes and, by the end of 1977, most banks. The government took over the management of, but did not expropriate, abandoned and/or sabotaged firms. Abandoned settler farms were agglomerated to form the nucleus of the state farm and cooperative sectors, both of which were seen as important engines of rural development.86 Dynamizing groups (GDs) were set up to fill in the vacuum of administration during the transitional government and the first years of independence. In the rural areas, GDs replaced régulos, whom Frelimo had deposed shortly after taking power. The GDs consisted of eight to ten people who were chosen by a show of hands in public meetings in city neighborhoods, workplaces and local communities around the country. They performed a wide range of social welfare, juridical, law enforcement, security, managerial and administrative functions. They were also charged with mobilizing the population to carry out orientations and directives issued by the central authorities.87 More broadly, they were counted on to introduce Mozambicans to the political history and policy priorities of the new government. This was particularly important because the majority of the population had hitherto had no direct contact with the nationalist movement, whose guerrilla operations during the war for independence had been confined to parts of Mozambique’s northern and central provinces and whose clandestine activities inside the colony had been severely limited due to Portuguese repression. From 1976, production councils began to take over the work of the GDs in some workplaces.88 At the Third Congress, Frelimo announced its self-transformation from a front into a Marxist-Leninist vanguard party and enunciated its strategy for socialist construction. The congress determined that heavy industry would
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 51 be “the decisive factor” in the country’s development strategy. Frelimo’s prescription for rural Mozambique, where 85 to 90 percent of the population lived, was “the socialization of the countryside.” The idea was that smallholders would eventually abandon “family farming” on dispersed homesteads and would dedicate themselves full-time to collective agriculture. Specifically, they would work for state farms, conceived of as “dominant and determinant” within the agricultural sector, or in cooperatives, designed to “liberate [the] creative initiative” of their members.89 Rural collectivization would also entail the creation of communal villages (aldeias comunais), which would supply their inhabitants and the surrounding areas with inputs and services, such as health care, education, water sources and “people’s shops.” In addition, the aldeias would act as local political forums which would foster the growth of popular power, a term coined during the war for independence to denote both “democracy, as an objective or principle of the struggle” and the “forms of politico-administrative organisation” which grew out of that struggle.90 The Third Congress designated a host of other institutions to extend and consolidate popular (or “people’s”) power in independent Mozambique. Party organs would be installed at the provincial, district and sub-district levels, where they would gradually replace the GDs. Their work would be supplemented by “democratic mass organizations,” charged with representing and mobilizing specific constituencies. The Organization of Mozambican Women (OMM) was formed during the armed struggle. The Organization of Mozambican Youth (OJM), was founded in 1977. The Organization of Mozambican Trade Unions (OTM) was born at the end of 1983 and replaced the production councils.91 In addition, a multi-tiered network of “people’s assemblies” would represent the Mozambican populace at all levels of government. Assembly deputies at the local level were chosen from a list of party nominees by open popular vote at public meetings. At the provincial and national levels, they were chosen through indirect elections.92 Finally, the congress paved the way for the establishment of popular tribunals – later renamed community courts – to adjudicate local conflicts.93 Frelimo envisaged that socialist transformation, as defined by the Third Congress, would occur at breakneck speed. The government’s first ten-year plan, issued in 1981, called for most of Mozambique’s rural population, then some twelve million citizens, to be living in communal villages and practicing collective agriculture by 1990, the year in which “victory over underdevelopment,” would, in theory, be complete. The family sector, which accounted for one-third of all marketed agricultural production and more than two-thirds of total agricultural output, was viewed “only as something to be eliminated.”94 The plan was a pipedream rather than a blueprint for realistic action. It faded into oblivion shortly after it received the stamp of the national parliament’s approval.95 However, the logic which informed plan targets continued to hold sway in ruling circles.96 Frelimo’s wildly ambitious national industrialization drive
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hinged on small-scale producers feeding urban populations, provisioning raw materials to domestic industry, generating foreign-exchange earnings through agro-exports and supplying their labor power to state farms. Although critical to the viability of the ruling party’s development strategy, smallholders went largely unrewarded for their pains. They received low producer prices and were starved of state resources. Between 1977 and 1983, state farms consumed more than 90 percent of the agricultural budget and, like other state enterprises, were the primary focus of planning efforts. In sharp contrast, between 1977 and 1982 the cooperative sector received a derisory 2 percent of state agricultural investment and family agriculture got next to nothing.97 Rural dwellers soon found that collective fields did not produce returns that compared favorably to those generated by household plots.98 In the meantime, the steady stream of consumer goods and farm tools on which smallholders depended was reduced to a mere trickle. By 1978, the lack of agricultural implements was felt throughout the country.99 The national manufacture of hoes, a staple of smallholder agriculture, fell to less than half of its pre-independence levels and hoe imports were cut off.100 The goods famine in the countryside blunted smallholder incentive to produce cash crops or to earn wages. One consequence was that state farms experienced chronic shortages of seasonal labor.101 Another was that peasant production for official markets dropped dramatically as rural producers turned to burgeoning black markets for economic succor.102 As production of Mozambique’s two leading export earners, cotton and cashew nuts, fell,103 the high-tech needs of state farms pushed up the country’s import bill and ran up debts.104 In the meantime, the agrarian sector was rocked by a series of natural calamities. Floods beset Mozambique’s central and southern regions in 1977 and 1978; and in the 1983–1984 period the worst drought in half a century afflicted the south. In the 1980s, rising interest rates and declining terms of trade added to the country’s economic woes.105 On the political front, Frelimo soon found out that setting up revolutionary political structures was one thing; making them operative was another. Lack of resources and institutional capacity posed serious constraints. Confusion reigned over the precise mandates, jurisdictions and methods of work of post-independence political and juridical institutions.106 More importantly, the institutions of popular power fell casualty to Frelimo’s political commandism, a legacy of the armed struggle.107 Party cells, people’s assemblies and democratic mass organizations were drafted to serve as extensions of the increasingly beleaguered state.108 At their best, they were geared toward detecting popular sentiments and grievances and transmitting these upward so that Frelimo officials could make better informed decisions.109 In this respect, they served to strengthen party effectiveness rather than to act as well-springs of rural empowerment.110 Frelimo’s major achievements were in health care and education. The share of the state budget devoted to health care rose from 3.7 percent at the
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 53 end of the colonial period to almost 12 percent by 1982, the highest proportion in the world. From 1977 to 1984, the number of primary health care centers increased from 708 to 1,371 and, between 1976 and 1984, 6,242 paramedics were trained. A series of national vaccination campaigns and an ambitious latrine-building program were conducted during this period. The results were dramatic. At the end of the colonial period, only about 7 percent of the total population had access to health services, which had been designed, first and foremost, to cater to the needs of the settler population. In contrast, by 1982, more than 50 percent of Mozambicans benefited from preventive medical care and over one-third to some form of curative care. By 1980, the ratio of latrines to Mozambican households (both urban and rural) was higher than the average in Africa. Infant mortality rates dropped from 150 per thousand in 1977 to eighty per thousand in 1982.111 During the first five years of independence 495 primary schools and seventy-one secondary schools were built or expanded and over 6,900 teachers were trained; primary school enrollment more than doubled while secondary school enrollment jumped from 23,980 to 92,815 students. As a result of annual adult literacy campaigns, about 360,000 people had learned how to read and write between 1978 and 1982.112 At its Fourth Party Congress in April 1983, Frelimo subjected its eightyear tenure to sustained critical scrutiny. The party’s commitment to building socialism was affirmed. At issue was how best to arrive there. Frelimo committed itself to invigorating the private sector and to streamlining and decentralizing the state bureaucracy and enterprises. The congress called for the reorientation of industrial policy to provide consumer goods and light producer goods to the rural population. Local small-scale development projects, especially those using local resources to meet local needs, were to be prioritized. In agriculture, the party pledged to redirect state resources and planning efforts to the most efficient producers, most notably to private (e.g. capitalist) farmers and family producers, and to raise producer prices for agricultural commodities.113 State farms, like all other public holdings, were to undergo rationalization. Some state farms were to be broken up into more manageable units with unutilized and under-utilized land being redistributed to family and private sector producers. Agriculturally productive regions were singled out for (rapidly diminishing) government investment.114 In the aftermath of the congress, both the private and family sectors benefited from improved access to more land and more favorable terms of trade. Some smallholders also enjoyed readier access to agricultural tools.115 But state farms remained an important priority, Frelimo continued to take a dim view of the productive potential of the family and cooperative sectors, and the private sector was arguably the principal beneficiary of Fourth Congress reforms.116 Many reforms were never implemented in part because the modalities for doing so were never clearly defined.117 The government had precious little leeway in any case because, by then, counter-revolutionary
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guerrillas were waging war in much of the countryside. In the event, all policy initiatives were guided by the overarching imperative to appease Renamo’s backers and to end the fighting.
Renamo and counter-revolution By the time of the Fourth Congress, the country was engulfed in war. According to government statistics, by 1982, the year the Frelimo leadership had determined that the war was unwinnable by military action alone,118 Renamo had destroyed 840 schools, twelve health clinics, twentyfour maternity clinics, 174 health posts and 900 shops.119 Renamo guerrillas mutilated, decapitated, raped, boiled alive, burned alive, asphyxiated, drowned, shot to death, beat to death, and axed, bayoneted, disemboweled and knifed to death defenseless civilians, including children. They dumped dead bodies or body parts into wells. They crushed severed heads in millet grinders, or placed them on the empty shelves of looted shops. Sometimes they chopped their victims to pieces and cooked the flesh. They kidnapped foreign technicians and aid workers, killing some and holding others captive for publicity purposes. They mined roads and rail lines and attacked traffic; they derailed trains and destroyed buses, shooting at passengers who tried to escape and setting alight the wrecked vehicles with the wounded inside.120 The escalation of the war coincided with the 1983–1984 drought. Relief efforts were severely hampered by systematic Renamo attacks, deepening the country’s food crisis. An estimated 100,000 people died of starvation as a result.121 In targeting the country’s socio-economic infrastructure, Renamo’s objective was five-fold: (1) to disrupt the production and marketing of food; (2) to wipe out Frelimo-sponsored social services and basic amenities in the rural areas, most notably schools, health care facilities, wells and bore-holes; (3) to halt the flow of imports and exports; (4) to destroy the rural economy; and (5) to paralyze all forms of ground transport and energy supply systems (a prime target here were the three major “transport corridors” connecting Malawi, Zimbabwe and Zambia to the Indian Ocean ports of Nacala, Beira and Maputo). Renamo’s violence against civilians in the rural areas aimed at eliminating all representatives or allies of the Frelimo state. Foreign technicians, aid workers, teachers, health care practitioners, Frelimo secretaries and all other local state and party officials were marked for assassination. The intent was to sever all connections between local communities and the central authorities, casting the rural populace on to its own devices or leaving it at Renamo’s mercy. Renamo’s brutality was also designed to instill an allconsuming fear in the general population, breaking people’s will to resist.122 Pursuant to that goal, no civilians were spared from rebel terror. In 1981, Renamo issued a set of formal political “demands” in a “Manifesto and Program.” The document called for a government of national unity, political pluralism, democratic elections and a market economy.123
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 55 Starting in the early 1980s, Renamo leaders were also wont to assert their determination to overturn “communism” in Mozambique. The “Manifesto” and Renamo’s public pronouncements seemed calculated more with an eye toward drumming up support in the West than to mobilizing an antigovernment movement at home.124 However, especially in the post-Nkomati period, when South Africa sought to dissociate itself from Renamo, rebel guerrillas actively sought to attract fresh recruits, supporters and sympathizers by appealing to specific rural grievances. Indirect rule through chiefs in most zones under its control and calls for a return to “tradition” were Renamo’s answers to Frelimo’s statutory assault on descent-based rule, its vilification of traditional leaders and its campaign against rural “obscurantism.” The rebel army also declared its opposition to the “socialization of the countryside” and advocated a return to the dispersed habitat, a “policy” that was often conveyed to the rural populace by its foot soldiers as they set about torching communal villages and their surrounding fields.125 To Frelimo’s uncompromising secularism, which in the early post-independence period resulted in highly strained relations with the local Catholic, Protestant and Islamic hierarchies, Renamo’s response was three-fold. First, the rebel army extolled the virtues of religious belief and worship. Second, it took pains to propitiate the spirits which reigned in any given locale – or some variant thereof.126 Third, it often exhibited “an exaggerated respect” for the artifacts of religious observance: Renamo soldiers were known to tote bibles around in the bush and to leave chapels and mosques the sole buildings standing unscathed in the rubble left by their murderous rampages.127 In some areas, Renamo’s grassroots appeals struck a responsive chord among certain sections of the Mozambican population – at least long enough for Renamo to gain a local foothold. Many régulos and their close allies hankered after their lost privileges and prerogatives. Some of their former subjects sided or sympathized with them because they believed in chiefs’ religious and ritual powers. Others adopted similar positions because they attributed post-independence falls in rural living standards, the occurrence of natural calamities or even the advent of the war itself to Frelimo’s attempt to marginalize chiefs, or because they took the ruling party’s assault on “traditionalism” as a disparagement of rural culture as a whole. Some curandeiros, feiticeiros (sorcerers or magicians) and spirit mediums were as affronted as chiefs and were thus available to Renamo’s local propaganda and recruitment drive.128 In some areas, most notably Nampula, popular disaffection with villagization was one factor which “created a very favourable terrain for Renamo to operate in.”129 There were many reasons for this. In many areas a large portion of the resettled population longed to return to their former homes.130 The aldeias were often poorly sited and ill-equipped to sustain their resident populations. The concentration of the rural population artificially created a situation of land and resource scarcity. To make matters
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worse, villagization had often been compulsory, especially in advance of Renamo’s war, and the army, under whose auspices forced relocation had usually taken place, had proved unwilling or unable to defend the new settlements. Under the circumstances, the aldeias soon became relatively unprotected, overcrowded, poorly serviced hotbeds of serious social tensions and discontent.131 As such, they were ripe for Renamo’s armed intervention. Religious devotees also constituted a potential anti-Frelimo constituency. Of the various institutionalized religions in Mozambique, the Catholic Church was arguably the hardest hit by decolonization and Frelimo’s postindependence policies.132 Under the dictatorship of António Salazar’s New State (Estado Novo) in Portugal, the Catholic Church was seen as an “instrument of civilization and of national influence.”133 The church’s special status was cemented and enhanced by the 1940 Concordat and the 1941 Missionary Accord signed by the Vatican and the Portuguese government. The agreements entrusted the church with responsibility for teaching primary school in the colonies, guaranteed public assistance to all missions and Catholic schools, and committed the state to paying the salaries of bishops and archbishops. In return, the Vatican gave the New State veto power over church nominations for bishops and archbishops in the colonies and over appointments of foreign missionaries. It also agreed to allow the Portuguese government to exercise tight control over the selection and training of all Portuguese religious personnel and over the curricula offered by colonial mission-based primary schools. The church thus had a strong stake in maintaining the colonial order in Mozambique.134 With independence the church lost its power and prestige. The nationalization of health care and education, which entailed the confiscation of valuable church assets and the curtailment of church influence, set the Catholic hierarchy and the ruling party on a collision course. Church–state relations further deteriorated in the late 1970s when Frelimo began to deny party membership to religious observers and to discourage all forms of public religious worship, closing down many churches and chapels in the process.135 The Catholic Church refrained from throwing its support behind Renamo. Frelimo’s efforts, from 1982 onwards, to mend fences with institutionalized religion as a whole helped to ease hostilities between the church and the government.136 However, the Catholic clergy remained a vociferous critic of Frelimo and an early advocate of dialogue between the two warring parties. And “[s]ome Catholic bishops and priests . . . show[ed] some sympathy for aspects of Renamo policy,” most notably its professed pro-church stance.137 Frelimo-imposed prohibitions on religious worship, education and activism also alienated many Mozambican Muslims. Renamo not only benefited from the support of Saudi Arabia, Oman, the Comoros and elements within the Muslim community in Portugal. There are also “indications” that the rebels’ military success in northern Mozambique, where the Muslim population is concentrated, was at least in part a function of “religious
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 57 opposition, overt or latent” on the part of Mozambicans who subscribe to Islam.138 In addition, Renamo was able to attract people bent on settling scores with state and party officials who had mistreated them, excluded them from patron–client networks, or were just plain corrupt. Failed aspirants to Frelimo local offices formed another likely source of recruits.139 So did detainees at re-education camps.140 Much the same could be said of male youth looking for alternatives to the drudgeries and kinship obligations of smallholder agriculture and unable to find them within the rest of the economy. The cumulative impact of Renamo’s wartime destruction increasingly rendered family farming itself untenable in more and more regions of the country. Life at Renamo bases was harsh; however, whether they were forcibly or voluntarily conscripted, some Renamo soldiers reportedly enjoyed a marked elevation in social status and an upturn in economic prospects. Plunder provided a steady stream of coveted, formerly inaccessible, manufactured consumer goods. Civilians in Renamocontrolled zones performed the agricultural tasks which these youths had so vehemently disdained. And captive female civilians serviced them sexually without any kinship-related strings attached.141 In general, Renamo seems to have enjoyed the greatest degree of local support in areas which had been disadvantaged by uneven development under colonial rule and whose peripheral status was reinforced by Frelimo’s post-independence economic policies.142 Frelimo’s growing authoritarianism and the progressive militarization of the Mozambican state also enlarged the pool of potential recruits and sympathizers from which Renamo could, in principle, draw. The build-up of the state’s repressive apparatus and the state’s increasing proneness to resort to administrative controls and violence to enforce its writ occurred even as the government initiated economic reforms and began to take steps to widen its shrinking base of domestic support. In 1983, the government expanded the list of crimes warranting capital punishment, in force since 1979, to include black marketeering and armed robbery. The public executions that followed showed the state meant business. That same year flogging, a form of punishment widely used by the Portuguese against the African population, was reintroduced. In 1984, the government announced that citizens who wished to journey outside of their districts of residence would require a guia de marcha, an official travel pass.143 In 1983, the government launched Operation Production, a campaign to expel “unproductive elements” from the country’s cities. The declared aim was to relieve pressure on urban infrastructure and food supply systems; to pull the rug out from flourishing black markets; and to put people back to work on the land. The campaign took place just as Renamo was approaching Mozambique’s principal towns. The timing suggests that another, unstated, goal may have been to rid the cities of a social stratum deemed likely to be susceptible to Renamo’s appeals.144
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Operation Production quickly degenerated into a massive and arbitrary exercise in forced removal. The entire informal sector became vulnerable to abuses of power by lower-level functionaries and the security apparatus. Between July and September, all city residents who were not formally employed or lacked the requisite documentation proving otherwise were summarily deported from the urban areas. They were sent to their home districts or to Niassa, the country’s most remote and sparsely populated province in the far north. There, they were obliged to harvest state farm crops or to farm on their own account. Deportees were not provided with even the minimal conditions for survival, let alone for surplus production. Many people starved in Niassa.145 In general, Renamo was not able to or did not choose to capitalize fully on the growing sources of discontent and/or dissent. The vast majority of Renamo’s army was forcibly conscripted. Many recruits, among whom children figured prominently in some regions, had been forced to commit heinous crimes, such as murdering close relatives, on the occasion of their induction “to bind them to the movement through guilt and fear of retribution.”146 Death or severe punishment (including the execution of family members) were frequently the penalties for trying to escape.147 Renamo conscripts were typically transferred to bases far from their home areas in order to discourage escape attempts and to make them more risky. Fear of retribution by Frelimo soldiers was a further deterrent if abductees did succeed in making their way to government-held areas.148 Renamo’s attempts to exploit mounting popular grievances, even where initially successful, were more often than not quickly undercut by the rebels’ own brutal treatment of the population – including the very people (e.g. chiefs, missionaries, religious believers, relocated communities, etc.) who might have been partial to them and their “cause.” The draconian controls and sanctions Renamo imposed on communities living under its administration, the harsh labor regime and material deprivation to which these communities were subject and Renamo’s manifest lack of a political vision did not work to the guerrilla army’s political advantage either.149 Hence, a full understanding of the war’s dynamics requires an appreciation of “the many ways people sought to limit commitment to, or involvement with, either side.”150 Renamo’s spectacular military expansion, then, apparently contradicts Mao’s dictum that effective guerrillas must be to the people like fish in the water.151 Nonetheless, counter-revolutionary war quickly succeeded in meeting one immediate objective of Renamo’s backers: bringing the Mozambican government to the negotiating table with its apartheid foe. The result was the Nkomati Accord, signed in March 1984. While Frelimo rigorously abided by its peace treaty obligations, South Africa negotiated the accord in bad faith, sending enough men and war matériel across the border to ensure Renamo’s military needs for at least six months.152 After Nkomati, Renamo was obliged to scale back its dependence on external material and logistical
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 59 support. Its soldiers came to rely more on the civilian population to meet their food and porterage needs. They leaned more heavily on arms captured in engagements with government forces and in attacks on their garrisons. They increasingly sought to sustain themselves and to finance their military operations through recourse to plunder, as well as through ivory smuggling and other cross-border trade in neighboring countries.153 And, especially in certain regions, they intensified their search for local allies. A 1988 report commissioned by the US State Department and authored by Robert Gersony distinguished between two kinds of Renamo-controlled zones: “tax areas” and “control areas.” In the former case, typically found in sparsely populated areas, civilians got off the lightest. Local residents supplied Renamo guerrillas with food from their own fields, porter services, and women for sex. In the main, they were spared brutal treatment as long as they satisfactorily fulfilled rebel demands. In control areas, in contrast, the local population, consisting of both longtime residents and abductees who had been forcibly relocated to the zone in question, was “captive, detained against [its] will, and prohibited from attempting to depart.”154 Here a much more extractive and violent regime, enforced by “police” drawn from the resident population, prevailed. Still other areas, Gersony found, were targeted for wholesale destruction. Civilians in these areas were either killed or marched to “control areas” to form part of the labor force.155 The evidence to date is, in the main, broadly consonant with Gersony’s “three-zone typology.”156 All three patterns of Renamo interaction with civilians could co-exist or occur in (often rapid) succession in any given region. However, “destruction areas” appear to have predominated in the south from where a sizeable portion of the Frelimo leadership hailed, where the government had a strong following, and where the terrain and ecology were ill-suited to establish guerrilla bases. In contrast, “tax” and “control” areas seem to have been more common in Mozambique’s central and northern provinces.157 While the SADF continued to support Renamo throughout the war,158 the post-Nkomati period witnessed the diversification of the rebels’ foreign sponsorship and the partial privatization of its support networks within South Africa itself. Malawi, a conduit for South African supplies, a site of Renamo bases and an outlet for the sale of Renamo booty and ivory from the early 1980s, stepped up its support for the rebels. Kenya, a longtime source of Renamo arms and training, picked up part of the slack left by the South African military’s reduced role. Right-wing groups in the US, Portugal, the Portuguese diaspora, West Germany and Britain, among others, chipped in, too, often bringing to bear competing ambitions and divergent agendas. In South Africa itself, SADF personnel and front companies, private business interests and farmers (including former Portuguese settlers from Mozambique) provided logistical and material assistance.159 Renamo’s progressive indigenization in Mozambican society and the internationalization of its external support dovetailed with the war’s
60 Myth as a “meaning-making” device intensification. By 1987, destabilization had cost the Mozambican economy an estimated US$7 billion; Renamo had either destroyed or forced the closure of 490 health clinics and hospitals, 1,800 schools and 1,500 rural shops; about two million people had lost access to health care services; about 25 percent of all children had been forced out of schools; and an estimated 430,000 people, mostly infants and children, had died from war-related causes.160 In 1988 Gersony conservatively estimated that Renamo may have murdered as many as 100,000 unarmed civilians.161 In the meantime, defense spending consumed growing proportions of progressively smaller state budgets at the direct expense of social services. Between 1981 and 1986, overall public expenditures dropped in real terms by 58 percent. During this same period, the military’s share of the state budget rose from about 36 percent to about 45 percent, while the share allocated to health and education combined fell from about 31 percent to about 22 percent.162 In summary, Renamo was much more adept at wiping out Frelimo-sponsored post-independence gains than in turning the dark side of the revolution to its own advantage. It was also more adroit at causing mass dislocation than at achieving its presumptive goal of returning rural dwellers to their pre-villagization homes. By 1987, nearly 1.1 million people were displaced inside Mozambique and an additional 750,000 had fled to neighboring countries.163 As the war escalated, Renamo initiated efforts to transform itself into a political party.164 These efforts gained momentum with the beginning of indirect peace talks via senior Protestant and Catholic clergymen in Nairobi in December 1988 and, starting in September 1989, via Presidents Daniel Arap Moi and Robert Mugabe of Kenya and Zimbabwe, respectively.165 It became imperative for Renamo to be able to negotiate effectively with Frelimo, to garner support at home and abroad, to develop the capacity to set up and oversee civilian administrations, and to compete in multiparty elections. Accordingly, the educational training and professional experience of forced conscripts, such as secondary school students, teachers, nurses, provincial-level civil servants and skilled workers, were pressed into the service of Renamo’s attempted self-transformation. Although the people who came to form the nucleus of Renamo’s political and administrative hierarchies were, in the main, press-ganged into service, they stayed with the movement – and even came to identify with and seek to advance the rebels’ agenda – because doing so seemed to make good sense: it appeared, at the very least, to be the safest option and, at best, the surest way of making a living and even of getting ahead. Like Renamo’s military personnel, members of this new brand of cadre faced execution or severe punishment if they tried to desert; if they succeeded, the suspicion of Frelimo officials in government-held zones and a devastated economy awaited them. Staying put, on the other hand, offered the possibility of perquisites and even upward social mobility within Renamo’s ranks. With the onset of direct negotiations between the two warring belligerents in
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 61 Rome in July 1990, the potential dividends of sticking with the rebel movement increased markedly. Renamo also attracted voluntary recruits from among Mozambican urban professionals at home and abroad, business interests and urban-based secondary school students. It did so by offering various and sundry inducements. It pledged to provide jobs, including high-level government posts, should Renamo mount a successful electoral challenge. It offered opportunities to exploit natural resources in Renamo-controlled zones. And, in the case of students, it promised to hand out foreign scholarships, irrespective of the electoral results – a promise that went unfulfilled. By the war’s end, Renamo represented “a loosely bound, diverse group of people united only by their common opposition to something else. Even their grievances against the common enemy were not uniform.”166 In October 1992, Mozambican President Joaquim Chissano and Renamo leader Afonso Dhlakama signed a peace accord. Winner-take-all multiparty elections were held two years later. Fourteen parties contested the legislative election and twelve candidates vied for the presidency. Frelimo won 44 percent of the votes in the legislative contest, while Renamo, its only serious contender, secured nearly 40 percent, prevailing in five provinces in the country’s north and center, including the most populous and agriculturally important ones, Zambézia and Nampula. Chissano fared better than the party he led, winning 53 percent of the vote; however, Dhlakama, made a strong showing, with nearly 34 percent of the electorate endorsing his presidential bid.167 In 1999, Renamo, now heading an eleven-party coalition called the Renamo-Electoral Union (União Electoral, UE), lost again; however, it won majorities in six provinces in the center and north and Chissano edged out Dhlakama by less than five percentage points. Renamo boycotted the first local elections in 1998 and Frelimo won majorities in all of the races for mayor and municipal assembly seats. Renamo-UE contested the second local elections, held in late 2003, but carried only four out of thirty-three cities and towns nationwide. It also won the mayoral race in a fifth town, where Frelimo captured a majority of seats in the municipal assembly.168
Official history, Frelimo ideology and Mozambican studies By the time the government unveiled a new multiparty constitution in 1990, Frelimo had lost much of the early political luster it had held to the international left. In September 1984, the government, desperate for foreign exchange, joined the IMF. Three years later, it introduced an IMF-approved structural adjustment program. In 1989 the Frelimo Party officially abandoned Marxism-Leninism at its Fifth Party Congress. The congress endorsed peace negotiations with Renamo, an organization Frelimo – and many of its foreign supporters – had hitherto dismissed as the tool of Maputo’s external enemies.169
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Independent observers had found the Mozambican army guilty of atrocities against civilians – although not on anywhere near the same scale or frequency as those committed by Renamo. They had also determined that ill-paid, underfed and poorly disciplined government troops were culpable of press-ganging civilians into their ranks and of looting.170 Official corruption had become widespread. And a number of Frelimo leaders seemed to be the primary beneficiaries of the development of what many observers dubbed a “savage” Mozambican capitalism and the rise of a “neo-colonial” state.171 Well before the 1994 elections, Frelimo had begun to espouse many of Renamo’s notional political demands. Political pluralism, a mixed economy, freedom of religion, political association and the press, and respect for traditional authority, institutions and practices had all become staples of ruling party discourse – much to Renamo’s evident consternation.172 Indeed, there were no significant differences in the political platforms of the two main contenders. To a longtime Frelimo supporter like John Saul, the ruling party’s postindependence political trajectory and, in particular, its growing likeness to Renamo bore testimony to the success of Renamo’s low-intensity war and Mozambique’s enforced resubordination to the global capitalist economy.173 To Michel Cahen, a leading member of the revisionist school, the sudden, sharp “zigzags” in Frelimo’s policies and politics eclipse crucial underlying continuities of the party’s “social line”: that is, the leadership’s pettybourgeois and/or urban origins or orientation and the preponderance of mestiços and assimilados within its ranks.174 Assimilados were Africans and mestiços who had been granted, or were in principle eligible for, Portuguese citizenship after having demonstrated to the colonial state’s satisfaction that they had broken definitively with their African origins and acquired the culture of the colonizers. In 1950, mestiços represented less than 0.5 percent of the population; assimilados accounted for even less than that. Over a decade later, only 1 percent of all Africans had acquired legal assimilado status.175 Although enjoying juridical parity with whites, assimilados endured de facto racial discrimination and thus constituted a numerically negligible, relatively privileged but socially frustrated stratum of the African population.176 For Cahen, Frelimo’s political and ideological evolution should be read as a strategy of socio-economic advancement on the part of its leadership, itself distinguished by its elite, decidedly unrepresentative character. As we have already seen, the tensions between these two positions are emblematic of a larger debate about the nature of Frelimo’s political project and of Renamo’s rural insurgency. Much of the literature produced by Frelimo’s sympathizers has been faulted for its tendency to reiterate uncritically official historiography and to assign undue weight to external factors, notably South African destabilization, in explaining the demise of the ruling party’s socialist experiment. Revisionists, such as Cahen, Geffray and Luís de Brito, have cast a jaundiced eye on Frelimo’s self-presentation – especially the ruling party’s commitment to socialist transition – and have concen-
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 63 trated their efforts on decoding forms of official political and ideological legitimation.177 The revisionists stand accused of “ultra-leftist abstractions,” over-simplification, “dubious generalizations” from local case studies, ingenuousness, factual inaccuracy and lax documentation of sources.178 Nevertheless, their influence on the kinds of questions students of the Mozambican revolution and counter-revolution ask and on the types of interpretations placed on the evidence has been substantial. While the revisionists have aimed to mount a comprehensive left critique of Frelimo’s politics, they have thus far failed to subject Frelimo’s campaigns against rural “obscurantism” to the searching scrutiny that they have directed at other aspects of official discourse. In this respect they have taken Frelimo at its word: the vanguard’s hostility to rural “feudal” traditions straightforwardly denoted its resolute determination to eradicate those social practices and institutions dating from the precolonial period that it deemed to be, at best, antithetical to its radical modernizing agenda and, at worst, direct challenges to its political and ideological hegemony. On this view, the semi-official reinstatement of chiefs in certain parts of the country in the late 1980s and 1990s represented a sharp reversal in ruling practice as well as in policy. This reversal, in turn is construed as a useful index of the distance the state has had to retreat from its founding principles and initial political program of all-embracing social transformation. On this point, the revisionists agree with their intellectual antagonists. The two groups merely differ as to the precise mix of pressures that forced this retreat. Frelimo sympathizers ascribe explanatory primacy to foreign destabilization and IMF disciplining, while the revisionists give analytic pride of place to Renamo-led rural resistance to the state. This book queries the presuppositions underpinning this common stance. I show that, on the question of rural political change, the first two decades of Mozambican independence were marked by significant continuities in ruling precepts, official discourses and political practice. The existence of these continuities, in turn, compels a reconsideration of what came to be the strategic function of Frelimo’s anti-traditionalism within ruling relations and ideology. And such a reconsideration helps render intelligible the post-socialist mnemonic practices of state representatives at various levels of authority. Although I highlight the importance of continuities, and although the search for continuity was in part inspired and enabled by the revisionist critique, the present study does not vindicate the revisionist position. Instead, it extends Bridget O’Laughlin’s critique of the theoretical dualisms that underpin both Frelimo’s Third Congress development strategy and culture-based explanations of Mozambique’s post-independence travails in new directions with a view to unpacking the meaning of official memory practices in the post-Marxist period.179 The remainder of this chapter provides an overview of the argument and content of the present study. First, I outline Frelimo’s dualist vision of the Mozambican economy and polity, one which derived from
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Portuguese-propagated representations of the colony as a culturally pluralist society. My discussion reviews debates in Mozambican studies over this vision’s ideological roots and functions, as well as its policy consequences and political repercussions. Following O’Laughlin, I argue that the revisionist critique, as it developed from the mid-1980s on, derives from, or at least fails to transcend, the terms of reference of Frelimo’s own discourse. I then lay the analytic foundations for such a transcendence. In doing so, I elaborate and interrelate two hitherto unconnected insights within the general literature. The first is the state’s highly circumscribed administrative, technical and financial capacity to induce or enforce its modernizing vision, limitations that were both exploited and compounded by externallysponsored warfare.180 It has been argued that inherited and imposed constraints moderated or even heavily compromised Frelimo’s antiobscurantism.181 While my own research corroborates this view, it also suggests that it tells only half the story. Disclosing the other half requires drawing on the second insight, one which is implicit rather than expressly articulated in academic and journalistic writing on Mozambique. This is the tendentiousness that characterized state-leveled charges of obscurantismo, as defined by Frelimo, and the actions and attributes of subject populations which incited them. I develop an analytic framework which draws on and interconnects these two insights. My aim is to identify and understand the specific circumstances in which categories of persons were invoked as bearers of culture and these attributes were projected as a problem compelling state policing, disciplining and/or remedial action. The final sections of this chapter briefly outline why I settled on Nampula as the principal site for my investigation, the scope and organization of Chapters 2 through 8, and the sources upon which my discussion draws. The dual economy thesis Frelimo’s development policies bore the imprimatur of the colonial conception of the dual economy.182 According to this perspective, Portuguese colonialism bequeathed two highly differentiated, largely autonomous agrarian sectors. The first, characterized as a capitalist “modern” sector, consisted of plantation and settler farms, many of which were abandoned in the wake of independence and subsequently nationalized. The capitalist component of the economy overlay a precapitalist, “traditional” sector (another name for the family sector) characterized by surplus labor and subsistence production. Only nominally dependent on inputs, services and commodities from the wider economy, this latter sector accounted for the vast majority of the Mozambican peasantry, or some 90 percent of the country’s total population. The dual economy thesis held that peasant participation in cash cropping and labor markets under colonial rule had been enforced by extra-economic measures, notably compulsory contract labor and crop cultivation. On this
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 65 view, high levels of peasant support for, and active involvement in, the Frelimo-led guerrilla war for independence were wholly motivated by a desire to throw off the yoke of an oppressive and exploitative state. Once this objective had been achieved and colonial coercive measures lifted, the peasantry could be expected to sever its links to the cash nexus, reducing the amount of total work invested in production. The sharp falls in marketed peasant produce and chronic labor shortages experienced by state farms in the early years of independence were adduced as evidence of both the peasantry’s capacity to revert to subsistence production and its marked inclination to do so. The perceived prevalence of precapitalist conditions of production in the hinterland gave rise to the conviction within official circles that the successful promotion of socialist agriculture would require one or more of the following: high levels of state investment, high levels of political voluntarism or the application of extra-economic pressure. Since the state farm sector was slated to absorb almost all of the government’s agricultural budget, and since the application of political pressure was deemed unacceptable, the cooperative sector’s development was expected to await the consolidation of the state farm sector. In the meantime, small-scale collective agriculture would have to rely almost exclusively on the voluntarism of peasant producers. Given the precapitalist social relations in which they were embedded, this was unlikely to be forthcoming in appreciable quantities. The subtext and political implications of this line of reasoning were plain to see. African smallholders, the thinking went, had little interest in the benefits collective agriculture was expected to bring, such as raising labor productivity or living standards. Their reliability and potential efficacy as a political partner in the upcoming round of socialist construction were therefore dubious at best. Bereft of any internal dynamism, the family sector would have to be developed by an outside agent if it were ever to “exit its millenial torpor.”183 The ascendancy of the dualist position within ruling circles revealed that, notwithstanding Frelimo’s self-presentation as the vanguard of a revolutionary worker–peasant alliance, the predominant view at the top was that the existence of that alliance’s constituent parts was far more notional than real. What was called for was, as Dan O’Meara put it, a massive state-led exercise in class creation in the rural areas, rather than a vanguard-led class struggle.184 Small-scale producers were left to await their gradual absorption into the rapidly expanding state sector, whose growth and consolidation their own productive labor would enable. In the process, peasants would be converted into rural wage laborers or, much less frequently, cooperative members. In summary, the dualist position effectively disarmed the peasantry as a social and political force in socialist transformation.185 The very logic by which the state arrogated to itself a monopoly on development initiatives vis-à-vis the family sector also served as a pretext for
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indefinitely delaying their launch. By equating economic “backwardness” with material self-sufficiency, the dualist perspective conveniently absolved the party and state of channeling inputs or assistance to the overwhelming majority of the population during the 1975–1983 period when the fledgling government arguably enjoyed its greatest degree of maneuver. The research agenda of the Center for African Studies (CEA) at Eduardo Mondlane University in Maputo was dedicated to overturning the dichotomous conceptions prevailing in state and party circles. Many of the center’s field studies before the war’s escalation were devoted to elaborating the nature and degree of interdependence between apparently discrete economic sectors and to promoting a global strategy of socialist transition based on transforming the structural linkages among them. The CEA’s investigations showed that the peasantry relied on monetary income both to buy household essentials and to acquire instruments of production (e.g. ploughs, hoes, axes, machetes) necessary to sustain their farming operations. Under the circumstances, shortfalls in peasant marketed output and persistent labor shortages – to say nothing of the sluggish rate of agricultural cooperative formation – testified in good measure to the instability of rural markets and the dearth of commodities on which to spend monetary income in the countryside. By all appearances, the CEA’s findings and recommendations fell on deaf ears.186 State-centered planning, investment and accumulation quickly eclipsed much of the initially strong popular enthusiasm for the new government, substantially contributing to its already highly pronounced vulnerability to South Africa’s destabilization strategy.187 State and society By the late 1980s, the failure and political consequences of Frelimo’s development strategy, combined with the spectacular expansion of Renamo’s military activity throughout the national territory, had given rise to the revisionist view that the fundamental political cleavage in independent Mozambique was between the postcolonial state dominated by a petty-bourgeois, cosmopolitan elite and “urban society,” on the one hand, and a thoroughly disempowered rural population, on the other.188 As de Brito has written one of the most forceful, sustained statements of this position, I briefly review his argument. De Brito’s point of departure, like Cahen’s, is the social, cultural and regional origins of the Frelimo leadership.189 The core of this group consisted of members of the urban salariat (office workers, state functionaries, nurses and teachers) and students. Almost all were from the extreme south of the country (Lourenço Marques and Gaza provinces) with residents of Lourenço Marques, the colony’s capital and bureaucratic center,190 enjoying a disproportionate representation within their ranks. Some were white, some were Asian and still others were mestiço. Most were assimilados. Many were mission-educated. This group would come to be stigmatized as the “south-
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erners” by their principal adversaries within the nationalist front during the internal crisis that beset Frelimo in the 1960s. Unlike their internal rivals, whom de Brito characterizes as a mix of “rural elites,” “petty traders,” and powerful chiefs from the north as well as “intellectuals and urbanites from the central region of the country,”192 the “southerners” were born of, and had remained highly dependent on, the colonial state. They were thus thoroughly bereft of popular roots. In the face of their patent lack of representativeness, they resorted to the time-honored ideological strategy of universalizing their self-interest. They did so by proclaiming themselves bearers and guarantors of an imaginary, all-embracing community, the nation. The dissolution of all other forms of socio-cultural and political belonging was the sine qua non for the “southerners’” conception of the nation to prevail. Underpinning their studied non-recognition of difference was the well-founded fear that even the faintest of gestures to the country’s enormous social heterogeneity would ineluctably prompt intense public scrutiny and interrogation of the extreme degree of their own difference from the broad mass of the population in whose name they professed to speak and to lead.193 Prior to independence, the site of the universalization of this elite’s particular interest was the guerrilla army; latterly, it became the postcolonial state. In both cases the “southerners” were able to marginalize their petty-bourgeois competitors from other regions of the country within and beyond Frelimo’s ranks through their control of strategic loci of legitimation. For de Brito, the Frelimo leadership was less concerned with class creation than with “nationization,” a process which, in the rural areas, aimed “to liberate [local populations] from their ‘traditional’ attachments to make them national citizens, that is individuals who only recognized themselves socially in their relation to the nation-State.”194 During the armed struggle, the wartime political requirements of massive peasant participation had forced the leadership to recognize, albeit grudgingly, peasant socio-political organization. Following independence no such imperatives obtained and Frelimo could single-mindedly and uncompromisingly pursue its “statist, modernist and developmentalist” agenda.195 From then on, “all that escaped state power and control was seen as a menace to the unity of the people, or as an obstacle to the development effort.”196 Nowhere was this shift in orientation more apparent than with respect to the evolution of Frelimo’s position on the question of traditional authority. During the war for independence, the guerrilla-run administration set up in the liberated zones had operated according to the principle that leaders up to the level of the locality (the lowest administrative division) would be from the area in question. Effectively, if not officially, this provision signified that the role of chiefs was recognized. Even though the leadership identified chiefs with “tribalism,” any attempt to move against them would have risked alienating a portion of the movement’s peasant base, imperiling the security of the guerrillas and jeopardizing the prosecution of the war.197
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The achievement of independence enabled Frelimo to abandon this posture of reluctant accommodation. Peasant political autonomy was regarded as a rival site of power particularly adept at eluding state controls and policy initiatives and thus singled out for repression.198 Accordingly, the Council of Ministers, the Mozambican cabinet, summarily deposed chiefs in its first session in June 1975, shortly thereafter replacing them with Frelimo secretaries. These latter were, in the main, educated youth, sometimes “outsiders” to the area (the principle from the period of the armed struggle according to which the leaders of the base had to be from the region was no longer applied in independent Mozambique), often arrogant and disrespectful of the “traditions” that they were . . . charged with combating.199 This analytic framework has informed the revisionist thesis that Frelimo’s anti-traditionalism, combined with the installation of new, alien institutions, gave rise to a duality of powers at the local level. The overarching rural–urban divide was expressed at the grassroots by a face-off between a tiny minority of culturally deracinated, or otherwise politically illegitimate, individuals representing a relentlessly modernizing state, on the one hand, and officially ostracized, popularly rooted representatives of traditional society, on the other.200 Whereas the CEA had warned against political demobilization and the spread of cynicism,201 this, more recent, perspective holds that Frelimo’s rural policies gave rise, in the words of MAE researcher Baptista Lundin, to a situation of “clandestinity and parallelism of institutions.”202 Perhaps the most notable feature of arguments which turn on rural–urban divides is the striking degree to which they conform to, and are circumscribed by, the terms of Frelimo’s own discourse.203 In particular, they unwittingly lend credence to Frelimo’s boast that its rural institutions represented, by virtue of their very formation, the negation of – or, at the very least, a powerful solvent for – what, in its more triumphalist moments, the ruling party referred to as the “vestiges of traditional-feudal society.”204 This claim, not surprisingly, found echo in the writings of early Frelimo enthusiasts who uncritically depicted communal villages and production cooperatives as magnets for “the most advanced sections of the population,” with chiefs, African capitalist farmers and upholders of “reactionary ideas and values” figuring among their most virulent detractors.205 To the extent that the revisionists depict a ubiquitous, monolithic, ideologically coherent state, they simply mirror an opposite tendency in the academic literature which emphasizes the state’s impotence. According to Marina Ottaway, for instance, the most outstanding feature of the Frelimo state in relation to the peasantry is its stunning irrelevance. While acknowledging Frelimo’s authoritarian tendencies and the adverse effects of its early economic policies on the rural populace, she argues that Frelimo’s post-
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 69 independence failures lay not so much in the leadership’s chosen model of governance but in its manifest inability to install it. Noting that the “socialist sector” of the rural economy (e.g. state farms and agricultural cooperatives) remained small, accounting only for 10 percent of the rural population, she contends, Frelimo “had little effective control over either the economy or the society.” Echoing Goran Hyden’s view of the situation that prevailed in colonial Africa and continues to prevail today,206 she contends that the peasants remain uncaptured . . . The Government has very limited capacity to affect what actually happens. It can draw up plans, make laws, and issue decrees, but it cannot implement them; and it can set up institutions of all sorts, but it cannot make them operational.207 In not too dissimilar fashion, John Saul invokes the “relative autonomy” of the state to explain why Frelimo was unable to achieve its revolutionary goals: Perhaps if one reads, for “autonomous” such words as “ungrounded,” “suspended,” “free-floating,” it is possible to get a sense, at least metaphorically of the nature of the problem: viz, that the Frelimo state remained suspended above the society whose liberation it sought to facilitate . . . and dangerously compromised by the great difficulty it would ultimately have in rooting its project in an active popular base.208 All these conceptions take as given what needs to be explained: how the state presents itself as “suspended,” either ineffectually or menacingly, over rural communities. I return to this question below. Second, they fail to address the crucial question of how rural ruling relations were achieved and sustained. Posing the analysis in terms of a rigid state–rural society opposition misleads in so far as it presupposes a pre-given, unitary entity, “the state,” whose policies then impacted on a uniformly unsuspecting and hapless peasantry. Overarching, reified conceptions of the state occlude the complex processes of post-independence state formation, particularly at the local level. Rural residents in post-independent Mozambique experienced changes in the structure of authority and conditions of access to labor and resources in terms of shifting relations with one another, rather than simply as the imposition of a central authority or the work of impersonal economic forces.209 Frelimo’s agricultural policies “did not result in an increase in the net sum of disadvantage for everyone”210 even within the putative family sector. Rather, access to resources became more sharply differentiated both within and between rural communities. Acute goods shortages and the consequent development of parallel markets widened pre-existing rural inequalities. The supply of commodities became concentrated in the hands of wealthier
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peasants, who disposed of crops to sell. This newfound advantage “gave them leverage over the poorer peasantry.”211 Second, both capitalist farmers and better-off peasants received priority for credit, agricultural inputs and equipment. What’s more, both social strata were consistently favored in land distributions from the early 1980s onwards.212 Thus, early post-independence policies set in train processes of rural differentiation from a very early date – well before Frelimo moved, in the wake of the Fourth Congress in 1983, to give greater play to market incentives.213 One critical reason peasants faced differential access to state resources is because “the state,” in its most proximate incarnation, was deeply imbricated in local access-defining groups. While continuities in patterns of political authority and economic status have been widely noted, there has been no attempt, in light of them, to rethink one salient operative meaning of Frelimo’s anti-obscurantism. The discussion which follows undertakes such a reconsideration. My approach is indirect. More can be gleaned about the strategic function Frelimo’s anti-obscurantism came to assume by looking first at what its object, “traditional-feudal society,” was not in relation to the array of other “reactionary forces” identified as ranged against the revolution and, hence, singled out for elimination by it.214 These were all various incarnations of the capitalist “class enemy.” State and class Frelimo’s political analysis departed from the principle that the enemy was class-based and that, given the requisite political work, at any given moment a deep-cutting line in the sand could be drawn between it and the forces of revolution. While Frelimo identified several class enemies and these changed over time, they shared three defining features. First, all sought to rally popular support by appealing either to exclusivist identities, such as racism, regionalism or tribalism, or to what Frelimo considered to be other equally mystifying ideologies, such as liberalism, populism or ultra-leftism. Second, whether they had been formed by “colonial capitalism”215 or by post-independence imperialist design, all owed their genesis and ongoing staying power to externally-generated forces. It followed that the class enemy was not only anti-revolutionary; it was also, by definition, antinational. Third, all class enemies were distinguished by the facility with which they either coalesced or crystallized in the state apparatus, the subversion and control of which was their ultimate object. The state not only tended to concentrate pre-existing social divisions within the capitalist component of the wider society but also served as the principal conduit for the infiltration of foreign-sponsored enemy agents and their associated ideologies into the Mozambican polity. Thus, even as destabilization pounded it militarily from without, the state provided a fertile breeding ground for the formation and consolidation of an alliance between internal and external foes.216 In what
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 71 follows, I review Frelimo’s notions of the class enemy as these evolved between 1977 and 1983, a period bracketed by the party’s Third and Fourth Congresses, respectively. The Third Party Congress identified three class enemies, all of which were acknowledged to be weak but nonetheless required close surveillance given their natural affinity with external aggressors: (1) the colonial bourgeoisie, most of whose members had departed at independence; (2) an aspiring national petty bourgeoisie, including an incipient kulak class; and, more dubiously, (3) individuals who “although born of the people, became corrupt and betrayed the people,” a kind of lumpenproletariat consisting of “all lawless, professional criminals, thieves, murderers, drug addicts, prostitutes, gamblers and others,” with wartime collaborators thrown in for good measure.217 Three years later the situation had changed markedly. The shift is well illustrated by a speech Machel gave to mark the launch of the 1980 “Presidential Political and Organizational Offensive,” a campaign designed to curb the growth of privilege and corruption within government institutions. Machel held that the state had been infiltrated by “a minority of reactionaries, of enemy agents who have management and executive tasks” in strategic sectors of the economy. This infiltration had been engineered from abroad: The head is outside! Here we merely have the body, but the head is outside! The ones here are simply carrying out orders. They are mere tools. They are lackeys cut off from the exterior, abandoned children, bastard children. . . . Since the FRELIMO Party’s Third Congress mainly, the enemy has begun to operate at two levels: from abroad, particularly through criminal attacks by the racist Rhodesian regime and by infiltration of armed bandits; internally, through its agents and lackeys, with the aim of sabotaging from within the objectives laid down by the Third Congress . . . Their fundamental target internally is the state apparatus, the structures designed to ensure implementation of the Third Congress decisions. Their mission is to disorganize our party and our people’s state. Their mission is to establish: indiscipline; liberalism; anarchy; corruption; tribalism; regionalism; and racism. Their mission is to encourage: inefficiency and lack of enthusiasm for solving problems; incompetence; negligence; systematic deviation from guidelines; contempt for the people; insensitivity to the people’s problems; parasitism; and bureaucracy.218 By the early 1980s, the progressive bureaucratization of the state was cast in terms of the crystallization of a privileged class. In 1982, the Council of Ministers blamed state functionaries and managers for willfully obstructing the development of peasant cooperative agriculture. It pointed an accusatory
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finger at “middle level officials in the state apparatus and in state companies who have a social democratic mentality or a technocratic vision of the process of cooperativization. They spread wrong ideas that oppose the conception and principles of the Party.”219 The following year, in the face of the explosive growth of black markets and the escalation of South Africa’s destabilization war, the Frelimo Central Committee report to the Fourth Party Congress spoke of an “internal bourgeoisie” which, it found, “now has more economic power than it held soon after independence. It has infiltrated the trade circuits and the state apparatus.”220 The Fourth Congress, in its turn, identified an “internal enemy” in the form of black marketeers which it explicitly linked to the “external enemy” as incarnated in its proxies, the “armed bandits.”221 Even analysts sympathetic to Frelimo’s attempt to apply class analysis to Mozambican circumstance observed that there was an uneasy fit between officially-authorized class categories and the empirical social groups to which they purported to correspond.222 First, because colonial rule had constrained as well as engendered accumulation among African smallholders, Frelimo’s fear of the potential danger posed by a rural petty bourgeoisie was misplaced. “Kulaks” were few and far between even in the country’s three southern provinces where social differentiation was widely considered to be at its most advanced. By no means could these individuals be said to constitute a class in their own right. By the same token, the so-called “middle peasantry’s” hold on its status was highly contingent on such variables as household life-cycle, the vagaries of weather and, in the south, access to the South African labor market, notably work in the mines. Neither the achievement nor reproduction of this status typically derived from the exploitation of poorer peasant households.223 The term “internal enemy” was equally problematic. It ignored that the black market had, as the Governor of the Bank of Mozambique publicly acknowledged a month prior to the Fourth Congress, “an economic foundation.”224 Likewise, it “too uncritically lumped together those with the most marginal involvements in illicit marketing . . . and others who were much more dangerous large-scale operators.”225 The fact that the first victims of public executions and flogging for “economic crimes” included stevedores and railway workers made a mockery of Frelimo’s classificatory schema.226 At all stages, the inadequacy of this scheme was reflected in the built-in instability of class categories themselves. The very fluidity and indistinctness of class determinations and social strata strongly militated against the establishment of a clear line of demarcation between class-based allies and adversaries. Revealingly, official pictorial and textual representations of the class enemy made little to no reference to the relations of production or exchange. Instead, they tended to highlight less than sterling personal characteristics, such as laziness, ostentation, chauvinism, arrogance, indiscipline and moral depravity, that transcended class lines. Even more problematically, some of these qualities – to wit, indiscipline and laziness – were all-too-typically
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associated with the laboring classes. Class has often been invoked by radical nationalists as a proxy for other corporate identities, such as race, ethnicity or nationality, whose public mention are off-limits.228 In revolutionary Mozambique, the term was more elastic still, denoting a kind of free-floating, ever-mutating and ever-metastasizing malignancy. Finally, as harsher critics have more emphatically and correctly stressed, Frelimo’s analysis passed over in silence the ways in which class formation within state institutions and elsewhere had been a logical culmination of the dogged pursuit of – rather than “systematic deviation[s] from” or breaches of – Third Congress guidelines.229 In the event, the leadership’s often impressive willingness to acknowledge publicly its own culpability in failing to uphold the party line only served to legitimate its unquestioned and non-negotiable role as that line’s architects and leading proponents.230 State and culture The obverse side of the state’s self-confessed, highly advertised susceptibility to antithetical class interests and their associated ideologies was its seeming impregnability by, and invulnerability to, the nefarious cultural practices and ideologies characteristic of “traditional-feudal society.” Whereas establishing and maintaining a clear line of demarcation between class-based enemies and revolutionary forces resulted from ongoing, intensive political work and vigilance, the frontier between the state and “traditional-feudal society” was pre-given, readily detectable and apparently fixed. Although the inertia of “mentalities” acted as a serious brake on Frelimo’s rural interventions,231 unlike state bureaucrats and executives, obscurantist assertions were apparently incapable of diluting or derailing party directives from within. The one notable exception to this unstated dictum seems to have been the defense, law enforcement and security forces. In 1981, Machel held that “crimes, abuses and arbitrary actions” committed by these institutions owed in part to the cultural origin of their perpetrators. Rural recruits to the army, security forces and police had brought with them the “cultural universe” of “tribal-feudal society”: Whipping and tying up prisoners were methods used by chiefs. These young people learned this in the village . . . They brought into our defence and security force what they saw the chief and the native policeman do. They are the same ones who practise tribalism and regionalism.232 To the extent that such values were held by people in positions of authority, they represented an “ideological infiltration,” a development which, in turn, created the conditions for a “physical infiltration” of the enemy.233 Nonetheless, in the first instance at least, such crossings had been engendered by a
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kind of benign process of osmosis rather than by premeditated subversive action. As such, they were readily rectifiable through conscientization: “all of us have a responsibility in the fight against the old mentality.”234 Notwithstanding Frelimo’s dependence on them, rural hierarchies which formed the institutional core of “traditional-feudal society” were consistently portrayed in ruling discourses as objects, rather than as relations, of state rule. By this I mean the following. First, the leadership not only depicted the Frelimo state as the site par excellence of an ongoing political showdown between the revolutionary vanguard and counter-revolutionary petty bourgeoisie; it also, and at the same time, implicitly affirmed that state as the exclusive preserve of these two antagonistic social forces. Second, both parties to this categorical enmity were, by definition, exogenous to the social relations encapsulated in “traditional-feudal society.” Third and by implication, ruling discursive practices ideologically positioned these latter social relations, presumed to characterize much of rural Mozambique, not only as outside of state institutions but also as developmentally “beneath” them.235 The re-presentation of ruling relations in a manner that resolved the growing tension between the regime’s anti-traditionalist stance and its unrelieved reliance on chiefly authority had its precedent in the armed struggle. In 1968, shortly before his death, Frelimo’s founding president Eduardo Mondlane described the nationalist movement’s relationship to “tribal chiefs” as follows: What happens in every region where action is taking place is that any chief who is against the liberation struggle is sent away before military action takes place. But as soon as military action begins he either has to run over to the enemy or he is eliminated. Only those chiefs who have become part of FRELIMO, which means becoming chairmen [of local Frelimo branches],236 or secretaries of cells, sections, districts, or provinces . . . can remain. And at that point they are one and the same with [sic] any one of us. So the functions they had before had an influence in their selection only because they had prestige and, therefore, they were elected as chairmen, but, once the struggle begins, the whole thing is people [sic] of Mozambique together. And the paramount chief is unimportant as such in that stage.237 In summary, the Frelimo leadership viewed the ongoing political legitimacy and social status of chiefs as deriving exclusively from their identification with the political movement itself, apparently permanently cut adrift from any socio-historical moorings. In doing so, it conveniently equated the simple act of political adherence with ideological conversion and personal transformation.238 De Brito argues that independence day effected a rupture in this regard, bringing an end to the disparity between proclaimed and actual Frelimo achievement and hence obviating the need for semantic obfuscation.
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 75 However, the existing available evidence suggests otherwise. In many rural localities rule by royals in the name of state continued, as did Frelimo’s claims for the revolutionary credentials of the institutions of popular power. The above analysis suggests that there were at least two overlapping but analytically distinct binarisms in play in ruling representations of the rural population. The first, Frelimo’s dualist conception of the economy, has been amply critiqued. The second has passed virtually unremarked in Mozambican studies but is just as important to dissecting the anatomy of the myth of revolutionary rupture: I refer to the polarity between ruling institutions and the majority of the ruled population: on the one hand, the Frelimo state, implicitly defined by its presumptive capacity to homogenize to positive effect unsavory local particularisms whose bearers were appointed to act in its name; on the other, the highly differentiated but uniformly “obscurantist” rural society over which that state ruled. Self-evidently, the continual displacement of “traditional-feudal society” to a fixed extra-state address was integral to processes of state self-definition and public presentation as “modern” and “suspended” over rural objects of rule. More than that, Frelimo’s enactment of a reified, categorically nontraditionalist, identity for its state made possible official recognition of a purely indigenous basis of internal opposition to Frelimo’s political project. For the very characteristics which disqualified traditional relations of rule from infiltrating the state or from serving as an organizing principle of Frelimo institutions also conferred on them an autonomy from global capitalism and, thus, a legitimacy resolutely withheld from the domestic class enemy. Categories of persons marked as leading representatives of “feudal society” could collude with, or be manipulated by, an internal bourgeoisie or imperialist aggressors,239 but they owed their origins and their contemporary character to neither. In this sense, the term rural obscurantism occupied an indispensable position within official discourses. It served to explain homegrown rural opposition in a manner that confirmed the validity – indeed, the absolute necessity – of the state’s development actions.240 If the cultural attributes of chiefs and lineage notables holding official leadership positions rapidly faded into insignificance, these same attributes gained salience in instances of perceived or actual rural resistance to government policy directives. The state’s response to the “disaggregation” of communal villages in Cabo Delgado in the early 1980s – that is, the wholesale withdrawal of resettled communities from state-mandated aldeias comunais – provides the most clear-cut, recorded illustration of this tendency.241 All the villages which eventually splintered suffered from similar problems. Families who had had to relocate to form the aldeias were especially disadvantaged, giving rise to serious intra-village social tensions. From 1980 onwards, local antagonisms sparked by land competition were compounded by struggles over access to a sharply contracting local stock of consumer goods. By that time, these difficulties, combined with the non-functionality of local political structures, weak state support to smallholder agriculture
76 Myth as a “meaning-making” device and a series of unmet promises regarding central support for local cooperatives, had engendered widespread “disinterest and cynicism.”242 It was in this context that groups of people, apparently led by clan elders, moved out of state-designated aldeias. Some went back to their old lands and others relocated to new sites in order to form breakaway villages. By 1983 one-third of the province’s rural districts had been affected by the process of disaggregation. Several of these breakaway settlements undertook impressive efforts to gain official recognition as communal villages. In doing so, they aimed to secure state support for the construction of educational and health facilities, as well as a consumer cooperative in order to acquire access to government-rationed goods. While the physical plan and internal organization of the spin-off communities meticulously conformed to state stipulations, official recognition was withheld. Instead, the local administration responded by burning down the homes in the unauthorized settlements, by forcing the people living in them to return to state-recognized villages and by arresting the presumed leaders of the disaggregation movement. Nonetheless, time and again, the breakaway groups returned to their preferred sites of residence. The populations in question and the local authorities held radically divergent interpretations of the reasons for disaggregation. Peasants cited prohibitive distances to their cultivated plots as the primary cause. For them, the breakaway villages represented an attempt “to resolve their own problems, not resolved by the state, with the means at their disposal.”243 In contrast, in the eyes of provincial and district-level state and party officials, the phenomenon reflected “the resurgence of reactionary tribal political power which was necessary to combat using all means at their disposal.”244 While the breakaway villages were led by a “council of elders” (baraza) instead of an executive council in accordance with official guidelines, CEA researchers found that “power and class relations are not different from the other villages in the district.”245 In many of the official villages the formally constituted executive councils function like “baraza”; decision-making is conducted in the same manner. Even the values defended and the concept of justice used is the same. But since the party and state are more interested in knowing if the structures comply or not, they don’t analyze the results of the work.246 Government accusations came at a time when differential access to the means of production and severe goods shortages were giving rise to a triple alliance between district-level state and party authorities, the historic “owners of the land” within the communal villages and people who controlled the circuits of distribution of essential goods.247 In sum, in highlighting the presumed cultural attributes and social relations of rural communities living outside of officially-sanctioned institutions, local
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 77 government officials succeeded in neatly deflecting attention away from the culturally-encoded power relations that obtained within them. Other instances of “disaggregation” appear to have been treated in a similar manner.248
Synopsis of argument and a key assumption The above discussion suggests that it was not just that Frelimo’s antiobscurantism heightened particularist identifications and politicized the cultural, as some scholars have argued.249 Nor is it only that post-independence traditionalist assertions reflected compensatory forms of peasant self-expression in a context “where political activity has been suppressed.”250 Over and above both of these dynamics, expressions of rural indifference, discontent or dissent tended automatically to be branded as obscurantist. What’s more, so were concerted and creative attempts by peasants to renegotiate the terms of their compliance. This tendency within official discourses set the stage for the eventual inflation of the explanatory weight of cultural attachments and rigidities in the failure of Frelimo’s agrarian policies. This inflation was especially marked in Nampula in the early 1990s. But it was also in evidence at the level of national politics, especially in advance of the 1994 elections. In both instances, the state’s “retreat to tradition” re-enacted the myth that rural obscurantism was at the root of peasant resistance to, and/or noncompliance with, Frelimo interventions. At the same time, the ideological practices which accompanied this retreat appropriated key dimensions of culture-based revisionist accounts. The facility with which this appropriation occurred underscores the degree to which these latter accounts endorse, rather than refute, the underlying assumptions of the object of their critique. By the early 1990s the main lineaments of a new brand of statist historical narrative had emerged and, as a concatenation, arguably reached the height of their political influence. They consist in overstating the following five propositions: (1) the centrality and pulling power of chieftaincy on the eve of independence; (2) the extent to which power relations prevailing in post-independence revolutionary rural structures marked a decisive break with those obtaining at the end colonial rule; (3) the culpability of Frelimo’s attempted circumvention of chieftaincy and its anti-traditionalism in producing civil strife, social anomie, economic decline and political polarization; (4) the degree to which Frelimo’s public embrace of tradition marks a sharp reversal not only of official policy but of ruling institutional practice; and (5) the potential or actual remedial power of rehabilitating chieftaincy and what are deemed to be traditional moral values in the phase of postwar national reconstruction. Whereas proposition two was central to Frelimo’s early Marxist discourse and proposition four flows logically from it, numbers one, three and five are drawn from culturalist accounts of postcolonial developments.
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My argument rests on the premise that, in the early 1990s, the Frelimo leadership was still in the business of cultivating popular legitimacy, even if only for opportunistic reasons. The point bears stressing given the decision taken in the 1990s by African rulers in Sierra Leone, the former Zaire, Liberia and elsewhere to summarily dispense with any pretense of serving a public or collective interest in favor of aggressively and unambiguously pursuing a strategy of warlordism.251 In common with incumbents throughout sub-Saharan Africa, Frelimo’s leaders were contending with a series of dramatic shifts in the conditions and sources of external patronage. These shifts were occasioned by the global ascendancy of neoliberalism, the deregulation of international markets, the end of the Cold War, the dismantling of the apartheid state in South Africa and “the internationalization and growth of organized crime on a probably unprecedented scale.”252 Like many of its counterparts elsewhere on the continent, the Frelimo leadership stood at the helm of a “weak state” which had been further debilitated by the imposition of a structural adjustment program mandated by multilateral lenders, upon whose favor and largesse it was becoming ever more dependent. Like other African rulers, Frelimo’s senior cadres responded to rapidly changing circumstances by intensifying “strategies of extraversion”: that is, by stepping up efforts to tap external resources and alliances with a view to advancing their ongoing struggles for power with their domestic political rivals.253 Most notably, this entailed contracting numerous and important economic functions to “foreign nonstate actors”254 and – in the case of Mozambique – to private local firms, several of the most prominent of which are of colonial provenance. In Mozambique, as elsewhere, the process of privatization, a key component of the IMF’s reform package, provided political cover for incumbents to reward allies. At the same time (and at least as importantly), it allowed those in power to deny access to valuable political connections and material resources to internal rivals and/or armed insurgents. And, as elsewhere, state divestiture contributed to the growth of official corruption, the plunder of national assets and “the fusion of criminal and political practices.”255 In the case of Mozambique, senior government officials and intelligence officers were reportedly involved in many of the underground operations that, starting in the mid- to late 1990s, became mainstays of the national economy. The most notable and lucrative of these are, or have been, the trafficking of ivory, rhino horn, guns, narcotics and stolen cars.256 But, unlike their warlord opposite numbers, Frelimo leaders did not, and have not, set about destroying state institutions.257 Nor have they subscribed to an expansive definition of privatization, one which includes alienating not only state enterprises, services and assets, but also the means of violence and foreign policy, to their newfound (or, in certain instances, repositioned) private partners.258 Rather, the Mozambican state has remained an important site of clientelist politics, whose networks intersect with informal political channels.259 In contrast to warlord-led states, official institutions remain
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 79 an important (if not the only) foundation for the exercise of political authority and an important (if not the only) mechanism for controlling markets. Lastly, although this book details coercive practices in the productive process, violence as an instrument for managing economic resources was nowhere near on the same scale as in warlord-run states. In summary, if Mozambique in the 1990s was a “smuggling state” – and, by some accounts, a virtually “collapsed state” – it was not yet a “criminal state,” nor one overrun by warlord politics.260 In the event, those in power were seeking some measure of legitimacy for themselves.
Nampula Province and Eráti/Namapa District The narrative which follows is based primarily on a year of field and archival research in Mozambique from February 1994 through January 1995, during which time I was a research associate at the Center for African Studies. It also draws on a week of follow-up research in Portugal in July 1995. My choice of Nampula Province as a fieldwork site reflects, in the first instance, the province’s centrality to debates about the nature of the interaction between official institutions and the rural populace (most notably smallholders) and the local dynamics of the war. Those debates which are addressed in the present study bear on the timing, causes, political repercussions and official justifications of forced villagization in the 1980s; the use and extent of forced labor in post-independence Mozambique; the nature, scope and significance of traditional power in contemporary rural politics; and the sources, nature and extent of rural alienation, resistance and dissent. Nampula’s prominence in these debates has prompted several commentators to characterize post-independence developments there as representing a “worst case scenario” from Frelimo’s point of view.261 The importance assigned by these scholars and others to the mix of Frelimo’s anti-traditionalism, the power and legitimacy of local chiefs, and chiefly hostility to the ruling party in producing this scenario especially aroused my interest. I settled on Nampula in good measure to see if all of the elements of this mix were indeed present and, in the event that they were, to determine whether the mix itself was as politically explosive as it was claimed to be. A second draw was closely related to the first: the province’s strategic position within Mozambique’s political economy, past and present. If relations between Frelimo and the Nampulan populace were as bad as they were painted as being, it seemed likely that the province would figure prominently in the ruling party’s strategy of re-legitimization and postwar reconstruction. It also seemed likely that the political stakes involved in explaining why rural alienation and dissent were so rampant in Nampula would be high. During the colonial period, Nampula was a leading producer of agricultural commodities, second in the value of output only to its southern
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neighbor, Zambézia, host to the colony’s highest concentration of large-scale plantations. On the eve of independence Nampula was the chief producer of Mozambique’s foremost export earners, cashew nuts and cotton. Throughout the colonial period, cashew nuts were almost exclusively a smallholder crop and most marketed cashew nuts came from Nampula.262 Up until the rise of settler agriculture in the mid-1960s, the Nampulan peasantry played a comparably pivotal role in cotton production, which, until 1961, African smallholders in designated zones were legally obligated to undertake. Smallholders in Nampula accounted for 38 percent of total colonial cotton output in 1964 – a substantial contribution in its own right and a much heftier one than their counterparts in other provinces.263 The Nampulan family sector’s share of marketed production of other agricultural crops, such as peanuts, sesame and tobacco, was equally impressive.264 As we shall see, after independence Nampula’s family sector regained its former status as a crucial pillar of national marketed agricultural production and, in particular, of export crops. In summary, the performance of Nampula’s smallholder population is central to the fortunes of Mozambique’s commercial agricultural sector. In the mid-1990s, Nampula was also the most populous province in Mozambique. In mid-1994 Nampula was home to about 3.1 million Mozambicans, or over 19 percent of the estimated 15.9 million-strong national population, and over one-fifth of the voting population.265 In the first elected government, Nampula was accorded fifty-four seats in the 250seat national parliament, five more than its chief demographic rival, Zambézia, and well more than twice as many seats as any of Mozambique’s nine other provinces. Today, it accounts for fifty seats, two more than Zambézia. Not surprisingly, with the adoption of multipartyism and the institutionalization of electoral contests, Nampula has become a favorite whistle-stop for stumping politicians. Nampula’s strategic importance in Mozambique’s contemporary political landscape dates back to the late colonial period. In the 1960s, colonial planners designated the province a prime site for the growth of white settlement in part because they hoped that an expanded European presence would serve as a bulwark against an anticipated Frelimo military advance from the movement’s sanctuaries in Cabo Delgado.266 The settlement policy was part of a broader counter-insurgency offensive which included widespread political repression, forced removals, an aggressive program to win peasant hearts and minds, and a military build-up. By all appearances, the strategy worked. In the event, Frelimo was forced to shift the focus of its military campaign to Tete Province.267 Portuguese success on the Nampulan front has been adduced as evidence of the liberation movement’s strained relationship with the Makua- (Macua-, Amakhuwa, Makhuwa-) Lomwé, the largest linguistic cluster both in Mozambique and in Nampula, where most members of this cluster reside.268 Scholars have advanced various explanations for the genesis and severity of
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 81 these strains. Thomas Henriksen and Otto Roesch have, for instance, cited the longstanding antagonisms between the predominantly Makonde-speaking peoples in northern Cabo Delgado, who were heavily represented in Frelimo’s guerrilla army, and the Makua-Lomwé. Henriksen has also stressed the colonial state’s dexterity in manipulating this antagonism to its own politico-military advantage.269 Landeg White has conjectured that Frelimo’s failure to make politico-military inroads into predominantly Makua-Lomwé-speaking areas bespoke another, more generalized aspect of regional differentiation within Mozambique: the socio-economic divide between groups that had “the longest experience of selling labor abroad” and those that didn’t. Rural communities in northern Cabo Delgado, Tete and southern Mozambique fell into the first category; inhabitants of Nampula, southern Cabo Delgado and parts of Zambézia fell into the second. Migrant laborers from the first group had been instrumental in articulating nationalist sentiment and in founding Frelimo. White suggests that it is no coincidence that Frelimo found its greatest popular support during the armed struggle from the regions marked by a high incidence of transnational labor migration.270 Irrespective of their source, pre-existing tensions between Makua-Lomwéspeakers and Frelimo became aggravated after independence. The underrepresentation of Makua-Lomwé-speakers in senior positions within the state and party leadership in the post-independence period contributed to this outcome, as did the disproportionate representation of southern Mozambicans and Makonde-speakers in high-ranking government and party positions within Nampula.271 The privileging within post-independence official historiography of ethno-regional groupings (most notably the Makonde, as well as the Nguni-headed, precolonial kingdom of Gaza and their descendants) which purportedly mounted the most concerted, sustained and effective resistance to colonialism implicitly slighted the Makua-Lomwé (among others) and thus didn’t help matters any.272 But the factors identified by scholars as arguably having played the most decisive role during the first decade of independence are Frelimo’s anti-traditionalism and forced villagization. With the advent of political pluralism, strains between Nampulans and the ruling party have been expressed at the polls. In 1994, Frelimo lost the province to Renamo in both the parliamentary and presidential races. In 1999, it fared slightly better but Renamo, along with its coalition partners, still prevailed. In 2003, Renamo-UE posted victories in three of the five cities and towns which held municipal contests in the province.273 Save for the questions of forced labor and ethnicity,274 all of the academic and political controversies alluded to above were either generated or given fresh focus by Geffray’s pioneering field research in Eráti District in 1983–1985 and, again, in mid-1988, by which time the district had been divided in two.275 I chose Namapa District, formed out of the northern half of Eráti, as the primary site of my own field studies largely for this reason.
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As we have seen, Geffray argued that the combined effects of forced villagization, the formal abolition of chieftaincy and the post-independence regime’s poor treatment of chiefs seriously eroded popular support for the ruling party. They also, he contended, provided Renamo with a social base from which to wage its war of destruction with brutal efficiency. Geffray argued further that the retreat of the Frelimo state in the face of Renamo’s peasant-supported military aggression was evidenced in Eráti by two major developments in the late 1980s: (1) the effective abandonment of the village project and the redispersal of the rural population; and (2) the district government’s delegation of managerial functions over rural production to former régulos. The second development resurrected colonial labor arrangements in which chiefs had acted as overseers of compulsory smallholder crop cultivation in cotton- and rice-producing zones. In practice, the move signaled de facto official tolerance, if not de jure recognition, of chiefs’ political and juridical authority. Geffray contends that it is no mere happenstance that the state was forced to capitulate on the two questions which had constituted the principal source of tension between it and the rural population and which had impelled certain chieftaincies into dissidence. Further, he persuasively argues that the government climbdown on both counts was at once facilitated and partly occluded by a discursive “double negation.” The return to the dispersed habitat was routinely advertised in official rhetoric as an ad hoc temporary expediency to cope with wartime military pressures rather than as the definitive demise of Frelimo’s rural collectivization policy. At the same time, the district government sought to obfuscate the effective return to chiefly power in areas nominally under its control by misleadingly dubbing state-recognized traditional authorities mere “chiefs of production.” I have critiqued the logic of Geffray’s argument elsewhere.276 The present study provides an empirical basis for fleshing out my argument. At the same time, I apply and build on those aspects of Geffray’s analysis that I have found to be the most compelling and that have enabled me to probe productively the meaning and significance of continuity and change in ruling ideological practice over a twenty-year span. A second motivating factor for choosing Eráti/Namapa as the main locus of my research was the existence of a corpus of rich empirical data on the area’s social and economic history. Bequeathed mainly by the CEA, the Mozambican historian Rafael da Conceição, the Portuguese agronomist José Bernardo de Faria Lobo, the British historian Richard Gray and, most especially, Geffray, this body of literature has made Eráti/Namapa one of the best researched regions of the province, providing a solid basis for situating historically and interpreting contemporary developments.277 A third impetus was Eráti/Namapa’s importance as a source of smallholder-generated foreign exchange and of rural votes. During the colonial period, Eráti was a premier site of peasant-produced cotton. Between 1961 and 1965, for instance, the peasantry in the district accounted for nearly 20
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 83 percent of all family sector cotton production in Nampula, the equivalent of 6 percent of the colony’s total cotton output. Over 85 percent of this output came from the region encompassed by present-day Namapa. Namapa’s agricultural productivity is partly explained by its location in one of the two swaths of land in Mozambique that are highly propitious for cotton farming. It also reflects the number of smallholders who inhabit the district. According to UN estimates, the district was host to 281,000 residents in mid-1994, or roughly 9 percent of the provincial population.278 Namapa’s demographic heft has made the district sharply contested political terrain. In 1994, Renamo carried the district in the parliamentary race but only by an extremely narrow margin; Frelimo, in its turn, won the presidential race. In 1999, Frelimo posted victories in both races.279 The two sets of results suggest the contingency and possible ambiguity of popular support for both parties, characteristics that also appear to define relations between the Namapan populace and claimants on officially-recognized local offices. In summary, Namapa’s strategic importance to Nampula’s political economy is comparable to Nampula’s strategic importance to Mozambique’s political economy as a whole. Both are politically and economically strategic sites in good measure because a populous, cash-cropping peasantry makes them so. In both, popular disenchantment and discontent with the incumbent regime have been substantial. In both, the ongoing vitality of chieftaincy, as well as the extent to which chiefs are responsible for fomenting and directing rural dissent in the post-independence period, have been the object of scholarly contention. And, in both, the institution of chieftaincy has been a prime target of politico-military strategic intervention, as well as of postwar partisan calculation and manipulation. All these factors pointed me in the direction of Nampula and fed into my selection of Namapa as the primary site of my fieldwork investigation.
Overview, scope and sources Chapter 2 lays out the historical context for Chapters 3 through 7. This history provides evidence showing that the myth of revolutionary rupture exaggerates the centrality and pulling power of chieftaincy at the end of colonial rule (proposition #1). It also sets the stage for understanding processes of local state formation in Eráti, a topic addressed in Chapter 3. Chapter 3 mounts a two-step argument with respect to the 1975–1987 period. First, it takes aim at the proposition (#2) that the power relations prevailing in the institutions of popular power marked a decisive break with those obtaining on the eve of independence. It thus contributes to a growing literature showing that the revolution did not succeed in overturning preexisting hierarchies of advantage and privilege even within the narrow parameters of its own institutions. Second, it argues that Frelimo’s “retreat to tradition” in the form of the provincial government’s use of former régulos as
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“chiefs of production” did not represent a wholesale capitulation to Renamo. Rather, the reinstatement of chiefs to their former managerial roles in agricultural production was just one facet of a much broader initiative on the part of officialdom to revive the colonial forced cotton regime. I consider why Nampula was chosen as the site of the most concerted and comprehensive government attempt to revert to Portuguese precedent with respect to rural labor relations. In addition, I examine the historical antecedents to the “codes of oblivion” that characterized state-sponsored retrospectives, undertaken in the early 1990s, on the post-independence history of rural authority. It is true that, throughout the 1980s, Frelimo “stuck firmly to its public position that RENAMO was a group of bandits financed and organised by South Africa, with no internal support, and that its successes were in no way the result of FRELIMO’s own policies.”280 But Frelimo representatives also discredited Renamo in subtler, and arguably more effective, ways: namely, by steadfastly denying the efficacy of the rebel insurgency in reversing, redirecting or altering the ruling party’s policies or strategic goals, as enunciated at its Third Congress. Geffray showed that this was the case in Nampula with respect to the provincial government’s de facto abandonment of the village project. I show it to be the case even before then – that is, as the policy of rural resettlement as a nation-building exercise quickly degenerated into a counter-insurgency strategy. Chapter 4 sets out the national and local contexts for Chapters 5 through 8, all of which deal chiefly with the 1987–1994 period. It also provides a brief sketch of more recent national developments. Chapters 5 through 7 examine the ideological and political practices which accompanied the “retraditionalization” of rural administration in Nampula in the early 1990s. Chapters 5 and 6 also address the socio-political repercussions of this semi-official policy shift. Chapter 5 takes aim at the proposition (#4) that the “retreat to tradition” marks a sharp reversal of ruling institutional practice as well as of official policy. It shows that the provisional return to some semblance of indirect rule involved an attempt not only to expand Frelimo’s rural constituency in preparation for an electoral showdown but also to reposition and repackage its old social base. In the process, longtime party militants were recast as members of traditional hierarchies. Contrary to the proposition four would lead us to believe, if the transition from the late colonial period to post-independence revolutionary Mozambique was marked by continuities in rural asymmetries of power, so was the switch from rule through the institutions of popular power back to rule by chiefs. I also examine the ways in which official justifications for the retraditionalization of rural political institutions implicitly rewrote the history of the relationship between the state and the party as hitherto represented in ruling propaganda. Finally, the chapter discloses the temporal distortions enacted by this rewriting – distortions which responded to the ideological imperative of expunging the impact of
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 85 Renamo’s war on official–local relations from statist historical narratives. Chapter 6 details local struggles over labor, tribute and authority attendant upon the displacement of grassroots party–state institutions by chieftaincy. My findings corroborate the contention advanced by other researchers that, contrary to the view often heard in official circles during this period and implied by revisionist writing on the subject, the mere “recognition” of chieftaincy was no panacea for the crisis of state political legitimacy in the rural areas.281 Indeed, I show that, if anything, the specific political, economic and social conditions in which the retraditionalization of rural administration occurred in Nampula in several respects compounded, rather than ameliorated, that crisis. Chapters 7 and 8 tackle questions aimed at illuminating hitherto unexplored aspects of Frelimo’s ideological practice. Those questions are as follows. Why was the provincial administration in Nampula so politically invested in making it appear as if the revival of a reconstituted chieftaincy was not only a straightforward proposition but also one which had in many locales already produced an instantaneous salutary effect on state–peasant relations? Why were the manifest and ubiquitous struggles detailed in Chapter 6 systematically glossed in official discourses and what was the net effect of their eclipse? More generally, why did ruling discourses, both within and beyond the province, strongly tend to overstate propositions one and four? Why did they excessively indict the culpability of Frelimo’s detribalization policy and its anti-traditionalism in producing the plethora of social, political and economic ills that beset post-independence Mozambique (proposition #3)? And why did they exaggerate the potential and actual remedial power of reversing the ruling party’s early stands (proposition #5)? Both chapters argue that the new official emphasis – both in Nampula and further afield – on the centrality of rural cultural attachments in understanding the domestic basis for post-independence development failures and rural insurgency reiterates the logic of the state’s now abandoned revolutionary discourse. At the same time, I show the ways in which ruling discourses have assimilated key dimensions of popular and academic culturalist critiques of Frelimo’s tenure. Chapter 7 explores the ways in which, in Nampula, officialdom’s enthusiastic embrace of selected aspects of these critiques enabled the construction of mnemonic narratives that tended to minimize, if not thoroughly efface, the pernicious socio-economic effects and political costs of Frelimo’s strategy of state-centered accumulation, involuntary villagization and government heavy-handedness. This overall effect, I show, was achieved by casting the ruling party’s most egregious errors of omission and commission as natural and, in retrospect at least, predictable consequences of the revolution’s putatively clean break with the principle and practice of descent-based rule. Typically, state representatives in Nampula highlighted the unsuitable social origins, as well as the failings and foibles, of party secretaries at the base. In doing so, they, wittingly or otherwise, de-emphasized Frelimo’s political
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and policy failures or, worse still, shifted blame for these on to the shoulders of the party’s most proximate – and politically most vulnerable – purveyors and enforcers. The upshot was that, by the early 1990s, local Frelimo secretaries, previously hailed as the cutting edge of socialist transformation in the outback, were now portrayed as exemplifying the most dubious personal traits, conduct and motivations of the class enemy. An alternative theory of the roots of rural crisis was also discernible within provincial government circles but only in muted form. Interestingly, in this second version of events, the identity, agenda and actions of local Frelimo secretaries feature hardly at all. Instead, it is Frelimo’s alleged commitment to dispensing with hierarchy altogether that comes in for the heaviest criticism. I show the ways in which this competing explanation, to which many Namapan commoners and royals alike subscribed, was both elided with, and pressed into the service of, the dominant one within official circles. I also consider why this alternative account resonated widely outside of these circles and why it remained partially submerged within them. The myth of revolutionary rupture, I find, derives much of its power and force from its ability to hold both theories of causation in creative tension and, in doing so, to express and sustain conflicting and often paradoxical notions concerning the powers and proclivities of the Frelimo state – notions that percolate throughout the polity. In addition, the chapter examines the ways in which the two main explanations on offer by Nampula-based government representatives compare to those advanced by senior people within the MAE’s TA/P Project. Chapter 8 argues, first, that the concomitant of the re-ascription of the most unappealing attributes of the class enemy to rural representatives of vanguardist Frelimo was the extinction in post-socialist ruling discourses of the class enemy and of class itself. Second, it contends that Frelimo leadership’s willingness to publicly acknowledge the foolhardiness of the party’s attempt to circumvent chieftaincy, and to signal its intent to make amends for any wrongdoing it committed as a result, is only fully intelligible when placed alongside of the leadership’s steadfast refusal to admit other candidates for expiatory examination in advance of the 1994 elections. The secretary’s stunning metamorphosis in state-sponsored retrospectives on the socialist period in Nampula, the demise of class as an analytic category in Frelimo’s discursive repertoire, and the politics of acknowledgment reflected two overriding and interlocking political imperatives: to compress and contain rural dissatisfaction and dissent in a culturalist discourse and to recast the foremost defenders and detractors of Mozambican sovereignty in resolutely non-class terms. All these ideological moves occurred at a time when class formation had, if anything, accelerated and many members of the Frelimo leadership had proven themselves to be well on their way to joining the ranks of Mozambique’s closest approximation of a newly ascendant “internal bourgeoisie.”282 Both Frelimo’s revolutionary social taxonomy and the revisionist critique, I show, are flat-footed in the face of the slide by a
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 87 reformulated official history into a classless cultural pluralism – indeed, both can be called upon to facilitate and accelerate just such a slide. While the first step of my argument in Chapter 3 and my discussion in Chapters 5 and 6 focus primarily on developments in Namapa, I also marshal evidence from elsewhere in Nampula to buttress my case. Namapa’s agricultural and demographic importance make the district distinct but by no means singular at least with respect to the issues under review. Several caveats regarding the scope of the present work are worth entering here. The first of these is that, while recent Nampulan history forms the subject matter of much of the narrative that follows, I do not claim to have written a comprehensive, or even continuous, history of the province or of rural authorities who reside within Nampula’s jurisdiction. My discussion centers on critical and/or controversial turning points in official relations both with the Frelimo state’s grassroots representatives and with people asserting claims to the mantle of precolonial and/or colonial royal titles. Second, although my discussion illuminates some of the reasons Nampula was a “worst case scenario” in Frelimo–smallholder relations, it does not weigh in on those aspects of debates bearing on this question which emphasize Frelimo’s fraught relationship with the Makua-Lomwé.283 If anything, however, my discussion underscores just how little we, as scholars, know about ethnic and regional forms of consciousness and allegiances in Mozambique and their interplay with race, class, assimilado status and wider political loyalties. It also leaves little doubt as to the importance of filling in this gap in our knowledge if we are to deepen our understanding of contemporary ruling relations, forms of state legitimation and the politics of dissent.284 But that is an altogether different intellectual endeavor than the one represented by the present monograph.285 Third, like Richard Rathbone’s recent monograph on Nkrumah’s relationship to chiefs in postcolonial Ghana, this book makes no “claim to have discovered what chieftaincy either was or is.”286 Its primary emphasis on analyzing the links between the state-idea and forms of mnemonic legitimation implies a departure from that of recent studies on colonial and postcolonial chieftaincy, many of which have sought to historicize and account for the ongoing resilience and political relevance of chieftaincy in the modern era.287 Fourth, because my objective is to chronicle the changing interface between rural political authority and official institutions, the present text does not address the subject of religious and political leaders who operate “below” or alongside of this interface. Sub-chiefs, who in Nampula are called mahumu (sing. humu), feature prominently in this category. During the colonial period, some mahumu doubled as the direct subordinates of régulos within the Portuguese-recognized three-tiered traditional hierarchy, either as chefes de grupo de povoações (the second tier) or as chefes de povoação (the third tier). Following independence, some mahumu also held official posts under Frelimo. In the main, however, the two hierarchies remained distinct from, and autonomous of, one another. Kinship-based institutions and the precise
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articulation between them and officially-recognized rural political authorities merit further investigation, as several commentators have recently stressed.288 This book does not, however, undertake such an investigation. Likewise, grassroots Christian and Muslim leaders, as well as of traditional healers and sorcerers, feature only in passing.289 Finally, it bears repetition that the accent here is on ruling ideas about the state and the ways these have been projected and purveyed over time. While such a stress necessarily entails a consideration of the ways in which officialdom draws on, modifies and seeks to manipulate popular representations of politically institutionalized power, I do not claim to provide more than the most superficial treatment of the ways in which ordinary citizens perceive and depict state institutions or, more broadly, modes of domination in contemporary Mozambique. Nor do I claim to have delineated the cultural determinants that have enabled, shaped and sustained what Achille Mbembe calls “the étatisation of society” in the Nampulan context.290 Primary source materials were gathered and/or consulted during the two aforementioned research trips. Between April and mid-November 1994, I conducted 95 structured, open-ended individual and group interviews with a wide range of people in Nampula. My informants included chiefs and other traditional authorities; government, Frelimo Party and Renamo officials at the grassroots, district and provincial level; local members of newly formed political parties; community court judges; missionaries and local religious leaders; male and female smallholders; employees, past and present, of the local cotton company, the Cotton Development Society of Namialo, and its predecessor, the State Cotton Farm of Nampula; local businesspeople; demobilized troops from both sides of the conflict and Naparamas; and NGO personnel. Eighty-four of these interviews are cited and seven others are indirectly referenced in this study. Of this total, seventy-five were conducted in Namapa, including six in Renamo’s zone of control in the southeast portion of the district, where I spent four days. An additional five were with people who had extended direct experience in the district, including two former district administrators. I have also referenced an interview conducted by my research assistant Pedro Cavala with the Naparama major mentioned in the Introduction. Interviews with NGO representatives were carried out in English. Interviews with district and provincial government officials, Frelimo Party leaders, Renamo provincial-level representatives, missionaries, cotton company employees, local businesspeople and private farmers were conducted in Portuguese. The remaining interviews were conducted with the aid of an interpreter who translated from Makua into Portuguese and vice versa although interviewees often switched back and forth between the two languages. Over the course of my stay in Nampula, I was afforded the opportunity to serve as a UN international observer during the 1994 elections; to observe electoral preparations and the electoral campaign; to participate in civic edu-
Myth as a “meaning-making” device 89 cation meetings, a human rights seminar and two donor-sponsored conferences on political reform; and to hold informal discussions with Nampulan residents from all walks of life. This text is informed by these experiences and observations. It also draws on colonial reports deposited in the Arquivo Histórico de Moçambique and the documentation center of the CEA, as well as records of the post-independence government at the district and provincial levels. In July 1995, I interviewed and consulted the archives of the late José Bernardo de Faria Lobo, then a retired agronomist who had worked successively for the colonial cotton concessionaire in Namapa, the colonial Cotton Institute and, in the post-independence period, for Provincial Directorate of Agriculture (DPA) and JFS in Nampula. The present study incorporates the findings from this research.
2
Aspects of precolonial and colonial Nampula
Precolonial Nampula Nampula’s integration into international circuits of exchange dates from the end of the sixteenth century and coincided with the advent of the ivory trade in Mozambique.1 The Maravi conquest of the region at that time created a trading zone stretching from the Shire Valley in present-day Malawi through Nampula to Mozambique Island (Ilha de Moçambique). Some fifty years earlier Ilha de Moçambique had gained recognition as the first capital of Lisbon’s claimed possessions in south-east Africa.2 At the time – and until the late nineteenth century – the Portuguese presence throughout what today constitutes Mozambique was primarily limited to the littoral and to trading stations and military garrisons along the Zambézia river.3 Over the course of the next century, much of the ivory traded with the Portuguese originated from Nampula and had been paid to the Maravi states to the east as tribute. With the decline of Maravi power at the end of the seventeenth century, Yao traders based at Lake Niassa began to redirect their commercial operations from Kilwa to Mossuril and Cabaceiras, establishing a caravan route through northern Nampula. From that time onwards, Nampula was situated at the crossroads of two major trade arteries from the interior. During the second half of the eighteenth century, when the trafficking in human beings came to dwarf all other forms of exchange, Makua chiefs in the interior established themselves as traders in slaves as well as other commodities. Nampula was one of the two main sources of slaves in Mozambique (the other was the Zambézia valley) and Makua chiefs were the main suppliers. In the first phase, slave trafficking was dominated by the French (initially in contravention of Portuguese law), who shipped their cargo to the sugar and coffee plantations in France’s colonial possessions in the Mascarene islands. By the beginning of the nineteenth century, the traffic was directed primarily to South America, most notably Brazil.4 Starting in the 1830s, Portugal made sporadic, less than wholehearted and largely abortive attempts to abolish the slave trade. The colonial administration’s own heavy dependence on customs remittances generated by slave dealing militated against enforcing abolitionist decrees. So did the fact that
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the Portuguese did not control the source of supply or many of the trafficking routes. In Nampula, slave dealers responded by rerouting their merchandise away from Ilha de Moçambique to the numerous bays and swamps along the coast and there is no evidence that there was any let-up in the tempo of their business.5 Throughout the nineteenth century, the MakuaLomwé were the principal casualties of this traffic in Mozambique.6 In the meantime, the engagé system was sanctified by an accord between the French and the Portuguese in 1854, enabling slaves to be exported from Mozambique in the guise of free labor. This new form of labor mobilization paralleled clandestine slave dealing and, after abolition in 1878, allowed slave-owners to dispose of now illegal slave populations in an above-board and highly lucrative manner.7 Even after the emancipation proclamation was issued, the illicit export of slaves from Nampula continued until at least the first decade of the twentieth century.8 Slaveholding in Mozambique continued illicitly until the inauguration of the First Republic in 1910.9 J.F. Mbwiliza argues that the process of transition from slave trading to “legitimate” commerce in the Nampulan hinterland was facilitated by the availability of alternative forms of trade in rubber, gum copal, peanuts, bees wax, ivory, oil seeds, copra and ginger, as well as by opportunities for agricultural production.10 Other scholars have contended that chieftaincies in the interior were, like the coastal potentates, structurally dependent on both slave trading and slaveholding, and that their armed resistance to imperialist incursions was mounted with a view to forestalling not only Portuguese occupation but also the enforcement of abolitionist decrees.11 As we shall see, much political discourse in Nampula in the 1990s placed a good deal of emphasis on the alleged preponderance of epotha – or “slaves” – in Frelimo institutions and the negative social, political and economic consequences that flowed from this. Accordingly, the genesis of this phenomenon and the social functions of epotha and epotha lineages in the precolonial period merit special consideration. Social transformation According to Mbwiliza, large-scale population displacements prompted by both the Maravi conquest and the slave trade caused many lineages to lose contact with – or to avail themselves of the opportunity to break away from – their clan heads. In some cases, junior lineage leaders founded their own clans and arrogated ritual and religious authority to themselves. In others, they found a spiritual alternative in Islam or in an admixture of Makua religious beliefs and institutions and Koranic teachings.12 But if the Maravi conquest and the slave trade set in motion processes of social fragmentation and dispersal, they also gave rise to strong tendencies toward political centralization, social stratification and regional differentiation. The supersession of clan by lineage as the basic form of social organization paved the way for the rise of powerful chieftaincies in the eighteenth
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and nineteenth centuries.13 With the growing importance of long-distance trade, Makua chiefs began to exercise greater control over production and marketing. In the interior, the imperatives of organizing caravans for transport, and of guaranteeing their safe passage over long distances to the coast, further reinforced chiefly power. Communities that were unable to mount an effective defense against slave raids sought political protection from militarily more powerful ones. The escalation of the slave trade, combined with the “Ngoni” passage and attacks in the nineteenth century, heightened the ambience of insecurity and violence, and fueled tendencies toward political centralization.14 The institutionalization of “domestic slavery” was one manifestation of far-reaching social transformation.15 As elsewhere on the continent, slaveholding was a decidedly gendered social institution. Male captives were usually seized in raids on passing caravans or in open warfare. From the time of their capture until their final sale on the coast, they were typically circulated among dominant lineage chiefs. The slave trade also enabled lineage chiefs, of varying social status, to rid themselves of “male undesirables” – including their own upstart nephews – in a profitable manner. The commodification of abduction thus enhanced the power of political authorities at all levels. Women, adolescents and children were captured either in battle or in isolated ambushes on non-allied chieftaincies, or acquired through purchase. Thereupon, they were usually integrated into the dominant lineage, either through marriage or “adoption.” All captives, regardless of their sex, the manner in which they were acquired, or their fates, were called epotha.16 Female epotha were the most coveted of captives. Women and girls were variously integrated as wives, sisters or nieces. Irrespective of the method of incorporation, female captives and their descendants constituted a “dependent and manipulable social group,” whose social identity was invented and, if need be, reinvented in accordance with the needs of their new masters: thus, wives could be converted into sisters; sisters could be turned into nieces; and nieces could, on command, be transformed into wives. As nieces or sisters, female epotha could generate a reserve of direct matrilineal descendants. As wives, they enabled men from the abducting or purchasing lineage to subvert prevailing Makua principles of matrilineality and matrilocality, and to circumvent the onerous bride-service obligations that matrimonial unions with free allied lineages entailed. Conjugal unions with epotha thus introduced tendencies toward patrilineality and virilocality into the heart of lineage social relations. The main draw of such unions was that, as wives, epotha produced descendants, also known as epotha, whose social status was equally manipulable. Successor generations of epotha thus formed a reserve of politically subordinate allies with whom members of the abducting or purchasing lineage could marry on terms as advantageous as they could to the women from whom an epotha line issued. According to Geffray, the “relations of exploitation” forged between masters and slaves were transitory, persisting only until the embryonic
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lineage issued from an epotha reached “socio-demographic” maturity: that is, until it comprised enough generations to boast its own elders and notables. At this point, a “slave” lineage could undergo a process of segmentation or “political autonomization.” Thereupon, its members could nominate their own lineage chief, move on to their own land and forge their own matrimonial alliances. Not least, they would be socio-politically positioned to acquire epotha of their own either through purchase or via raids on other, politically non-allied chieftaincies.17 “Effective occupation” Following the 1884–1885 Berlin Conference, Lisbon came under intense pressure to demonstrate to the satisfaction of its European imperialist rivals that it had established “effective occupation” over the territory it was claiming for itself as a colony and that it had stamped out slavery there. At the time, the Portuguese presence in Mozambique was confined almost exclusively to the littoral and many Portuguese settlers and functionaries continued to have a vested interest in slave dealing and ownership. Portugal was only able to focus its military efforts on northern Mozambique in the wake of its army’s defeat of Ngungunhana’s Gazan state in the south in 1895.18 In 1917, Portugal had yet to establish its uncontested military dominance over the present-day districts of Malema, Namapa and Nacarôa.19 And it was only in 1921 that the Portuguese felt sufficiently secure in their military triumph to extinguish the military posts and commands that had, since 1885, formed the basis of administration in the region and to create civil circumscriptions in their stead.20 This was four full years after the military defeat of the Makonde on the Mueda plateau in northern Cabo Delgado, after which “pacification” was considered complete.21 With the abolition of slavery, a sizeable portion of the epotha population seized the opportunity to quit the chieftaincies into which they or their forebears had been forcibly inducted and to search for their own lineages.22
Colonial chieftaincy Colonial Mozambique was divided into districts. After 1954, there were nine of these. Each district was headed by a governor, who answered to the Governor-General of the colony. Districts, in turn, consisted of a combination of circumscriptions and councils, both of which were headed by administrators. Councils were situated in urban areas that either hosted relatively high concentrations of people who enjoyed “non-native” (não-indígena) or “civilized” status, or were centers of industrial and/or commercial activity. In principle, não-indígenas, a social category that included Europeans, Asians and a smattering of assimilados, enjoyed unfettered Portuguese citizenship. In practice, assimilados endured both white prejudice and institutional discrimination throughout the colonial period. Circumscriptions were, in the
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main, situated in the rural areas and were populated chiefly by Africans who, with few exceptions, were classified as “natives” (indígenas), a label that denoted subject status: indígenas were denied civil and political rights, and able-bodied, adult male indígenas (variously defined during the colonial period) were potentially liable to perform forced labor assignments. Circumscriptions were, in turn, divided into two to six administrative posts, each of which was presided over by a head of post (chefe do posto).23 In keeping with the administrative designations that were adopted in the post-independence period, I hereafter refer to colonial districts as provinces and to circumscriptions and councils as districts. In rural districts, traditional hierarchies, as recognized by the colonial administration, served as intermediaries between the chefe do posto and the indígena population, conveying and enforcing state decrees and directives. At the summit of these hierarchies stood the régulo or regedor, who headed a regedoria or regulado. Two tiers of traditional authority were recognized below the régulo: chefes de grupo de povoações (chiefs of a group of settlements, or cabos), charged with overseeing several African settlements, and, below them, chefes de povoação (chiefs of a settlement, or capitães), who headed a single settlement. In 1933, this hierarchy was enshrined in law by the Overseas Administrative Reform.24 In principle, the regedoria was the post-conquest incarnation of precolonial “tribes” and régulos, cabos and capitães were the legatees of precolonial chieftaincy. The reality was altogether other. Precolonial chiefs who had spearheaded armed African resistance to Portuguese occupation had fled, had been killed or were pushed aside. They had been replaced by Africans who were, or appeared to be, more amenable to collaborating with the conquerors: more pliant royals, cipaios (African policemen who had served in the Portuguese army), other former soldiers, “native plebeians” and, not infrequently, “mercenary elements” from this social stratum, among others, were nominated to fill vacancies.25 At the same time, larger, more formidable chieftaincies were broken up into smaller units in order to render them harmless, a process which brought lesser chiefs or non-royals to the position of paramount. The cumulative result was that, before too long, regedorias came to be highly variable in terms of the size of the territories and populations they encompassed, and régulos, as one influential colonial inspector put it, had been “transformed into something carnivalesque.”26 The remedy, in the view of those who had arrived at this conclusion, lay not only in granting a wide array of perquisites to state-recognized chiefs, but also in instating the “authentic régulos” who had been so summarily and so counterproductively dethroned in the aftermath of conquest.27 Accordingly, starting in the 1940s, steps were taken to “valorize” chieftaincy. The number of regedorias was reduced and their sizes, both in terms of territorial reach and numbers of inhabitants, were standardized. Chiefs were granted salaries and issued uniforms. For the first time, their duties were clearly defined. The state embarked on a program of building improved houses for
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those regulos who avidly collaborated in state campaigns to promote smallholder cotton production. The earning power of traditional authorities was enhanced in a number of other ways. Local administrators were directed to select régulos from among the historically dominant lineages in so far as this was both feasible and politically expedient – although it is unclear to what extent the officials in question sought to comply with this directive.28 What is clear is that, by the 1940s, Salazar’s New State was moving decisively to develop Lisbon’s colonies in the service of Portuguese capitalism and a concerted attempt was made to fashion chieftaincy to suit that purpose. In Mozambique, foreign (i.e. non-Portuguese) capital had predominated and, in certain provinces, foreign companies had even been vested with administrative and police powers. Lisbon passed a series of laws in the early 1930s which extinguished “any administrative or quasi-sovereign rights” exercised by private companies and brought the colony under a single unitary administration.29 These enactments were followed a decade later by legislation, promulgated in 1943, which mandated that strategic enterprises in the colony had to be at least 60 percent owned by Portuguese capital.30 The economic agenda of the New State required extracting raw materials from the colonies to meet the needs of metropolitan industry. In the 1940s and the 1950s compulsory smallholder crop production was institutionalized and the system of forced labor recruitment was streamlined. Chiefs were drafted to serve as intermediaries in the emergent labor regime. Official efforts to confer prestige on chiefs continued in the 1950s. A school was set up to cater to régulos and their sons, and chiefs were permitted, in certain circumstances, to retain a portion of the labor recruitment tax on African males who were contracted to work outside their regedorias. Chiefs, along with other state “auxiliaries” (e.g. cipaios, interpreters), were able to benefit from state agricultural extension services. They were the primary recipients of state-distributed goods, such as livestock and fruit trees. They were also charged with distributing these and other goods to their wards, an arrangement which enabled them to cultivate patron–client relationships.31 At the same time, the regedoria system enabled the state to farm out certain unsavory functions that either its own cadres or agents of local capital had hitherto performed, often illicitly, such as levying contingents of forced African labor to satisfy the expanding labor demands of colonial plantations, settler farms and public works projects. By delegating this function to chiefs, the colonial administration was able to distance itself from longstanding practices which were the focus of renewed international criticism after World War II, just when Portugal was trying to curry favor with the war’s victors and to strengthen its bid to gain membership of the United Nations.32 In summary, in the postwar period the search was on not so much for “authentic” traditional authorities but for “collaborators among the African population who could be made the agents of a less visible compulsion.”33
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Indígena status and all forced labor laws were revoked in 1961. However, although there was talk of doing away with indirect rule,34 the regedoria system persisted up until independence.
The colonial cotton regime Lisbon decreed cotton a compulsory crop in 1926 immediately following the military coup that brought down the sixteen-year-old Republican government. However, the first colony-wide forced cotton campaign did not get underway in Mozambique until the 1933–1934 agricultural season and it was not until 1938 that the Salazar’s New State sought to institutionalize compulsory crop production in Portugal’s African colonies.35 The cotton regime was the central plank in Salazar’s program, codified in the 1930 Colonial Act, to make the colonies produce raw materials to sell to the “motherland” in exchange for manufactured goods.36 The aim was to ease the country’s debilitating balance of payments deficit and to reduce the heavy reliance of national manufacturers on foreign markets for primary commodities. The New State ambitiously strove to eliminate the dependence of Portugal’s textile industry, which purchased 99 percent of its ginned cotton abroad in 1931, on foreign supplies by having colonial cotton yields wholly satisfy industry needs.37 In 1941, rice also became a compulsory crop in certain regions of the colony.38 The cotton scheme emulated a similar labor regime in the Belgian Congo. It was designed to maximize the number of producers, the amount of land under cultivation, and the number of hours producers invested in cultivating the crop. At the same time, it aimed to minimize capital investment and risk. The colonial government granted exclusive buying rights to peasant-produced cotton, grown compulsorily, at fixed low prices to concessionaires. The concessionaires, in turn, mandatorily exported the fiber to the metropole. By the early 1940s, twelve companies had signed contracts with the Colonial Cotton Export Board (JEAC), set up in 1938 to oversee cotton development throughout Mozambique, and were operating in well over half of the colony. Within these concession zones, African smallholders were subjected to a highly regimented work routine, consisting of set dates by which they had to plant, reseed, weed and harvest their cotton crop and minimum surface areas that they were obligated to cultivate. As the regime progressively tightened in the ensuing years, peasants contended with a battery of new strictures. These included fixed times when they were required to work only on their cotton fields (machambas) and proscriptions against intercropping cotton with either basic staples or other cash crops.39 State and capital joined forces in supervising cotton production and in penalizing peasants who failed to fulfill their legally-stipulated crop obligations. The concessionaires relied on field agents and overseers (capatazes) to accomplish these tasks. Local administrators, cipaios and state-recognized traditional authorities represented the state. All these local agents were
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deeply enmeshed in the inherent, and often intense, violence of the regime. Threats, physical intimidation, beatings, whippings and sexual assaults were part and parcel of daily life. Short of fleeing, paying extortion (e.g. in chicken, meat, grain or cash) to local enforcers was one of the few ways to be spared from corporal punishment, rape and public humiliation.40 Régulos and their underlings soon came to shoulder the burden of supervising smallholder cotton production and enforcement. There are several reasons why this came to pass. The concession zones were vast, the distances between far-flung peasant machambas were great, transportation was minimal, and the colonial state and the cotton companies were grossly shorthanded. To make matters worse, roads were few and far between and were, in any case, typically impassable during the rainy season.41 Under the circumstances, it was only a matter of time before many state-recognized traditional authorities, irrespective of their pedigree, began to incur the deep-seated resentment and wrath of rural populations. In the event, the colonial administration and cotton companies went to special lengths to coopt chiefs in designated cotton-growing areas. While material inducements varied from region to region, régulos variously received bicycles, radios, clothing, agricultural implements and production bonuses as perquisites from the local concessionaire or the district administration. The Cotton Board awarded chiefs whose regulados produced large volumes of highgrade cotton funds to build European-style (e.g. cement) homes. It also took steps to convince chiefs of the material and social gains to be garnered by seriously pursuing cotton production themselves. At the cotton markets, chiefs received payments in excess of statutory price ceilings for their harvest. In addition, the quality of their cotton was routinely overvalued in order to boost their earnings. In the late 1940s and 1950s, the JEAC made sure that régulos received higher quality seeds, premium land, storage bins and even water pumps. From the outset, régulos enjoyed official sanction to draft the (often involuntary and often unremunerated) labor services of their charges to work on their own fields. Not surprisingly, chiefs ranked among the principal African beneficiaries of the cotton regime.42 However, precisely because of their pivotal position in local production relations, chiefs also faced significant risks. If cotton yields in their regedorias fell below expectations, they could be subject to beatings by cipaios, company representatives or government officials, a punishment which was often meted out in front of their wards. What’s more, chiefs often faced popular antagonism and even reprisals. Forced crop cultivation yielded impressive results. Between 1937 and 1944 the number of peasants in Mozambique engaged in coerced household cotton production skyrocketed from 80,000 to approximately 791,000, or about 30 percent of the economically active population.43 In 1943, colonial cotton, most of which came from Mozambique, covered 94 percent of Portugal’s national requirements, compared with 37 percent in 1938.44 From the vantage point of most smallholders, these results were less than salutary. Compulsory cotton production severely threatened household and
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community food security. This was because it intensified the labor process and, at the same time, diverted already scarce labor time to the cultivation of a non-edible cash crop at the peak of the production cycle for foodstuffs. Moreover, cotton required virtually year-round attention. Other productive activities – such as fishing, hunting, foraging, and peanut and sesame production, which had hitherto provided sources of either cash or nutrients or both – were either completely forsaken or sharply curtailed.45 For the vast majority of producers cotton earnings hardly provided financial relief, let alone rewards. Productivity was extremely low.46 And real producer prices declined by almost 40 percent between 1939 and 1946.47 Relative to the income that could be earned from other cash crops, cotton simply didn’t rate. In 1951, the year that real producer prices for cotton finally surpassed those that prevailed in 1939, the fiber was still the least remunerative cash crop grown by Mozambican peasants.48 In many regions of the colony, the income obtained from cotton was insufficient to cover smallholders’ fiscal obligations, let alone to buy basic consumer goods or foodstuffs.49 Under the circumstances, the cotton harvest was hardly cause for celebration. On the contrary, it brought yet another set of challenges, perils and woes. Producers were responsible for getting their yields to government-run markets, an undertaking that entailed packing heavy head loads over long distances along bush paths and rocky, gutted and/or sandy roads. The trip could take up to two or three days and, not infrequently, had to be made more than once. En route, the cotton was often soiled due to exposure to humidity, dust or sweat, and thus lost some of its monetary value. Once the trek was completed, peasants had to endure extended waits – sometimes up to two or three days – in long queues with little to no food before their cotton was weighed and classified. Market transactions were rife with questionable and fraudulent practices. Scales were often rigged and cotton quality was downgraded. It was not uncommon for companies to run short of cash – or to feign to have done so. In either case, peasants were forced to accept deferred payment, payment in kind (e.g. in salt, hoes, cigarettes), or “vouchers” that could only be redeemed at company stores.50 Last but not least, if cotton growers were paid in cash, they ended up handing over most, if not all, of their earnings in taxes to government officials who were often stationed at the markets for precisely this purpose.51 The imposition of forced crop cultivation precipitated a succession of food shortages and famines in rural Mozambique which lasted throughout the 1940s. At the same time, the cotton regime induced a radical reorganization of the distribution of rural labor in order to accommodate the new, more stringent, production regime. In many areas, overstretched smallholders progressively substituted cassava, a less labor-intensive but also less nutritious tuber, for sorghum as their main food staple. They also turned to maize, whose production cycle is more compatible with that of cotton but which is also less drought-resistant and less nutritious than sorghum.52
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Despite the dramatic increases in production, the cotton regime was ridden with economic vulnerabilities, social tensions and political liabilities. Within a decade of its introduction, it was clear that it was not sustainable even in the short term. Most immediately, the labor practices that had been put into place threatened the survival of the workforce on which it depended. Predictably, the cotton regime met with rural resistance and precipitated peasant flight out of designated cotton zones. Colonial cotton policy, as initially formulated, was harmful to longerterm Portuguese interests, at home and in Mozambique, in several other respects. First, it caused widespread land exhaustion and deforestation. Second, it engendered labor shortages in the plantation sector of the Mozambican economy. This was particularly the case during World War II when labor demand was intensifying in response to the rising price of tea, copra, sugar and sisal on the international market. Third, and especially in the postwar period, forced crop cultivation, like other forms of coerced labor, earned Portugal international opprobrium.53 Fourth, as metropolitan textile manufacturers were already discovering towards the end of the war, cheap colonial cotton did not necessarily make for high-quality fiber. Nor did it always flow northwards in sufficient quantities. For the sector of the textile industry bent on modernizing its operations in order to compete successfully in European markets, upgrading the quality of supplies and stabilizing their quantity became leading preoccupations in the postwar period. Securing a stable supply of higher quality colonial cotton, in turn, required stemming the flow of African migration out of cotton concession areas, limiting competing claims to labor in these areas, and eliminating sources of African discontent and resistance.54 Reforms and administrative controls The first problem to draw a decisive response from the colonial state was inter-capitalist competition over African labor. In the early 1940s, the Governor-General of Mozambique took steps to tighten administrative controls on the work and movement of the African population. In 1942, he issued a circular mandating that, henceforth, every able-bodied African male between eighteen and fifty-five years old have in hand, and to show to the authorities on demand, an identity card (caderneta) on which was recorded his means of earning a living. African men who couldn’t prove that they did not support themselves and that they worked for wages at least six months out of the year were automatically branded as “vagrants” (vadios). As such, they were liable to be drafted as forced laborers on public works, colonial plantations or other enterprises. Among those exempted were cash croppers who cultivated a minimum surface area, an amount determined by the colony’s provincial governors.55 In the postwar period, the colonial state pursued a two-track strategy aimed at increasing the profitability of cotton production and diminishing
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state and company reliance on coerced labor. On the one hand, it sought to beef up the supervisory and enforcement capacity of local administrations and the cotton companies. On the other, it introduced a range of material incentives designed to enhance the appeal of cotton cultivation to at least a sector of the rural population. Several initiatives encompassed both objectives. In the immediate wake of World War II, the production of household food crops became mandatory, as did smallholder crop rotation. The JEAC ordered the cotton companies to hold markets closer to peasant machambas.56 And it conducted a territory-wide ecological survey to locate the most appropriate soils for cotton cultivation and to adjust the boundaries of the concession areas accordingly.57 In the late 1940s, the Cotton Board embarked on an ambitious exercise in social engineering geared to create a stratum of peasant producers who were committed to modern farming methods and who would be willing and able to specialize in cotton production to secure their livelihoods. Among other measures, this exercise involved the construction of new rural settlements, known as “cotton concentrations” (concentrações algodoeiras). The settlements were designed to agglomerate the rural population hitherto resident in dispersed homesteads along back country roads (picadas). The aim was fourfold: (1) to facilitate the provisioning of agricultural inputs, technical assistance, social services and access to water sources; (2) to promote crop rotation and scientific farming; (3) to ease the task of supervision; and (4) to reduce the distances to the cotton markets. Both in the 1940s and 1950s, fresh material and technical incentives were extended to Africans to take up cotton production as a means of social advancement and as a ticket to earning an exemption from forced labor requirements. In the 1950s, the colonial administration also initiated price reforms and established the Cotton Fund to finance the development of rural infrastructure.58 State-led cotton reforms in the 1940s and 1950s fell far short of their intended objectives. Force remained a salient and ubiquitous feature of cotton production.59 Rural food shortages, malnutrition and localized famines continued throughout the 1950s.60 Land and labor productivity rose but not at the rates necessary for Portugal’s expanding textile industry to achieve self-sufficiency in cotton and well below the colonial state’s own targets.61 By the end of the 1950s, only a paltry 15 percent of registered cotton growers were actually resident in the concentrações, and metropolitan textile mills continued to associate colonial cotton with erratic supplies of low quality.62 For producers, many reforms were double-edged. A greater portion of their working day and their crops came under government and company surveillance. They found themselves saddled with the task of building the concentrações and the access routes to them, work for which they received no pay. Peasants were often forced to leave their land to relocate to the concentrations. Many concentrações were built far from water sources or were other-
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wise inappropriately sited. While some concentrações were endowed with schools and health facilities, such promised social benefits never materialized in the vast majority. Price increases for raw cotton and productivity gains often barely kept up with, or failed to keep pace with, cost of living rises, tax hikes and new tax demands imposed to sustain the Cotton Fund, which was primarily peasant-financed.63 In view of these drawbacks, the signal achievement of the cotton reforms of the 1940s and 1950s was arguably the exemption from forced crop cultivation they bestowed on the upwards of 200,000 smallholders as a result of adjustments to the boundaries of the concessionary zones.64 Nevertheless, the partial liberalization of the cotton regime was by no means inconsequential. Reforms set in motion two complementary trends, both of which grew progressively more accentuated throughout the postwar colonial period. The number of African cotton producers substantially declined; at the same time, some producers began to evince a tangible commitment to the crop, energetically taking advantage of the new, albeit limited, moral and material incentives on offer. If productivity gains failed to meet official expectations, they were not derisory. Moreover, the 1950s did not witness the huge fluctuations in hectarage and numbers of producers that had characterized the 1940s and, at the decade’s close, output per hectare was on par with the rest of Africa.65 The selective relaxation of administrative and police controls in the cotton sector did not, however, imply a global move away from coercion as a means of labor recruitment and retention. Indeed, the postwar period witnessed an intensification of forced labor in certain other sectors of the colonial economy, a trend that was in part a response to the efficacy of the cotton reforms themselves. For to the extent that these reforms succeeded in increasing the attractiveness of cotton production to African smallholders or simply involved them in cotton development projects, they cut into the supplies of labor available to European plantations and private farmers. The sisal industry in northern Mozambique was especially hard hit. Other developments accentuated regional and sector-specific labor shortages in the aftermath of World War II. Lisbon’s post-1945 white settlement policy raised demand for African labor on Portuguese farms. The initiation of major public works projects in Niassa, Cabo Delgado and Nampula at the same time had a similar effect. So did urban growth and the expansion of cashew production by northern peasant households in response to higher prices on offer by Asian traders. By the beginning of the 1950s, the convergence of all of these factors had precipitated a serious labor crisis in Mozambique’s three northern provinces.66 The colonial state responded by moving to consolidate and streamline the system of forced labor recruitment. Census-taking procedures were refined. In northern Mozambique régulos were enjoined to identify and bring to book “vadios,” “ociosos” (idlers) and deserters. They were also ordered to assist in elaborating a file on all able-bodied men within their jurisdiction. These
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measures demonstrably enhanced the government’s capacity to mobilize forced labor and helped it to slash desertion rates.67 Colonial cotton production after 1961 Two impetuses for change in the 1960s carried over from the immediate postwar period: the twin imperatives of muting international criticism of Portugal’s forced labor policies and of satisfying the increasingly exacting qualitative and quantitative demands of metropolitan textile mills competing in export markets.68 With the founding of Frelimo in 1962 and the advent of armed struggle two years later, cotton policy also came to be heavily influenced by the need to forestall the spread of nationalist sentiment and to check the liberation movement’s advance.69 The colonial state once again adopted a two-pronged strategy. It continued to encourage the formation of a class of African commodity producers specializing in cotton. At the same time, it began to foster the growth of settler agriculture. To a certain degree, the campaign to draw white farmers into cotton production was achieved at the direct expense of African cotton growers, including a smattering of newly emergent Mozambican capitalist farmers. Thus, the latter tactic partially undermined the former. The expansion of settler agriculture also resulted in the expropriation of African land and the transformation of evicted peasants into landless wage laborers on white farms.70 Despite the obvious tensions between the colonial state’s two objectives, its cotton policies registered some notable successes. Forced labor was officially abolished in 1961 although, in practice, compulsory crop cultivation remained a prominent feature of the rural landscape for about another decade.71 In order to keep producers and buyers in the cotton business, price increases were granted to both cotton growers and the concessionaires in 1961 and again two years later.72 With the official end of forced labor, JEAC ceased operations and the Cotton Institute (IAM) was formed in its stead. IAM was charged with supervising, assisting, regulating and developing the cotton sector in all of its aspects.73 Under the concession scheme, corporate profitability had depended on the availability of an effectively captive labor force within the concessions’ respective zones of operation. As soon as African labor was no longer legally bound to produce cotton, the companies’ ties to fixed zones of operation quickly turned into a severe economic liability. The colonial state decreed the abolition of the concession scheme in 1963 and proceeded to dismantle it over the course of the next three years. For the first time, labor, property and commodity markets in cotton-related economic activity became free of direct state and company control.74 The demise of the concession system cleared the way for the growth of Portuguese cotton farming. This was because settlers, either individually or organized in marketing cooperatives, could now gin and export their cotton
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themselves, bypassing the companies’ operations entirely. The rise in world market prices in the early 1970s precipitated an influx of Portuguese immigrants into cotton production. Whereas settler farms accounted for a mere 1 percent of total cotton production in 1961, their share of global output rose steadily so that, by the 1970–1971 campaign, it had surpassed family sector output. By the end of the colonial period, the capitalist farming sector could claim credit for over 67 percent of total production.75 Reforms in the 1960s reinforced pre-existing trends in the family sector. The number of African cotton growers steadily fell throughout the decade, a decline which continued into the early 1970s. This drop was concurrent with the emergence of a tiny stratum of fully commercialized peasant cotton producers – an estimated 3 percent of registered growers – who hired tractors and applied insecticides on a regular basis and were beginning to register high levels of productivity.76 The cotton regime in northern Mozambique From the outset, the Portuguese designated the north as the geographic hub of the cotton regime. Their rationale seems to have been three-fold. First, in the late 1930s the region was only nominally integrated into the emerging colonial economy. Second, precisely for this reason, the imposition of forced cotton production would not divert labor from other capitalist concerns as it would have elsewhere.77 The colony’s three southern provinces had already been transformed into a labor reserve for the white farms, sugar plantations and mining industry in South Africa. Large-scale plantations (sisal, sugar, tea, copra) and their labor requirements dominated the economy of the central provinces. Plantation owners and local administrators in this region struggled to stem migratory flows to the farms and mines of Southern Rhodesia and the plantations of Nyasaland. The aim was to bolster local labor supplies and to feed seasonal agricultural work forces with locally-produced peasant cash crops.78 In northern Mozambique, only the sisal plantations on the coast competed with the cotton concessionaries for African labor and these had gone into decline by the late 1930s. Third, the weather patterns and warm climate which prevailed in much of the north seemed to augur well for the intensive cultivation of the cotton.79 By the early 1940s, four companies had been granted huge concessions for peasant-grown cotton in the region. The largest cotton concessionary was the Mozambique Cotton Company (CAM) which was awarded twenty-three northern cotton zones, consisting of 100,000 hectares, and owned twelve ginning factories. By 1940, almost 350,000 northern producers, or almost 37 percent of the eligible population, had been inscribed into the system. In the 1949–1950 campaign, cotton growers in Nampula, Cabo Delgado and Niassa cultivated about 60 percent of the land devoted to cotton farming and produced 65 percent of Mozambique’s total cotton output.80
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Husbands and wives in these provinces worked conjugal cotton plots together, a region-specific labor arrangement that was mandated by the colonial state. The tools smallholders used were rudimentary, consisting of axes, hoes, knives, machetes and shovels. The prevalence of tsetse fly strongly militated against the use of animal traction. Those who could mobilize extra-familial labor, such as traditional authorities, fared relatively well. Those who had to rely on their own labor and did not have access to off-farm income suffered most. Labor-deficient households, most notably those headed by women, figured prominently in this latter category.81 The dramatic expansion of labor demands in the north in the postWorld War II period had two divergent effects on patterns of smallholder production. To the extent that African men were forcibly removed from household agricultural production, the 1945–1961 period witnessed the progressive “feminization” of cotton production, a tendency which heightened peasant food insecurity and contributed to rural poverty.82 The decision of many men to migrate to Tanganyika in order to avoid forced labor and to take advantage of better employment conditions and producer prices had a similar effect.83 At the same time, given the dearth of more lucrative and/or more appealing local income-earning opportunities, a substantial number of African men decided to commit themselves to becoming state-recognized – and thus state-assisted – cotton producers in the (often misplaced) hope that in this manner they would enjoy full legal protection from forced labor. By the late 1950s, over 60 percent of the eligible male population in both Cabo Delgado and Nampula had opted for this status (agricultor do algodão), a figure which stands in marked contrast to the labor-exporting south where only 20 percent of eligible males chose to take this route.84 Nampula and the cotton regime CAM enjoyed a virtual monopoly over peasant-produced cotton in Nampula. Only the littoral, where JFS, a smaller, family-run firm founded in Mozambique in 1897, enjoyed cotton concessionary rights, fell outside CAM’s vast dominion.85 Nampula quickly established itself as the leading zone of peasant cotton production. In the 1938–1939 campaign, growers in Nampula produced 7,433 tons of cotton, just over 50 percent of total colonial output. In 1960, Nampula’s family sector harvested 37,772 tons of cotton, or 27 percent of total production, a decade later. Its closest competitor was the Zambézian peasantry which produced 20 percent of total colonial cotton output that year.86 Mean productivity rates in the Nampulan family sector in the 1950s soared above those in the colony as a whole – although they failed to meet government targets.87 By the late 1940s, several regions of the province, particularly those with high population densities, were showing unmistakable signs of advanced cotton-induced soil erosion and degradation. Nampula’s paramountcy in the
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cotton economy has also been directly implicated in the prevalence of food shortages and malnutrition in the province, as well as the frequency with which the region was afflicted by famine.88 Post-1961 trends towards capitalist cotton farming were especially pronounced in Nampula. The marked expansion of settler agriculture testified to the favorable climatic conditions in the region, as well as the ready availability of cheap African labor to provide a seasonal workforce. It also spoke to the colonial state’s growing security concerns. The Portuguese administration banked on a larger settler presence in rural Nampula to help stymie Frelimo’s military advance from Cabo Delgado.89 While all the cotton companies struggled to retain their profitability following the revocation of their monopsonistic status, CAM’s financial difficulties seem to have been particularly acute. The rise of settler agriculture in Nampula laid the basis for the development of an independent, whitedominated marketing network. Most Portuguese farmers had settled in the most productive cotton-growing areas and owned holdings that enjoyed ready access to transport and ginning facilities. They were thus well positioned to market not only their own yields directly to exporters but those produced by African smallholders as well.90 Peasant cotton production expanded during the early 1960s – in part in response to the increases in producer prices – and reached its zenith during the 1963–1964 campaign. At the end of that campaign smallholders in Nampula hauled 45,750 tons of cotton to market, or 38 percent of total colonial output. Thereafter, family sector cotton production in the province fell in both relative and absolute terms, a downward slide which became especially marked after 1970, just as whites were taking up cotton farming in the province on a large scale. During the last decade of colonial rule, the Nampulan family sector’s share fell from 37 percent of global cotton yields to just over 14 percent.91 Marketed family sector food production also declined.92 After 1962, the system of picadas and cotton concentrations gradually began to crumble.93 The process of disintegration accelerated at the end of the decade when the colonial state began to relax the regime of forced crop production. Among other things, the loosening of coercive controls aimed to free up African labor to service the expanding white farming sector.94 Many smallholders continued to produce cotton but on a smaller scale and often within the framework of unsupervised shifting agriculture. Others abandoned cotton cultivation entirely either out of lack of interest or because they were pushed off prime cotton land by encroaching white farmers. This period also witnessed a growing involvement of Africans, men in particular, in voluntary wage employment and, along with it, a movement away from the concentrations and picadas.95 A significant portion of small-scale agricultural producers, however, remained clustered in or near the concentrations and picadas in order to protect their assets there – most notably their cashew trees, an important source of cash income.96
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If the concentrations and picadas entered into decline as a base for smallholder agricultural production, they took on new importance as a counterinsurgency device during the war for independence. Whereas in Cabo Delgado, Niassa, Tete, Beira and Vila Pery (present-day Chimoio), the colonial state resorted to agglomerating peasants into fortified villages (aldeamentos),97 in Nampula, peasants who hitherto held out against relocating to the picadas during the 1950s, were now, in certain areas, forced to do so in order to enhance the state’s surveillance powers and to forestall guerrilla contact with the rural populace.98 As IAM increasingly turned its attention to developing the capitalist cotton farming sector, extension services to many rural areas were cut back; at the same time, however, levels of technical assistance were raised to certain growers with impressive records of cotton production. Consequently, this period witnessed the emergence of a small group of prosperous Mozambican capitalist farmers. Régulos, cabos and cipaios enjoyed strong representation in this group, as did African artisans and traders. These growers cultivated five or more hectares of cotton, owned or hired tractors, applied insecticides, employed seasonal labor, and enjoyed access to bank credit.99 While productivity in the smallholder cotton sector as a whole declined during the 1960s, land and labor productivity for certain sectors of the African population reached record highs.
Eráti District, c.1830–1974 Early settlement Geffray conjectures that, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, the area which would come to constitute Eráti District was unpopulated. He postulates the existence at that time of “a vast political formation” in the Nampulan hinterland from which many of the chieftaincies that later inhabited the district would spring. This formation, which was located somewhere between the present-day towns of Alua and Monapo, consisted of hierarchically-arranged lineages whose social reproduction was founded on the integration of female captives as epotha and the production of epotha lineages-in-formation. The dominant clan was the Lapone and the dominant lineage was that of Muatuca.100 During the first half of the nineteenth century, probably sometime between 1830 and 1840, Muatuca’s polity was torn asunder by a barrage of Ngoni raids. The various lineage segments took flight, eventually regrouping along a series of more or less parallel west–east bands. These were situated along Yao caravan routes to coastal markets, most notably Pemba, Mecúfi, Memba and Mossuril.101 Geffray identifies two distinct types of social formation in Eráti that issued from the splintering of the Muatucadominated chieftaincy: (1) small, relatively decentralized chieftaincies of the southern part of the district, deriving from junior segments of Muatuca’s
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lineage and probably certain of their former epotha; and (2) highly centralized, populous chieftaincies, among which that of Comala (Komala, Khomala) would eventually distinguish itself as the most powerful political grouping in the district. The members of Comala’s chieftaincy, also led by a junior segment of Muatuca’s lineage, would become known as the Errate after the Eráti mountains, in the western end of present-day Namapa, at the foot of which they originally settled.102 The precise provenance of another major political grouping in Eráti, the Chaka, is unknown.103 The Chaka seem to have settled in Eráti before Comala’s segment arrived, congregating near the southern banks of the Lúrio river at the foot of Chaka mountain from whence they derived their name. The Maravi, in their turn, arrived in the western part of Eráti shortly after Comala took up residence at the foot of the Eráti mountains. According to Tubruto, the leading Maravi chief in Namapa District in 1994, his forebears, led by Macherika, (Maxerica, Majirica, Majerica, Magerica), had begun their trek from the east bank of Lake Niassa at the beginning of the nineteenth century, in response to Ngoni attacks.104 At the time of Portuguese conquest during the first two decades of the twentieth century, these three groups appear to have settled in the areas which they currently occupy. By that stage, the Errate had relocated to the area east of the present-day town of Alua. The Maravi had settled in the area bounded by the present-day circles of 25 de Junho and Mucarara (Mukarara, Mukharara) near the town of Namirôa.105 And Chaka communities were still living at the foot of the Chaka mountains in and around the area of presentday Mirrote.106 A fourth cluster of people is dominated by the Mulima clan and led by Chief Namissier (Namissiere, Namicier). This group settled in the far northeast corner of present-day Namapa having arrived from Ancuabe, Cabo Delgado, after groups of Meto (Metto, Ametto, Medo) from the Montepuez, Balama and Namuno areas to the west migrated to Ancuabe.107 Present-day Namapa also hosts Meto communities which are currently concentrated in the western part of the district, mainly in Muanona Locality. It is not clear exactly when or why these communities settled there.108 If the Ngoni passage catalyzed the formation of some of the major chieftaincies in Eráti, and brought others to the district, the slave trade conditioned their subsequent development. Eráti was a major thoroughfare to slave markets on the coast. One caravan route traversed its southern end, passing through present-day Nacarôa District. Two others originated in Eráti.109 The chieftaincies in Eráti that were vanquished by the Portuguese, then, were less than a century old and, like other polities in Nampula, were heavily dependent on slave raiding, slaveholding and slave trading for their social reproduction. The Portuguese army established the first military posts in Eráti in 1906. In 1912 it founded military administrative divisions (commandos) in Namapa and Mirrote.110 The larger chieftaincies seem to have
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mounted the fiercest and most effective resistance to colonial occupation.111 Final defeat only came when the Portuguese, with British assistance, drove invading German troops out of the district, which they had briefly occupied during World War I, and back across the (then disputed) Tanganyika– Mozambique border. In the war’s aftermath the Portuguese charged that local chiefs had actively and willingly collaborated with German forces. Such allegations provided the pretext for unleashing a campaign of widespread and intense repression against the population of the area in retaliation.112 After conquest In the 1920s, the colonial administration designated Eráti a “native reserve.” It appears that the administration’s main aim was to avert the unregulated alienation of African land to white colonos, as had already occurred in some areas closer to the Nampula littoral, such as Mossuril.113 Eráti appears to have retained this status until after the legal abolition of the forced labor regime in 1961.114 The 1918–1929 period witnessed “permanent recourse to forced labor” as men and women were press-ganged into constructing roads in the interior of the newly formed district.115 In the ensuing decades Eráti, as one of Nampula’s most densely populated districts, remained an important source of contract labor for colonial enterprises within and beyond the district’s borders.116 However, after the imposition of forced crop cultivation, the district’s primary distinction was its reputation as one of the colony’s leading sources of peasant-produced cotton. By the early 1930s, the Société Colonial Luso-Luxembourgeoise (or GRANDUCOL), a company founded by Belgian and Luxemburgian capital in 1929, had begun to supervise an “experimental field” near the Lúrio river. The plot was situated just outside of Namapa Center, where GRANDUCOL was granted concessionary rights to build a cotton ginning facility in 1930.117 At the same time, the company began to enforce smallholder cotton cultivation.118 GRANDUCOL was under-capitalized and under-equipped. To make matters worse, its staff was both under-qualified and too thin on the ground. The company predicated its production strategy almost exclusively on the control and disciplining of labor. In the event, it rapidly acquired a reputation for brutality and myopic agronomic practices. GRANDUCOL also quickly racked up a large debt, as a result of which, by the late 1930s, it had become easy prey to takeover bids by Salazarian nationalists. These bids received an unexpected boost when the Nazi occupation of Luxemburg during World War II raised the specter that GRANDUCOL would be expropriated by local German interests. It was against this backdrop that CAM, an eminently Portuguese company, absorbed GRANDUCOL in 1942.119 Eráti remained under CAM’s zone of influence until the dismantlement of the concessionary scheme in the 1960s. After that, the concessionary giant
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retained ownership of the cotton ginnery in Namapa Center and remained a leading purchaser of peasant cotton until it was nationalized by the Frelimo government after independence. CAM suffered from many of the same technical deficiencies, logistical difficulties and personnel constraints that had bedeviled GRANDUCOL, and its labor practices were no different from those of its predecessor.120 In the early 1940s, Eráti quickly established itself as a prime source of smallholder-produced cotton. With Mogovolas, it accounted for about 19 percent of total cotton output in Mozambique at this time. Both districts were densely populated, both benefited from reasonable communications and transport, and both were situated in one of the two swaths of land in the colony that were highly propitious for cotton farming.121 Some twenty years later, Eráti smallholders still accounted for nearly 20 percent of all family sector cotton production in Nampula, the equivalent of 6 percent of the colony’s total cotton output.122 Peasant cotton earnings in the district were higher than average. Eráti was one of the few administrative divisions in cotton concessionary zones where, in 1941, cotton money exceeded smallholder fiscal obligations. After having paid their taxes, peasant households still retained a good 47 percent of the cash earned through cotton sales.123 Nevertheless, Eráti was hardly a picture of peasant prosperity or even well-being. As in other densely populated regions within cotton zones, the district witnessed a run of cottoninduced food shortages and famines in the 1940s.124 By the 1950s, Eráti was the site of advanced soil exhaustion and pest infestation. Correspondingly, land productivity fell precipitously. Tendencies toward land degradation continued, seemingly unabated, well into the 1960s.125 As elsewhere in the colony, the colonial administration’s campaign to regroup smallholders along the picadas and concentrações ran up against both serious financial constraints and peasant resistance. In many areas the picadas were built but smallholders continued to reside in their dispersed homesteads. Natural calamity gave an unexpected boost to the local implementation of state resettlement policies. In 1956, a powerful cyclone hit the eastern part of the district, causing serious crop and property damage. Local company and government personnel saw in the heightened vulnerability of many smallholders a prime opportunity to advance their campaign to force the transition from shifting cultivation to sedentary agriculture. Foodstuffs and cassava plants were distributed to the affected population on the condition that they reconstruct their huts along the picadas. Relief operations occasioned the first of two massive cashew tree planting campaigns, both of which were undertaken with a view to introducing fixed assets and private property rights.126 The spread of cashew trees, a much less labor-demanding and more lucrative source of income than cotton, engendered far-reaching socio-economic transformation in the district. By the 1960s, cashew nuts sales had begun to raise rural household earnings substantially. On the eve of independence, by which
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time the cashew trees had reached maturity, receipts from such sales exceeded those from cotton and accounted for nearly 50 percent of rural incomes.127 Other developments boosted rural incomes and expanded economic opportunities during the last two decades of colonial rule. The rural marketing network expanded significantly in the 1950s and early 1960s.128 The 1960s witnessed price rises for agricultural commodities, including cotton and peanuts, which outpaced tax hikes.129 In addition, a provincial government initiative, dating from the 1950s, to expand small livestock breeding by Africans began to bear fruit in the 1960s, creating new incomegenerating opportunities and bases for rural accumulation.130 The development and spread of rural trading activity were closely associated with the growth of the settler population.131 As elsewhere in Africa, Portuguese nationals who took up residence in Eráti gravitated toward trade and, by the mid-1960s, most shops were Portuguese-owned.132 The few white land holdings, where they existed, were large, and European settlement entailed the eviction of Africans from their homes.133 Forced removals of smallholders were also occasioned by stepped-up guerrilla activity in Cabo Delgado. Many rural dwellers who had hitherto remained in their dispersed homesteads were compelled by the colonial state to relocate to the district’s network of picadas, often to areas that were far from water sources or where arable land was in short supply or both.134 In addition, starting from the mid-1960s many state-recognized traditional leaders – imposed or otherwise – were detained, accused of contacting and/or aiding Frelimo guerrillas.135 Some died in prison; others never returned and were believed by local residents to have been tortured and killed, as was the case with many imprisoned chiefs throughout the colony.136 Local Islamic leaders were treated in a not dissimilar manner.137 As a district that borders Cabo Delgado, Eráti also hosted two army compounds, which were set up in the towns of Namapa and Nacarôa, respectively.138 It is unclear what contact, if any, Frelimo had with the residents of Eráti. My own interviews did not yield any evidence that local denizens either communicated or collaborated with the nationalist movement. The vast majority of my informants claimed that while they knew there was fighting going on in Cabo Delgado and while they were bombarded with antiFrelimo Portuguese propaganda, until independence they remained in the dark about Frelimo’s motivations or political objectives.139 Oral testimony suggests that Portugal’s “psycho-social action” programs were by no means ineffective: apparently in response to official propaganda, locals just to the west of the town of Namapa reportedly captured and tortured a couple of Frelimo guerrillas who had crossed the Lúrio.140 Smallholders and agrarian change Geffray’s research on colonial Eráti analyzes the effects of agrarian change on “family” institutions in the district. His findings highlight the internal ten-
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sions and structural instability of lineage social relations on the eve of independence and the ways in which both of these characteristics helped shape and constrain local processes of state formation in the postindependence period. They provide an important backdrop to the analysis I undertake in subsequent chapters. In what follows, I recapitulate the main lineaments of Geffray’s argument as they bear on my own.141 Before the peasant food economy had been subordinated to cotton production, marriage had been the privileged institution in a complex of mutual social dependencies and reciprocal claims characterizing the predominantly matrilineal peasantry. Several lineage segments, each filiated with different clans, inhabited a common matrimonial area, or mutthetthe (pl. mitthetthe), which encompassed about 2,500 hectares and was home to between 500 to 1,000 inhabitants. People married outside of their clan and their own lineage segment but within the confines of their mutthetthe. Clearly demarcated by well-known natural boundaries, each mutthetthe was headed by a humu-chefe de terra, chief of the lineage segment considered the first to arrive in the area. Within the mutthetthe, each lineage segment, also headed by a humu-chefe de terra (hereafter referred to as humu; pl. mahumu), maintained several bilateral matrimonial ties with other lineage segments occupying territory contiguous to its own. Lineage segments were, in turn, divided into smaller groupings, or sub-segments, which fell under the political authority of mi-jeio (sing. n’jeio) and apwya (apia), representing the oldest males and females of their generation within their respective subsegments. In principle, sub-segments maintained a single bilateral matrimonial alliance with a counterpart in a neighboring segment. A young man gained access to land and granaries via matrilocal marriage typically negotiated between his own humu and that of the allied group. Sealing a marriage deal required, among other things, the young man’s satisfactory performance of agricultural and domestic tasks in the service of his classificatory “in-laws” – that is, the ensemble of senior members of the allied segment. Economic dependence and labor obligations of male dependants persisted until their mid-40s, by which time their own daughters had reached marrying age. Access to money and commodities, in turn, was controlled and administered by the young man’s humu. The production of cash crops (sesame, groundnuts, peanuts) was overseen by the n’jeio of the male dependant and most of the work was done on the land of the n’jeio’s household. During the off-peak agricultural period in July and August, a caravan transported these crops, along with forest products such as wax, honey and wild rubber, to coastal trading posts where they were sold for iron hand tools, cloth and some money. These purchases were then transported back to the lineage territory and stored at the residence of the humu. The humu proceeded to preside over the transfer of cloth through the intermediary of young male dependants to the women of the allied lineage who these men had married. Thus, whereas men were dependent on women for access to granaries, women were dependent on men for access to commodities, most notably cloth.
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The institutionalization of the forced cotton regime in the 1940s precipitated tendencies toward economic individuation, especially among male youth, and thus posed a serious challenge to the integrity of the prevailing structure of authority. First and foremost, the forced cotton regime modified channels of access to land and cash. In principle, eighteen was the minimum age at which men were obligated to grow cotton. In practice, boys as young as fifteen years old were given a parcel of land for cotton production. They thus began their productive lives six to seven years earlier than had their fathers and uncles. The forced lowering of the productive age of male social juniors presented an unprecedented challenge to the hitherto exclusive authority of lineage notables as land allocators. Moreover, individual remuneration to producers for crop sales at the cotton markets paved the way for decentralized channels of access to the market. Nonetheless, the emancipatory potential for young men of the new conditions of production and resource access remained largely unexploited. Up until the 1950s, the meagerness of cotton earnings, combined with exacting tax obligations and the remoteness of markets, tended to perpetuate the centralized management and expenditure of cash in the hands of the mahumu. With a view to bolstering this tendency and thus frustrating attempts by male youth to reduce their material dependence on kin and “in-laws,” elders and notables lowered the average age of male initiation rites and marriage. Their aim was to ensure that cotton-related economic activity would coincide with the institutional framework where, historically, claims on male youth labor were at their strongest. That the machambas of the mi-jeio generated the highest cotton yields testifies to the strategy’s success. The apparent structural stability of lineage power, however, proved to be short-lived. The generalization of cashew tree stands throughout the district, the expansion of the rural marketing network, the development of small livestock breeding and rising rural incomes in the 1950s and 1960s decentralized male access to land, money and commodities. Revived tendencies toward economic individuation among young men heralded the demise of marriage as the guarantor of lineage authority and control. In particular, the uncoupling of access to land from conjugal relationships paved the way for men to withhold labor services from “in-laws.” The social consequences of changing conditions of access were manifold and far-reaching. The 1960s brought the dissolution of bilateral matrimonial alliances and, thus, the structural instability of marriage. While mi-jeio continued to marry in conformity with already established alliance patterns, their male dependants did not necessarily follow suit. And, if they did, they were more likely to opt out of marriages that subjected them to what were increasingly perceived as the unreasonable labor demands and dictatorial impulses of their wives’ kin. At the same time, aggrieved wives and their relatives were just as likely to send labor-boycotting or otherwise errant “sons-in-law” packing. Divorce became widespread.
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This period also witnessed an increased incidence of patrilineal inheritance patterns and of virilocal and polygynous marriages, prerogatives hitherto enjoyed almost exclusively by chiefs and the husbands in “slave” marriages. The assertion of patriliny and patrilineal polygyny was most pronounced among better-off rural dwellers such as cipaios, local cotton foremen, wage workers at the cotton ginnery in the district capital, itinerant traders and artisans. In order to offset labor shortfalls attendant upon the enfeeblement of bride service, social seniors leaned more heavily on adolescent marriage as a source of docile, exploitable labor, further lowering the age at which this would occur. Nevertheless, many rural households, particularly those at either end of the age spectrum, came up shorthanded. Labor-deficient households sought recourse in o’lola, a longstanding local practice involving the exchange of labor for food. Whereas in the past such exchanges had occurred only in the wake of poor harvests, they now became an annual occurrence, a development which marked the “destruction of domestic organization and fuel[ed] a process of social differentiation.”142 Despite the erosion of the material basis of the mutthetthe and the resultant upheavals in its internal social relations, Geffray maintains in his subsequent work, undertaken in collaboration with Mögens Pedersen, that this territorial unit persisted as a matrimonial area and as a unifying principle of rural sociopolitical organization.143 The researchers argue that, as a rule, people in Eráti remained within their respective matrimonial areas even after they were relocated to the picadas in the 1950s and 1960s – although this wasn’t always the case elsewhere.144 Geffray and Pedersen also insist on the centrality of the mutthetthe and its leading representative, the humu, to processes of rural differentiation and political polarization during the first decade of independence. Villagization, and the political and resource competition it engendered, would pit matrimonial groupings against one another and give rise to new, much more binding, structures of dominance among them. However, even if young people continued, in the main, to marry within their own matrimonial area, one can’t help but wonder if this tendency says less about the ongoing internal coherence of the mutthetthe than it does about the pressures of the colonial state’s political and administrative controls bearing down on it. In particular, tight restrictions on migration out of the district seem to have lent to lineage organization the outward appearance of political and territorial integrity which, in fact, it had long ago ceased to possess. As elsewhere in sub-Saharan Africa, “apparent continuities in formal institutions disguised significant shifts in the content of the relation of social age”145 – a relation that, according to Geffray and Pedersen, stood at the heart of chiefly and lineage authority. Evidence of such shifts in Eráti calls into question the extent to which “the colonial pattern of forced peasant cash cropping in Nampula, and elsewhere in the north of the country,” helped to preserve the legitimacy of precolonial-derived political institutions, such as chieftaincy, especially in the late colonial period.146
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Decolonization starkly illuminated the sharp incongruity between the form and content of lineage organization. The instant evaporation of colonial-imposed restrictions on population movement on the morrow of independence sparked a dramatic out-migration of male youth from the rural areas of Eráti to provincial urban centers in search of job opportunities, social mobility and adventure. In this respect, Eráti’s experience was typical of that of the province as a whole.
3
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production,” 1975–1987
This chapter chronicles the evolution of the relationship between official and traditional authority in Nampula Province between independence and the 1986–1987 agricultural campaign. It opens with the new government’s withdrawal of chiefs’ statutory privileges and prerogatives. It closes with the minting of former régulos as “chiefs of production” in various districts, a designation that signaled that the chiefs in question had resumed their colonial-era functions as overseers of rural production. My discussion is divided into three parts. Part one describes key elements of the context in which the new government attempted to effect a clean and decisive break with the legacy of indirect rule. Focusing on Eráti, it details the disruptions precipitated by decolonization, the effects of the rural goods famine and the experience of collective agriculture prior to the outbreak of war in the district. It concludes with a brief discussion of the war’s influence on one of the most controversial aspects of Frelimo’s strategy for rural transformation: the communal village program. Part two examines local processes of state formation and socio-political change in Eráti. It documents instances of continuity between late colonial rural power structures and those that prevailed at the height of Frelimo’s efforts to revolutionize social relations in the hinterland. My aim is to provide a counterpoint to accounts which turn on the often unstated presumption that the post-independence regime, at least at the outset, succeeded in standing traditional hierarchies on their head. As we saw in Chapter 1, this presumption was shared by Frelimo’s sympathizers and the revisionists. At one end of the spectrum, Geffray has argued that the growing visibility and importance of chiefs on the rural political landscape from the mid-1980s onwards bore testimony to a popular backlash against Frelimo’s ill-conceived attempt to circumvent chieftaincy. Geffray found that, in the case of Eráti, this backlash was spearheaded by those chieftaincies with the loosest of historical ties to state institutions and the cash nexus and thus, he implies, the most steeped in tradition. According to Geffray, the most “marginalized” chieftaincies in the district targeted not only the Frelimo state and its grassroots representatives. They also vented their rage at their better-off neighbors: chieftaincies that had derived
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more advantages from colonial rule and that were thus strategically positioned to extract greater benefits from the independent state. The political effects of this rural backlash were dramatically amplified by Renamo’s politico-military action.1 At the other end of the spectrum, Saul and Otto Roesch have suggested the “retreat to tradition,” discernible from the late 1980s, constituted a logical response on the part of both the peasantry and the state in the face of deepening adversity. The early collapse of rural markets initiated this retreat on the part of smallholders, whose access to the modernizing influence of commodities was increasingly restricted. Two externally-driven assaults on the Frelimo state in the 1980s accelerated the tendency to revert to the late colonial status quo: (1) Renamo’s foreign-backed, anti-popular war; and (2) an IMF-imposed structural adjustment program. The combined impact of these assaults was to radically reduce the government’s profile in the rural areas and thus to deprive smallholders of contact with modern institutions.2 Both Geffray’s perspective and the perspective put forth by Roesch and Saul falsely presuppose an inverse relationship between the relative resilience of traditional allegiances and practices, on the one hand, and the degree of market involvement and/or geographic and social proximity to state power, on the other. The one sustained, in-depth study on the subject discloses a markedly different dynamic and therefore its findings are rehearsed here.3 It is coauthored by one of the leading protagonists of the above-mentioned debate. On the basis of their field research in Eráti, Geffray and Pedersen show that the reassertion of lineage power, the social and political foundation of chieftaincies, was already underway by the time the district became engulfed in war and well before the combined impact of destabilization and IMF strictures had taken their toll, rolling back state institutions and programs. The fruit of a complex and unorchestrated interaction of economic, social and political factors, this outcome provided the basis for a political alliance between the local administration and some former régulos, as my own field research shows. In highlighting continuities in rural asymmetries of power, I am not calling into question the veracity of accounts that detail instances in which colonial régulos and members of their inner circles were hectored and humiliated by former subjects who secured appointments as local Frelimo party secretaries or by higher-level state and party authorities. Such incidents did indeed occur – although, as others have argued and as Geffray’s earlier work suggests, this was often the case because the Frelimo slogan “down with [abaixo] mpéwé [paramount chiefs; sing. mapéwé]” resonated, at least initially, with significant portions of the population.4 But even as such incidents were occurring, there were instances in which the official policy of abaixo coexisted with royal rule by other means. The latter half of part two shows that this is the case. Indeed, so prevalent was the latter arrangement, both in Eráti and elsewhere, as to prompt one to question a central assertion made by some advo-
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 117 cates of some sort of return to chiefly rule: namely, that the majority of Frelimo secretaries were epotha, the descendants of slaves in precolonial chieftaincies, and, as such, were bent on using their newfound power to settle longstanding personal scores with their former masters. The evidence of continuity in structures of authority and power provides the empirical basis for querying the extent to which the “retreat to tradition” in the late 1980s and the early 1990s marked a radical departure from previous state practice. It also serves as a starting point for interrogating why changes in official dealings with rural political authority were depicted by state and party representatives, both in Nampula and further afield, as if they represented a veritable volte face in ruling practice and, as such, as a sure-fire antidote to the progressive erosion of Frelimo’s authority and legitimacy. In part three, the focus of investigation shifts to ruling discourses and practices at the provincial level. I contextualize and, in doing so, interweave two contemporaneous, apparently discrete developments, both of which came to scholarly attention by way of the revisionist school: on the one hand, the most comprehensive, concerted and unabashed attempt on the part of a provincial government to recreate the most salient aspects of the colonial labor regime; on the other, the provincial government’s enlistment of former régulos as rural foremen.5 In the course of discussion, I explore the structural and conjunctural factors that made Nampula the site of these particular initiatives. Both Cahen and Geffray have cogently argued that the provincial governor’s call, in 1986, to rural dwellers to take their leave of the communal villages and to repopulate the network of picadas was tantamount to official recognition that the aldeias constituted one of the leading impediments to bringing a collapsing economy back from the abyss – one which, unlike the war itself, the government could easily remove by taking unilateral action. While Geffray has emphasized the emancipatory dimension of the governor’s action, Cahen has rightly insisted that any such assessment must be tempered by a recognition that the government’s intent was not wholly benign: like their Portuguese predecessors, the Nampulan authorities’ principal objective was to squeeze agricultural surpluses, notably export crops, out of rural producers with greater efficiency and by force if need be. In directing rural dwellers to the picadas, the government was promoting a settlement pattern which, like the aldeias, was predicated on coercion and violence. Cahen’s analysis provides the indispensable backdrop to the appearance of chiefs of production on the Nampulan scene, one that is absent from Geffray’s account on the subject. Geffray argues that the term was a facesaving euphemism opportunistically coined by officialdom to eclipse the de facto return to chiefly rule. This reversion, he contends, was forced by – and shamefacedly mimicked – Renamo’s own successful and widely acclaimed cultivation of traditional leaders as local allies. There is no question that Renamo’s strategy of rural mobilization exerted considerable influence over
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state decision-making and practice during this period. It is, however, far from clear that rebel appeals and alliances were the only, or the decisive, determinant in the government’s embrace of former régulos as intermediaries in outgrower production schemes. Chiefs of production were, I show, just one feature of the general movement to revive Portuguese labor practice and their appearance is therefore only fully intelligible when squarely situated within this larger framework. The revival of Portuguese labor arrangements bore testimony to the provincial government’s attempt to intervene in and shape wartime rural social relations in response to the imperatives posed by economic crisis and military destabilization. Furthermore, the state’s capacity for intervention and innovation at this stage, while admittedly limited, was by no means inconsequential. At least this was the case when and where government authorities worked in conjunction with private capital and especially where this joint effort was bolstered by a timely influx of international assistance. Geffray’s critique of ruling representations of the communal village program is, however, crucial to understanding the ideological practices that helped enable and justify the return to Portuguese precedent. Geffray has argued that the aldeias were an essential plank in Frelimo’s program to remake the rural populace in its own urban, cosmopolitan image. On this logic, the leadership could publicly acknowledge the failure of the village project only at the risk of calling into question the suitability of that image as a model for rural development and, along with it, the legitimacy of its own stewardship. Consequently, the village project, and the political principles underpinning it, not only enjoyed full immunity from officially-sponsored public criticism but continued to be vigorously extolled long after communal villages themselves had been abandoned as sites of development interventions and even, as the war dragged on, as instruments of rural control. Behind Frelimo’s refusal to admit out loud that it had forsaken its vision of rural collectivity lurked a second unspoken motive: the political need felt by the ruling party to deny the efficacy of Renamo’s destabilization campaign. Two points bear mention here. First, one need not subscribe wholesale to Geffray’s explanation of the reasons for vanguardist taboos to note that the village project remained exempt from open criticism long after that project had effectively been aborted. One consequence of this immunity, I show, was that the extent to which the government-imposed habitat had idled rural producers by removing them from productive resources – notably land and trees crops – was conveniently glossed. Officialdom’s studied refusal to acknowledge the disabling economic effects of villagization apparently confirmed the validity of the dual economy thesis. As we have seen, this thesis held that, in the absence of major technological advance, appreciable quantities of agricultural surpluses could only be extracted from the family sector on a regular basis through the application of force. The apparent confirmation of the dualist position helped to justify and legitimate the explicit sanctioning of coercive labor practices in the mid-1980s by leading government officials.
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 119 The second point concerns the way in which state and party officials in Nampula opted to portray the impact of Renamo’s politico-military strategy on ruling practice. My findings corroborate Geffray’s contention that official discourses in the province strongly tended to discount and/or distort the rebels’ influence on the state’s rural resettlement policy. This was the case with respect to the government’s abandonment of state-sanctioned aldeias as a global counter-insurgency device in the 1986–1987 period, as Geffray has shown. It was equally true of the manner in which Frelimo officials depicted the purpose and pace of wartime villagization in the mid-1980s. In this respect, the evidence examined below contradicts the argument that, with the onset of defensive villagization, there ceased to exist “any pretense of social and political transformation.”6 On the contrary, it shows that, in Nampula at least, government authorities justified the concentration of the population in state-controlled settlements in the name of socialist transition both in its public utterances directed at the rural population and in internal documentation for bureaucratic consumption. Such ideological practices no doubt contributed to the gathering crisis of state legitimacy.7 They also helped to enable the production of “codes of oblivion” that were so prominent a feature of statist historical narratives in the 1990s, the subject of subsequent chapters.
The context Settler flight during the first years of independence spelled the breakdown of the urban–rural trading network that had linked smallholders in far-flung and often remote settlements to wider regional and national markets. In outlying areas, such as Eráti, abandoned settler lands often formed the site of experiments in collective agricultural production. Elsewhere in the province, as in the rest of the country, Portuguese farms that were congregated near urban markets, commercial centers or ginning factories were incorporated into the state farm sector.8 In both cases, the land claims of African smallholders who had been forcibly relocated in order to make way for white settlement during the colonial period were, more often than not, disregarded.9 The disruptions engendered by decolonization were especially acute in the cotton sector. Virtually all the Portuguese technicians and administrators who had occupied high-ranking posts in IAM at both national and provincial level took their leave, “either destroying records or taking information with them.” Settler farmers abandoned the country without paying off the debts they owed to IAM, further enfeebling the institute. Both the cotton companies and IAM had contracted settler farmers, traders and truckers for transport services and the abrupt halt of these services left cotton field operations high and dry.10 IAM was disbanded shortly after independence and its functions and facilities were initially taken over by a state-owned firm. Formed as an emergency measure to cope with the crisis in rural marketing, the company was
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From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production”
largely comprised of personnel who were seriously under-qualified for the positions they staffed. Neither it nor its various successor bodies were equal to the task of tackling the organizational, logistical and technical challenges they confronted.11 The upshot was that family sector cotton producers faced a series of headaches, which, taken together, constituted a strong disincentive to producing cotton. This was the case even though, in some quarters, the crop continued to carry appeal as a reliable source of income with (theoretically, at least) a guaranteed market. As often as not, seed was distributed late, and at times was either sterile or infected. Tractors and pesticides failed to arrive at the designated time, further throwing off production schedules and lowering the quantity and quality of yields. Delays in marketing meant that harvests, which are stored in open-air bins, were exposed to damage from rain. At times, transport never arrived and harvests simply went unsold. Cotton producers who were fortunate enough to sell their crops were often left waiting days on end for payment.12 CAM was nationalized in 1977. The company had been losing money ever since the early 1960s. Corporate losses were in part the result of steadily rising producer prices. They also reflected the competition CAM had begun to encounter from capitalist farmers and independent traders in the marketing and ginning of cotton within the company’s traditional zones of influence.13 In 1980, several of CAM’s direct production and ginning facilities, along with its family sector operations, were regrouped to form the State Cotton Farm of Nampula (EEAN). Like other state agro-enterprises, EEAN was beset by serious managerial problems and soon proved to be a costly, highly unprofitable enterprise.14 From the outset, EEAN’s direct production units, like those of its counterparts, were hamstrung by chronic shortages of seasonal farmhand labor. These shortages, whose severity increased in the first half of the 1980s, in part reflected the demise of forced contract labor. They were also due to general inefficiency, low pay, poor living conditions and the dearth of goods at company stores to spend wages on. In 1986 the Mozambican government delegated many of the company’s managerial responsibilities, including those related to its family sector operations in Namapa, to JFS, which had survived the early wave of post-independence nationalizations.15 The government’s decision was prompted by EEAN’s dismal track record. It was also in keeping with Fourth Congress decisions to decentralize and streamline staterun enterprises. Independence brought the final dissolution of colonial political and administrative controls which had become progressively more attenuated since the formal abolition of forced labor in 1961. Many smallholders in Eráti, as throughout Mozambique, celebrated the demise of institutionalized compulsory labor by abandoning cotton production.16 National family sector cotton production fell from about 125,089 tons in 1967 to about 23,736 tons in 1976.17 During the same period, this sector’s total output in
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 121 Nampula Province dropped from about 42,481 tons to about 5,409 tons. While figures for Eráti are not available for this period, in one locality, Alua, total output was a mere 265 tons in 1976, less than 8 percent of 1967 yields.18 According to Marc Wuyts, at the national level subsistence production rose by 12 percent in 1975, an increase which reflected both the collapse of rural trade and the redirection of smallholder energies from cash crop production to building up food reserves.19 For most Nampulan smallholders, respite from the crop most intimately associated with the colonial labor regime proved to be short-lived. The second half of the 1970s witnessed the slow, if unsteady and uneven, expansion of family sector cotton production as rural dwellers became increasingly hard-pressed for cash to meet basic needs. By the early 1980s, rekindled peasant commitment to cotton would be dimmed by general sectoral disarray, worsening shortages of goods and stepped up villagization, which seriously jeopardized rural livelihoods and survival strategies. Initially, shortages of goods had been engendered by the collapse of the rural trading network. By the end of the decade, however, the burden of blame for the rural goods famine lay squarely on Frelimo’s investment priorities.20 Smallholders at this point had precious little to produce for (e.g. material incentives) or with (e.g. agricultural tools in decent condition). Increasingly, they also had next to nothing to produce in and this, too, was having an adverse effect on household farming. By the end of the 1970s, articles of clothing had become so scarce that women in Eráti were sharing capulanas, cloths that often serve as wrap-around skirts, in order to leave their homes.21 In 1983, the district administration reported that the existence of many “people that don’t leave their houses because they don’t possess clothing, not even . . . a sack” was likely to result in smaller harvests.22 By this time, many back roads had become impassable after not having been maintained for several years, a development which further curtailed rural access to markets.23 Throughout the province, food-deficit, cashstrapped households resorted to eating inadequately processed bitter cassava in a desperate bid to stave off hunger or worse. An epidemic of wasting paralysis ensued.24 Declining terms of trade for small-scale producers, a trend that predated independence, aggravated rural poverty, malnutrition and the crisis of production.25 Post-independence developments made a mockery of Frelimo promises that national liberation would put an end to hunger and nudity. They also created a situation in which people who controlled local circuits of exchange and mechanisms of distribution, official or otherwise, wielded political power. By 1979, both the goods famine and deteriorating terms of trade were well on their way to becoming political issues of no mean importance and were repeatedly raised as major preoccupations in public meetings.26
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Collective agriculture The vast majority of post-independence agricultural producer cooperatives languished for want of development resources and institutional support. According to government estimates from 1981, the cooperative sector as a whole accounted for a paltry 0.3 percent of national agricultural output.27 As elsewhere in the country, production techniques in collective undertakings in Eráti did not differ in the main from those deployed on household machambas. The one notable exception was the use of tractors to prepare fields. In cooperative ventures, the rotation of land and crops and the burning of cotton plants, a standard pest control measure, were not always practiced. Cooperative fields soon showed signs of soil degradation, and land and labor productivity were lower than on family machambas.28 As in other provinces, control and management of planning, production and agricultural yields in Nampula were centralized in the hands of the Provincial Directorate of Agriculture (DPA) and the district administration. Production targets were set without taking into account the availability, capacity or predisposition of local labor. They also bore little relation to the state’s capacity to render material and technical assistance in a timely and efficient manner. Targets were handed down from on high without comment or explanation.29 Cooperators and participants in collective machambas – communal fields seen as pre-cooperatives – had little to no information about production yields. This and the tenuous relationship between individual earnings and participation rates bred suspicions among the membership of collective ventures that they were being shortchanged, either by cooperative officeholders or by higher-level authorities.30 While it is true that cooperative leaders and government authorities in Nampula, as elsewhere, embezzled funds,31 some cooperatives, notably those whose early promise earned them inclusion in “pilot” programs, were heavily subsidized by the state and soon ran into debt. In 1985, agricultural cooperatives in Eráti were reportedly over US$20,000, in the red.32 Unlike their less fortunate counterparts, cooperatives that were included in pilot programs of various stripes did not suffer for want of material assistance. Rather, their development was stymied by excessive levels of state material support, as a result of which their memberships quickly came to evince a “passive dependence” on the state. Such attitudes were fostered by the fact that agricultural inputs took precedence over technical or organizational training. While cooperatives in pilot programs achieved higher levels of productivity per hectare than other cooperatives, they also often registered higher costs per unit of production. The agricultural cooperative in Samora Machel Communal Village, Eráti District, which was touted as a national success story in 1977 when it earned 1,000 contos (about US$31,000), fell casualty to all of the problems described above. Interest in collective production in the aldeia quickly waned and the cooperative folded during the 1983–1984 campaign.33
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 123 By the late 1970s the main draw of joining a collective machamba or cooperative was the access membership provided to increasingly scarce commodities. Such membership, however notional, conferred the right to purchase dwindling stocks in consumer cooperatives, by that time the main legal rural outlet for state-distributed consumer goods and agricultural implements in the province.34 Perhaps the most salient characteristic of collective agriculture was just how tangential it was to the post-independence experience of the overwhelming majority of rural dwellers. Eráti hosted only four cooperatives. In 1982 total membership stood at 652 people.35 By 1981, virtually all collective machambas had disappeared.36 In the province there were 183 collective machambas and thirty-nine cooperatives during the 1980–1981 campaign. The provincial government estimated that, at the time, 11,000 people were involved in some form of collective agriculture, or about 0.46 percent of the provincial population.37 During the 1983–1984 campaign, total membership in the cooperative movement stood at about 5,232 people.38 Communal villages The Frelimo institution to which rural dwellers had the greatest degree of exposure were the aldeias comunais. Many communal villages in Eráti, as throughout Mozambique, were inappropriately sited.39 Almost all, both in and beyond the district, were bereft of a viable economic base. In Eráti, as elsewhere, the aldeias soon became severely under-provisioned and overcrowded “collective residential . . . units.”40 Not surprisingly, they had few defenders.41 In 1976 only two villages, accommodating about a thousand people, existed in Eráti.42 In 1979, the year that witnessed the first concerted campaign to construct aldeias, there were only four.43 The big push in terms of village formation seems to have occurred between 1982 and 1983, the year in which Renamo brought its destabilization campaign to the province. In 1982, sixteen villages were created and twenty-three more were slated to be created during 1983–1984.44 But, at the beginning of 1984, the District Commission for Communal Villages (CDAC) reported that Eráti hosted 118 villages at various stages of development.45 Clearly, many more villages had been formed the previous year than had been planned. Nonetheless, even at this stage, most people continued to live in the dispersed habitat until the eve of Renamo’s invasion of the district in March 1984.46 It was the army which eventually came to preside over the “socialization of the countryside” as the war spread to Nampula in 1983 and escalated there the following year. In Eráti, as throughout the province, rural dwellers were forcibly relocated to communal villages ahead of Renamo’s military advance. Compulsory resettlement was often accompanied by hut-burning, theft, vandalism, extortion and other abuses by government soldiers. Similar
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crimes were perpetrated by village-based militia, which had ostensibly been formed to protect the civilian population from the guerrillas.47 The trajectory of village formation in the province seems to have paralleled that of Eráti’s. By 1982, Nampula hosted 260 villages with 154,186 people, or about 7 percent of the population.48 By mid-1984, there were reportedly 810 villages and 497 bairros comunais (communal neighborhoods in cities and towns), lodging about 58 percent of the population.49 On the face of it, the above scenario would seem to vindicate the argument advanced by Frelimo’s sympathizers that, as the war escalated, the pace of villagization was dictated primarily by military considerations. It thus appears to be consistent with their view that the resulting aldeias had little to do with – and, in fact, represented gross perversions of – Frelimo’s vision of rural collectivization as enunciated at its Third Party Congress.50 Against this interpretation, the revisionists have insisted that wartime villagization did not hopelessly deform Frelimo’s program for agrarian transformation but rather laid bare “its true nature”: to exercise control over millions of rural dwellers by incorporating them into party-sanctioned institutions.51 Whatever the truth of this assertion, it is certainly the case that Frelimo never acknowledged that the primary impetus for village formation throughout the 1980s was the war. Rather, state and party officials in Nampula extolled the accelerated pace of wartime villagization as evidence of revolutionary triumph, as we shall see below.52 Furthermore, the public rhetoric of Frelimo representatives in the province registered Renamo’s influence on the rate of state-directed villagization only to the extent that they implied that this “triumph” was achieved in spite of myriad constraints and hardships imposed by rebel-spearheaded destabilization. In Eráti stepped-up villagization in 1983 was justified to the public not in terms of security considerations but rather in terms of Fourth Congress decisions to raise agricultural production and to proceed with socialist transition. By mid-year brigades were fanning through the district, bearing the message that “for organized and well-controlled production, it is necessary for the population to engage themselves in the socialization of the countryside. More concretely, the communal villages.”53 Such justifications came well after the collapse of virtually all experiments in collective forms of production and at a time when it was clear to all who cared to see that the concentration of the rural population posed a grave danger to the viability of smallholder agriculture. They were also articulated a few months after Renamo had begun to operate in Nampula Province and, therefore, at a time when security concerns were clearly overtaking development goals as the government’s paramount priority. Thus, even if Frelimo-sympathizers are correct in linking stepped-up villagization to the government’s counter-insurgency program, they have sidestepped crucial questions implicitly posed by the revisionists: why was accelerated villagization trumpeted as proof of revolutionary advance long after Frelimo’s rural development strategy had given way to the wartime
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 125 imperatives of fighting a guerrilla army? And, to anticipate a bit, why did ruling discourses continue to affirm the viability and indispensability of the communal village program long after government officials had tacitly accepted – and, in some cases, even encouraged – the redispersal of the rural population in the heat of all-out war?54 The present study does not claim to supply answers to these questions. However, both further on in this discussion and in subsequent chapters, it considers some of the effects of Frelimo’s upbeat rhetoric with respect to villagization, which, it shows, helped to enable forms of mnemonic legitimation in post-socialist Mozambique. In what follows, I examine the uneven results of the Frelimo leadership’s attempt to reinvent rural hierarchies in the above context and identify the point at which interviewees began to sense a softening in the state’s stance on the question of traditional leadership and practice.
All in the family? I begin this section with a synopsis of Geffray and Pedersen’s in-depth study of agrarian and political change in post-independence, pre-war Eráti. Their findings provide a wealth of detailed and compelling evidence of the centrality of lineage authority in state-mandated rural institutions during this period. Three themes are stressed: (1) the ways in which Frelimo’s agrarian policies undermined smallholder agriculture, lowering land and labor productivity; (2) how, in the course of doing so, these policies set in motion processes of social differentiation and polarization within and between rural communities; and (3) the ways in which stratifying tendencies within kinship groups abruptly arrested and reversed socio-political processes which, over a twenty-year span, had progressively eroded lineage, gerontocratic and parental controls over youth. I flesh out their own story line only where it is necessary to do so to facilitate understanding. From the outset, lineage chiefs, or mahumu, acted as the primary interlocutors of the fledgling local administration. In posing as dedicated agents of Frelimo’s collectivizing vision, mahumu were driven by two overriding considerations. In the first instance, they were concerned to secure access to the rapidly contracting fund of consumer goods in the countryside by obtaining the district government’s authorization to establish a consumer cooperative in their area. The precondition for obtaining state authorization to establish a consumer cooperative in any given locale was evidence of steps by the residents in question to institute collective forms of agricultural production. As a result, collective machambas opened up throughout the district at local initiative with mahumu leading the way.55 When the first concerted campaigns to construct communal villages and to induce people to take up residence in them started in 1979, lineage chiefs were spurred to curry the local administration’s favor for an additional reason. In agreeing to host a communal village on their own land, they would forestall the prospect of forced relocation of their populations to
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another mutthetthe and their consequent subordination to another lineage. Some mahumu apparently “evinced a conscious will to dominate and exploit the resettled populations placed administratively in their dependence.”56 Agricultural decline and inter-lineage stratification Even before large-scale population transfers took place, the leading families on whose land communal villages were sited enjoyed a decisive advantage in the emerging political dispensation and economic order. They and their close matrimonial allies tended to monopolize village-level leadership positions and, by extension, control over local trading circuits and mechanisms of distribution. Communities that were expected to move the greatest distance had the least political clout in the new village setting and the most restricted access to consumer goods.57 The already precarious economic position of communities targeted for resettlement was further weakened by the very process of relocation. The affected households fell victim to vandalism and theft perpetrated by government soldiers and village militia. Because forced relocation took place during the wet season, they lost substantial quantities of food reserves that were damaged from exposure to rain en route.58 In the wake of compulsory resettlement, political and economic marginalization deepened into social and material subordination. The forcibly transferred populations now had to eke out their subsistence on marginal, distant, and often far-flung tracts of land on offer to them by the newly dominant families. Their plots were typically non-arable or depleted. Alternatively, they often required clearing to be rendered cultivable. Negotiating access to land often meant accepting owner-imposed conditions which required further diversions of labor time. “Borrowers,” for instance, were typically expected to take care of cashew trees on leased land and to harvest their nuts for the sole benefit of “lenders.” Not surprisingly, resettled families often opted to travel long distances to work their old machambas, assuming this was still a viable option. As a consequence, they lost the dawn hours when the heaviest agricultural tasks are usually undertaken. Irrespective of the manner in which they sought to cope with their new circumstances, all the affected households suffered a precipitous drop in labor productivity and agricultural yields. The cumulative result was a rapid decline in food reserves. In order to substitute for labor productivity losses, households substituted cassava for other, more nutritious, food crops, such as maize, millet, beans, peanuts and vegetables. The removal of people from their cashew and fruit trees led to the further deterioration of dietary standards. To make matters worse, blueprints and guidelines designed in Maputo precluded villagers from maintaining vegetable gardens near their homes by insisting on narrowly spaced houses and by stipulating that the land and access routes between them be kept “clean.”
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 127 By the end of 1984, the spread of famine conditions consolidated widening socio-economic inequalities. Their granaries now completely exhausted, a large number of smallholders had little choice but to work for the newly dominant families in exchange for food. The new labor arrangements compelled resettled families to divert their labor from their own machambas at the peak of the agricultural cycle. They thus set in motion a selfreinforcing cycle of food dependency of the transplanted communities on labor-recruiting families, who profited as result. Intra-lineage stratification and the plight of male youth The crystallization of new relations of domination and subordination between lineages was accompanied by deepening cleavages within them. Lineage notables of host mitthetthe enjoyed disproportionate representation in the membership in collective machambas. Mahumu and mi-jeio from both the newly dominant lineages and those belonging to neighboring mitthetthe were also overwhelmingly over-represented in the work teams which, as a matter of course, had first crack at the consumer cooperative’s stock of goods. In the vicinity of a local agricultural development center (Napai), which employed local people to work on project experimental fields, 63 percent of the labor force was drawn from the dominant mitthetthe and half of the workers were mi-jeio or mahumu. In this instance, privileged access to goods was supplemented by privileged access to wages.59 In sum, lineage notables recovered prerogatives they had lost in the 1960s, notably control over the circulation of commodities and cash in the local economy. These newly regained prerogatives, combined with the deepening authoritarianism of the central state, enabled them to reassert labor claims in youth. Understanding how this occurred requires examining the shifting fortunes of young men during the first decade of independence.60 As we have seen, after independence the rural regions of the north were rapidly abandoned by young men eager to find waged work in the cities and to escape the constraints and strictures of rural life. This large-scale outmigration clearly took place without the authorization of lineage notables and went against their wishes. Social seniors and chiefs resorted to the by then time-honored strategy of exerting downward pressure on the social threshold of adulthood, thereby ensuring exploitation of the labor of those too young to avail themselves of the migratory alternative. As a result, by the mid-1980s it was not uncommon to find married twelve- and thirteenyear-old boys. The aspirations of male migrants were quickly frustrated by the severe disruptions to national economic activity precipitated by settler flight. Dismal urban job prospects resulted in the ebb and eventual reversal in rural–urban flows. Many of those youths who managed to carve out a niche for themselves in informal networks would fall casualty to Operation Production, the 1983 government campaign to deport supposedly “surplus”
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people from the country’s cities.61 In Eráti, the mass evictions forcibly reinserted the section of youth that had held out the longest in the urban milieu back into the rural environment, effectively reconstituting the lineage as a spatially coherent unity. Young men returned to the district to find themselves in a position of extreme socio-economic vulnerability. Collective agricultural production had failed to provide a viable alternative to household agriculture and kinshipbased circuits of labor recruitment and exploitation. The new institutions had become indistinguishable from the old structure of authority these youths had so forthrightly rejected. The instability of rural markets undermined sources of income, such as cashew nut production, that had afforded young males a growing autonomy from their social seniors in the 1960s and early 1970s. Accelerated villagization had the same effect. Tightened administrative control severely circumscribed their freedom of movement. The local authorities regarded them with distrust. Under the circumstances, youth had little choice but to submit anew to the labor claims of their elders. The most tangible evidence of their renewed subordination was the fact that, by the early 1980s, cotton production was limited to the machambas of the mi-jeio. As in the 1940s and 1950s, differential yields of cotton bore testimony to differential access to extra-familial labor. In sum, the first decade of independence induced processes of socio-economic “regression.”62 The point that bears stressing here is that it was not simply market breakdown and/or the retreat of the state that enabled the reassertion of traditional power. Rather, it was the convergence of the goods famine, stateengendered conditions of access to resources, the privileged position of lineage notables in Frelimo rural institutions, the absence of employment opportunities locally or in the wider regional economy, and restrictions on freedom of movement that led to this outcome. The district administrator lost little time in registering and moving to capitalize on the fortification of lineage power within the local political economy. By December 1984, he was openly and directly appealing to mahumu to exercise their newly revived claims to the labor of male youth in order to reverse the precipitous fall in cotton production.63 At the same time, and for much the same reasons, he was working to establish an alliance with the former régulos.64 As Geffray and Pedersen pointed out, the prospects for this strategy’s success were dim at best. This is because the initiative was launched at a time when, as a result of villagization and the government’s failure to support smallholder agriculture, most peoples’ abilities to provide for even their most basic needs had been seriously compromised. I return to this juncture further on in the discussion. In what follows, I look at the ways in which members of the colonial-recognized traditional hierarchy, notably former régulos and cabos, were able to retain privileged access to state institutions despite the promulgation of official proscriptions on their political activities.
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 129 Continuing royal rule by other means If, in many places in Eráti, the creation of Frelimo-sanctioned institutions witnessed the surrender of chiefly power to non-royals, in others chiefs sought, at times successfully, to retain their privileged access to state institutions via surrogates.65 As elsewhere in Mozambique, in some cases, traditional authorities who had served the colonial administration directly were able to hide their identities. In others, local government officials were amenable to continuing alliances between official and chiefly authority that had obtained during the colonial period. Such political alignments were tacitly sanctioned in the name of social order, social welfare, rural development or some combination of all three factors.66 In Namapa, former régulos were given more than ample opportunity to continue royal rule by other means. First, the Frelimo government had decided to retain the administrative divisions inherited from the Portuguese, simply renaming regedorias “circles.” Second, and much more consequentially, the nascent local state administration had taken the expediency of setting up new structures of authority by working with and through the old. Chiefs Intalia and Uantera of present-day Muanona Locality, recalled that, when chiefs of their area were called to the district seat, they were told “when they went back home, to choose people who know how to read and write to be leaders of the population.” They recounted: As we were hearing “abaixo régulo” being said, we régulos struck a deal. We said, “If we have to step down from power and to choose other people to lead, let’s seek out our relatives.” So, each one would choose his nephew, his brother, [and] go deliver the names to Namapa. We took our sons to the [administrative] post. There, each régulo was called to present his people. We were told, “From among those people, choose the secretary of the group.” So . . . we would choose one of our relatives in order to secure our power.67 The two chiefs related this story in Muanona Center, the seat of Muanona Locality, the most remote administrative subdivision of Namapa. During the rainy season, access routes to the area, which sits at the far western end of the district and is home to the two chiefs’ adjoining regedorias, often become impassable. The “we” in their account stood for all the chiefs in Namirôa Administrative Post, of which Muanona is a subdivision. Intalia was a régulo in the colonial period. Uantera, I later learned, was a powerful humu who was acting in a caretaker capacity for the “real [o próprio]” Uantera. This latter Uantera, the nephew of the late colonial régulo, had taken up residence in Cabo Delgado, the place of his birth, in the post-independence period. Back in Namapa Center, José de Almeida, the nephew of “o próprio” Chief Uantera and one of the beneficiaries of these behind-the-scenes “deals,” corroborated the above version of events: “At that time, in order to be
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secretary, you had to be a relative of the régulos. During the transitional government, the majority were nephews, younger brothers and cousins.”68 Intalia and Uantera’s strategy, I subsequently learned, was widely deployed throughout the district by members of Portuguese-recognized traditional hierarchies, if not always with the success that it was in Muanona, where it took as many as six years for higher-level authorities to expose the caper.69 In the case of Muanona, chiefs reportedly held public meetings to allow their former wards to “elect” the chiefs’ nominees. But in at least one instance in the vicinity of Namapa, all pretense of elections was dispensed with.70 Although higher-level state and party authorities were often alerted that subterfuges of one sort or another were in the offing, such revelations did not always spell the end of royal rule. The Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District explained that When Frelimo discovered that there was an infiltration, right? But, when Frelimo discovered this, it let it go on like that. We could only revitalize [e.g. purge] in the case of complaints appearing, if the populations came to present a problem, saying that senhor over there is a nephew of a cabo or of a régulo but, nevertheless, he is working badly with the populations. So . . . Frelimo had to revitalize, to arrange another element to substitute. But, in the event no complaints appeared, they were always maintained.71 José de Almeida’s own experience stands as living proof that “infiltrations” were, at least at times, accommodated upon their discovery. Almeida had served as the Secretary of the Circle in Muanona between 1974 and 1981. He was then transferred to Namirôa, where he worked as Secretary for Party Organization. In 1986 he was transferred back to Muanona, which, as a result of a national reorganization of state administration that year, became a locality. (It was at this time that Eráti was divided into two districts: Namapa and Nacarôa.) Almeida worked as First Secretary and administrator of the locality – a title which, in 1991, changed to “president of the locality” – from then until 1992, at which time he gave up both posts to work for the Rural Water Department.72 It was not always necessary for royals to hide their identities in order to be anointed as Frelimo grassroots representatives. The Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa cited Bernardo Mussa as an instance of a former régulo’s nephew being elected as secretary “at the régulo’s suggestion.”73 In 1975, Mussa became Secretary of Jacotho (Jacokho) Bairro Comunal, Odinepa Locality, a post he held until 1993.74 Chief Tubruto went so far as to say “between 1974 and 1977 it was policy for the nephews of chiefs to be secretaries.” During the 1977–1988 period the reverse “policy” obtained. Thereafter, secretaries could once again be relatives of former régulos.75 Predictably, in places where some variant of royal rule persisted, official policies aimed at discouraging or eliminating “obscurantist” practices, such
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 131 as initiation rites or ceremonies to cleanse the earth, were often either heavily tempered or rendered thoroughly irrelevant. However, the continued political ascendancy of royal families did not necessarily guarantee synergistic relations between official and traditional authority even at the local level. According to Almeida, the new socio-political arrangements at times ran up against the limits of kinship solidarity: There were secretaries that, although being relatives of the régulos, didn’t coordinate with him [sic], didn’t ask him for advice. But, in those cases, the problem that existed [was that] the régulos asked the secretary to give him some perk – because there were small benefits that the secretary used to receive from the population. So the régulo wanted to benefit also from that privilege. When the secretary resolved a problem [e.g. settled a local dispute] and didn’t give anything to his régulo who was his uncle – a chicken or some other contribution – the régulo would say, “You, why don’t you give me anything when you are my nephew and it was I that chose you for this office?”76 It was, perhaps, to forestall such an eventuality that some chiefs passed over their close relatives, opting to pursue a rather different strategy in order to safeguard their power and authority in the abruptly altered circumstances occasioned by independence. This second tack was brought to my attention by Adelino Ivala, a relative of Zinco, the elder from Lalaua mentioned in the Introduction. Ivala had recently graduated from the Instituto Superior Pedagógico in Maputo, where he had written his thesis on socio-political transformation in the upper Lúrio (today Lalaua District) between 1850 and 1933.77 The focus of his thesis is on a chieftaincy (that of Umpuhua) in which Ivala himself is a royal member and was next in line for the succession. He declined the position because he was committed to launching a career teaching in higher education. Ivala reported that, in his home area in Méti Administrative Post, chiefs decided to arrange to have epotha, descendants of slaves, to be elected secretaries, enabling chiefs themselves to continue to exercise power behind the scenes.78 Thus, if some epotha-turned-secretaries used their newfound positions of power to insult and humiliate their former rulers,79 others continued to abide by their liminal social status and were chosen precisely because it was anticipated that they would do so.80 While my own interviews in Namapa did not turn up any evidence that secretaries were deliberately chosen because of their epotha status,81 I did come across one instance in which leadership had been foisted upon a commoner, who had assumed his new duties with great reluctance and grave misgivings. Vasco (an alias) had been a secretary of a GD in the former regulado of Meliva in the southeastern corner of the district. In 1994, the area fell under Renamo’s “control” and it was there that the interview took place. Vasco left little doubt about his disinclination to rule and humbly described
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his own and his colleagues’ meteoric, highly improbable rise to power:82 “I was a simple peasant. I was chosen by the people . . . I didn’t want to be secretary but the population . . . forced me to stay on.” He and others who shared his predicament “would go to see the mpéwé for them to hold a clandestine ceremony so the population would stay well . . . because we said, ‘We are secretaries . . . but we don’t know anything about the land.’ ” Asked if he thought the population harbored resentment toward him for carrying out unpopular and often injurious state policy directives, he replied: They thought well of me because the population would say, “It’s not the will of the secretary to take all of the people and put them in a village . . . It’s an order from the government.” It was obligatory. Like it or not, it was always an order. The fact that he was not denounced by local residents to Renamo guerrillas upon their arrival to the district lends poignant credence to his testimony.83 Vasco was one of several secretaries in the area who were living in Renamo’s zone and whose identity the population, royals and commoners alike, had seen fit to withhold from the guerrillas and the postwar Renamo civilian administration.84 Their survival eloquently affirms that grassroots secretaries had not always been held accountable for following orders handed down from on high. In places where the attempt on the part of former régulos to retain privileged access to state institutions failed, or when it was later discovered and followed by “revitalizations,” this did not necessarily spell the end of all dialogue or give-and-take between former régulos and district authorities. In 1981, for instance, a group of former régulos from Namirôa Administrative Post came to Namapa Center to complain to the district administration about forced villagization in their area. People who had been resisting villagization had been arrested and beaten. It was right before the rainy season when resettlement would have imposed the greatest hardship. The district administration communicated the chiefs’ allegations to the provincial government which undertook an on-site investigation into the matter. The chiefs’ allegations were vindicated and, as a result, the local chefe do posto was removed and demoted.85 Beyond Namapa The testimony of local administrators, past and present, supports the case for continuities between late colonial and post-independence rural power structures elsewhere in the province. At the same time, it provides evidence of the role of these selfsame administrators in accommodating and/or fostering these continuities. The story of Ernesto Mabonhane, who worked as the adjunct administrator and subsequently as the Secretary for Party Organi-
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 133 zation in Memba District between 1978 and 1980, was not atypical. The official orientations local officials received after independence were that “it couldn’t be someone from a régulo’s family. The people had to choose those who had suffered. These were the slaves . . . It had to be someone who had been ordered who would order.” The reality he went on to describe, however, was discrepant: It depended a lot on the behavior of the régulos themselves. Régulos who had mistreated the population weren’t accepted . . . by the people. In cases where the régulo didn’t mistreat the population, their sons, nephews and cousins could be party secretaries. Frelimo had no problem with this. It happened here and in my province [Inhambane]. At the time, some were deputies in the assembly of the locality, district, province, even of the national parliament . . . Yes, Frelimo saw. Even during the armed struggle, Frelimo worked with régulos. Between 1980 and 1985, Mabonhane served as the administrator of Ribáuè, the first district in the province to be attacked by Renamo guerrillas. In early 1983, he sensed that it was only a matter of time before the war, then raging in neighboring Zambézia Province, would spill over into Nampula. He was also keenly aware that Ribáuè, situated as it is along the Nampula–Zambézia border, was likely to be one of the first districts to be affected. Accordingly, he solicited the assistance of former régulos as an expedient means of accelerating villagization in the district. Before proceeding in this manner, Mabonhane took the precautionary step of clearing his plan with the then provincial governor, Feliciano Gundana,86 and General Eduardo Nihia, then the military commander of Nampula Province and the Frelimo Second Party Secretary of Nampula Province. The former régulos, like other local residents, resisted villagization if it meant moving to a wholly new territory in which other communities had historically-acquired rights in land and landed resources, such as cashew trees. As Mabonhane put it: “the régulo himself didn’t want to join with another régulo. And they didn’t want to meet halfway.” His solution was to create as many villages as possible to minimize the distance local residents would move and to ensure that historically dominant families retained their position at the top of local hierarchies.87 The following year, Ribáuè received praise from the Provincial Coordinating Commission for the Socialization of the Countryside (CCPSC), the body responsible for overseeing rural collectivization, for having become the first district in the province to achieve “full socialization.”88 Ironically, assuming the veracity of Mabonhane’s testimony, this distinction had been achieved by way of recourse to the very guardians of “obscurantism” that the socialization of the countryside would, the theory went, undermine and eventually negate. As we shall see in Chapter 7, similar tactics were used by the administrator of Moma at this time. Subsequent chapters, as well as the
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findings of several field investigations undertaken by a number of researchers, provide further evidence that the official banishment of chiefs into political pariahhood was, at best, unevenly applied elsewhere in the province.89 Periodizing the liberalization of state policies toward things traditional Informants dated the first signs of the relaxation of prohibitions against chiefs or their close relatives assuming leadership roles in Frelimo institutions variously. A few linked it to a state-sponsored program to publicly expose, punish and rehabilitate people who had willingly served the repressive arm of the colonial state. Prominent amongst the “compromised,” as these collaborators came to be branded, were former elite commandos, paramilitary soldiers and members of the Portuguese secret service. In 1978, the compromised were stripped of their civil and political rights and their names and photographs were posted in their workplaces. The immediate aim was to ensure that the people in question didn’t “infiltrate” party organs, perform acts of sabotage or otherwise subvert the new government’s program for social transformation. The long-term goal was to enable them to join their peers in constructing a new society. The process of reintegration culminated in 1982, when Machel declared that former collaborators were no longer compromised, irrespective of whether or not they had confessed their guilt.90 Four Frelimo cadres tied this process to the easing of the central state’s hostility towards chiefs.91 Interestingly, one associated the “time of reconciliation” to the state’s first efforts to expose, stigmatize and penalize the compromised. Another pegged a general thawing of official-chiefly relations to the act of pardon itself, which he erroneously placed in 1986. This was the year of the country’s second general elections and the first time the formerly compromised could vote or run for public office. Most interviewees in Namapa identified the beginnings of the state’s softening stance on the question of traditional leadership and practice with the district administrator whose tenure lasted between 1984 and 1987 and thus coincided with these elections. It was under his administration that districtwide proscriptions against initiation rites were lifted. The innovation of appointing former régulos and cabos to serve as “chiefs of production” for the district administration had been his initiative.92 He was the first administrator to appeal openly and directly to local mahumu to use their newly fortified political and economic ascendancy to compel male social juniors to cultivate cotton machambas.93 And, as the war escalated in the district, it was at his behest that contacts and negotiations were initiated with a dissident chief in Renamo-held territory in the hopes of gaining his and his followers’ allegiances.94 In seeking to broker an alliance between official and traditional authority, the administrator in question, whom I will call Bahia, was, by his own
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 135 account, responding to an orientation that came down to the districts some time during “1984–85,” which, he recalled, ran something like this: “ ‘Each administrator is free to find ways of activating production in his area.’ ” By the start of the 1985–1986 campaign, Bahia had lined up two former régulos to serve as “elements of assistance in the area of production.” Additional traditional authorities – former régulos and a former cabo – were brought on board to work in this capacity in the years that followed. At the same time, Bahia initiated an ongoing dialogue with a few leading chiefs in order to gain insight into rural politics and, especially, the local dynamics of the war, which, by 1985, had taken hold in the district. All of the chiefs with whom Bahia spoke stressed the pernicious effects of villagization. In particular, they emphasized the use of force in resettling rural communities and the prohibitive distances these communities had to walk to get to their own machambas and tree crops. The talks reinforced Bahia’s own perception that the experience of forced relocation and the conditions of existence in the aldeias were making “a part of the population” available to Renamo appeals.95 It was, however, another year before Bahia had the opportunity to seek to remedy this situation. The orientation which spurred Bahia’s actions in 1985 was in line with party directives and guidelines calling for an expansion of agricultural production that had been adopted by the Fourth Congress two years earlier. Higher output was to be attained “without special regard for the relations of production” through which this was achieved, with the family and private sectors leading the way.96 The shift in emphasis away from “socialist” forms of production was furthered by the Frelimo leadership’s decision, taken in 1985, to put the economy on a war footing.97 The specific form Bahia’s intervention took was heavily influenced not only by the shifting balance of power in the rural areas – specifically by the triumph of mahumu and mi-jeio over male youth – but also by the input of a longtime prominent actor on the Nampula scene: one José Bernardo de Faria Lobo, a Portuguese agronomist whose career in Mozambique spanned forty-five years (at the time, thirty-four years). Given Faria Lobo’s centrality to recent Nampulan history and, in particular, to the events described in part three of this chapter, we take a brief detour to review relevant aspects of his biography here. The life and times of a Portuguese colonial Faria Lobo had worked as an agrarian technician in charge of assistance to the family sector in the Namapa section of CAM’s zone of influence between 1950 and 1961.98 In that capacity, he spearheaded efforts to build the network of picadas throughout the district’s interior and to compel rural dwellers to resettle along this network’s flanks. The successive cashew treeplanting campaigns in the later half of the decade, designed to give smallholders an immediate economic stake in the new settlement pattern, had been his brainchild. In 1961, Faria Lobo went to work for the newly formed
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Cotton Institute where he held a series of posts, eventually becoming the head of technical services for the institute’s northern delegation. Unlike the vast majority of his colleagues, Faria Lobo opted to stay on in Mozambique after independence. He served as the head of the IAM’s northern delegation until the institute’s extinction in 1976, and then went to work for DPA in Nampula. In 1980, he became the general director of production for JFS, a position he held until he left Mozambique for Portugal in 1992. After independence, Faria Lobo quickly established himself as a vocal and indefatigable critic of Frelimo’s handling of the crisis caused by decolonization and its program for rural transformation. In the first instance, and well before the country’s new leaders enunciated their strategy for socialist transition at the 1977 Third Party Congress, Faria Lobo’s primary concern was to halt and reverse population movements away from the picadas into the forest. As we have seen, this trend, which led to a decline in the quantity and, in the case of cotton, the quality of smallholder agricultural yields, predated independence. Faria Lobo’s solution was to promote phasing in a system of block farming within the old “concentrations” in order to facilitate the provision of technical assistance and to enhance the oversight capacity of state institutions. Smallholders who were still in the vicinity of the picadas would be called upon to farm in blocks. Those who had strayed further afield would be subject to a program of “conscientization” to encourage them to move back to the picadas ahead of the 1976–1977 agricultural season.99 In keeping with the vocabulary of the new regime, he proposed that these blocks, while consisting of individual machambas, would be based on “communal principles.”100 He seems to have had in mind the kind of production schemes that came to be embraced briefly by the Ministry of Agriculture in 1978 in the face of the adverse economic, environmental and social consequences of rapid rural “collectivization.” The ministry adopted a policy of gradualism which would, in its preliminary stages, encourage smallholders to cultivate on individual family plots, grouped into blocks. The hope was that, by virtue of their proximity to one another, these plots could benefit more readily from inputs and, by virtue of sharing agricultural equipment, participants would be more likely to develop an interest in more advanced cooperative undertakings.101 The ascendancy of the incrementalists was short-lived. In 1979, the “theory of blocks” was roundly denounced as “ ‘reactionary’ and based on the false premise that ‘African peasants are individualistic by nature and thus are not ready to begin a socialist transformation of the countryside.’ ”102 By 1983, however, renewed calls for gradualism were coming from no less an authoritative voice than the Frelimo Central Committee and the practice, if not the full-fledged “theory,” of block farming was rehabilitated. By the following agricultural season, an estimated 453,543 families in Nampula alone were participating in either block farming schemes or mutual assistance peasant associations, dwarfing the 5,232-strong cooperative movement.103 However, rather than being situated along the picadas, as
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 137 Faria Lobo had called for, block farming took place within the ambit of the communal village program. Predictably, it fell casualty to the same tendencies toward environmental degradation as other forms of production within the new habitat. Faria Lobo was undeterred by the fall from official favor of block farming during the late 1970s. In fact, the progression of events made him ever more determined to demonstrate the righteousness of his cause. If, in the first years of independence, his primary motive in promoting block farming was to regroup an increasingly dispersed population along the hinterland’s feeder roads, by the end of the 1970s his main concern was to stem and reverse governmentdirected population flows into communal villages. Indeed, he quickly saw that the consequences of villagization would be far worse than those of the slow disintegration of the picadas that had been underway since the 1960s.104 A prime opportunity to modify the rural landscape in conformity with his own vision of development presented itself at the beginning of 1979, when a cyclone hit the littoral of Nampula and Zambézia provinces. The cyclone caused widespread crop damage and left thousands of people homeless. As in the 1950s, natural disaster provided an opportune occasion to reconfigure settlement patterns in the countryside. Unlike the 1950s, when the sole purpose was to draw rural dwellers from their dispersed homesteads to a more concentrated habitat, this time the objective was to draw them from both the dispersed habitat and overly concentrated settlements. Achieving this objective meant, among other things, ensuring that village residents who had lost their homes to the cyclone did not swell the ranks of those that had reverted to the pre-picada situation. In his capacity as a high-level DPA official, Faria Lobo played a leading role in the relief work undertaken in the cyclone’s aftermath. He oversaw the rehabilitation of the picadas in four districts (Mogincual, Mogovolas, Angoche and Moma) and the opening up of over 2,300 hectares of blocks alongside of them.105 The work, however, was brought to an abrupt halt by the provincial governor a few months after it had begun. Rural inhabitants who had left the aldeias were ordered to move back to them.106 It was not until mid-1986 that Faria Lobo would have another shot at rehabilitating the picada system in all of its aspects. In the course of the rehabilitation effort and in keeping with his field experience in the colonial period, Faria Lobo opted to have former régulos serve as intermediaries in the execution of relief operations. It is unclear if such contraventions of official policy came to the attention of government authorities or, if they did, whether they influenced the governor’s decision to call off the block farming initiative. What is clear is that both before and after the cyclone, former régulos were Faria Lobo’s preferred junior partners in the rural areas. As he, himself, defiantly declaimed, “I always worked clandestinely with régulos.” Perhaps more importantly, he took it upon himself to routinely advise others in positions of authority to do likewise. Sometimes this advice was unsolicited but not always. Like both his predecessors and successors, Bahia had been counseled by his superiors to consult the veteran
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agronomist and former Namapa resident on how best to run the district before assuming his new post there.107 Faria Lobo’s precise motives in promoting block farming as a global solution to the crisis of smallholder agriculture in Nampula are difficult to discern. Four things, however, are clear. The first is that Faria Lobo considered Frelimo’s vision of rural collectivization to be a pipedream.108 Second, his critique of the aldeias comunais and of rapid cooperativization was sound. Third, with the collapse of Frelimo’s experiments in collective production and with the desperate need to raise agricultural output, no one else came forward with an alternative to Faria Lobo’s. Fourth, by the time his views came to prevail in the mid-1980s, all serious talk of “communal principles” and voluntary participation had long been cast aside: by then, the aim of all leading actors was purely and simply to approximate as closely as possible the inherited colonial model in matters pertaining to rural labor.
Economic crisis, war and chiefs of production In the first half of the 1980s the Mozambican economy sharply deteriorated, setting the stage for the country’s heavy dependence on international aid in the post-1984 period. Real output fell about 37 percent between 1981 and 1985.109 During the same period, industrial production declined by over 50 percent, while family sector marketed agricultural production and national marketed agricultural production dropped by about 56 percent and 75 percent, respectively. Export earnings, which were then closely tied to agricultural performance, had plummeted to about 27 percent of their 1981 levels.110 The causes of the economy’s downward spiral were many. South African destabilization, which, by early 1984, had cost the economy roughly US$3.8 billion, ranks high among them. The succession of ecological disasters which beset the country in the late 1970s and early 1980s, the effects of global recession, low producer prices, shortages of incentive goods, and excessive and inefficient state intervention also played a role.111 Villagization was another major contributor to national economic crisis, a fact that was only belatedly acknowledged by academics who were sympathetic to Frelimo. From Gaza to Cabo Delgado the new settlement pattern seriously disrupted the already fragile balance between human and natural resources, drastically lowering land and labor productivity. The results were disastrous: sharp falls in marketed surpluses and dietary standards, widespread and often acute food shortages, and depleted soils and desertification.112 If popular discontent and dissent resulting from forced villagization did not always and everywhere work directly to Renamo’s advantage, the concentration of the rural population bore no small measure of responsibility for widespread hunger, the spread of famine conditions, rising morbidity rates and widening social tensions within and between rural communities.113 In 1985 Geffray and Pedersen had adjudged the new settlement pattern
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 139 unsustainable for precisely these reasons. So had Faria Lobo who, sensing that political conditions were ripe, approached the then governor, Feliciano Gundana, with a plan to dismantle the aldeias comunais and revive the colonial picada system. The governor gave the veteran agronomist the green light to submit a formal written proposal to the provincial government outlining his ideas.114 It fell to Gundana’s successor to act on this plan the following year. In the meantime, despite the provincial government’s heightened awareness of the adverse effects of communal villages on smallholder agriculture, the constraints on ruling discourses were such that leading officials couldn’t publicly admit as much. Nowhere are these constraints and their effects more apparent than in the findings and recommendations of the Fourth Session of the CCPSC, held between September 30 and October 2, 1985. The economy and official discourses The Fourth Session of the CCPSC met in the midst of an ever-deepening crisis. While, in the course of its deliberations, the commission struck more than one triumphalist note, the evidence it presented left little doubt that the economic circumstances in which the province now found itself were dire indeed. The CCPSC reported, for instance, that the “situation of cotton” was “quite critical,” production having plunged from the province’s postcolonial high in 1981 of 40,000 tons to a mere 3,000 tons in 1985.115 Other economic indicators were equally bleak. The commission set itself the immediate goal of “reactivat[ing] the production of cotton and other crops . . . with a view to reaching the indices of production attained in 1981.”116 One theme that dominated the session was the relationship between villagization and smallholder agriculture. A review of the CCPSC’s treatment of this topic vividly illustrates the kinds of circumlocutions that state officials were forced to perform as a result of top-level strictures against questioning the ideological and political premises that underpinned villagization policy. The documentation generated by the Fourth Session exemplifies the resolute refusal by officialdom to acknowledge two manifest realities: first, that the initial development objectives of rural collectivization had given way to the imperatives of counter-insurgency and, second, that any program of economic recovery based on reviving smallholder agriculture was utterly irreconcilable with the government’s strategy of rural control based on concentrating civilians in protected villages. In short, the archival record vindicates the revisionist critique of ruling discursive and political practices. The commission proudly reported “a significant advance” in the organization of the aldeias comunais, claiming that a full 75 percent of the population in the province had now been villagized and that five districts had already “completed the integration [enquadramento] of the population in
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collective life.”117 The CCPSC congratulated “the whole population of the province for the positive work, because organizing ourselves in communal villages and communal bairros is to close ranks against the enemy,” defined as the “BA’s [armed bandits], hunger, nudity and illness.” “More and more,” it continued, “we are approaching the phase in which all of our population will be totally organized in collective molds of socialist life.”118 Revealingly, in this section of the commission’s report, the war is invoked only insofar as it represented a hindrance to accelerated villagization, rather than as the main reason the pace of village formation had dramatically quickened. Progress, the CCPSC alleged, had been achieved “despite the conditionalities resulting from the destabilizing action of the armed bands.” Such pronouncements responded to two closely related political imperatives. The first was to affirm the ongoing validity and even vitality of the village project as a development strategy. The second was to deny Renamo’s success in exploiting the inherently flawed nature of that project by reducing it to a strategy of population control. Notwithstanding what it considered to be indubitable successes, the CCPSC puzzled over what it presented as a perplexing and troubling anomaly: “The number of communal villages and communal bairros grows progressively; in the meantime, production has an inverse behavior. In recent years the graph of agricultural production shows a vertiginous decline.”119 While registering the simultaneity of these two trends, far from drawing a causal relation between them, commission members expressed their conviction that the remedy for the latter trend lay in accentuating the former. As one summed up at the session’s close: “We have to exit this situation. The economic base is fundamental for the consolidation of any community. For this reason, it is necessary to proceed with the construction of communal villages, organizing their population for the increase of production.”120 It is difficult to believe that the CCPSC was as ignorant as it professed to be about the role of villagization in exacerbating the country’s economic crisis. According to Faria Lobo, senior provincial military commanders had expressed opposition to the forced resettlement of rural communities in the event that peasants had not first been given the opportunity to plant crops within the vicinity of their new sites of residence.121 District-based state and party officials repeatedly noted and/or complained about the prohibitive distances between the aldeias and peasant-owned cashew trees at provincial-level meetings or in written communiqués.122 The commission was well aware of the irrationality of the distribution of the villagized population in relation to the distribution of cashew trees – otherwise, it would not have felt compelled, as it had earlier in the year, to begin to redistribute cashew trees “which had been abandoned by absent large landowners and by populations as a result of adhering to the communal village movement.”123 The emphases, de-emphases and evasions that marked the CCPSC’s deliberations were reiterated by the president himself at the year’s end. Speaking
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 141 to the People’s Assembly, Machel made pointed reference to the existence of “reserves of underemployed people” and under-utilized resources, particularly in the family and private sectors. His litany of reasons why such productive potential remained untapped, like the analysis of the CCPSC, passes over in silence the effects of villagization: We do not get down to hard reality to locate the bottlenecks that make production by farming families difficult: — what surpluses are produced by peasant families and where are they located; — where to concentrate consumer goods to encourage this or that crop; — how many tonnes of which crop have still to be distributed, from this and previous years; — which crops and what quantity are in danger of being lost through lack of distribution and where; — what action to take to prevent maize, sunflower, beans or cashew nuts produced by commercial farms and by the peasants from rotting or being spoiled. If we did this we would be able to detect problems in time, and many of them could be resolved. If we did this, output would be very much higher. The core of the problem, as Machel defined it, was that “we have no trust in the people’s capacity.”124 He made clear that, in the short run at least, “the people’s capacity” would be harnessed by force if need be: Cotton and cashew nuts are crops that colonialism used to exploit the Mozambican people. Today cotton and cashew crops are fundamental weapons for our independence. Cotton can be grown from Gaza to Niassa and Cabo Delgado. And it must be grown, compulsorily. . . . Next year, 1986, is the year for rolling up our sleeves. In many sectors we have to start from scratch. The time has come for each one of us to realise and believe deeply that our land is large and rich, and that there is a place for everyone to work.125 Dzimba’s intervention Gaspar Dzimba was appointed as governor of Nampula Province a few months later. If, by that time, the renewed stress on family sector agricultural production effectively compelled the redispersal of the population, the evolution of the war virtually guaranteed that such a redispersal was imminent, with or without official approval. Communal villages in Nampula, as elsewhere, were prime targets of Renamo attack. The devastating effectiveness of this aspect of rebel military strategy was greatly enhanced by the government army’s marked reticence and/or inability to defend the
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population it had forcibly herded into the aldeias.126 By mid-1986, every indication was that the rate of destruction would increase markedly since, at that time, Renamo held the military initiative. Operating from rear bases set up by the South Africans in Malawi, the rebels intensified their destabilization campaign in the central and northern regions of Mozambique.127 The first Renamo units are believed to have infiltrated into Nampula from Zambézia in May 1983, fanning east, south-east and north-east from their point of entry in Iapala Locality in Ribáuè. The guerrillas reportedly moved effortlessly through heavily populated areas. A year later they were operating in well over half of the province’s districts and controlled virtually all of the main access routes into Nampula City.128 Over a quarter of the province’s villages were razed during the first years of the war in Nampula. During that same time period, the systematic devastation that would, by the conflict’s end, knock out an estimated 30 percent of the province’s schools and 75 percent of its health posts in the rural areas was well underway.129 In the mid-1980s, the insurgents cut the railway line in the Nacala corridor, the transport route linking land-locked Malawi to the sea. Except for occasional interludes, the line remained closed for the next four years.130 The striking ease with which Renamo troops were able to entrench their military operations in the province in part reflected the complacency of the government army (the FAM). Extensive rural dissent attendant upon forced villagization, which in many areas occurred just ahead of Renamo’s advance, also worked to the guerrillas’ military advantage. So did the widespread hutburning, vandalism, theft, extortion and other abuses perpetrated by FAM troops and militia during the course of involuntary resettlement.131 This phase of the fighting turned out to be a mere prelude to the largescale Renamo invasion of Mozambique’s mid-section in late 1986. The offensive, which involved some 12,000 guerrillas, was aimed at cutting the country in two and came perilously close to achieving its goal.132 Renamo captured district capitals in Zambézia, northeast Tete and northern Manica and Sofala. With the assistance of Tanzanian and Zimbabwean troops, the government army mounted a successful counter-offensive the following year. The rebel push was beaten back just shy of Renamo’s final target, Quelimane, the provincial capital of Zambézia. A military stalemate ensued. The invasion, which sent tens of thousands of refugees across the Mozambique–Malawi border, marked an escalation in the war.133 The government decision to order smallholders to abandon the aldeias and to return to the picadas seems to have been taken in August 1986.134 By the time this decision was publicly announced and had begun to be implemented, however, the invasion was already well underway. Renamo’s military offensive could only have provided fresh impetus to the provincial administration to give its official imprimatur to, and to attempt to manage, large-scale population movements which were by then taking place. The express aim of the managed redispersal of the population was, according to one journalist, to “enable greater productivity” by diminishing “the
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 143 distance that the peasant walks to get to a machamba” and by providing ready access to cashew trees which had gone unattended or had been poorly attended as a result of accelerated villagization. The governor made clear that emancipation from the aldeias was the first step in the reconstruction of a highly regimented labor process, one modeled on colonial-era compulsory work schemes. During the 1986–1987 agricultural campaign, each peasant family would be required to cultivate four hectares of cash crops and basic staples under the strict supervision of capatazes, “who must mark a daily target for everyone working on a machamba.” In order to monitor people’s productive activity, the caderneta, the work identity card used during the colonial period, would be reintroduced. The governor also announced new strictures on rural trade. Notably, Dzimba guaranteed that anyone who produced export crops would be rewarded with “sugar, soap, clothing and everything that he needs.” Restrictions on travel would be tightened and all travel for any purpose would be prohibited during the approaching agricultural campaign. With a view to remedying widespread labor shortages on state farms, Dzimba openly authorized a return to forced waged labor. Anyone who tried to flee, the governor warned, would be tracked down by militiamen and brought to book. No one would be spared from the general mobilization of labor. District-based party leaders were told that their machambas would have to be the best. Leading provincial and district officials were prohibited from taking holidays during the growing season. More bark than bite? It is, no doubt, pronouncements such as these that Minter has in mind when he warns against the dangers of abstracting official rhetoric from historical circumstance. As he puts the case with respect to both Mozambique and Angola, where another South African-backed rural insurgency raged: Fundamental to understanding the post-colonial state’s relationship to the rural population . . . is the fact that, in contrast to the colonial state, it did not establish effective mechanisms for the extraction of resources from the countryside. Despite occasional speeches by frustrated administrators recalling the forced labour and forced cultivation policies of colonial times, neither state farms nor peasants produced the profits they had provided to the colonial system. The old exploitative mechanisms were gone, but functioning new ones, exploitative or otherwise, were not institutionalized. As a result the state primarily related to the rural population, other than in military terms, as a promised provider of services, all too frequently undelivered. Unable to reap profits from agricultural production, both Angola and Mozambique were forced to rely on other sources of revenue. In the case of
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Angola, oil served the purpose; in Mozambique’s case, taxes on consumption and import trade, as well as foreign aid, were the state’s economic mainstays. Minter concludes: Despite the images of the post-colonial state as intrusively omnipresent – and the elements of reality on which the images were based – it was the insurgents who imposed the tightest controls on rural populations, extracting food, loot and forced porterage at gunpoint. The greatest flaws of the states, in contrast, probably came not so much from what they did as from what they failed to do.135 On Minter’s logic, then, the impotence of these two besieged states, and the frustration this clearly provoked in government and party officials, at once prompted speeches such as Machel’s and Dzimba’s and ensured that nothing of consequence came of them. This reasoning fails to allow for the possibility that the state engaged in badly managed violence.136 By this, I refer to violence in the productive process that is, in the main, unproductive in terms of attaining its ostensible goal: generating marketed output. Unproductive violence, in this instance, could take many forms: it could mean that land was cleared but not sown; that it was sown but not tended; that crops were nominally tended but not harvested; or that they were harvested but, because of transport and logistical bottlenecks, they were never marketed. Interviewees dated the onset of force in the post-independence period variously. On several occasions, informants insisted that the colonial forced labor regime had carried on uninterrupted and essentially intact under Frelimo.137 A former capataz who had worked in Odinepa Locality maintained that, during his entire tenure with the company between 1981 and 1993, it had been “the norm” for company employees to beat smallholders into producing cotton.138 As we have seen, Geffray and Pedersen reported coercion was frequently used during the first major mobilization in the service of cotton production in Eráti during the 1983–1984 campaign.139 Despite the variability of local testimony and reportage, the available evidence indicates that forced labor practices had been longstanding and, by the mid-1980s, had become an important, if not necessarily the dominant, method of surplus appropriation. The governor’s intervention officially sanctioned and accentuated tendencies that were already becoming increasingly more pronounced. The reemergence of compulsory labor on an appreciable scale came at a time when provincial and district government officials felt that coercion was not only necessary to meet the production targets of the war economy but was also justifiable. In grossly under-utilizing family sector productive capacity, villagization, like Frelimo’s other agrarian policies, effectively reinforced the received colonial view that African smallholders were incurably lazy. It also lent credence to the closely allied dual economy thesis, another bequest of
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 145 140
Portuguese rule. To recapitulate: this thesis turned on the premise that, in the absence of financially exorbitant technological innovation, peasantproduced agricultural surpluses could only be secured by way of recourse to externally-applied pressure. The image of an under-employed, inert peasantry in need of outside prodding could only have been further fortified by the unspoken, but no less powerful, interdictions on speaking about the effects of villagization in public. In what follows I consider other tangible effects of Dzimba’s pronouncements. First and foremost, as Geffray has shown, peasants took advantage of the governor’s initiative to abandon the communal villages. While the central government declared itself opposed to Dzimba’s program of action a few months later, its public pronouncements to this effect did nothing to stem the migratory tide back to the dispersed habitat. Given Renamo’s military momentum, demographic upheaval probably would have occurred with or without Dzimba’s intervention. Nonetheless, at the very least, his speeches lent a legitimacy to the mass exodus from the communal villages that it would not have otherwise possessed. Many local party and state authorities in Eráti either allowed or actively encouraged the movement out of the aldeias. According to the district administrator at the time, Frelimo officials sought to persuade people to resettle along by the picadas by distributing such aid as was available along this web of back-country roads.141 Second, in accordance with Dzimba’s decree, the caderneta was reintroduced.142 Third, the 1986–1987 agricultural campaign seems to have witnessed modifications to rural marketing. According to the administrator of Namapa on whose watch this campaign was waged, access to officiallymarketed consumer goods was tied to cotton crop sales at this time. He held that this linkage was critical to the success of the district’s 1986–1987 cotton campaign, when production levels reached their wartime high.143 The practice of tying peasant purchases to crop sales had been officially authorized by the central government in 1982.144 Dzimba’s speech seems to have sanctioned, if not prompted, the informal practice of tying purchases to cotton crop sales, specifically. The strategy was enabled in large part by the availability of a much larger stock of commodities due to the assistance of a French donor. A 1988 provincial government report credited the strong performance registered by the family sector during the 1986–1987 cotton campaign to this major infusion of goods into the local economy.145 The 1986–1987 agricultural campaign witnessed other innovations and extraordinary measures in Nampula. Ten thousand hectares were reportedly opened up in the green zones of Nampula and Nacala cities.146 In Namapa, the district administrator enjoined smallholders to spend three days a week cultivating their food crops and three days a week cultivating their cotton machambas.147 He also mandated that all government employees cultivate their own fields between 5 and 10 a.m. and only then report for official duty.148
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It was during this period that “experiments” were undertaken jointly by local administrations and JFS in which former régulos served as “chiefs of production,” presiding once again as overseers of smallholder agriculture under the supervision of former colonial capatazes.149 The first of these experiments, which were simply a more systematized and coordinated effort of what had already been tried in Eráti during the previous growing season, took place in Memba District shortly after Dzimba’s appointment as governor in April 1986. The Memba campaign focused on rehabilitating abandoned cashew trees and weeding the picadas. At the time, a sizeable fraction of rural dwellers was living dispersed in the forest in order to remain hidden from both Renamo and the government army. The work succeeded in drawing the non-villagized population back to the picadas as smallholders, fearful that if they didn’t participate they would risk losing their rights in trees and land, made haste to assert their property claims. During the next two agricultural campaigns, similar “experiments” were conducted in six other districts, one of which was Namapa. By that time, the majority of the population was living in dispersed settlements. In 1988, JFS assigned several chiefs of production the responsibilities of capatazes and granted them a salary equivalent to a chefe de zona (head of the zone), the next step up in the company job hierarchy. Other chiefs who collaborated in the work along the picadas, were given “stimuli,” such as bicycles. In most cases, the war itself hobbled these initiatives, bringing them to an abrupt end. The then provincial governor, Jacob Nyambir, was fully aware of and had approved these arrangements. A strategy for political renewal or surplus extraction? As Minter has pointed out, “By the mid-1980s pragmatism from the top mandated an open door to any sector of society that could provide resources, material or symbolic, for defence against the insurgents.”150 By that time, the government in Nampula was acutely aware that Renamo’s strategy of rural mobilization was based in large part on its appeals to traditional authorities, which were paying off in substantial swaths of the province.151 There are also strong indications from the 1986–1987 period that, at both district and provincial level, the state was moving to offset Renamo’s appeals to these authorities by mounting a hearts and minds campaign of its own. Dzimba’s orientations were taken by party and government officials in Namapa as a green light to initiate contacts and negotiations with a dissident chief in Renamo-controlled territory in Alua Administrative Post in 1987.152 And, as we have seen, the district administration had started a dialogue with prominent chiefs a few years earlier, as Renamo’s war spread to the area. The clearest indication that the provincial government was convinced of the centrality of chiefly power, alliances and antagonisms in the local dynamics of the war is the fact that it had begun to consult and to dissemi-
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 147 nate to district officials the relevant portions of a massive 1967 study on traditional authorities and inter-clan relationships penned by the Portuguese anthropologist José Branquinho.153 No doubt the hope was that the study, which was commissioned with a view to furthering the colonial state’s counter-insurgency campaign against Frelimo, could be used to bolster Frelimo’s counter-insurgency campaign against Renamo. In the face of developments such as these, Geffray has argued that, in embracing putative royals as “chiefs of production,” the government was simply and straightforwardly aping ruling relations that obtained in rural areas under Renamo’s control and that were driving the rise of chiefs to political ascendancy in areas nominally governed by Frelimo. Under the circumstances, the government’s appellation for chiefs was a deliberate misnomer whose primary ideological function was to dissimulate that Frelimo had been ignominiously reduced to imitative practice.154 The evidence, however, suggests that the newly-coined term was much more fitting than Geffray contends. It indicates that the government’s recourse to chiefs of production was motivated in good measure by considerations that were independent of the politico-military imperatives imposed by Renamo’s rural practice. Specifically, Frelimo officials hoped to capitalize on the perceived capacity of chiefs to mobilize and to discipline rural labor. The fact that the first “experiments” with chiefs were part and parcel of the post-independence state’s most concerted effort to rehabilitate the colonial labor regime lends support to this interpretation. So do the self-described motivations of two of the actors who took the lead in initiating and implementing these experiments. One of these actors is the district administrator of Namapa at that time. The first two chiefs who, as he put it, he invited to serve as “element[s] of assistance in the area of production,” were Taibo and Alua. Both had served as régulos for the colonial administration and were widely reputed to be illegitimate. Chief Taibo had worked additionally as a capataz for CAM, as had his maternal uncle, the alleged usurper of legitimate power. The two chiefs’ regedorias sit astride the politically pivotal towns of Namapa Center and Alua, respectively. Both were, at the time of research in 1994, loci of manifest and intense struggles for power. The district administrator, Bahia, had grown up in the vicinity of Mirrote, thirty-five kilometers from the district capital and, consequently, was no stranger to the intricate history of long-simmering chiefly succession disputes in the area. Nonetheless, he was candid that legitimacy, precolonial or otherwise, was not exactly uppermost in his mind at the time he had approached the two chiefs in question. If anything, he was seeking to avoid the perception that the district administration was in search of bona fide successors of precolonial leaders, in part because he knew this would open a Pandora’s box and in part because his was a search for colonial work, rather than royal, credentials. As he put the latter point, “I knew that to go to look for the Régulo Alua, it’s not because he is régulo by birth. But look: he’s the
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one who knows the work, how it was done.”155 In a sense, then, the title “chief of production” was an honest one because raising agricultural output, rather than enhancing state political legitimacy, topped the district administrator’s priorities. The second actor is Faria Lobo, the driving force behind the return to colonial precedent. Unlike Bahia, Faria Lobo insisted that he prioritized working with chiefs who carried the mantle of precolonial legitimacy. Indeed, he argued, it was precisely for this reason that his appointees were capable of effectively harnessing the productive labor of their communities. Nonetheless, all of the chiefs Faria Lobo selected to participate in his experiments had served the colonial state as régulos. And in no case did he choose to work with a chief reputed to be a legitimate successor of a precolonial chief who did not have colonial work experience. What’s more, in the case of Namapa at least two of the chiefs he hired as capatazes – Chiefs Alua and Muhula – were not considered legitimate heirs of precolonial chiefs.156 While Faria Lobo admitted that he was, at the time, well aware of Renamo’s often successful attempts to construct alliances with chiefs, he denied that politico-military considerations figured into his own calculations and actions. Rather, he stressed, the enlistment of chiefs was but one facet in a movement to reconstruct the old agrarian structure in the wake of the collapse of Frelimo’s experiment in socialist agriculture and the absence of any other ready alternative. Furthermore, chiefs were told in no uncertain terms that the long-term sustainability of their role in the revived production arrangements was contingent on the satisfactoriness of their own job performance.157 In his work on the rural dynamics of the war, Geffray fails to mention that Dzimba’s orders for rural dwellers to abandon the aldeias and the agricultural experiments with “chiefs of production” were of a piece of a larger government initiative to re-install the colonial system of smallholder agricultural production. In rendering this larger context, he would have called into question two of his central claims: (1) that the government’s embrace of chiefs as junior partners in promoting agricultural campaigns unambiguously signaled Frelimo’s reluctant recognition of the unrivaled political legitimacy of traditional authorities; and (2) that this embrace was tantamount to the ruling party’s genuflection to Renamo ideology on this score. Why Nampula? One may well ask if Nampula represents an exceptional case and, if so, why. In what follows, I identify the reasons that the province was the site of most determined and frank attempt to resurrect the colonial labor regime. I accord analytic primacy to the centrality of the Nampulan peasantry to national marketed agricultural production, in general, and to agricultural exports, in particular.158 Moreover, I show that, in the period under review, the strategic importance of the province’s family sector to the country’s economy progressively grew.
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 149 While Zambézia was the most agriculturally productive region in Mozambique under Portuguese rule, the family sector in Nampula easily outproduced its counterpart in Zambézia, as well as elsewhere. Nampula was the chief producer of cashew nuts, Mozambique’s leading export in the late colonial period and a predominantly peasant-produced crop.159 The province retained its dominant position in this regard in the mid-1980s.160 In addition, Nampula was the colony’s primary producer of cotton, Mozambique’s second leading export on the eve of independence. As we have seen, up until the early 1960s the province’s pre-eminence in this sector of the economy was in good measure due to smallholder yields. In keeping with colony-wide trends, family sector cotton production in Nampula declined in both relative and absolute terms during the last decade of Portuguese rule, reflecting both the growing preponderance of settler agriculture and the relaxation of coercive controls.161 Mozambique’s accession to independence, however, prompted a reversal in these trends at both the provincial and national levels. The family sector began to recover its relative importance due to both the collapse of settler farming and the failure of rural collectivization, in all of its guises, to compensate for the losses in agricultural production consequent upon white flight. By the late 1970s, the peasantry’s own declining output accounted for about half of total cotton production nationally.162 The family sector’s partial recovery of its former predominance in the cotton sector was especially marked in Nampula. Local smallholders’ share of national cotton production hovered around 25 percent between 1976 and 1979, up from 12.7 percent during the 1974–1975 agricultural campaign, while their share of total family sector cotton production was an estimated 50 percent.163 The centrality of the Nampulan peasantry to national cotton production became ever more pronounced in the early 1980s. In 1981–1982 the province’s family sector reached its post-independence, pre-war high, marketing about 16,360 tons, or over 27 percent of the national total of some 60,000 tons.164 Output for this sector hit its nadir during Nampula’s 1984–1985 agricultural campaign – precisely when villagization rates reached their peak – reportedly falling to a low of about 1,323 tons. This was less than 8 percent of the level three years earlier and less than 3 percent of the Nampulan peasantry’s all-time high of 45,750 tons in 1963–1964. The total nonetheless represented about 25 percent of national cotton output (an estimated 5,200 tons) that year and about 69 percent of total family sector cotton production (an estimated 1,910 tons).165 The geography and prosecution of the war accentuated the importance of Nampula’s family sector to national economic activity. Zambézia, formerly the breadbasket of Mozambique’s agriculturally-based economy, was one of the main casualties of Renamo’s military incursions from Malawi in the mid-1980s, and bore the brunt of the rebel army’s invasion of Mozambique’s central provinces in 1986–1987. These assaults left Zambézia’s plantation sector, previously the primary producer of the province’s agricultural
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surpluses, completely decimated.166 They also generated major refugee movements out of the province into Malawi and neighboring provinces in Mozambique. The destruction caused by the government army’s counteroffensive in 1987, which consisted of scorched earth military tactics, further undermined the Zambézian agricultural economy and contributed to the depopulation of the province’s rural areas. The FAM thus bears its fair share of responsibility for the famine which beset the province that year.167 In summary, the effects of patterns of insurgency and counter-insurgency reinforced those caused by the failure of Frelimo’s rural development strategy: they both secured the Nampulan smallholder population a central role in the war economy. Dzimba’s intervention simply reflected this denouement. The fact that the central state plan envisaged more than a four-fold increase in national cotton output, a 50 percent rise in cashew nut production and a 42 percent jump in global agricultural marketing could only have given further impetus to an initiative such as his.168 A sui generis case? The events of the mid-1980s described above seem to have been specific to Nampula. However, they were broadly consonant with, and should be seen as integral to, a set of complex, and often conflicting, initiatives launched by the Frelimo leadership to reconstitute state institutions in response to economic collapse, escalating war, political crisis and social calamity. It is to a brief discussion of these initiatives that I now turn. In 1986, there was a major reorganization of state administration, whose proclaimed objective was the “structuring of Popular Power through to the base in all of the national territory.”169 In the rural areas, larger districts (of which Eráti was one) were broken up to make more manageable units of administration. In all, twenty-five new districts were created, bringing the national total to 128. In addition, a new tier of government was introduced below district level. Localities, hitherto the lowest rung of state administration, were rebaptized administrative posts which henceforth presided over newly created subdivisions, dubbed localities.170 Modifications to the administrative map can be usefully read as a lastditch attempt on the part of the Frelimo leadership to cope with, and seek to counterbalance, the centrifugal forces set in train both by the war-driven redispersal of the rural population and by economic liberalization.171 The attempt to extend the state’s reach in the outback came on the eve of the inauguration of a structural adjustment program aimed at imposing fiscal austerity and rolling back state institutions in all sectors and at all levels of administration. Not surprisingly, the strategy bore its own contradictions, as we shall see in Chapter 4. Immediately following this reorganization, and as a means of investing it with popular authority, the second general elections for people’s assemblies at all levels of government were held.172 Particularly relevant to the present
From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production” 151 discussion is that restrictions on who could hold public office were relaxed. As we have seen, people who had been branded by Frelimo as having been “compromised” by colonial rule shed that stigma in 1982, along with the penalties attached to it. As a consequence, former collaborators of the colonial regime were eligible to run for assembly seats in the 1986 elections.173 In Nampula at least, the modified eligibility rules extended to traditional authorities who had directly served the colonial administration.174 The lifting of official sanctions against the holding of “obscurantist” rituals, which took place in Namapa in the 1986–1987 period, also occurred elsewhere in the country.175 While local officials and ordinary citizens may have associated the loosening of official proscriptions with Chissano’s accession to power,176 at least one set of state strictures had been revoked prior to Machel’s death in a mysterious plane crash in October 1986. The second general elections began in August of that year and were in full swing at the time of his death (and the final stages delayed as a consequence of it).177 The promulgation of new, more lenient, eligibility rules for candidacy to people’s assemblies had already taken place by that time and clearly bore his imprimatur. Indeed, one can reasonably speculate that these rules would have been instituted sooner had the second general elections not been twice-delayed. Originally set to be held in 1983, they were rescheduled for 1985 and subsequently pushed back for yet another year because of the deteriorating security situation.178 The decision to hold them in 1986 was clearly based on the leadership’s perception that a poll could not await – or was, in fact, the essential precondition for – an improvement in the military balance of forces. In this respect at least, Chissano’s tenure represented a continuation, rather than a radical departure from, that of his predecessor.179
4
The context, 1987–1994
Between 1987 and 1994, Mozambique underwent a series of dramatic social, political and economic transformations. In January 1987, the government unveiled an IMF-sponsored structural adjustment program (the Economic Rehabilitation Program, or PRE). In July 1989, Frelimo formally abandoned Marxism-Leninism at its Fifth Party Congress. On this occasion, it also approved the lifting of the state’s monopoly on key social services and the removal of restrictions on the entrepreneurial activities of its members. In November 1990, a new constitution, guaranteeing expanded political freedoms and enshrining the principle of multipartyism, came into force. On 4 October 1992, the General Peace Accord (or AGP) was signed in Rome, culminating just over two years and twelve rounds of direct negotiations between the warring belligerents and leading to a country-wide ceasefire shortly thereafter. The AGP called for a UN peacekeeping operation – subsequently named ONUMOZ – to assist in all phases of the transition to a democraticallyelected government. The accord also cleared the way for a multiparty poll, eventually held during 27–29 October 1994, a year later than planned. The remainder of this book focuses primarily on the late 1980s and early 1990s when the above events and transformations were taking place. The latter stages of this period are regarded by many analysts as the highwater mark of Mozambique’s external dependence. It was also at this time that, for reasons reviewed in Chapter 1, interest in reconstituting an updated version of chieftaincy peaked within the state administration, the ruling party and the donor community. In Nampula, this period witnessed the semi-official “retraditionalization” of rural administration: that is, the informal reinstatement of chiefs qua chiefs as local agents of the state. This chapter lays out aspects of the broader context in which rural political change took place. I examine the national and local settings in turn. My discussion of the national context includes a section on post-1994 developments.
Overview: 1987–1994 In introducing the PRE, the government’s aim was to avert complete economic collapse and to restore output. This objective could not be achieved
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without a massive infusion of foreign exchange and a rescheduling of Mozambique’s external debt service, and neither could be obtained without meeting the conditions of the IMF. The PRE’s impact was powerful and wide-ranging.1 GDP rose on average by more than 4.5 percent between 1987 and the end of 1989.2 Marketed agricultural production also increased: by 79 percent in 1987, 16 percent in 1988 and 17 percent in 1989 – although it is unclear how much of these rises represented the transfer of smallholder crop sales from parallel to official markets. Exports doubled in five years and industrial production grew by one-third in three years.3 The reform package revalued the metical; kick-started industrial and agricultural production; and brought an increase in the quantity and diversity of foodstuffs and consumer goods on the domestic market, particularly in urban areas. Market liberalization also sharply accentuated income differentials, accelerating processes of class formation. It fueled the growth of corruption in the state apparatus and in society at large. And it expanded the ranks of and intensified the hardships of the poor, even as the influx of international aid turned into a veritable deluge. As the economy expanded, the plight of most Mozambicans worsened. By the late 1980s, an estimated 90 percent of all Mozambicans were living in poverty.4 While the war was the principal cause of the devastating hardships faced by the vast majority of Mozambicans, these were compounded by the PRE. Successive devaluations, price liberalization, cuts in government spending and the removal of government subsidies brought high rates of inflation, declines in the purchasing power of most citizens and, consequently, falling living standards. By 1990, infant mortality in Mozambique was the world’s second highest, with one of three children dying before reaching the age of five.5 Urban residents, who had hitherto benefited from cheap food rations, were especially hard hit.6 A wave of unprecedented wildcat public-sector strikes in the country’s industrial centers ushered in 1990.7 The vast majority of rural producers, the intended beneficiaries of price liberalization, did not fare any better. Farm-gate price increases failed to keep up with the rising cost of store-bought goods. According to a 1990 World Bank study, only a small number of smallholders who enjoyed relative physical security and ready market access were able to respond to producer price increases and reinvigorated markets by expanding cash crop production.8 A new structural adjustment program was introduced in 1990. The Economic and Social Rehabilitation Program, or PRES, put in place a “safety net,” by providing food subsidies to a smattering of the most vulnerable families, while requiring greater austerity than its predecessor.9 In the shortterm, increased stringency did not sustain enhanced economic performance. Rather, the economy faltered, with industrial production slumping by 50 percent between 1989 and 1993.10 A severe drought in 1991–1992 was largely responsible for an 8 percent decline in agricultural production in
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1992. For the first time since the country had embarked on the path of adjustment, the economy contracted.11 In 1993, due to peace, plentiful rains and a bumper harvest, the economy experienced a partial recovery.12 In the meantime, Mozambique’s foreign debt, non-existent in 1982, burgeoned from US$2.9 billion in 1985 to over US$5.5 billion in 1995. The higher levels of international assistance made Mozambique the largest aid recipient in sub-Saharan Africa.13 Austerity, combined with war and aid-dependence, spurred the spread of corruption. Public-sector employees, two-thirds of whom were living in poverty by the mid-1990s, reacted to their worsening financial situation by pursuing a range of economic strategies, some more above-board than others. Moonlighting, which often entails the use of public resources (e.g. vehicles) for private purposes, became common. So did stealing and reselling state-owned property and demanding kickbacks from contractors. Civil servants also resorted to exacting bribes from the public to discharge their official duties and, in the case of basic service providers, such as teachers and health-care workers, to “privatizing” their services.14 During the war, government relief workers and high-level military officials were particularly well positioned to appropriate and sell large quantities of internationallydonated food aid on their own account. The army rank and file, in turn, resorted to less refined methods of robbing the public. Hungry FAM soldiers who had not seen a paycheck in months took to looting trains and relief trucks. Government-aligned militia perpetrated similar attacks. Illegal activity by military personnel reportedly grew in frequency in the last years of the war.15 The opportunities attendant upon state divestiture prompted Frelimo officials at all levels of the state and party to use their positions and political connections to secure government contracts or the requisite resources to invest in privatized state assets. By the early 1990s the prospect of losing their jobs and the associated perquisites (e.g. housing, transport) in the event of a Renamo victory at the polls sent many of these officials scrambling to secure their economic futures by whatever means were at their disposal. The large donor presence – some 180 NGOs by 1990–1991 – in Mozambique also facilitated the spread of corruption: aid workers have not always been above offering bribes to government officials in order to bypass red tape or to try to ensure that their projects receive top priority.16 The growth of violent street crime and organized crime paralleled the institutionalization of corruption, becoming a major political issue. Faced with a sudden surge of armed robberies, assaults and murders in Maputo in 1991, city residents took to vigilantism, beating, lynching or burning to death several alleged thieves. Crime rates continued to soar throughout the period in question, a trend that was reinforced by both police indifference to, and complicity in, illegal activity.17 The introduction of the PRE coincided with the war’s intensification in the 1986–1987 period. Two years of military deadlock ensued as the human
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and economic toll of the fighting escalated. In 1990, the war began to shift its center of gravity as government forces made gains in the interior of Nampula, Zambézia and Tete, and Renamo stepped up its attacks in Maputo and Gaza provinces.18 By the early 1990s, destabilization had taken between 600,000 and one million lives.19 In the country’s southern and central regions, agricultural production was seriously constrained and warrelated human suffering was compounded during the last two years of hostilities by the 1991–1992 drought, which affected the entire sub-continent and created famine conditions in wartime Mozambique. Systematic Renamo attacks on relief trucks greatly exacerbated the problem. By the war’s end, 60 percent of the country’s first-level primary schools were shuttered or destroyed and less than half of all primary-school goers were receiving an education; 42 percent of Mozambique’s health clinics and over 3,000 rural shops were closed or destroyed; 1.7 million Mozambicans were refugees living in camps or temporary residences in neighboring countries; at least 3.2 million people were displaced within the country’s borders; and an estimated quarter of a million children had been orphaned or separated from their parents.20 In between the advent of peace and the end of 1994, an estimated 4.3 million Mozambicans who had been uprooted by the war, including 1.6 million refugees, returned to their former homes or set up new domiciles; 20,537 Renamo and 71,281 FAM troops were demobilized at forty-nine assembly points or in situ, while 12,195 soldiers from both sides opted to form the nucleus of the new, unified army; a UN trust fund was established to “help Renamo transform itself from a military movement to a political party”; another, much smaller, UN fund was set up to help finance the electoral bids of all newly registered political parties; and the first halting steps were taken to integrate Renamo-controlled zones into the state administration.21 When ONUMOZ’s mandate elapsed in December 1994, the peace process, which cost an estimated US$1 billion,22 was considered complete. According to several analysts, Mozambique’s national sovereignty had been severely compromised by ONUMOZ’s extended and highly interventionist stay.23
Post-1994 developments The 1994 elections capped the transition from civil war to peace and from single-party rule to a multiparty dispensation. They also set the stage for Mozambique’s emergence as the African darling of the Bretton Woods institutions and the UN. Programs aimed at reintegrating over 90,000 demobilized soldiers into post-conflict society won applause from international organizations and NGOs that sponsored the effort.24 Renamo succeeded in transforming itself from a guerrilla army into a political party – albeit a “minimally effective” one.25 Mozambique’s second general elections in 1999 and first municipal elections, held in 1998, while problematic and contentious, received the stamp of international approval.26 So did the second
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local elections, held in 2003, whose results were accepted by the opposition. The end of the war saw the emergence of an independent and assertive press. Previously embargoed topics, such as racism, ethnic discrimination and Frelimo’s past recourse to summary executions of leading dissidents, have become the stuff of political debate in parliament, the media and everyday conversation.27 Mozambique’s economic reforms have earned high praise from the World Bank and the IMF for their deference to neoliberal principles. The economy grew by more than 10 percent on average in the late 1990s. A combination of flooding and torrential rains checked economic expansion in 2000 but, since then, the growth rate has bounced back to high levels.28 Frelimo’s faithful application of IMF strictures and its model poverty reduction program qualified Mozambique for the World Bank’s Heavily Indebted Poor Country (HIPC) debt relief programs and ensured that the country continued to receive high levels of aid even at a time when donor interest in Africa was waning.29 Mozambique’s “investor-friendly” business climate has helped pave the way for the launch of several ambitious “mega-projects.” MOZAL, the biggest and most technologically sophisticated of these, is one of the largest aluminum smelters in the world and now Mozambique’s chief export earner.30 Certain leading social indicators have also given cause for optimism. Living standards, as gauged by the United Nations Development Program (UNDP), have been steadily rising. More Mozambican children are now enrolled in primary school than ever before in the country’s history. The illiteracy rate, although still over 50 percent, is falling. The vast majority of youngsters is immunized against major child-killer diseases, such as polio, measles and tuberculosis. Infant mortality rates are dropping.31 And the incidence of poverty has reportedly fallen from almost 70 percent in 1997 to about 54 percent in 2003.32 However, the overall picture is far from rosy. Mozambique remains one of the poorest countries in the world, with per capita income estimated at about US$210.33 Despite substantial debt relief, Mozambique is still paying far more on debt servicing than on health care and donors continued to fund over half the budget through 2003.34 Aggregate economic statistics fail to disclose growing disparities between regions and social groups – two trends that are widely viewed as having fueled the war and as having earned Renamo recruits, supporters and sympathizers.35 With the HIV prevalence rate estimated at almost 15 percent in mid-2004, life expectancy, never high, has dropped below forty. The spread of AIDs threatens to shorten life spans still further, to dramatically increase the number of orphans, and to wipe out Mozambique’s most educated and skilled workers.36 Falling international prices for Mozambique’s key agricultural exports, such as cashew, cotton and copra, have jeopardized many rural livelihoods.37 The privatization of the banking sector resulted in the wholesale withdrawal of banks from the countryside, hampering the recovery of rural commerce.38
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According to trade union representatives, the privatization of over 1,400 state-owned firms has led to the redundancy of some 120,000 workers, many of whom are owed months or even years in back wages.39 Some 8,000 factory workers and staff lost their jobs following government capitulation to World Bank pressure to sharply lower tariffs that had protected the cashewprocessing industry. Most of Mozambique’s large-scale cashew-processing plants are now closed; they are also heavily indebted and unlikely to reopen any time soon.40 The sugar and textile industries, among others, face stiff competition from the influx of cheap illegal imports on to the domestic market.41 The sale of smuggled goods on the Mozambican market is the tip of the iceberg of the underground economy. In all likelihood, drug trafficking alone is now more profitable than “all legal foreign trade combined,” generating tens of millions of dollars a year in local revenue and accounting for a good measure of the country’s recent economic growth. The involvement of the police, demobilized army officers and “very senior Mozambican officials,” long suspected, is now beyond question.42 The judiciary, law enforcement bodies and corrections system are riddled with corruption and, at all levels of government, impunity is for sale.43 The extent to which official institutions are now beholden to powerful crime syndicates was laid bare by the disappearance of some US$400 million from the banking system in the 1990s, the contract killings of a prominent journalist and bank manager investigating the swindle, and the laggardly pace and unevenness of the government’s response to both the financial scandal and the assassinations that followed. As of mid-2004, one of the homicide cases and one of the bank fraud cases had yet to go to trial.44 Multiparty competition and expanded political freedoms have not brought about democratic consolidation. Mozambique now “closely approximates a cross between a formal multiparty democracy and . . . an elite power-sharing regime.”45 The hybrid character of national politics testifies first and foremost to the success of Renamo’s persistent attempts, in the face of Frelimo’s successive victories at the polls, to enter into high-level, behind-closed-door, bilateral talks with the ruling party with a view “to modify[ing] the outcomes and procedures of formal democracy.”46 To date, Renamo has been frustrated in its efforts to achieve its primary goal: securing gubernatorial appointments in the provinces in which it posted electoral majorities in 1994 and 1999. But informal inter-elite negotiations have achieved a more immediate Renamo objective: namely, to recreate, insofar as is possible, “the relationship between the major domestic parties that obtained during peace negotiations,” when the warring belligerents enjoyed a “rough parity” and “when organizational and political capacity were secondary in importance to either party’s ability to derail the entire process.”47 Recent patterns of political interaction recall those that characterized the peace talks in a second respect: they rely heavily on the intervention of powerful outsiders for their ongoing reproduction. The persistence of the “syndrome of the Rome negotiations”48 does not augur well for the
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deepening of democratic practice within Mozambique. For the intensification of “strategies of extraversion” both bespeaks and heightens the highly centralized, top-down character of Frelimo’s and Renamo’s internal political structures, at once widening the gap between party leaders and local militants and between political elites and voters.49 At least two additional factors have inhibited processes of democratization. The first is Mozambique’s “strong form of centralized presidentialism,” which unduly concentrates appointive powers in the executive branch at all levels of government. The second is the slow pace of state decentralization. As of mid-2004, local government elections are still confined to thirtythree cities and towns, leaving the rural areas, where some 75 percent of Mozambicans lives, without any voice in district-level administration.50 The most significant victory registered by the rural poor in the postwar period has been a new land law, approved by parliament in 1997. Among other things, the law bolsters women’s land rights; it confers on “local communities” the legal standing to secure land title documents, an entitlement previously reserved solely for individuals and companies; it sanctions recourse to “customary norms and practices” in land-related issues so long as these are not at odds with constitutional principles; and it provides a range of protection and rights to smallholders against eviction and expropriation by the powerful.51 The law was the product of “one of the most open and democratic processes in many years in Mozambique.”52 However, gains by the laboring poor, rural or otherwise,53 have been few and far between and are precarious at best. Indeed, the present balance of power in Mozambique is such that representatives of “civil society” found themselves compelled to impress upon (unaccountable) donors that they, the donors, are in a much better position than Mozambican voters to bring the requisite pressure to bear on the government to get to the bottom of the banking scandals and their murderous aftermath.54 The 1999 elections results showed that the electorate remains deeply polarized and that political divisions strongly tend to coincide with regional divides. The potential for political hostility between the two sides to erupt into deadly confrontation was revealed in November 2000, when Renamo staged demonstrations across the country to protest the 1999 election results, among other things. In several cities and towns at least forty-one people lost their lives when the protests turned violent. The bloodiest clash was in Montepuez, where demonstrators tried to seize the town. In the police crackdown that followed, at least eighty-three people died of asphyxiation in a grossly overcrowded local jail.55 Concerns that continuing political tensions could spur a return to armed confrontation have been reinforced by Renamo’s ongoing refusal to disband weapon-toting groups in central Mozambique. The militia, comprised of former rebel soldiers who eluded demobilization in the 1993–1994 period, stand accused of beating and abducting government officials and Frelimo cadres, as well as other acts of intimidation.56 Renamo’s inclination toward
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violence was most recently on display in October 2003 when some fifty former Renamo fighters, armed with clubs and machetes, sought to disrupt and/or abort the founding conference of a new political party formed by a former senior Renamo leader who was expelled from the party in 2000.57 Thus far, none of the more disturbing features of Mozambique’s still emergent postwar political economy have detracted from the Mozambican “success story,” as authored by the country’s leading external patrons and as deftly exploited by Mozambique’s ruling elites. The origins of this myth, which crystallized in the mid-1990s and grew ever more robust as a result of the macro-economic boom that marked the decade’s final years, reside in the depths of Mozambique’s external dependence at the end of the war. This state of acute dependence, coinciding as it did with the collapse of the Soviet Union, made Mozambique a prime target for post-Cold Warinspired international initiatives aimed at building liberal democracies the world over and in Africa especially.58 The confluence of these factors in and of themselves would have probably been sufficient to turn Mozambique into “an experimental laboratory” for nation building by Cold War victors.59 However, a further consideration worked to make such an outcome all but certain. This was “the international community’s need for a success in peacekeeping” in the wake of a string of defeats in Africa. Most consequential in this respect was the return to civil war in Angola. The renewal of armed hostilities followed Unita’s refusal to accept the verdict of UN-sponsored multiparty elections, held in September 1992, which returned the MPLA to power. The Angolan debacle, in combination with subsequent peacekeeping failures in Somalia (1993) and Rwanda (1994), worked, over the course of the 1990s, to erode the “international consensus” regarding the prospects for successful nation-building in Africa and to dampen donor interest in the continent. By the decade’s close, international development assistance to Africa had plummeted by about a third.60 Ironically, however, the UN’s less than stellar record made the organization and its main sponsors ever more hungry for the successful denouement of their interventions in Mozambique. In the first instance, this hunger manifested itself in the ambitious reach of the UN’s peacekeeping mission. ONUMOZ was not only colossal and costly. It also “broke new ground” in the lengths it went to in order to secure the peace.61 More recently, the magnitude of the political stakes that the UN and IFIs (international financial institutions) have in Mozambique’s postwar economic recovery and political stability is evident in the extent to which donors and IFIs have muted their criticism of the shortcomings of the official probes into the banking scandals and the murders that followed on them. And it is apparent in the overriding reality that whatever criticism has been forthcoming has been effectively drowned out by the actions of donors, which have, in recent years, made a point of showering more international assistance on the Mozambican government than it has requested.62 If Mozambique’s extreme dependence accounts for the country’s conversion into a “donor playground,”63 the Mozambican success story has paradox-
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ically enabled the Frelimo government to achieve a greater measure of autonomy vis-à-vis its external patrons.64 This is because “as the international donors invest more ‘political capital’ in the Mozambican success, the greater the ability on the part of Mozambican government officials to exert influence over the process in order to tailor it to their needs.”65 Ironically, the government’s increased room for maneuver has led the ruling elite to adopt positions that might have clashed with donor agendas in the early 1990s but seem to enjoy tacit donor approval today. The policy of decentralization stands as a case in point. In recent years, the government’s “gradualist approach” to ceding power and authority has slowed to a near standstill. As already noted, the 2003 municipal elections did not expand the number of the country’s municipalities. In addition, a proposed new law on provincial, district and sub-district administration is unabashedly centralist in its orientation. According to Hanlon, this orientation suits donors, which now seek to exert greater control over their funds and over policy-making and see a strong central government as the best means of achieving these objectives.66 At the same time that “the centralizers” within the ruling party and the government have begun to reassert themselves politically, so too have those within these same institutions who oppose a legally-sanctioned return to chiefly rule. The article pertaining to traditional authorities in the nowrevoked 1994 Municipalities Law has failed to resurface in subsequent legislation. Rather, a government decree, issued in 2000, refers to “traditional leaders” as but one of several kinds of “community authorities” that “local communit[ies]” or “social group[s]” might choose to represent them in their dealings with officialdom. The decree makes clear that traditional leaders enjoy no special rank or status in relation to rural authorities of other stripes unless the collectivity in question deems that they should. Similar formulations can be found in recent legislation pertaining to land and natural resource management and in proposed constitutional amendments.67 In the meantime, by the late 1990s, in “many areas, district administrators [were] already meeting with traditional leaders and encouraging them to mobilise people to carry out tasks such as keeping the roads open and participating in the [1997] national census.”68 In recent years traditional authorities of various types have, in different parts of the country, helped promote government- and NGO-sponsored public health campaigns; they have participated in the distribution of emergency relief in the wake of natural disasters (e.g. flooding and tropical depressions); they have been elected to represent locals in community wildlife management schemes; they have been sought out to facilitate the resolution of local conflicts; and they have been called upon by both political parties and independents to help turn out the vote or to otherwise influence electoral behavior. They have also been empowered by law to vouch for the identity of local citizens who live in the same jurisdiction as they do and who wish to register to vote but lack the requisite documentation to do so.69
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At the same time, it is clear that the authority and power of people claiming the mantle of traditional titles go only so far. Not all such claimants, for instance, have emerged victorious in community elections to lead local resource management initiatives. They are not the only local figures relied upon to resolve conflicts outside the formally-constituted legal apparatus or to carry out administrative tasks. Their legitimacy has been openly and broadly contested when local development projects in which their consent or participation has been critical have yielded unsatisfactory outcomes. Their political sway is highly restricted in certain parts of the country and their claim to leadership is often rejected wholesale by certain social groups, most notably youth, even in areas where the legitimacy of such claims (if not necessarily the claimants themselves) may enjoy widespread acceptance.70 The two-year-long public debate on the drafting of new land legislation in the mid-1990s exposed sharp divisions within the populace with respect to, as well as broad-based popular ambivalence toward, “tradition” and the role of royals in interpreting its meaning and directing its applications.71
Civil war and its legacies The remainder of this chapter is concerned chiefly with local developments in Namapa in the early 1990s. The 1989–1990 period witnessed some of the heaviest and most generalized fighting of the war in the district. Renamo units moved through, and wreaked destruction in, all of Namapa’s administrative divisions during the first eight months of 1991. They also mounted major attacks on the district’s three towns and launched a series of ambushes along the Namialo-Pemba road. The assaults inflicted extensive damage and casualties. By mid-year, the accumulated toll of Renamo’s handiwork included 387 people kidnapped, forty-nine people killed, fortytwo villages burned, 689 houses burned, six schools destroyed, five shops burned and seven attacks on military-escorted columns, according to official estimates.72 War-driven large-scale population movements continued on into the early 1990s. In the face of ongoing Renamo attacks on communal villages and the progressively loosening administrative grip of the state, local populations streamed out of the aldeias. Many sought refuge either in the province’s cities and towns, local accommodation centers or the bairros of the district’s six administrative seats. Others sought protective cover in the dispersed habitat.73 August 1991 marked the beginning of a turnaround in the security situation in the vicinity of the district seat. The shift attested to a general abatement of the fighting in the wider region as the south became the main theater of combat. The district administration attributed changes on the local front, as well as subsequent military gains, to the joint action of the government army and the Naparamas. In October the district reported that government forces and the Naparamas were currently engaged in a “mop up
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of the forests, dismantling advanced posts and bases of the enemy.” By February people had begun to venture out to their machambas, “even to places difficult to get to” and, in April, the administration reported that there had been “no enemy movement.”74 The immediate effect of Renamo’s retreat from its former military strongholds in the district was, from the administration’s standpoint, the intensification of the emergency situation several fold. In abandoned advanced posts, “the enemy left hunger, nudity and illnesses” and local populations required clothing, agricultural tools, seeds and immediate medical and relief assistance.75 The advent of relative calm locally also brought an influx of people from Cabo Delgado fleeing the war. Compounding this, from September 1992 onwards, Namapa residents began to return home from their wartime sanctuaries in Nacala, Nampula and Namialo. In the wake of the signing of the AGP, population flows into the district accelerated from both nearby cities and towns, as well as from Renamo bases. Finally, starting in March 1992, demobilized soldiers from both sides of the conflict began to return to the district, often with wartime-acquired dependants in tow.76 The ability of the district administration to satisfy the basic needs of the population was highly constrained. A third of the district’s ninety-three primary schools had either been destroyed by Renamo, or otherwise rendered inoperative by the war.77 The local authorities and NGO personnel registered a high incidence of anemia, malaria, diarrhea, tuberculosis, bilharzia, intestinal parasites, cholera and scabies among district residents.78 While Namapa hosts several health posts, in practice health-care delivery was limited to the rural hospital in Namapa Center and two mission-run health centers. The state-run hospital, one of five in Nampula’s rural areas, had been partially destroyed in a Renamo attack. The facility was desperately short of medicines, bereft of transport, poorly managed, plagued by unsanitary conditions and riven by corruption.79 With only a quarter of the wells and boreholes in the district functioning at the war’s end, potable water sources were few and far between.80 The situation in the district seat was only marginally better. The town was supplied with untreated water from the Lúrio river, which had in the recent past been known to carry cholera bacteria.81 In addition, the pipes were badly in need of replacement.82 During most of my stay in the district, the system was not functioning at all.83 By the war’s end, the productive capacity of smallholders had been severely eroded.84 The extent of this erosion was brought home to the NGO World Vision in a fairly forceful and unexpected manner when it tried to exchange improved varieties for local seeds. The program drew to an abrupt halt on day one when World Vision staff discovered that local smallholders literally had no seeds with which to exchange. As a result, the program’s launch was delayed by a year and seeds were distributed without payment in kind.85 According to a monthly report penned by the district administration, one sign of the deepening impoverishment of the majority of the peasantry was
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the inability of a growing number of families to afford fees for initiation rites.86 In mid-1994, the going rates for girls and boys was less than US$0.50.87 The war, and the peace accord which ended it, also left a legacy of “dual administration.” The AGP held that Mozambican laws and official institutions would hold sway over the entire national territory, a provision which laid the basis for the extension of state administration to Renamo-held zones. Renamo, in its turn, was given the authority to appoint administrators of its zones from the locally resident population, including from its own ranks. Subsequent agreements between Chissano and Dhlakama the following year called for the appointment of three Renamo advisers to be assigned to each provincial administration to assist the process of territorial integration. They also led to the creation of a national commission to determine which zones fell under Renamo control and to approve Renamo nominees to administrate them. The commission, whose work was brought to an abrupt standstill a few months after it began to operate by Renamo’s boycott of its meetings, ruled that Renamo controlled five out of the country’s 128 districts and forty-two out of its 393 administrative posts. The status of numerous other districts and posts was left undetermined and the persistence of dual administration in many areas continued well past the inauguration of a new government following the elections.88 Only two of seventy-four administrative posts in Nampula were deemed to fall under Renamo’s jurisdiction (the status of a third remained in dispute). In addition, the rebels controlled numerous enclaves, which, together with the two posts, accounted for some 30 percent of the province’s territory, according to one estimate.89 In Namapa, Renamo controlled the southeast corner of Alua Administrative Post, an area that bordered Renamo strongholds in Memba and Monapo districts. The district STAE (the Technical Secretariat for Elections Administration), the technical arm of the National Elections Commission (CNE), registered less than 3 percent of the district’s 111,324 registered voters in the area.90 Unlike in many places in the province, people circulated freely in and out of Renamo’s zone.91 But no steps had been taken to extend the district administration to the area and, although the local director of agriculture maintained that food aid had been distributed there, local residents disputed the claim.92
Rural markets, capital and the PRE/PRES One of the intended objectives of structural adjustment policies was to stimulate smallholder agricultural production and to promote rural marketing. However, trade in the hinterland continued to labor under severe structural constraints. The war seriously impeded economic activity, let alone economic recovery.93 At the same time, the PRE/PRES’ tight monetary policy reinforced two central features of the pre-1987 rural economy: goods shortages and barter. Economic trends already much in evidence in the late
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1980s, notably rising living costs and deteriorating rural terms of trade, became increasingly pronounced in the early 1990s and continued to inhibit the expansion of smallholder agriculture.94 As the war escalated in Namapa in the late 1980s, most traders fled to provincial urban centers, only to return after the signing of the AGP.95 Others were forced to pull their operations back to the administrative seats of district posts and localities, increasing the distances rural dwellers had to travel to find marketing outlets.96 At the war’s height, official trade even here ground to a halt in some cases. By early 1991, the majority of shops had been “paralyzed because of the destruction of buildings by enemy action” although, by the war’s end, most were back in operation.97 The proliferation of itinerant traders (vendedores ambulantes), many relying on bicycles for transport, partially mitigated the adverse effects of the abandonment and destruction of rural stores.98 Nonetheless, persistent shortfalls of basic commodities and the limited availability of farming tools constrained economic activities and agricultural production. Many traders had suffered serious losses of operating capital during the war. Whole inventories had been stolen or burned, sometimes on more than one occasion. Vehicles had often met with similar fates. Some traders had entrusted their shops to employees at the height of the war only to subsequently discover that much of their merchandise was unaccounted for.99 Consequently, most traders both required credit and lacked the requisite collateral to get it. Wartime losses had prevented many traders from paying back old loans and, as a result, they were not eligible for new ones. Those who were eligible for bank credit faced prohibitively high interest rates and short repayment periods.100 In Nampula, as throughout the country, economic austerity has all-too-often discouraged market competition, favoring larger, wealthier, lower risk merchants over their smaller brethren.101 In Namapa, both Agricom, the parastatal agricultural marketing board, and Casa Salvador, the private wholesaler in the district, often delayed payment to traders or flatly refused to pay them in cash at all, exacerbating liquidity problems. Cash-flow problems made agricultural marketing fairly fitful and uncertain. To compensate for cash shortfalls, the two distributors were wont to insist that the traders pay producers solely in merchandise.102 Barter not only radically circumscribed consumer choice but also typically left agricultural producers shortchanged.103 Living costs continued to rise steeply. A study of Nampula’s westernmost districts by the Dutch Embassy gives a good indication of overall trends in the province. Minimum prices for agricultural crops had risen anywhere from 45 to 70 percent a year between 1991 and 1993. In contrast, agricultural tools had risen by 100 to 200 percent between 1992 and 1993 and essential consumer goods had risen on the order of 167 to 267 percent during the same period.104 Given that traders often paid peasant producers less than officially-stipulated minimum crop prices and that barter
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continued to be a prevalent means of exchange, real terms of trade for smallholders were often even lower than these figures suggest.105 Other structural factors inhibiting the performance and expansion of rural markets included lack of transport, high transport costs, lack of sacks, inadequate storage facilities and poor road conditions.106 Increased economic activity and opportunity in the aftermath of the general ceasefire gave rise to disputes over control over rural markets. Returning shop-based traders often collided with ambulantes who had moved into their former area of influence.107 In general, government officials seemed to favor larger traders, at least in part because their activities were easier to monitor and to tax.108 This bias may also have been an expression of the increasingly visible and robust alliance between merchant capital and officialdom that was developing at all levels of authority during the period in question.109 Privatization accompanied the halting re-establishment of rural markets and the ebbing of the war in the district. In 1991 EEAN, which by the mid1980s had racked up the highest debt of all state farms in Nampula, was converted into a joint venture, with JFS putting up 51 percent of the capital and the Mozambican government weighing in with the remainder. The new company, the Cotton Development Society of Namialo (SODAN), opted to pursue a low-risk investment and production strategy.110 Perhaps JFS’s boldest move was undertaken before privatization when the company was charged with managing smallholder agriculture in Namapa for an ailing and highly ineffective EEAN: the hiring of some six chiefs in the district as capatazes. Subsequent developments reveal that company expectations of traditional authorities were overblown: all but one of these new hires had been laid off by 1992. The sole exception was Chief Namiquela (Namikela, Namequela), who had worked in that capacity during the colonial period.111
The budget crisis and the state By the end of the 1980s, the most skilled public servants had the option of moonlighting for, or securing full-time employment with, one of scores of foreign-based NGOs and bilateral donors that had descended upon the country. At the bottom end of the pay-scale, however, state personnel had to earn second incomes to get by.112 In Nampula, the crisis of the state bureaucracy was acute. In 1987, the province had taken the first steps towards decentralizing local government. Financial and administrative autonomy in the first phase meant that the eighteen district administrations and three city executive councils would henceforth be responsible for footing the wage bill of their own functionaries, among other employees. No sooner had decentralization entered into effect than “local organs,” as district and city governments are collectively known, were beset by severe and recurrent budget deficits. The budget crisis engendered ever-growing backlogs of unpaid salaries; high rates of absenteeism; worker indiscipline; poor job
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performance; and the spread and institutionalization of corruption.113 In practice, local governments remained heavily dependent on provincial government subsidies but these were both insufficient and only sporadically forthcoming. Namapa was a microcosm of province-wide trends. At the beginning of 1991, the district warned that conditions were ripe for strike action due to “the non-payment of back pay of some workers of the Administration for the years of 88/89” and the administration’s ongoing inability to meet its salary obligations.114 Wage arrears seem to go some way towards explaining lax security conditions at the Namapa District jail. At least the remarks of the Provincial Directorate of Assistance and Control (DPAC), the branch of government that oversees district administration, suggest as much: The Director of the Jail has not received a salary since November 1989. Lack of food for the prisoners. The jail lacks a guard. The prisoners escape from the jail, afterwards committing diverse crimes against the population. When apprehended, they accuse the Director of the Jail as the person who gave them orders.115 Not surprisingly, the district administrator’s authority over his subordinates was, by this time, showing signs of severe attenuation. In mid-1991, for instance, the administration reported that “The District Directors, when they go to Nampula for work, stay there sometimes for more than 30 days.”116 District directors also stood accused of misappropriation of public monies, drunkenness on the job, indiscipline, “abuse of power” and other irregular behavior.117 The Namapa district assembly had been out of commission since at least 1988 for lack of finance.118 The executive council, in principle the assembly’s executive arm, acted in its stead. Consisting mainly of the district directors and headed by the district administrator, the executive council was effectively a simple extension of the state apparatus.119 Financial constraints had also debilitated the assemblies of the administrative posts and localities.120 The war’s end brought a renewed attempt to kick-start legislative organs. The initiative, however, does not seem to have produced concrete results.121 The predicament of the president of the district assembly, who had assumed his post in 1991 as a direct consequence of the legalization of political pluralism, was indicative. Up until the promulgation of the new constitution, the district administrator had simultaneously served as the president of the executive council, the president of the assembly, and the first secretary of the Frelimo Party at the district level. In keeping with newly adopted political reforms, he surrendered the latter two functions in 1991 while continuing to head the executive council. While the first Frelimo secretary of the district became a full-time, salaried party post, no such provision was made for the newly-installed president of the (long inoperative and effectively defunct) district assembly.
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These developments occurred as the economics of survival grew increasingly harsh. At the same time, the shift from state-controlled circuits of distribution to market principles had eliminated one of the main perquisites of public office in local institutions which fell outside the compass of the formal state apparatus. Not surprisingly, the availability of suitably qualified people for voluntary public service at the grassroots level was rapidly diminishing, as was the likelihood of retaining such people as were available.122 By mid-1991, the district administration characterized the situation of the president of the assembly as “deplorable because he does not receive any remuneration, and the proposals sent to the Provincial Assembly [to rectify this] haven’t received a response.”123 In the wake of the peace accord, the administration resolved to provide the president with a stipend of eighty contos a month. In practice, he received what appears to have been a one-time lump sum of 320 contos (approximately US$344 at 1993 official exchange rates), covering the period from October 1992 through January 1993.124 When we met in mid-1994, by which time it had become clear that forthcoming local government reforms would eliminate the organs of “popular power,” the effectively jobless president voiced his intention to write to the provincial government demanding back pay for the 1993–1994 period. The simultaneity of political reform and ongoing market liberalization, then, produced complex and contradictory pressures on the state’s lower reaches. Concerted attempts to lend some semblance of autonomy to the district assembly led the administration to assume new financial commitments to sustain a freshly appointed authority – even as it continued to default with regularity on longstanding ones. At the same time, the district authorities were discovering that, as a result of economic reforms, the state could no longer rely on unpaid party labor at the level of the locality.125
Moves toward fiscal reform At the beginning of 1992, the Provincial Directorate of Finances (DPF), acting at the behest of the governor, prepared a report on the recent fiscal performance of the province’s local organs for 1990 and 1991. The report found that, in 1990, only five of eighteen rural districts had collected national tax – at that time, 1,500 meticais, approximately US$1.60 at 1990 nominal official exchange rates – from more than 10 percent of the eligible population; in 1991, only four did.126 The director poured scorn on the standard defense that district budgetary woes could be wholly blamed on the war: “One cannot present the justification that Mogincual, as it is totally plunged in a sea of war, is unable to collect at least ten Taxes, because the question would be: and the bureaucratic staff, doesn’t it also pay taxes?”127 He reserved special ire for the local organ whose revenue-raising capacity and vulnerability to Renamo attack least resembled those of Mogincual: the Nampula City Executive Council. In 1990, the council collected 21,960
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contos in IRN out of potential total of 187,200 contos. In 1991, it netted 30,692 contos. Nonetheless, “it was possible to have an entertainment expense account, including alcoholic beverages, of a sum above 7,000 contos, in addition to misappropriations of funds . . . by some functionaries, principally those in charge of IRN collection.”128 To impose fiscal discipline and to ensure greater budgetary transparency, DPAC made a series of recommendations, including docking administrators’ salaries in the event “they don’t present acceptable justifications” for failing to fulfill their public treasury responsibilities.129 It is unclear what, if anything, came of DPAC’s proposals. What is clear is that, from then on, the Namapa administration, which collected taxes from less than 6 percent of the eligible population in 1991,130 began to report measures it was taking in order to bolster public receipts and to minimize and penalize tax evasion. It also began to devote considerable energy to providing plausible explanations for ongoing low revenue levels.131 Chiefs were, for the first time since independence, entrusted with overall responsibility for mobilizing the population to pay tax. While in principle this implied the displacement of party secretaries, in actuality local practice varied considerably, as I show in Chapter 5. Chiefs were also awarded bonuses in the event they met or exceeded pre-set government targets. The administration reportedly paid a total of 140 contos to seven traditional authorities, representing heavily populated regedorias, for services rendered during 1993.132 By early 1993, the onus of tax collection seems largely to have passed to law enforcement bodies, namely the police and local agents acting in their name. Tax collection seems to have increased in 1993 but the evidence is ambiguous.133 In 1994, tax collection was, according to the chief adviser in the district secretariat, “much weaker” than it had been the previous year, a decrease he attributed to the spurious, but apparently highly effective, campaign tactics of the political opposition: “The [newly formed] parties said you don’t have to pay tax. This government is going to go.”134 The district administration remained heavily dependent on the provincial government for finance during this period and, even then, salaries went unpaid. In 1993, salaries were reportedly paid through March but went unpaid for June, September, October and November of that year.135 It is difficult to assess the administration’s revenue-raising capacity because of the limited availability, ambiguity and questionability of data on revenue levels, among other factors.136 At the outside, the number of citizens who paid IRN had risen from under 6 percent in 1992 to 10.5 percent in 1993. This increase is not spectacular or wholly unexpected given the advent of peace. Only seven out of the thirty-odd state-recognized chiefs met government targets for tax collection and, thus, were awarded bonuses in 1993. Whether by choice, incapacity or simply lack of means, the great majority of chiefs had collected little to no IRN payment and roughly 90 percent of the population made no contribution to state coffers.
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Such realities were glossed by official pronouncements extolling the impressive advances made by chiefs in the area of tax collection. In August 1993, for instance, DPAC reported that in Namapa [t]he national reconstruction tax (IRN) is being collected with great success . . . an action that is developed by the régulos, who must present taxpayers at the District Administration or in the respective regedorias for the purpose of collection [on] scheduled days for each regulado, for which purpose a functionary of the Administration is responsible.137 The claim was reiterated in February 1994 in a report covering the latter half of 1993 – despite the fact that IRN was not collected during the months in question, unless its collection went unreported.138 DPAC’s glowing assessments are but one instance of a marked tendency within officialdom to overstate the salutary effects of the return to chiefly rule during this time. Locally, revenue levels remained largely a function of the number of cotton producers with yields to sell.139 Significantly, the cotton markets, both in the colonial past and in the 1990s, constituted a site at which the state could enter into direct contact with rural dwellers without the mediation of local leadership of whatever ilk – in both instances, it was the cotton concession which facilitated the encounter.140 Rural authority only entered into play to the extent that, in the 1990s as in the colonial period, state and company representatives relied upon it to mobilize smallholders to produce cotton. On this score, as we have already seen, chiefs had dismally failed to live up to the expectations placed on them.
“Marginality” and law enforcement The period after 1987 witnessed a rising incidence of robbery and homicide. At the beginning of 1991, the administration reported that “a high rate of marginality,” primarily among youth, had begun to pose a threat to “the security of State,” in addition to that of the population at large.141 In the wake of the peace accord, the state turned its attention to the question of law and order. This growing preoccupation was evidenced in stepped up law enforcement activity throughout the province. In Namapa, the administration began to devote increasing space in its monthly communiqués to enumerating the numbers and types of crimes, misdemeanors and traffic infractions reported, fines and summonses issued, arrests and detentions made, the numbers of citizens interrogated in the streets and in custody, and the revenue generated from law enforcement activity. Law enforcement agents stepped up patrols and held meetings “with the Régulos of the District in order to analyze the . . . criminal situation as well as the system of force employed to neutralize agents of crime.”142 The police took to questioning and searching citizens on the street in order to apprehend and fine
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tax-dodgers, as well as unregistered or otherwise suspect persons. Such practices occurred with increasing frequency in the postwar period, as the assiduously recorded statistics in district reports amply attest.143 The clampdown in Namapa, as in the province as a whole, was a straightforward attempt to assert state authority and control over government-held areas. It also appears to have been an integral component of the state’s revenue-raising exercise. Whatever the crackdown’s original intent, it provided a host of opportunities for corruption and extortion. Few such opportunities went unexploited.144 Like other state employees, law enforcement officers found it increasingly difficult to make ends meet on their income – even if they were receiving it. For many, the government’s law and order offensive enabled a revenue-raising campaign not for reduction of the public deficit but for personal consumption and accumulation. As a result, the populace in Nampula draw little distinction between law enforcement agents and their putative quarry.145 Law enforcement measures, which in the main targeted misdemeanors, did little to stem the rising tide of lawlessness. As I show in Chapter 6, chieftaincy was considered by people at all levels of social agency to be an antidote for the unabated growth of “marginality,” even as chiefs themselves expressed fear and helplessness in the face of the very “marginals” their own return to rule was expected to discipline and deter.
Pre-election instability In the year ahead of the elections, the country was rocked by near continuous rioting and mutiny by various and sundry military and paramilitary forces, contributing to the climate of social disorder and lawlessness.146 At the beginning of September 1994, the provincial government of Nampula estimated that in the previous three months, there had been an average of one disturbance a day. Ten people had died as a result.147 Namapa District was also the locus of extensive unrest. August 1994 witnessed the two Naparama protests described in the Introduction. That same month, the 119-strong former militia of Casa Salvador raided the wholesaler’s warehouse for the third time in as many years.148 In early September, demobilized soldiers and militiamen staged protests in the district capital, vandalizing local stores and closing down the national road for several hours until police reinforcements from Nampula arrived on the scene.149 This was the social, economic and political milieu in which the retraditionalization of rural administration and struggles over local political authority, the subject of the next two chapters, took place.
5
Multipartyism, the retraditionalization of local administration and the apparent duplication of state authority The case of Nampula Province
In the early 1990s, the Ministry of State Administration (MAE) launched the “Traditional Authority/Power” project (TA/P) to investigate the history of chieftaincy in Mozambique from the precolonial period to the present.1 At the same time, the provincial government in Nampula authorized district administrations to work openly with chiefs qua chiefs as grassroots representatives of the state. This chapter examines the manner in which government authorities in Nampula justified the return to chiefly rule to rural inhabitants. It shows that the retraditionalization of local administration was cast as the logical corollary of the state’s growing autonomy from the party and, more broadly, its disavowal of politics per se. The official explanation, in turn, implicitly turned on a revisionist critique of the historical relationship between the state and the party as hitherto represented in Frelimo discourse. To demonstrate this, I review the evolution of ruling representations in this respect from 1976 to the mid-1980s. I then proceed to an analysis of the genesis and development of revisionist interpretations that crystallized upon the demise of single-party rule. Despite their differences, both versions of party–state relations, I show, presuppose a false dichotomy between the two principals and, in doing so, neatly deflect blame for the erosion of Frelimo’s popularity and legitimacy from one on to the other. The transposition of the state and the party in ruling representations helped set the stage for fingering Frelimo-installed rural institutions and leaders as the root cause of post-independence travails. It also paved the way for editing out of the official script virtually all mention of Renamo’s strategy of rural mobilization and the effect of this strategy on local ruling relations. Both topics are addressed in Chapter 7. Below I identify the temporal displacements upon which such redactions were premised. This chapter also explores rural perspectives on, and modes of responding to, the differentiation of local power and its relation to wider socio-political transformation. Finally, it considers the antinomies of the new discourse and the reasons for the continued overlap and interdependence of the state and the party.
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The secretary as interloper I begin with a review of a two-part report, authored by two state functionaries in 1988, on the relationship between popular power and traditional authority.2 The report, which was written in response to a 1987 solicitation from DPAC, is of special interest because it sets out the conceptual foundations for positing a causal link between multipartyism and a return to chiefly rule. The authors draw on research undertaken in Nacarôa District, where Renamo had won popular support and collaboration in Intete Administrative Post by appealing to former régulos and other traditional authorities. As they tell the story: Disallowing the exercise of [traditional] Power . . . in some regions brought major problems. Example: In the region of Intete, today an administrative post. It was an area led by the régulo Mahia of the Mulima nihimo, who up until independence was the absolute seigneur, owner of the region . . . With the proclamation of Independence and the beginning of the construction of communal villages, Martins Baptista Loquiha, who in terms of nihimo or clan was considered Mahia’s slave, was designated Secretary of the village. Shocked by the nomination of his slave as responsável [leader, officeholder, person in charge] of his area, Mahia . . . opt[ed] to leave the area and settle[d] in closed forest together with his people, thus avoiding Martins Baptista Loquiha’s leadership, which for him constituted an insult and the end of his status [personalidade] as leader of the area. In the middle of 1983, when armed banditry affected the area, Mahia and his people received the armed bandits, convinced that he would return to the exercise of his Traditional Power . . . The inclusion of Mahia and his population in armed banditry had grave consequences for the area of Intete. The area remained and is until today almost [sic] under the bandits’ control . . . The collaboration of the population with their old régulo can be considered the most important cause of the intense enemy situation in the area of Intete Administrative Post.3 In the face of these events, the authors are clearly keen to impress upon their superiors the severity of the damage wrought by the statutory abolition of chieftaincy and to urge its restoration. They also clearly sense that their superiors are becoming more open to new perspectives on traditional power as manifested by the nature of their present assignment. Nonetheless, they are just as acutely aware of the then prevailing conditions of intellectual production. The report was written when the party’s role as revolutionary vanguard was still constitutionally-enshrined, as was the definition of traditional power as a “structure of oppression and exploitation.” Their text, then, is shaped and constrained at least as much by what cannot as by what can be said.
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The authors appeal to a range of justifications for reinstituting chieftaincy, ever-mindful of the necessity to avoid contravening constitutional norms and party precepts. They downplay the incompatibility between chieftaincy and popular power and thus point to the possibility of assimilating the former into the latter, namely by “obeying local tradition in terms of clan hierarchy” when choosing secretaries.4 To this end, they draw a sharp distinction between colonial-recognized traditional authorities, on the one hand, and chiefs and sub-chiefs that did not directly serve the Portuguese administration, on the other. The distinction derives from the habit of many Makua chiefs to designate close relatives or even epotha to serve as régulos. The stratagem met two objectives, often simultaneously. It provided the chiefs in question with a means of evading the violence and indignities of direct subordination to the colonial state and, at the same time, it allowed them to avoid being typecast as collaborators by their subjects.5 Thus, the authors of the Nacarôa report contend, “The Muenes [the equivalent of mpéwé] maintain their privileges, because they are considered among those who didn’t repress the people in the colonial period. It was the régulos’ and cabos’ loss of such . . . privileges that made many of them join the banditry.”6 No sooner, however, is this distinction drawn than it is eroded by virtue of the latter’s close kinship ties with the former and by the admission that “In some cases, it is the old régulos themselves that are Muenes.”7 The authors maintain that the adherence of chiefs to Renamo was “a mere hunt for lost privileges.” They nonetheless suggest that such motivations derive from false consciousness and that the chiefs in question would now, if duly encouraged, defect to government-controlled areas.8 More resignedly, they stress the impossibility of eliminating traditional power given its longevity and rootedness in local culture: The existence and exercise of traditional power . . . is a very old and socially very strong phenomenon, whose elimination will not be possible in Our Era. Development itself of our society will bring about the end of traditional power. The current level of the development of Macua society doesn’t succeed in eliminating that phenomenon.9 They emphasize the vast and unparalleled accumulated experience and knowledge of chiefs of all stripes: Those who exercise traditional power have valuable experience in the Leadership of Society, although there are certain particularities that need to be eliminated. They have effective forms of mobilization, they know how to convince people to recognize the authorities. They know the families with more lazy people, prostitutes, thieves, feiticeiros, as well as those who always work more and best. The best informant that we must contact when we want to [understand] a concrete reality must be without question the old Muene, the old régulo, the old chefe da povoação.10
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Arguments in defense of chieftaincy are complemented by a carefully couched critique of existing base-level official structures. This critique is both more creative and consequential than the rest of their case as outlined above. In the first installment, the report limits itself to a sole, passing allusion: “[Traditional power’s] abrupt abolition brought difficulties in governance after independence because the structures put in place by us were purely political and not governmental.”11 The second installment elaborates: In the Second Provincial Meeting of the district directors of Assistance and Control, the Provincial Director, Dr. Carlos Manuel, had asked if, at the base, below the locality, there weren’t people without a government. That question is pertinent to the reality at that level. If one analyzes superficially, one can arrive at the illusion that [it is] the secretary of the dynamizing group that guarantees [state] power there but, if we did an in-depth analysis, we will conclude [sic] that [state] power as such doesn’t exist, but rather political and not state [e.g. administrative] action as is desired. The secretary is a political man who, day after day, complies with and carries out the political line of the Frelimo Party. His political work is to be praised but, unfortunately, his [exercise of] state authority still does not merit praise. In certain Villages, when the secretary tries to exercise power in its totality, he is compared to the colonialist. In a session of the District Assembly, the judge of the district popular tribunal denounced some secretaries as violating the law because they were rendering judgments in their respective areas of jurisdiction. But . . . the judicial network in the District doesn’t reach the base, below the locality, because the courts themselves weren’t created there and, because they haven’t been, it is the secretary who is resolving the population’s problems.12 They propose that “the secretaries know beforehand their rights and duties, that is, that competencies be well defined and made official.” They also recommend that the state realign itself with chiefs and cast such a realignment as a means of filling in the institutional vacuum that has hitherto prevailed at the grassroots: In accordance with Article 4 of the Constitution of the People’s Republic of Mozambique, the RPM has as one of its objectives the elimination of colonial and traditional structures of oppression and exploitation and the mentality that underlies them. Without wanting to contradict that which is established in our principal law and without wanting to defend the crimes, repression, humiliation, exploitation and other evils that traditional structures committed, I [sic] am of the opinion that forms of creating new traditional structures at the state level be studied. There is no doubt that practice itself has already demonstrated to us that we need . . . representatives of the
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State Administration to help us govern at the base, below the level of the locality . . . There is no doubt that we need to know our people in order to lead better. Our governance will reach all of the people if we have representatives at all echelons.13 The obvious implication here is that high levels of popular antagonism so much in evidence in Intete are not so much directed at the state per se but rather as it has been mediated historically by “political” – that is, party – intervention. Specifically, the party’s longstanding monopoly on local-level institutions had substantially contributed to, if not caused, the widening gulf between the state and the people. In transposing the relationship between traditional and popular power to that between the state and the party, the report skillfully shifts the primary emphasis away from the question of the legitimacy of local leadership, of whatever ilk, in the eyes of the governed to the question of this leadership’s accountability to state institutions. The argument turns on a three-step logic. It posits: (1) the existence of a strict separation of the state from the party and, by extension, from the political; (2) the existence of an equally strict separation of traditional hierarchies from Frelimo-mandated institutions and thus from the political; and following on these presuppositions (3) the alignment of the state and traditional power by virtue of their mutual distance from the political field. While the state is taken to task, it is not for maladministration or authoritarian rule. Rather, it is for its non-interventionist stance vis-à-vis the rural populace: that is, for having ceded too much of its authority to local leaders whose principal loyalties were known to lie elsewhere. The authors leave open the question whether this surrender of authority at the base was due to mere oversight, to the state’s misplaced confidence in the governing capacity of local party leaders, or to its involuntary subordination to the party at all levels of social agency. In similar fashion, they provide a plausible alibi for the secretary’s dictatorial propensities and lackluster work performance, without impugning his person, disputing his bona fides as a “political man” or implicating the organization he represents. The crisis of authority began when the secretary was either forced or allowed to assume responsibilities that overstepped the bounds of his mandate and job training and fatefully proceeded to apply work methods and styles of conduct perfectly befitting his true vocation to the business of daily governance. In sum, the Nacarôa report manages to be radical without being heretical. It offers a credible explanation for popular disaffection with rural ruling relations while largely exonerating all prime suspects. It serves up to the state a powerful pretext to disencumber itself of, and seek to circumvent, discredited local official structures without challenging their ongoing validity or unduly estranging the cadres who staffed them. It likewise provides
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the state with an acceptable justification for aligning itself with chieftaincy, all the while neatly sidestepping the thorny question of traditional power’s fundamental incompatibility with the supreme law of the land. In postulating an absolute divide between the institutions of popular and traditional power, the Nacarôa report was in keeping with early revolutionary discourse and ideology. However, in insisting on the hegemony of the party at the local level and on the detrimental effects of this hegemony on the efficacious functioning of the state at the base, the report marked the beginnings of a sea change in official conceptions of the historical and contemporary relationship between the state and the party. It is to a review of these conceptions as they evolved from independence that I now turn.
The state as Leviathan? A year after independence, a consensus had emerged within the leadership that Frelimo had not so much taken over the state apparatus as had been taken over by it. As Oscar Monteiro, then Minister in the Presidency, expressed it in October 1976: We can now see that instead of impressing upon the state apparatus throughout Mozambique the popular and revolutionary character [people’s or popular power] had assumed in the liberated areas, we were swamped by the administrative machinery left by colonialism. Instead of giving directions, we were controlled and directed.14 For Monteiro, as for other senior Frelimo leaders, the failure to establish and uphold a clear institutional separation between the state and the party had come at the expense of the latter’s organizational integrity and, by extension, the interests of the Mozambican people it claimed to represent. Accordingly, one of the primary aims of Frelimo’s self-transformation from a front to a vanguard at the Third Congress in 1977 was to sharpen the distinction between the political movement and the state and to assert the authority of the former over the latter. The Central Committee’s report to the congress affirmed that The Party and the State are two distinct entities. The Party is the highest form of political organisation of the labouring classes. The Popular State which we are building is the main instrument for putting the Party’s policy into practice. The Party leads and gives direction to all State activities. The Party is not a substitute for the State. Guaranteeing the vanguard’s leading role in transforming the state along revolutionary lines required the party’s colonization of, and activism in, the innermost recesses of the Portuguese-bequeathed administrative apparatus. The Central Committee report mandated that the party should take steps
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“to guarantee that positions of responsibility in the State are occupied by Party cadres, dedicated to the revolutionary cause.” It was also the task of the party to create “conditions for local organisations to be set up in all State structures to carry out its political line.”15 The “Campaign for Structuring the Party,” launched in 1978, was designed to carry out Third Congress directives. At the base, this entailed replacing the dynamizing groups. The GDs were now deemed to have outlived their purpose, blurring as they did the very jurisdictional boundaries between the party and the population, on the one hand, and the state and the party, on the other, that the leadership now sought to institutionalize.16 The period after the Third Congress, however, witnessed a replay of many of the dynamics that had hitherto prevailed. Senior party leaders became caught up in the exigencies of daily administration of the ministries that they headed as a matter of course. The Frelimo Central Committee served more as a stepping stone to high-level government or military office rather than as an independent check on public officeholders, civilian or otherwise.17 At the local level the confusion of authority was at least as great. In a mid-1979 visit to Mozambique, David and Marina Ottaway found that “very often an official present in a given locality appeared to be doing all jobs irrespective of whether he was formally a party and state representative.”18 Below the level of the locality, institutional boundaries between the state, the party and the people were even more ill-defined. Nascent party structures stagnated for want of the requisite organizational support and political training that might have enabled them to assert their autonomy from the state, let alone impress a popular character on state institutions and their interventions.19 In the absence of such assistance, party cells often failed to distinguish themselves appreciably from the GDs they were intended to supplant, not least because of the carryover in membership and leadership during the conversion process.20 In many rural areas, the party featured primarily by its absence.21 And at all levels the lack of skilled party workers militated against institutional differentiation between political movement and state.22 By the turn of the decade, the palpable eclipse in popular enthusiasm for the ruling regime, the increasing power of the state bureaucracy and the deepening economic crisis had forced a reassessment of revolutionary strategy. The growing gulf between leadership and people was found to be symptomatic of the party’s over-entanglement with, and subordination to, the state. As Frelimo’s mouthpiece Boletim da Célula expressed it: “In practice, we/the party/ allowed the ministerial council and the state organs to be those which determined many of the options of the country, the party remaining with the role of subsequent verification, ratification and correction.”23 Machel responded by launching the Political and Organizational Offensive in 1980 and the Legality Offensive the following year. Both campaigns aimed to root out corruption, to expose and penalize abuses of power, and to check the growth of privilege within state ministries and enterprises. Hopes
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for a positive resolution over the long haul were pinned to what John Saul has described as the “repoliticization of the development process.” This, in turn, required (re)asserting the primacy of the party vis-à-vis the state.24 Accordingly, two leading party theoreticians were relieved of their ministerial portfolios in order to devote themselves full-time to party work. This reshuffling at the top was coupled with concerted efforts to strengthen and extend the party’s base, particularly in the rural areas. The second push to renew the party and to broaden its sphere of influence was offset by the simultaneous institution of a brand of central economic planning that dictated the pace and direction of local development in a decidedly top-down manner. Predictably, local party agents were drawn into the unenviable position of defending and enforcing development targets set in Maputo in the face of growing local skepticism and/or opposition. Just as predictably, centralized decision-making left grassroots secretaries with scant opportunity to press their constituents’ demands or to express their (mounting) grievances.25 In the leadership’s own eyes this campaign had only limited success in bringing the state to heel. In 1982 the Council of Ministers accused the intermediate stratum of the state of self-consciously and systematically subverting party principles and directives.26 The charge was reiterated by the Frelimo Central Committee in its lengthy report to the Fourth Party Congress the following year.27 The 1982–1983 period witnessed a concerted attempt to “revitalize” moribund or poorly functioning party cells in the run-up to Frelimo’s Fourth Party Congress. The effort entailed fostering political debate about the country’s development strategy to date, as well as its future direction. Such exchanges were encouraged both among cell members and in public meetings across Mozambique. The revitalization campaign also brought purges and the injection of fresh blood into party membership and leadership. The expanded representation of workers, peasants, ex-combatants and other social groups in the enlarged Central Committee that was approved by the congress fed hopes that the dichotomy between the state and the party was finally being achieved.28 The reality was altogether other. Power resided in the Politbureau and Council of Ministers rather than in the Central Committee.29 In the post1983 period, just as before it, the head of government at any given level of state authority was also the first party secretary at that level. The individual in question was also the president of both the corresponding elected people’s assembly and the executive council.30 GDs continued to be at least as common as party cells and both operated in the service of the state to the extent that they operated at all. In Nampula, the two forms of organization came to be seen as fully interchangeable functional equivalents.31 The patent unaffordability of a clear institutional separation between the state and the party prompted Bertil Egerö to question the wisdom of maintaining any “pretence of separate organisational identities” at all.32 It seems likely that upholding this pretense served primarily ideological ends,
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constituting the state as a convenient “other” onto which the Frelimo leadership could, when the perceived need arose, project the internal contradictions of its own political project.33 Whatever the reason for it, the lack of differentiation between the state and the party continued, as did official insistence that, of the two principals, it was the party that, time and again, came up the definitive loser. It is against this history that the full implications of the 1988 Nacarôa report become intelligible. The report effects nothing less than a complete role reversal between the state and the party. And it projects this reversal back into the past, to the early days of independence. Whereas previously the state had dangerously widened, if not necessarily precipitated, a breach between the party and the people, now the party had interposed itself between the state and the wider society. Whereas previously the goal had been to assert party paramountcy over the state, it was now to achieve state autonomy from the party. Whereas previously putting politics in command had been identified as the necessary antidote for the progressive bureaucratization of the revolution and increasingly pronounced technocratic bias of those at its helm, now precisely the opposite was being claimed: the (partydictated) excessive politicization of the development process was pinpointed as being at the root of the problem and the state’s repudiation of politics, in the form of bypassing the party, was billed as a surefire means of reuniting the government with the populace. In the post-1990 period, public calls for the state to extend its reach even further into rural society fell silently by the wayside at least when Frelimo leaders were playing to a non-domestic audience. The metaphor of state descent, after all, clashed discordantly with IMF and donor-sponsored policies aimed at rolling back official institutions. As then Provincial Governor Alfredo Gamito expressed it to me on my arrival in Nampula: There has been a debate about whether the state should descend below the level of the locality. After studying the question, I have decided this isn’t necessary. Whatever is put in place below this level needs to come up from the people.34 If the language of administrative expansion was quietly jettisoned, the basic considerations and logic informing it were not. Most notably, the argument that the state should make common cause with chieftaincy on the basis of the principals’ shared imperviousness to partisan politics acquired new significance and force after the transition to multipartyism. It is to a discussion of this transition that I now turn.
The state, the party and chieftaincy, 1990–1994 In September 1992, MAE officials overseeing the Ministry’s TA/P project justified “valorizing” chieftaincy on the grounds that royal rule would
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provide a vital, stable institutional referent in the midst of the uncertainties, confusion and stress generated by inter-party competition.35 By that time, provincial government officials closer to events on the ground had long busied themselves with the practicalities of political reform, if not with collective psychological welfare per se. By May 1991, many of the findings and recommendations of the Nacarôa report had found their way into a “Reflection on traditional authority” authored by the DPAC.36 Three significant developments had occurred in the previous six months which intensified the search for an alternative institutional link between the lowest rung of state administration and the rural population. First, in November 1990 the new multiparty constitution had entered into force. Second, three new political parties announced their formation at press conferences in Maputo in the opening months of the new year, converting multipartyism from an abstract principle to a living reality, however contained and contrived.37 Third, the Mozambican government and Renamo signed a partial ceasefire on December 1, 1990, capping off the third round of direct negotiations, begun the previous July, between the two warring sides. The Mozambican government undertook to confine Zimbabwean troops to the two rail corridors linking Zimbabwe to the ports of Beira and Maputo. In return, Renamo pledged to halt all military action against the two routes. An international team was set up to monitor implementation of the accord. Despite the ceasefire’s limited scope, and what would prove to be its fragility in the face of repeated violations of the accord’s terms by both sides, the pact was widely viewed as the first step towards a comprehensive settlement.38 The completion of the DPAC’s proposals itself coincided with the sixth round of peace talks whose agenda included discussing new legislation pertaining to the formation of political parties, a draft electoral law, a timetable for Mozambique’s first multiparty elections, and the possible role of an international monitoring team during the vote.39 The DPAC called for reinstituting chiefly political and religious power as a form of indirect rule, “obeying as much as possible local customs without contravening constitutional norms.” It elaborated: This signifies remounting this structure just as it was in the period of Portuguese colonization, excepting some designations like, for example, that of cabo de grupo de povoações and, naturally, reviewing their functions. The structure would be erected in the following manner: 1) Régulo; 2) Head of the Village or Bairro; 3) Head of the Zone. The régulo would govern at the level of the locality. In tacit recognition of the multiple challenges and perils on the road ahead, the report warns that the delimitation of these territories “must be clearly defined in order that, in fact, traditional power be valorized and there not be inter-clan conflicts.”
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Further potential stumbling blocks are hinted at in a section entitled “Forms of ascension to power”: ascension to power must utilize the process of democratic elections. The candidates would be between elements considered the most prestigious and respected of the villages that constitute the regedorias, for example a maternal uncle and his nephew from the clan that is considered dominant or with strong connections with the ancestors of the region could be matched off. Still it would be necessary to create a certain flexibility with the aim of taking heed of specific regional circumstances [situações], departing from the principle that traditional power is not, by nature, democratic. Chiefs, the DPAC envisaged, would discharge the following duties: mobilization of tax payment; mobilization of the population for agricultural campaigns; opening and cleaning of picadas; control of the movement of people to and from regedorias; resolution of social problems of the population in accordance with customary law; other social and economic tasks that arise at any given time including those “that arise from the necessity to implement the decisions of superior state organs.” Installing a modernized version of colonial precedent would, in turn, require “valorizing” traditional power by conferring “prestige symbols” on chiefs, such “a house for the Régulo, where the national flag would also be hoisted, special clothing that distinguishes him from other elements of the population.” Such amenities would be supplemented by monetary “stimuli” in the form of a semi-annual subsidy. This allowance would, if merited, be topped off with bonuses “for the best work during the year or during a work campaign, which could be agricultural, the opening of picadas, tax collection or any other type.” Securing and guaranteeing public respect for chiefs would also entail enabling them to acquire a monopoly on local communication with the state: It bears emphasis that, in order to confer prestige, confidence and pride in the heart of the population, the figure of the régulo would be the most appropriate to represent, in all of its aspects, all of the inhabitants of the Locality, including heads of the Villages and Bairros and heads of the zones. The DPAC then turned to the vexing question of how chiefs would relate to the various political forces with which they would potentially come into contact. The directorate’s reflection recognized what the MAE technical team apparently could not: that in order for traditional hierarchies to serve
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as a credible non-partisan anchor for state administration, they would somehow have to be safeguarded against corrupting political influences: The functions of traditional authorities naturally must be in consonance with the constitution in force. This means that within the perspective of national unity the traditional authorities would not be linked to the politics of any party. They would function in accord with the laws and decisions of the state. In certain areas, chiefs had already been fulfilling some of the functions enumerated by the DPAC. But the official attempt to define and delimit an area of social life for chiefs as chiefs distinct from, and as a crucial counterpoint to, the structures of popular power awaited the Sixth Congress of the Frelimo Party held in August 1991.40 The congress’ major objective was “to adapt the party to the challenges of the new constitution and the prospect of multiparty elections in the near future.”41 Accordingly, references to Frelimo as the leading force in Mozambican society were duly excised from party statutes. Chissano explained that pluralism implied a “more rigorous separation” between the party and the state. He stressed that the party and its activities were subordinate to the supreme law of the land, which applied “with equal force to all citizens and all parties.”42 The party’s internal structure was reorganized with an eye to gearing up for the prospect of an electoral showdown. Responsibility for the day-to-day running of the party bureaucracy was transferred from the Politbureau (renamed the Political Committee) to the party secretariat with a view to freeing the former “to concentrate on the major political questions of the day and on the party’s electoral strategy.”43 While the peace talks remained largely stalled throughout 1991, the year’s close brought a minor breakthrough. During the ninth round, the two sides held a preliminary discussion on future multiparty elections. They agreed that elections should be held within one year of the signing of a general peace agreement (a stipulation that, as it turns out, was not met), that presidential and parliamentary elections should be held simultaneously, and that the UN and the Organization of African Unity should be involved in supervising the process.44 By the beginning of 1992, district administrations in Nampula were explaining the need to differentiate power at the local level in meetings with chiefs, Frelimo party secretaries and, subsequently, with the general population. The immediate trigger for these meetings was a provincial orientation calling for the integration of chiefs into “socio-economic life.”45 Self-evidently, the new orientation lent itself to confusion, as well as multiple interpretations and applications, reflecting the government’s own uncertainty and equivocation on the question of local authority.46 Several, if not most, administrators simply took these instructions as a straightforward cue to “proceed with the act of investiture of the old tribal chiefs,” as one
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47
provincial government communiqué subsequently put it. However district officials chose to proceed, they invariably cast the local differentiation of power as a natural outgrowth of the advent of multipartyism. Explaining political change The new orientation authorized the introduction of the double distinction between secretaries/chiefs and party/state and the privileging of the latter two terms over the former. A summary of the proceedings of the Angoche district administration’s first meeting with various tiers of traditional authority in February 1992 is illustrative: [I]n his address, the Highest Leader of the District recommended to the régulos to be spokesmen for the enormous tasks with which they are entrusted, emphasizing that with the arrival of the adoption of multipartyism, one sees the necessity of reorganizing these structures, incorporating them into administrative tasks. However, the dynamizing groups, Party cells, secretaries, continue to work with the Party, the régulos having to fulfill important tasks in the areas of Education, Agriculture, Health and Culture without entering into contradiction with the tasks of the Party.48 In Namapa, the district administration’s communiqué on the implementation of provincial instructions was more economical with words and arguably more revealing: “On April 1, the Administrator held a meeting with the ex-régulos, secretaries of the bairros in the district seat with the aim of clarifying tasks that the régulos would realize as traditional authorities.”49 Similar meetings were held in the administrative posts later that month, as was a public meeting in the bairros of the town of Namapa to explain the new configuration. The Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District described the explanation given for the fact that, as he put it, “the secretaries can no longer function at the base” as follows: The explanation and the practice is the following: at this time, power is being separated. There exists administrative power and political power. And, what is the task of the politician – that is, the secretary – there at the base? First, to register citizens as members of his organization. What is the second task? It is to educate . . . the populations so as not to hope that clothing will come from another place to be received; it’s necessary to work. This is the task of the party at this time . . . And, as the state [como estado], the régulos have the principal task of dynamizing the agricultural campaigns . . . collecting taxes and cleaning the primary and secondary roads . . . these are the principal tasks of the régulos. This, then, is the representation of power at the level of the base.
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Public response In the vast majority of cases, the distinction seemed to be lost on the principal actors themselves. In Namapa, confusion over the substance and limits of local authority reigned despite the fact that numerous meetings had been held over a two-year period to drive the distinction home.51 As one party secretary put it in a meeting with local Frelimo representatives in Odinepa Locality, “There is no difference. Because all the work the secretaries do, the cabo and régulo also do. They work together.” Another elaborated that the two sets of leaders had separate chains of command but identical functions: There is no division. They work together. The secretary knows that when he works, he is working in the name of the Frelimo Party. And the cabo and régulo know that they work in the name of the government. Each answers to his respective sector.52 Chief Taibo of Namapa Center was more concise: “Each one receives his own orders.”53 Others limited themselves simply to repeating the local administration’s explanations, while implying that all local leaders were potential draftees to government service. As Chief Muhula put it: The government said that the secretary’s work is for the party while the traditional authority receives orientations from the government and will transmit them to the population along with the secretaries. And, sometimes, we have come to receive [government] orientations together with the secretaries.54 In areas where, historically, local Frelimo representatives were members of dominant lineages, secretaries welcomed the differentiation of local power as a means of facilitating bilateral communication with relatives now conveniently situated just over in the state sector. As one secretary in Namirôa put it, “They do the same thing. What I don’t succeed in getting done, I consult my uncle, who is a humu, about.”55 Others saw the reinstatement of chiefs simply as an expression of Frelimo’s newfound commitment to
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preserve local tradition, a shift in policy that did not infringe at all on their own political power or social standing.56 Sometimes secretaries insisted on parity even when their own descriptions unwittingly conceded an implicit imbalance. Joaquim Licença of Nahopa, the area of Chief Namiquela, described the new arrangement thus: “There is only one job. There is no difference. If there is an order from the régulo, we do it. If we have a job, we ask authorization from the régulo to do this job and he authorizes.”57 Elsewhere, responses from secretaries showed that the separation of the state from the party bore a clearly intended, if as yet to be achieved, division of labor. Moreover, the division itself implied an unequivocally unequal share-out of duties and prerogatives. As one secretary in Nantoge (Nanthoge, Nantoje, Nantodge, Nantoxe) earnestly, if somewhat wistfully, explained, “They are equal but there is a difference. For the secretaries, our task is only to meet with the members of the party. While the mapéwé’s task is to check the machambas and to lead all of the land.”58 After the meeting, the local chief, Muipita, proudly introduced the speaker to me as his nephew. The relation helps make sense of Muipita’s own description of the new division of labor: “The jobs are the same. They understand one another.” The state and the party in practice Widespread confusion over the distinction between the state and the party at the grassroots says less about rural intellectual capacities to cope with the vocabulary and conceptual baggage of multipartyism than it does about the socio-political realities that people were daily confronting and seeking to negotiate. First, in practice, chiefs and secretaries in Namapa and elsewhere, performed similar, if not identical, duties.59 In all likelihood, the coincidence of assignments reflected the provincial government’s attempt to draw on both sources of authority during a period when it was seeking to reestablish its own authority in many previously inaccessible or only intermittently accessible rural areas. It is reasonable to assume that, in addition, the provincial administration was studiously seeking to avoid alienating either constituency in the politically sensitive period in the run-up to the elections. In the case of Namapa, the local administration’s continuing reliance on Frelimo party secretaries in the execution of “administrative” tasks in all probability also bespoke what district officials viewed as the disappointing work performance of chiefs, as well as the clear limits to the authority of both sets of leaders. Second, the same factors that had hitherto inhibited establishing a clear institutional division between the state and the party still obtained, notably a lack of material resources and of skilled, trusted cadres at the local level. To the outside observer, ongoing material interdependence was most visible with respect to vehicles. The District Elections Commission (CDE) did not, during the first several months of its activity, have its own transport. During
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the preparatory phase for voter registration, the District Director of STAE regularly caught lifts with the Frelimo First Secretary of the District in his brand new Mitsubishi pick-up recently furnished by the party for the express purpose of facilitating the electoral campaign.60 The STAE director admitted that his dependence on Frelimo in this regard had drawn criticism from other political parties in the district. He was, he explained, waiting for the CNE to supply him with his own vehicle or sufficient funds to arrange a neutral form of transport.61 The CDE did not receive its own lorry until August. The district administrator, who normally drove a badly ailing vehicle belonging to JFS, also frequently availed himself of the party pickup for long-distance driving or four-wheel-drive roads. The dearth of tried and true, politically astute cadres at the local level was brought to the fore when the Frelimo First Party Secretary of the District was sidelined from action for several months as a result of serious injuries sustained in a car accident (which wrecked the new Mitsubishi). The Party Provincial Committee asked the district administrator to step in as his substitute. As a result, the administrator presided over Frelimo’s electoral campaign in Namapa, at the same time as he continued to discharge his usual duties. Not surprisingly, the decision fueled local confusion and called into question the sincerity of Frelimo’s commitment to disentangling the state and the party. The confusion between the state and the party was compounded by the fact that several district administrators in the province, as well as many other state functionaries, ran as Frelimo candidates in the legislative races, actively campaigning in the rural areas. The administrator of neighboring Nacarôa District, for instance, campaigned in Namapa. In addition, a substantial number of civil servants who were not running for office acted as party monitors for Frelimo during the poll. Visits to provincial government offices throughout the month of October met with a resounding silence.62 At the provincial level, the overlap between the state and the party was much in evidence in the person of General Eduardo Nihia, former commander of the government army in Nampula. As we have seen, the practice of having the head of government at any given level of authority simultaneously serve as the party chief at that same level had ended with the adoption of the new constitution; thereupon, the two functions came to be vested in two different people. However, the new arrangement did not preclude senior members of the central government from serving as party chiefs at lower-levels of authority. Until the formation of the new government in December 1994, Nihia served both as Second Vice Minister of Defense and Frelimo First Party Secretary of Nampula.63 A third factor complicating people’s understandings of political change was the dearth of political parties other than Frelimo and Renamo in the rural areas. The only party with more than a token organized presence in Namapa at the time of field research was the Mozambique National Union (UNAMO). UNAMO’s influence appeared to be confined to the immediate
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environs of the district capital and Alua, both of which are situated on a major transport artery and are thus readily accessible.64 Much the same situation prevailed in Rapale, the administrative seat of Nampula District. Even though the town is situated only some twenty kilometers from Nampula City, the activity of what was known as the “unarmed opposition” or “emergent parties” was, according to the district administrator, “nil.”65 The failure of the unarmed opposition to make significant inroads was reflected in the local election results. In Nampula, as elsewhere, the Democratic Union (UD), a coalition of three small political parties, was the only electoral contender besides Frelimo and Renamo to secure parliamentary representation – it won two out of the province’s fifty-four parliamentary seats. The UD was widely believed to have ridden Frelimo’s coattails throughout the country in the parliamentary race, having been fortuitously placed in the same position as Chissano’s on the presidential ballot: conveniently, last. The surprising rural success in the presidential race of Wehia Ripua, who headed the ticket of the Mozambique Democratic Party (PADEMO) and who placed third with 2.9 percent of the vote, was also chalked up to a fluke: his physical likeness to Dhlakama, a resemblance which appears to account for his relatively stronger showing in areas considered to be Renamo strongholds in Nampula and elsewhere.66 The difficulty experienced by the unarmed opposition in gaining even a toehold in the province was starkly illustrated by evidence that the parties in question had had to resort to hiring non-party members or sympathizers to monitor the poll on their behalf. This explains why some parties failed to register even a single vote in polling stations where they had posted party monitors – even though the monitors cast their own ballots at these selfsame polling stations.67 It also helps to make sense of the equanimity with which the scrutineers in question accepted the verdict of the electoral officers regarding potentially contestable ballots.68 The prospect of anything even remotely approximating sustained exposure to parties other than Frelimo and Renamo receded sharply even in the provincial capital immediately following the elections. Legally registered political formations that had failed to win 5 percent of the national vote necessary to secure parliamentary representation were rendered ineligible for public financing. Up until the vote, they had been bankrolled mainly by a UN trust fund established to assist their electoral bid, a source that dried up at the end of the campaign. With the sole exception of the UD, none of the unarmed opposition broke the 5 percent barrier.69 Attempts to contact provincial headquarters of several parties in the immediate post-elections period were frustrated by shuttered offices and disconnected telephone lines. The financial plight of the unarmed opposition won them little sympathy from either the electorate or the press. Rather, many of the parties in question quickly fell into disrepute as a result of their failure to evince even lukewarm interest in generating domestic sources of revenue. Their marked proneness to fissure and/or to fall casualty to
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debilitating internal power struggles over the use of party assets and UN trust fund money had also done little to enhance their budding reputations. Indeed, their very raison d’être was widely believed to be no more than an illdisguised “hunt,” as one interlocutor in the port city of Nacala put it, for government and international funds.70 A fourth factor influencing popular notions about the meaning of multipartyism was the proclivity of Renamo leaders to refer to the zones that fell under their organization’s administration as areas that came under the purview of the Renamo “government.”71 Such characterizations went against the spirit, if not the letter, of the AGP, which stipulated that Mozambican laws and institutions held sway throughout the country.72 Under the circumstances, it would not have been unreasonable for local residents to conclude that all political parties, by definition, came equipped with their own “government.” Fifth, the very imperatives that spurred Frelimo to depict the state as having undergone a thoroughgoing process of depoliticization simultaneously impelled the further politicization of chieftaincy. Frelimo’s drive to recruit chiefs coincided with a campaign dating from the Fifth Party Congress to boost party membership. The congress had relaxed eligibility requirements for candidacy to the party, opening the doors to religious believers and property owners. The Sixth Congress, which implicitly sanctioned open government collaboration with chiefs, further simplified admission procedures. All nationals became eligible for party membership provided that they were at least eighteen years old and accepted the party’s program and statutes “regardless of their social position or philosophical beliefs.”73 Administrators in Nampula dated stepped up recruitment of chiefs to one of these two congresses.74 Representatives of the leading political formations in Namapa thought they knew or could make informed guesses about the political affiliations or sympathies of most chiefs in the district. Party affiliation and political allegiance were not viewed as necessarily synonymous. All the chiefs in Renamo’s area were regarded as sure votes for Renamo although the real political allegiances of at least two of them were believed to lie elsewhere. By the same token, not all chiefs who carried Frelimo cards ranked among the party faithful. One such chief made clear in no uncertain terms that the ruling party would not be getting his vote.75 Chiefly non-alignment, in turn, was viewed as fairly rare and rapidly disappearing both in Namapa and in the province as a whole. Elsewhere in Nampula, rivalries for chiefly offices, either between or within families, often took the form of a face-off between Frelimo and Renamo.76 As one Nampulan resident put it, “In every region there are two régulos, one belonging to Frelimo, the other belonging to Renamo. That’s why, up until now, the people can’t relax.”77 Indeed, according to one UNAMO representative, it was precisely the historically produced, and by now highly refined, willingness of chiefs to serve faithfully any and all more powerful rulers, combined with their newly
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tapped proclivity to join political organizations, which demonstrated the overall compatibility of democratic process with the regulado system. The two were readily reconcilable, he reasoned, “because the régulos are members of different political parties and they rule according to the regime in power.”78 Ironically, it was characteristics such as these which also explained why chiefs had been considered prime suspects both by the Portuguese during the Frelimo-led liberation struggle and by Frelimo during Renamo’s counter-insurgency. As another representative expressed it: “This happens because the régulos accept all types of government. When there appears one type of government, they receive. When there appears another, they also receive. That’s why any government suspects the régulos. It’s enough to have opposition.” They added that, in Renamo-controlled zones, chiefs were likewise perennially suspect, this time of being closet Frelimo loyalists.79 Further complicating matters was the fact that official explanations for the separation of the state from the party, and the corresponding identification of chiefs with the former entity, were often given in the same breath as invitations to chiefs to join the Frelimo Party.80 A memo from the Frelimo Provincial Committee briefing the provincial governor on Nihia’s recent tour of Nampula’s westernmost districts, for instance, reported as follows: Between July 27 and August 4, 1992, the First Party Secretary made a working visit to Malema and Ribáuè Districts. During the visit he met with members and non-members of the Frelimo Party, Traditional Personalities, Religious Believers and Economic Agents that operate in those Districts. During these meetings, in addition to other subjects, the Comrade First Secretary clarified the separation of functions between the leaders of the state and the party, the process of incorporating régulos and traditional chiefs, emphasizing that it was not a question of newly installing them in office, but rather incorporating them into socioeconomic activities, thus preparing for some of them, in accordance with their abilities, to represent administrative power at the base in the future. As such, he invited them to join the Frelimo Party voluntarily according to our statutes.81 The competing pressures on chiefs were well illustrated during the electoral process itself. In the words of the Namapa STAE director, the CDE used “the régulos as a prolongation of the administrative structure.” Chiefs helped select voter registration sites and mobilized the population to feed the CNE brigades deployed to register rural voters. They also had overseen the construction of polling stations, as well as of the nearby latrines and helicopter landing sites to service them.82 At the same time, during the elections staterecognized chiefs were spied urging registered voters to cast their ballots. As one reporter noted, voter mobilization by chiefs often exceeded the bounds of civic duty, taking on a decidedly “political character.”83 In sum, the contradictory imperatives posed by multipartyism – the need to find a
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putatively non-partisan power base and the rush to drum up votes – generated cross-cutting dynamics. By far and away the dominant tendency was the further politicization of chieftaincy. A space-clearing gesture A final factor which added yet another layer of complexity to the dynamics of rural political change merits greater elaboration than those discussed above. This was the all-too-transparent reality that, in certain localities, the retraditionalization of rural administration entailed a reordering and redefinition of the pre-existing configuration of power rather than a transfer of power per se. Since 1992, rural leaders have variously, as local circumstances and/or personal preferences dictated or allowed, reverted to old identities or embraced wholly novel ones, sometimes discarding, sometimes retaining Frelimo-issued hats in the process. For Bernardo Mussa, the nephew of the late Chief Nametaramo (Nametarramo) and the first cousin of his successor, the new political dispensation involved blithely crossing the aisle from the “political” structures he had long inhabited back into the traditionalist fold. In his late thirties in 1994, Mussa had been too young to serve the colonial administration. In 1975, he had become the Secretary of Jacotho Bairro Comunal, Odinepa Locality. He held this post until 1993 when, at a public meeting, he was elected to take on the roles of cabo and the chief’s deputy. On this occasion, he stepped down as secretary, because, he explained, “the populations said I should not occupy three offices.” Asked to describe his reaction to these developments, he replied, “I felt no emotion. I only complied with the decisions of the majority.”84 Mussa’s apparent lack of job preference may well have been a function of his growing indifference to both sets of offices. Just a month before our encounter, he had decided to leave public service altogether in order to devote himself to expanding his farming operations. In doing so, he became eligible for credit SODAN had promised to extend for the 1994–1995 agricultural campaign. It was clear that, in Mussa’s view, the move from secretary to cabo/deputy had neither enhanced nor impaired his social status. As he put it, the two positions “are identical because they [the régulo and the secretaries] work together.” Socio-political transformation had also brought a change in personal circumstance for José Tubruto, a nephew of Chief Tubruto. A former capataz of the colonial administration, Tubruto became a member of the GD in the district seat in 1974. In 1992, he became a cabo, a position he had never held under the Portuguese, all the while retaining party office.85 Given the degree of overlap between traditional and official authority that had obtained since independence, the career arcs of people like Mussa must not have been uncommon.86 As I show in Chapter 7, the blood ties that bound chiefs to secretaries did not receive serious consideration in officially-sponsored post-mortems on
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post-independence rural institutions; nor were they cited in public forums considering the future role of chiefs in local governance. Interestingly, however, some government officials invoked such ties to bolster their contention that the restructuring of rural administration had not unleashed much of a backlash from those at the short end of the stick. As a former administrator of Namapa put it, the growing prominence of chiefs in public life during his tenure in the district in the late 1980s did not meet with generalized resistance on the part of secretaries “because some secretaries are relatives, nephews of the régulo. So there couldn’t be a reaction.” Asked how many secretaries fit this classification, he replied, “It was the majority . . . Perhaps 90 percent of the secretaries were relatives of the régulos. The strongest contradictions occurred where the secretaries were not the relatives of the régulos.”87 In all likelihood, the 90 percent figure is an exaggeration. But the claim that the overlap was considerable was echoed by the administrator of Murrupula with respect to his own jurisdiction, in which, as it happens, he grew up. As he put it: I think that in Murrupula there weren’t very serious problems . . . because in many places the régulo always collaborated with the secretary of the bairro, of the cell, even ever since independence . . . Because the person who came to be secretary of the bairro in his regulado was also a well-known person, son of the land, and many times, even of the same family of the régulo himself.88 It is, however, the trajectories traced by Mussa and Tubruto, also suppressed within official discourses but, at the local level, equally plain for all to see, that say more about the nature and mechanics of post-1990 socio-political change, as well as the legitimating practices that have accompanied this change. For it is work histories such as theirs that disclose the extent to which the retraditionalization of rural administration entailed the redifferentiation of power rather than simply the supersession of an incumbent power by an opposing and previously marginalized one. Clearly, processes of differentiation reveal the extent to which traditional hierarchies were embedded in the institutions of popular power from the outset. They just as clearly reveal the considerable results achieved by government efforts to cultivate chiefs politically, as well as to instrumentalize them – strategies that were pursued with ever-growing urgency and vigor from the mid-1980s onwards. Official discourses in Nampula strongly tended to obfuscate both of these realities when addressing the implications of multiparty politics for the restructuring of rural administration. In the first instance, state and party leaders in the province re-enacted the myth of revolutionary rupture. In the second, they presented the 1975–1992 period as a monolithic block and, in doing so, glossed over upwards of a decade’s worth of significant rural political change.89
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The net effect was to set up a stark contrast between the first seventeen years of independence and the period inaugurated by the semi-official return to chiefly rule. The mystification of the recent past was the sine qua non for justifying the reversion to Portuguese precedent. Both the justification and the strategy of mystification on which it was predicated bore the imprint of Frelimo’s revolutionary triumphalism. Both maneuvers were shaped by the political need to present the state as having been purified of all political influence. Both bore testimony to the longstanding ideological imperative to deny any causal connection between the politico-military pressures brought to bear by Renamo and modifications to Frelimo’s rural practice: to hear Frelimo representatives tell it, neither Renamo’s strategic appeals to “tradition,” nor the military pounding sustained by official institutions during the course of the war, had left their mark on the state’s dealings with claimants on rural authority. If the primary impulse was to deny Renamo legitimacy, the manner in which the ruling party chose to meet this imperative helped to generate a general ambience of “mnemonic accommodationism”90 with Renamo, one in which the history of the pounding itself was at least partially eclipsed. For the ruling party, the resulting state of affairs was doubleedged. The enclosure of the 1975–1992 period into a parentheses carried the benefit of harking back to the moment of independence, when Frelimo enjoyed enormous popularity for having brought an end to colonial rule. The drawback was that, in obscuring much of what had transpired since then, even affirmative aspects of Frelimo’s socialist legacy were often passed over in silence, as we shall see in Chapter 8. Notwithstanding the general tendency toward obfuscation and denial, the fact that the return to chiefly rule compelled a “space-clearing gesture”91 and the reinflection of local identities in a traditionalist direction to inhabit this space was, on occasion, backhandedly acknowledged by government officials. As the district administrator of Namapa on the eve of this last round of transformations put it, “There had to be a separation, an area for the régulo but in coordination with the secretaries.”92
6
Labor, tribute and authority
The apparent duplication of state authority in Nampula’s rural areas was but one aspect of a broader tendency: namely, the proliferation of local claims to political authority and, by extension, to access to, and control over, labor, land and tribute. This latter tendency, a defining feature of colonial rule throughout sub-Saharan Africa,1 had hardly been absent during the first seventeen years of Mozambican independence. But it became ever more pronounced as Frelimo took the first tentative steps to implement political reforms in Nampula’s rural districts starting in 1992.2 As a result, local grievances against the state multiplied among grassroots rivals for official recognition and their actual or would-be subjects. To this extent, the retraditionalization of rural administration accentuated the political crisis at the grassroots level. This outcome is only fully intelligible when situated within the framework of national economic and political change and, especially, of the dynamic interplay between the two. The evidence from Nampula sits uneasily alongside of revisionist accounts which contend or presume that the return to chiefly rule, both in Nampula and further afield, was a fait accompli before it was officially sanctioned by provincial- or district-level government authorities. These accounts, both scholarly and otherwise, ascribe the political ascendancy of chiefs qua chiefs over party–state institutions in government-held zones to three factors: (1) Renamo’s resurrection of indirect rule in areas under rebel military control, a political and administrative arrangement that was allegedly both acclaimed and assisted by the populace; (2) the insurgent army’s wartime attacks on Frelimo representatives (which, apparently, did nothing, or nothing much, to compromise Renamo’s initial popularity); and (3) the mutually reinforcing combination of declining state capacity and legitimacy. On this view, the rising stock of chiefs simultaneously contributed to, reflected and enforced a new, more equitable, distribution of power between the Frelimo regime and the rural population. Specifically, the emerging balance of forces compelled an increasingly debilitated and embattled state to bow to peasant interests and needs in matters relating to residential patterns, work arrangements and rhythms, and cultural and religious practices.
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Even the peasantry’s subsequent disillusionment with Renamo’s predations and parasitism in zones under rebel wartime control did not modify the legacy of the insurgent army’s strategy of rural destabilization and mobilization. Geffray, whose last stint of field research in Eráti was carried out as the war in the district was escalating, was the first to articulate a narrative of this ilk. Variants of it were subsequently echoed by MAE officials involved in determining what role traditional authorities might assume in postwar local government, and by the governor of Nampula in the early 1990s, among other state authorities.3 The discussion below presents a different picture of the configuration of power in the postwar period and of the local dynamics that produced it. The upturn in the political fortunes of chiefs was indeed symptomatic of the weakening of the state and may well have been, in certain cases, underwritten by substantial levels of popular support. Nonetheless, my findings suggest that this upturn did not necessarily denote rural empowerment visà-vis central authority. Nor did the retraditionalization of rural administration signify a growing capacity of chiefs to exert influence over state policies or to act as a meaningful check on its more exacting (and unjust) demands. Indeed, chiefs were hard-pressed to defend their own, let alone anyone else’s, interests. Moreover, while rural explanations of the realignment of traditional and official authority were far from uniform, in all cases they identified the reassertion of chiefly power as a consequence rather than a determinant of state recognition. Other indicators would appear to support this interpretation. The general outcry from community court judges, for instance, only began after the Namapa administration had given chiefs the official nod to resume the judicial functions they had exercised in the colonial period. Likewise, most longstanding succession and territorial disputes both within and between families with royal pretensions only broke out anew, or reverted back to their colonial form, at this time. I address each of these topics in turn. The discussion which follows is organized into seven sections. Section one presents evidence supporting the case that, in the main, chiefly political ascendancy in the rural areas had been enabled at least in part by the state and was dependent on state patronage for its ongoing reproduction. Section two examines contemporary struggles between traditional authorities and community court judges over judicial authority, while section three details wrangles within and between chiefly hierarchies. Both sections show the ways in which the provincial and district authorities inadvertently created the conditions for conflicts over rural leadership to multiply and thrive, becoming murkier and more intractable in the process. Partisan politics, the legacies of civil war, and personal and professional rivalries within the district administration produced a similar effect. Section four examines the uncertain standing of chiefs in relation to the district authorities and the local cotton company. Section five explores the ambiguity of chiefs’ political
Labor, tribute and authority 195 position vis-à-vis the populace. Section six shows the extent to which cultivating local officialdom was perceived by traditional authorities as the most effective, expeditious means of defending against, undermining or displacing their fiercest political competitors. This was the case irrespective of the rank, pedigree or personal prestige of the claimant. It was also true whether or not the individuals concerned were nursing any grievances against either the colonial state or its successor. The conclusion ties together threads in the discussion that follows with several of those that run through Chapters 4 and 5.
The provenance, ambiguities and uncertainties of chiefly political ascendancy Interviewees dated the return to chiefly rule anywhere between 1989 and 1992. The vast majority placed it in 1991 and linked the rising political star of chiefs to a change in local administration in 1990. The reassertion of chiefly power not only occurred after the arrival of a new administrator but, more crucially, followed from his tenure. In keeping with this logic, informants maintained that the state itself had fundamentally altered the preexisting balance of power between secretaries and chiefs. According to Chief Mepera of Odinepa Locality, “When the traditional authorities were removed and the secretaries put in their place, they thought all power would be theirs. Already since the traditional authorities were given power, they [the secretaries] are weakening.”4 While growing state backing had enabled chiefs to elbow secretaries aside, or at least to compete with them on an equal footing, those on the upswing did not necessarily consider current levels of government support sufficient to reign unchallenged over the population. Chief Muhula, for instance, was candid about the prevalence of ongoing questioning and even defiance of his authority, a state of affairs that he attributed to the partiality and indeterminacy of recently restored powers. The full recovery of chiefs’ former stature in the eyes of the population awaited state definition of the scope and substance of chiefly jurisdiction, measures he did not feel he could prevail upon the state to take: We have recuperated some respect but not so much because . . . our responsibilities are not well-defined . . . I never went to speak to the administrator [about this] because it was they [people in the government] who decided for us to continue with the work and we are still waiting to see what they are going to do . . . What I know is that we don’t have our powers totally. Also, the people know that we don’t have all of our powers. If the state clearly delineated the powers and prerogatives of traditional authority, Muhula predicted, “they [the population] will respect us.
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Because they will be clear about our responsibility. But as we were withdrawn and they are not clear about our responsibilities, they don’t respect us.”5 As Chief Vaquina (Vakina) matter-of-factly put it, “The government is studying. It will tell us how we are going to work. For better or worse, who dictates is the government.”6 In short, power was conferred rather than confirmed. Precisely because chiefly ascendancy had been state- (rather than Renamoor self-) driven, its continued reproduction was heavily dependent on ongoing state patronage. And no one, least of all traditional leaders, was assuming that such patronage would be forthcoming indefinitely. Chiefs evinced an acute awareness that they were effectively “serving an apprenticeship,” whose successful completion held out little to no guarantee of permanent employment.7 Indeed, the continued existence of secretaries constituted living proof of the provisionality and reversibility of recent gains. Chief Intalia probably spoke for many when he snapped, we don’t know where this thing is going to end. Because, right now, when we are starting to work, there are still secretaries. And therefore we’re thinking that Frelimo still doesn’t want to work with mpéwé. This is a way of hiding a truth. Because we don’t understand how two people can be in charge in the same place. We don’t know if, in the future, we’ll be sitting [out of power] again or if it will be the secretaries sitting.8 Ironically, if the apparent duplication of state authority underscored chiefs’ probationary status, the government’s demonstrated willingness to sacrifice grassroots party secretaries had only served to point up the expendability of all local actors who risked alliance with it. Notwithstanding serious misgivings about the state’s long-term intentions, all the chiefs who had been given the opportunity had agreed to serve the state without any assurances of job security. The fact that, in the eyes of traditional authorities themselves, state backing might, without advance warning, be withdrawn is itself revealing of rural notions of causality: the effects of Renamo pressure were not only limited; they were also, it seems, short-lived, having already subsided with the cessation of military hostilities. The variability of government-sanctioned local political arrangements, both within and between provinces, also served as a constant, unsettling reminder to chiefs that their newly recovered paramountcy lacked the codification it self-evidently sorely needed. In Nacarôa District, for instance, chiefs’ courts had not been revived although, as the district administrator explained to me, there was a “certain coincidence” between official judicial and traditional authority.9 The balance of forces obtaining just across the Lúrio river in Chiúre District, Cabo Delgado, served as another point of contrast to that which prevailed in Namapa. As Chief Mepera put it,
Labor, tribute and authority 197 There the régulos still haven’t taken power. Who has power are the secretaries. I have cousins that are régulos and a cousin who is a rainha [queen in Portuguese; the term used to denote an apuiamuene, the highestranking female notable in a chieftaincy, typically the paramount chief’s eldest sister or mother].10 They say that we still haven’t been given power. Who works are the secretaries. What kind of government is that? It should be the same thing in all of the nation from the Rovuma to Maputo.11 The patent lack of standardization (or even the pretense thereof) also emboldened those who had fallen from official favor to contest the newly emergent socio-political order. One set of contestants was community court judges.
Traditional versus community courts and other struggles over tribute In a spirited, at times raucous, meeting, local lay magistrates in the district traced the progressive expansion of chiefs’ powers over the course of the previous decade. As one explained, The administrator [Bahia] said to the mpéwé that the government had been wrong when it said that it didn’t want to work with mpéwé . . . the government said for the mpéwé to continue to work. But their work is not to resolve the people’s problems but rather to organize the population for production. The problems remained to be resolved by the courts. And the mpéwé said, “This [arrangement] of not solving problems, we don’t want. Because if the government says for us to work with the population, then we should also continue to resolve the problems of the population.” The administrator said, “No. The task of the mpéwé is only to organize the population for production.” The régulos kept quiet. They didn’t resolve problems. They only continued to produce, working with the population in production. The administrator who put the mpéwé to work with force is this one that we have now . . . When the administrator Braga arrived [in 1990], he made changes. One of them was this: he said to the mpéwé to continue to work with all of your powers, resolve problems of the population, make puaros [Europeanized plural of puaro or opwaro; the place in which disputes are settled according to “customary law”] in your regulados.12 Struggles between judges and chiefs were distinct from those between chiefs and secretaries because, at the district level, local antagonists faced an openly divided government. The district magistrate of Namapa had clearly taken the retraditionalization of the local justice system as a blatant affront to his professional standing and personal prestige and had encouraged, if not
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incited, local judges to stand their ground and contest the new juridical order. He had also taken it upon himself to apprise his provincial-level superiors about recent developments in the district. And, in 1993, in the face of the increasing marginalization of community courts, he had coordinated a “seminar” in Namapa Center for state-recognized chiefs in order to reverse this trend. The aim was to explain the unconstitutionality of chiefs’ courts and to exhort seminar participants to disband them.13 The seminar was at best a qualified success principally because only two chiefs, both of Namirôa Administrative Post, had bothered to attend. Nonetheless, local magistrates reported that both attendees had transmitted the district court’s instructions to other traditional authorities and the phenomenon of chiefs’ courts had “died down a bit.” But, at the beginning of 1994, the district administrator had issued new orientations upholding chiefs’ courts, thus rendering null and void district court directives and precipitating a reversion to the pre-seminar situation. The first written complaints about chiefs’ courts from community court judges on record date from the end of 1992. Such missives, which were submitted to the district court, gain in frequency and urgency over a two-year period. In them, chiefs are variously charged with corruption, violating legal norms and obstructing justice. The December 1992 report from the community court of Alua Administrative Post, for instance, alleges that, in the eyes of the population, disputes heard in chiefs’ courts are “resolved badly.” It adds that the “régulos and cabos” were making the population suffer by charging “speculative prices” in their courts.14 According to another communiqué, a cabo “ate money” of the sum of 15,000 meticais owed by a defendant to a local court in the vicinity of the district seat.15 In Muanona Locality, the Napala community court alleged that the local “régulo” had prohibited people whose pigs were accused of damaging their neighbors’ food crops from appearing in court, “ripp[ing] up” the court’s summonses in the process. The court had responded by sending a report documenting such transgressions to the chefe do posto of Namirôa but had yet to receive a “satisfactory response.”16 Subsequent communiqués from the locality indicate that, from the perspective of local magistrates, it was downhill from there.17 If some chiefs opted for open displays of defiance, others reportedly deployed a strategy of subterfuge so as to safeguard their recently recovered judicial prerogatives. Deftly exploiting “regional contradictions,” Chief Intalia had, the Muanona community court wrote, completely “remodeled” the court, replacing the elected members with his own relatives.18 Such a strategy would have allowed any chief who pursued it to feign compliance with district court directives, while ensuring that local judges would not contest his or her own monopolization of judicial authority. The lay judges with whom I spoke reiterated these charges, taking pains to emphasize that the rehabilitation of chiefs’ courts was fueling chiefly corruption and leading to the diversion of public monies on a regular basis. Two mahumu who served as local magistrates in Namirôa Administrative
Labor, tribute and authority 199 Post and Namapa Administrative Post, respectively, took the lead here.19 While both men were, in principle, in favor of a return to indirect rule, they adamantly opposed the reassertion of chiefly juridical power. This was because chiefs’ blind pursuit of material gain in the judicial arena had, the mahumu held, hopelessly colored their otherwise sound judgment. It was such considerations which, in their view, accounted for the obstinate refusal of chiefs to accept, let alone solicit, the advice of mahumu in their capacity as judges even though such counsel continued to be welcomed on extra-legal matters. Referring to his own chief, one humu explained, He doesn’t want the advice of judges. Because he knows that when he fines someone, that money is for the mapéwé to eat, it’s for . . . his pocket. And he knows that when we impose a fine in the courts, it is for the coffers of the state. So he doesn’t want that advice because he thinks if we give advice, it is for him to leave this money for the state. The other humu concurred, highlighting ways in which chiefs sought to maximize litigation-related earnings. While community courts, he alleged, did their utmost to render speedy trials and verdicts, chiefs’ courts were notorious for foot-dragging: in the régulo [in the régulo’s court], a case takes two, three, four, five days . . . Why does it take days? It takes days because he wants the person to reflect on his problem and to grab a goat or a chicken to go give to the régulo in order for his problem to end or for that offender also to grab hold of some kind of tribute to go give the régulo in order for the régulo to find him in the right when he isn’t – or to extinguish that problem.20 The accusations leveled by local magistrates did not go unchallenged. Back in Nampula City, the provincial magistrate curtly dismissed the protests and arguments coming from the base. Many courts never functioned from the outset and, during the war, many others had ceased functioning, he pointed out. Moreover, the courts in Namapa had never generated any appreciable revenue for the state, he maintained, so the reappearance of chiefs’ courts could hardly have had an adverse effect on state coffers. Districts whose courts had in the past produced receipts, such as Nacala Port and Ilha de Moçambique, were continuing to do so. The judges in question, he implied, were simply hankering after a lost income for themselves.21 To be sure, the presence of community courts was often more notional than real. Even in pre-war Namapa, only a small fraction of local conflicts made its way to either the courts or the party. According to an early study by Geffray and Pedersen, the preferred method of dispute settlement, at least when it came to questions of land access and control, was “always feitiçaria,” or sorcery.22 Second, base-level courts had always struggled, often in vain, to defend their designated jurisdiction against encroachment by
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Frelimo secretaries.23 And, as judges themselves conceded, in certain areas, chiefs had been exercising juridical functions long before the district administration sanctioned them to do so. Furthermore, like all grassroots institutions, base-level courts had, from their inception, suffered from a dearth of financial and material resources. Since the formation of a local judicial network in 1978, lay judges in Namapa, as throughout Mozambique, had had to contend with a lack of writing materials and transport.24 Closer to the present, lack of remuneration had become a new and salient lament. Many local judges had, since 1992, ceased to discharge their juridical duties because, as one put it, “They don’t have clothing and they don’t receive.” A judge in Napala had reportedly “abandoned the job” in order to work as a capataz for SODAN.25 Finally, destabilization and civil war had further debilitated the local justice system.26 Despite multiple, often severe, handicaps, local courts were not stillborn.27 Nor were all of them completely defunct. The court of Alua Center reported that, in 1992, it had heard forty-seven common lawsuits, including cases involving theft, “expropriation of wives,” expropriation of land, adultery, “aggression” and a run-away slash-and-burn.28 The Muanona court, in its turn, reported that during June–July 1994, it had heard six cases: one robbery, one “aggression,” one “abandonment of the home,” one involving livestock-induced crop damage (domestic pigs, here as elsewhere, being the major culprit) and two involving “lack of consideration.”29 With the growing improvement of the overall military situation from mid-1991 onwards, even long moribund courts had begun to show some signs of life, however faint and episodic, and however much their turf was contested by both “régulos and secretaries,” as one report put it.30 The public was not of one mind on the subject of chiefs’ courts and popular assessments of the resurrection of these courts were often mixed. Allegations against the corruption of chiefs, both within and beyond the judicial arena, were common in Namapa and Alua, where struggles for power were most overt. In the latter case, these charges extended to chiefs in Renamo’s zone in the southeastern corner of the district. The reactivation of chiefs’ courts in Alua had also revived the much detested colonial practice of forcing litigants to undress either before, during or after formal deliberations. Such practices transcended political affiliations or leanings, as well as distinctions between “legitimate” and imposed chiefly officeholders.31 On the other hand, chiefs’ courts were not all without their advantages. One chefe do posto contended that legal proceedings were, if anything, reputed among the local populace to be more drawn out in community courts because they “have to record problems.”32 The fact that chiefs’ courts were perceived as enjoying a greater degree of autonomy from the state’s law enforcement apparatus also clearly worked in their favor. As the registrar for the district court admitted, “As a rule, certain people feel more at ease taking a problem to the régulo . . . because he doesn’t have a jail.”33 Similarly,
Labor, tribute and authority 201 a cousin of Chief Comala, who candidly acknowledged chiefly abuses with respect to both legal and extra-legal matters, nonetheless maintained that, in general, higher “fines” or indemnities were to be found in community courts rather than elsewhere. An added benefit of chiefly arbitration, in his view, was the greater likelihood of receiving clemency and “at times there exists . . . reconciliation.”34 Despite the conflicting nature of the evidence, four broad conclusions can be drawn. First, there was a marked tendency in both oral testimony and written accounts to depict local conflicts over juridical authority as, first and foremost, a bread-and-butter issue. Second, chiefs’ courts only became a generalized phenomenon in the district following their official authorization by the local administration in April 1992. Third, in the early postindependence period the Frelimo state had succeeded in creating new claims to authority and power if not necessarily the locally-rooted institutional bases to undergird them. Fourth, the claims of Frelimo-appointed judicial authority were alive, despite the multiplicity of constraints on, and growing challenges to, their effective exercise. What distinguished the post-1991 period was the fact that these claims themselves faced imminent extinction. This new, wholly unprecedented, danger, local judges insisted, had arisen from the district administration’s two-year-old alliance with chiefs. The apparently district-specific nature of the rehabilitation of chiefs’ courts fired judges’ collective sense of injury and injustice and fueled hopes that, however unenviable their present predicament, recent changes were not set in stone. As one put it: This order about the mpéwé, we are doubting. Because if it were a general order, we would hear that the courts have now died. Because we are seeing in other places, in Cabo Delgado, the courts are working, and even here [e.g. in this province] in other places, the courts are working. This thing of the courts not resolving problems, we are only seeing here. That’s why we are in doubt. Another concluded, “It is an order. Let’s comply. But we’re not very clear.” Nonetheless, as their testimony suggests, compliance on their part was selective, just as it was on the part of some secretaries.35 In the meantime, initiation rites continued to constitute another site of struggle over access to, and control over, local tribute. Since 1991, chiefs had been vested with authority by the district administration to preside over these rites. However, at least in some areas, Frelimo party and OMM members, who had assumed this function in the 1986–1987 period,36 had refused to surrender their prerogatives in this regard. At the same time, all claimants on cash and food payments levied on the occasion of such ceremonies faced a fresh challenge on this front from a formidable and wholly unexpected quarter. Since the early 1990s, the Catholic missionaries in the district had begun to convene initiation rites under the church’s own
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auspices with a view to Christianizing them,37 thus jeopardizing an important source of revenue for rural political and juridical authorities of all stripes. Given that the fees charged for such rites had, by the early 1990s, become unaffordable to many local residents, the church’s initiative seemed likely to meet with a receptive audience, especially among poorer sections of the population.
Succession struggles and territorial disputes In Namapa, the retraditionalization of local administration roiled a host of long-simmering succession, territorial and political disputes. Because such conflicts abounded, I limit my discussion to those which illustrate generalized trends within the district. The regedoria of Taibo, which encompasses the town of Namapa, neatly exemplifies struggles arising from overlapping and proliferating claims to power. It also illustrates three popular notions about the genesis of these claims: (1) that the monetization of the economy had, as early as the 1930s, led to the commodification of chieftaincy, enabling Africans with privileged access to cash to purchase Portuguese-defined traditional identities; (2) that African “auxiliaries” of the colonial state were, by the 1930s, strategically positioned to market such identities; and (3) that the role of white officialdom in driving such transactions and imposing illegitimate chiefly authority was often peripheral.38 In addition, the regedoria is emblematic of the ways in which the introduction of partisan politics and the attendant politicization of chieftaincy contributed to, and further confused, the imbroglio. In 1994, there were no less than four families claiming the right to stewardship of this populous, strategically located administrative unit. The first group was led by Vaquina, whose uncle had served as the first régulo under the Portuguese. This first Vaquina was himself a new transplant in Namapa, then a recently created military post, having migrated from the present-day Odinepa area (Niphuku) where he had been the “deputy” of Chief Nametaramo. Upon his death in the 1930s, his designated heir, the contemporary Vaquina, was deemed too young to be nominated as régulo.39 At this juncture, the interpreter of the colonial administration and son of neighboring Chief Namiquela, Mario Mateus, pronounced himself chief of the area. As Chiefs Alua and Comala described it, “As the son of a régulo, he wanted to be régulo” but, given prevailing matrilineal principles, was barred from acceding to Namiquela’s regedoria.40 Thus began a period in which Mateus served both as interpreter and chief. Informants emphasized the futility of protest in the face of these developments. As Cabo Cumar put it, At the time, everything that the interpreter said was accepted by the administrator . . . The population tried to react but it didn’t have any clout. The protests of the populations were considered invalid. Because each one, when he had a problem, had to speak to the interpreter.41
Labor, tribute and authority 203 At the time, Taibo was working in Namapa as a capataz on a “collective machamba” set up by the district administrator. Here the local population forcibly cultivated cotton and other cash crops in order to meet newly imposed tax obligations.42 Taibo himself was also new to the area having migrated to Namapa in 1932 from Memba where, by some accounts, he had been the cabo of Chief Napruma. He was said to owe his position as capataz to the fact that the then administrator of the district knew him from the days when he had served as a chefe do posto in Memba. Some informants claimed that Taibo acted as deputy régulo to Mateus during this period in addition to working as a capataz.43 According to local testimony, Mateus wore two hats until the arrival of a new administrator in 1938 who refused to countenance an interpreter who doubled as régulo. Here oral accounts begin to diverge. According to a former colonial interpreter, the new administrator appointed Taibo to be régulo. His decision was endorsed by the local population because, as capataz, “he didn’t bother anyone.”44 According to Chiefs Alua and Comala, Mateus handpicked Taibo to succeed him on the condition that Taibo share his income with him.45 According to Cabo Cumar, Taibo simply bribed the interpreter with wages he had earned as a capataz to exert influence over the administrator’s appointment.46 When Taibo died in 1964, one of his nephews, also a capataz, succeeded him,47 serving as régulo of Namapa Center until independence. When the district administration began working with chiefs as agents of the state in April 1992, it initially bypassed both Taibo and Vaquina in favor of Cassimo, a close relative of Comala, leader of what is widely reputed to be the most powerful chieftaincy in the district. According to several informants, Cassimo’s forebears had served as cabos under Vaquina and, subsequently, under Taibo.48 Cassimo, Comala and Alua claimed, however, that the relation had been the reverse: Vaquina, they insisted, had “always” served as Cassimo’s cabo and it was Cassimo, as opposed to Vaquina, who had been usurped by Mateus.49 Such allegations seemed to be only the latest in a series of longstanding ploys by the Comala chieftaincy to gain control over the politically central regedoria of Namapa Center.50 Taibo protested and, a few months later, was awarded control over his old regedoria. I can only speculate about the reasons for this shift. Taibo was an experienced capataz and régulo and Cassimo, at age twenty-three, had little leadership or work experience. Taibo’s stint as state-recognized chief was, however, just as short-lived. As he explained it, after the signing of the peace accord, the administrator held a meeting in the town and explained: Now there are many parties. There is the party of Renamo, of Frelimo, of UNAMO, plus others. Whoever wants can join. Renamo arrived and called a meeting and I joined. From then on it was said that I couldn’t be régulo.51
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Thereupon, the administration had recruited a cousin of Taibo’s – officially known as Taibo but disparagingly referred to by his detractors by his nonroyal name, Carlos Máquina – to stand in as régulo. A former colonial police officer and soldier, Máquina had worked as a lorry driver in Nampula and Zambézia between 1979 and 1992. Between 1990 and 1992, he transported sisal and cotton for JFS at the company’s plantation in Geba on the coast.52 The widespread view in Namapa was that this Taibo, who reportedly had joined the Frelimo Party at the time of his appointment in 1992, owed his current status to the fact that he had, as one aspirant chief put it, “given a little something to the administrator” or to one of his subordinates. Significantly, no bids were advanced on the basis of precolonial claims. As we have seen, Vaquina himself had arrived after Namapa post had already been established. None of the contenders was considered a mapéwé. Clan was clearly a factor in the dispute: the colonial Taibo was Male, whereas Vaquina was Lapone. Nonetheless, intra-clan and intra-familial conflicts were at least as important: Cassimo and Vaquina belonged to the same clan, as did the two Taibos. A related but distinct set of conflicts in Namapa Administrative Post bore testimony to the legacy of the colonial state’s first attempts to reverse its early strategy, pursued in the immediate aftermath of conquest, to fragment or otherwise undermine larger, more powerful, chieftaincies. Starting from the early 1940s, the number of regedorias was reduced and new powers and prerogatives attributed to those chiefs who survived the cull.53 The implementation of this new policy in Namapa led to the expansion of Taibo’s regedoria to impressive, even unwieldy, proportions.54 (The fact that Taibo had been the beneficiary of this policy over the many other candidates is ironic given the new policy’s stress on the importance of investing members of the historically dominant lineage in any given area as régulo.55) In the process, eight neighboring régulos deemed to have too few subjects had been downgraded to cabos, a status they had maintained throughout the rest of the colonial period. Once again, the spectacular rise in Taibo’s political fortunes was attributed to foul play. In 1992, the district administration had chosen to restore the régulos-turned-cabos back to chiefly status. However, for reasons that remain obscure, it subsequently changed tack, reinstituting the late colonial configuration of power. As one of the shortchanged chiefs put it, “The population and I . . . have reached the conclusion that there exists a deal between the Régulo Taibo who is Máquina and the government.”56 In Namirôa Administrative Post there was another face-off between former cabos and régulos but, in this instance, it was the latter party that felt wronged by recent interventions of the local state. The local chefe do posto, charged with overseeing the largest and most remote of the district’s three administrative posts,57 evinced a pronounced predilection for partitioning Portuguese-inherited regedorias. In the regedorias of Tubruto and Intalia, the principal impetus for division had come from former cabos claiming either
Labor, tribute and authority 205 precolonial or early colonial chiefly status. In both cases, attempted secession had met with virulent opposition from the incumbents, with chiefs and their former cabos refusing to recognize the other’s authority in the area in question. As a result, the chefe do posto had referred the two cases to the district government for review. Some two years later, he was still waiting for word from his superiors on how to manage the two standoffs.58 Further to the west, a dispute over chiefly office in Muanona Locality testified to the legacy of war-induced flight. There the return of a long-absent traditional leader had sparked a bitter intra-familial feud. Mejua, a former cabo of Chief Uantera, had fled to Cabo Delgado during the war. His younger brother stayed behind, overseeing local funeral ceremonies in his absence. When Mejua returned in the wake of the peace accord to resume his former functions, his brother, now acting in the capacity of cabo, refused to stand down. Thereupon, Mejua had returned to Cabo Delgado, leaving one of his wives behind. A few months later his wife died. Mejua and the local population accused the younger brother of having poisoned her.59 Even the regedoria of Comala faced a credible challenge, a noteworthy development in view of the chieftaincy’s depiction as a pillar of stability and the impressive religious and political powers attributed to Comala IV, powers which, it has been suggested, derived from the purity of his pedigree.60
Contending royals and the centrality of the state The widespread view in Namapa was that the emerging configuration of local power had been over-determined by the state itself. In accordance with provincial government orientations issued in the early 1990s, the district administration had conducted a survey of local traditional authorities with an eye to identifying, or at least obtaining some sort of rough consensus on, legitimate successors of precolonial chiefs. However, although the inquiry’s findings revealed a significant number of divergences between contemporary state-recognized chiefs and allegedly legitimate ones,61 they did not, in the main, perturb the pattern of newly crystallizing alliances between traditional and official authority. Several informants complained, or simply observed matter-of-factly, that the survey did not involve popular consultation. In Cassimo’s words, “In 1992, the government said choose your régulos. The public was then presented with an already chosen régulo.”62 Such objections were by no means confined to Namapa, nor were they exclusively voiced by the political opposition. The charge, for instance, was made in the national daily newspaper Notícias by one of the paper’s local correspondents following a visit he made to his home in Lalaua District in mid-1992.63 At that stage, the then Director of DPAC apparently felt that clarification of government intentions and guidelines was in order. In a proposed circular, he observed, “we find that in some areas the administrative structures do not heed the traditional principle in which the choice of traditional chief is up to the population.”
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Such a principle, he reasoned, should be upheld, “seeing that it is [the population] that knows who were its true representatives.”64 Government officials made no secret of their marked preference for reverting to the late colonial status quo. In 1992, a MAE consultant who held discussions with district administrators and other members of the provincial government on such matters found that most respondents placed a high priority, if not a premium, on job experience acquired under Portuguese rule. Thus, while local officials insisted on drawing a sharp distinction between precolonial chiefly offices and those created under the Portuguese, they left little doubt that it was the latter set that best suited their requirements in their daily dealings with the rural populace: The figure of the régulo as a connecting link between the Public Administration at the level, above all, of the administrative post and the population in the locality, continues to be necessary today, according to the observations of the interviewees.65 In Namapa, local responses to state unilateralism, or state involvement in chieftaincy politics, varied. While younger advocates of the return to indirect rule tended to think there was no place for government in chiefly succession decisions or dispute settlement,66 those who had actually taken part in, or observed at close range, both processes during the colonial period considered administrative intervention an integral, even indispensable, part of them. After much discussion, Vaquina and his counselors, for instance, came down in favor of public involvement in the nominating process but in a manner which, on the face of it, exhibited all of the hallmarks of a government-sponsored referendum. In their view, the question that should have been put to the population was “ ‘Who was régulo first here?’ If it had been like this,” they added, “there would be no problem today.” They explicitly rejected the suggestion that the population be asked to choose the person that they thought best represented them.67 Similarly, state interventionism in succession disputes in the past was not necessarily recalled with rancor. If Portuguese authority was seen as a coconspirator of, or an accomplice to, Africans making illicit bids for power, it could also serve as a formidable frontline defense against such bids. Chief Mucarara, for instance, recounted that his own ascension to the helm of the chieftaincy had been greatly facilitated by the “whites” who had ruled in his favor when, upon the death of his uncle, the deputy régulo, a non-family member, had tried to wrest control of the regulado.68 In Namapa in 1994, almost all aspirants to state-recognized traditional offices and incumbents facing mutinous and mutually rivalrous subordinates limited their protests to personally petitioning the district administration. To my knowledge, the only instance of a popular mobilization on behalf of a chief seeking state recognition in the 1992–1994 period took place in Alua Center just ahead of the country’s first multiparty poll. When, in October
Labor, tribute and authority 207 1994, the district administrator made a campaign stop in Alua on Frelimo’s behalf, local residents greeted him by staging a rally of their own. The objective of the demonstration was to protest the rule of the local staterecognized chief, a former régulo who was widely criticized for his reliance on strong-arm tactics, and to present an alternative, who claimed to be the rightful heir to the regedoria. The administrator responded by declaring that he was there in his capacity as First Party Secretary, rather than as the head of the district, and thus was not in a position to address their concerns. It was unclear who had organized the event.69 The vast majority of claimants on chiefly office who were seeking to fend off or displace rivals eschewed large-scale, organized action. Most seemed to think their political fortunes would rise or fall in accordance with state dictates and caprices, and, thus, were largely out of their own hands. Cabo Cumar, for instance, plaintively asked, “When will I receive my powers?”70 Vaquina was even more shrill: “Will we lose power forever?” he queried.71 Actively asserted, overlapping claims did not in all cases automatically manifest themselves in competing appeals to the state. Word had it, for instance, that Chief Muhula had agreed to let the regulado revert back to the descendants of Momola, the chief of the area at the time of conquest, upon his own death. Muhula’s father had been Momola’s cabo. In the wake of World War I, Momola had fled to Cabo Delgado in order to escape retaliation by Portuguese troops seeking to avenge suspected chiefly collaboration with the Germans during the conflict. At that stage, Muhula’s father had assumed control of the regedoria. Henceforth, Momola’s heir and, subsequently, his descendants had served as cabos in the regedoria, which remained in the hands of Muhula’s family. Unfortunately, the possible handover of the regedoria in the 1990s seemed likely to create as many problems as it solved: the move was expected to be opposed by the maternal relatives of Muhula’s father, out of whose hands the regulado passed by virtue of the father having chosen his son as heir.72
Chiefs, the state and capital Perhaps the most dramatic mark of chiefs’ relative lack of political clout visà-vis the state was the striking facility with which several of them had, once again and often unwillingly, been turned into accessories to a compulsory cotton regime. I briefly review allegations of forced labor practices, which came from virtually all points of the district, before considering the positioning of chiefs in relation to them. Allusions to the ongoing coercive character of cotton cultivation were often made in the course of discussion about changes in production relations during late colonial rule. Asked if cotton remained a compulsory crop even after the formal abolition of forced labor in the colony in 1961, more than one group of informants replied, “Until independence . . . until now,” a spontaneous extrapolation typically accompanied by resigned laughter.73 In
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like fashion, Chief Vaquina gave to understand that coercion was embedded in the very structure of production. The crop, he explained, “was always forced.” Then, as if stating the obvious, he added, “That’s why there are capatazes for cotton but not for peanuts.”74 Struggles over cotton were more manifest and peasants more outspoken about them in the environs of the district’s three Catholic missions: Namapa Center, Alua Center and Mirrote in Namirôa Administrative Post. The geography of grassroots resistance in good measure bore testimony to the Catholic Church’s leading role, both in Namapa District and in the province as a whole, in criticizing and organizing against forced labor practices in post-independence Mozambique. Several informants attributed declines in cotton production since 1991 in certain localities of Namapa to the combined impact of church interventions, on the one hand, and peasant resistance and political activism, on the other, in the face of state and company-inflicted violence.75 The organizing efforts of local catechists and parishioners had prompted district authorities to accuse them of prohibiting people from growing cotton.76 In Alua, the fall in cotton production had been especially sharp.77 The drop was due to demands by smallholders that the local administration grant them “at least a year” reprieve from cotton production. The initiative was spearheaded by “animators (animadores),” local leaders of the Catholic Church, emboldened by human rights courses offered by the local mission which, as one activist put it, “show us that the constitution of the Republic has an article that says each citizen has the right to choose his own profession. But,” he continued, “the responsáveis [pl. of responsável] of cotton are not observing this law. So we sent letters to the government, to the chefe do posto of Alua. That’s why this year the government is leaving us to rest in peace.” By their own account, the initiative involved non-Catholic participants and transcended religious identifications: “We wrote as Mozambican citizens . . . because all of us suffered. Because we were beaten . . . It was enough if we delayed, we were beaten by capatazes, troops, Naparamas, régulos. There was the administrator who went around with his soldiers.” The animadores reported that, in Namapa, both secretaries and chiefs were exempt from forced crop cultivation. Others could only gain an exemption by giving chiefs “chickens or money.” Chiefs, the animadores emphasized, were only the latest addition to an already formidable battery of repressive agents acting on behalf of the state and SODAN. They expressed anxiety about their fates during the then upcoming 1994–1995 agricultural campaign and claimed that elsewhere in the district coercive mechanisms remained in place.78 Forced labor practices were further detailed in local parish reports. According to one, written by the Alua parish at the end of 1992, “On November 23, the Naparama captured twenty-four people. They took them with their arms tied with ropes and they stayed like that, in a hut until daybreak, to then be taken to the cotton machambas.”79 A 1990 report from the parish lists the names of capatazes who had whipped people, the names of
Labor, tribute and authority 209 their victims, and the places where these abuses had taken place.80 A 1993 communiqué from the Namapa parish, in its turn, reported: We register many abuses because of the production of cotton. The enquadradores [capatazes] of JFS have used coercion and moral violence with a view to compelling the population to grow cotton. We know that the technicians [company field agents] tell the enquadradores that to produce cotton it is necessary to whip. The reasons the population is not always content with this [crop] are known. There are also abuses on the part of traditional power which formerly was exploited, and now begins to exploit and oppress the people.81 Several residents of the environs of Namapa Center alleged that the local régulo and his militiamen intimidated and beat those who refused to grow cotton; the only way to forestall such punishment was through bribery.82 With the growing assertiveness of the local population in the face of state and company demands, at least some local SODAN employees had opted to apply more subtle forms of pressure to meet production quotas. The opportunity to do so had been enabled by the issuance of voter registration cards in advance of the October poll. Parishioners from one of the outlying bairros reported that three company capatazes had asked the local cabo “to call all of the people who had registered to vote because the registration had been badly done.” When the people had assembled on the appointed day, it quickly became apparent what the capatazes’ real objective was: to use the names of registered voters to expand their lists of smallholders committed to cotton production for the 1994–1995 agricultural campaign. Having exposed the ruse, “Some gave name [sic] and many went home.”83 Forced labor practices were an ongoing feature of life in Odinepa Locality, according to a former capataz. During his entire tenure with both EEAN and SODAN between 1981 and 1993, he maintained that, in the area, “the norm was for a capataz to beat people . . . the way of working was that you have to slap the population.” In 1992, he himself had been severely beaten by two armed SODAN militiamen, with “two bosses of João Ferreira dos Santos” looking on, for his refusal to adhere to company “norms.” At that time, forced crop cultivation was a “general hardship at the district level,” he claimed. The president of the locality was indifferent in the face of local complaints about these beatings, which, he maintained, were ongoing.84 I encountered much the same story in Mirrote. According to a missionary stationed there, the local SODAN field agent regularly beat peasants. When confronted, he had insisted that he was only following company orders.85 The employee in question maintained that “Today, we need to have a peaceful policy” but nonetheless admitted, “from my point of view, with this crop, there is war.” This was because peasants didn’t follow the prescribed agricultural calendar or comply with technical instructions. During the 1993–1994 agricultural campaign, they had only sown in December and
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January when, ideally, planting should be completed by mid-November. They also regularly cut corners weeding. Despite such irregularities, he still had to stake out the machambas according to company guidelines. Other infringements were more serious still. Smallholders routinely tried to plant maize and millet in the middle of cotton blocks. Some of those who had been caught and, as a result, forbidden to take part in block schemes in the future, had stolen company seeds, planting them in dispersed machambas in the mountains. He concluded, “I may beat this one, insult that one, grab that one. But, in the end, João Ferreira dos Santos and the administrator will judge me when it comes time for marketing and I have delivered a lot of cotton.”86 Further west, evidence of reliance on force was much more thin. Whereas in other localities in the district the actual area devoted to cotton production fell well below official targets during the 1993–1994 agricultural campaign, in Muanona and Namirôa the area under cotton cultivation actually exceeded the expectations of the plan.87 In these areas, residents tended to stress cotton’s ongoing importance as a vital source of cash earnings.88 This, many maintained, was particularly the case at their end of the district in view of the dearth of other income-earning opportunities, aside from peanut production. Nonetheless, even in this region allegations of forced labor were not entirely absent. Asked if there was popular resistance to cotton cultivation in the colonial period, one chief from Namirôa Administrative Post replied, “Even now there is resistance. Only now some have decided to cultivate of their own free will because they make a lot of profit. The people who don’t want to cultivate are forced.” Two days later, he sought me out with the express intent of retracting his testimony on this score. Elders in the seat of the administrative post simply – and rather impassively – maintained that, due to rising producer prices in recent years, “many produce voluntarily.”89 Elsewhere, chiefs were willing to go on record that cotton was indeed a forced crop. In Alua, four state-recognized “régulos”, two of whom had served as capatazes until company lay-offs in 1992, admitted that “No one produces voluntarily” but were tightlipped about their own attempts to meet production targets in the face of smallholder intransigence.90 In a follow-up interview, one of the chiefs, Comala, was more forthcoming about chiefs’ recourse to force and the reasons for doing so. The pay of capatazes was docked if less than ten hectares of cotton were planted or weeded per week in their designated work areas, he explained. While he had always managed to meet the required minimum, other capatazes had come up short and, accordingly, had paid the price. Closer to Alua Center, company foremen had been particularly hard-pressed “[b]ecause in the area, there are people who don’t want to produce cotton, in addition to which the terrain doesn’t produce a lot of cotton.”91 Repeated attempts to impress upon the administrator the depth of peasant dissatisfaction had fallen on deaf ears, he alleged:
Labor, tribute and authority 211 In our meetings, we have always said that many people don’t want compulsory measures [e.g. in the 1990s, as in the colonial period, one hectare for households headed by able-bodied males] for producing cotton. The administrator always tells us to mobilize the population to produce cotton because he says if they . . . don’t produce cotton, they will not have clothing or money. His mistreatment of the population, then, reflected in part his manifest inability to influence local cotton policy and, by extension, his own terms of service. And, as he himself was quick to point out, neither he nor the other chiefs had sought out such service in the first place: “We didn’t ask to be capatazes. It was the company which asked us.” The retrenchment of chiefs as company employees in 1992 did not signal the end of their involvement as key mobilizers for cotton production, nor their sense that they might be penalized in the event they failed to deliver satisfactory results. The former capataz from Odinepa explained why: “Because the régulos are threatened. They are not beaten but it is the same as being beaten because the word of the administrator who orders is that all of the people have to have a cotton machamba.” He stressed the futility of seeking redress at the district level: “Because the administrator of the district has a car of João Ferreira dos Santos. That’s why all the places have to produce cotton.”92 A visit to Odinepa Locality corroborated his testimony and vividly demonstrated the inability of chiefs to act as protective intermediaries for their constituents even if they were so inclined. At the same time, however, it revealed a rather different – and, as it turned out, more commonly held – conception of the relationship between state and capital. In one settlement, I struck up a conversation with a group of smallholders who contended a bit too insistently, and without having been solicited, that they produced cotton voluntarily even though, in their own estimation, cereals had been more profitable during the previous agricultural campaign and cotton was in part responsible for local malnutrition. It was the chief, hitherto silent, who broke the vow of silence. Rounding on the main speaker, he reprimanded, “You made a mistake in the beginning when you said cotton was not compulsory.” Others immediately took up his cue: “It is not our will. We are being forced. If we refuse, we are beaten. The company doesn’t come here directly but it gives orders. The capatazes beat those who don’t grow cotton.” They were emphatic that the state was not a potential source of succor in the face of company exactions: “Who are we going to inform? The administrator is in this group that beats. How can we complain to him?” The chief elaborated, “Who forces us is the government. The government talks to the company. I receive orders from the government and I force others. The cultivation of cotton has been compulsory from the beginning until today.” He maintained that he was powerless to intercede on behalf of his wards: “I can’t protest. I am ordered. If I stop forcing the population, the population
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won’t do anything. And the government will settle accounts with us.” Another member of the group piped up, “They would ask what he is doing. They would blame him.” Thus, while local government officials were seen as being beholden to the company, which commanded and dispensed greater material resources, the company was nonetheless regarded as acting at the state’s bidding. In serving capital, chiefs, both on and off the concessionary payroll, were effectively serving the state itself.93 The political fragility of chiefs vis-à-vis the district administration was also glaringly apparent in their self-confessed lack of wage-earning power. Most chiefs and their allies felt that, as newly christened representatives of the state, traditional authorities should receive a salary. As one UNAMO representative put the case, “We want régulos to have salaries because they work a lot. There’s no work for which one doesn’t receive. This was only [the case] with the government with its secretaries because they agreed that the population would pay.”94 However, the chiefs with whom I had the opportunity to speak did not feel that they could realistically expect better treatment than secretaries had received. A visibly exasperated Chief Intalia, for instance, quipped, “We saw that the secretaries don’t receive and we’re going to say that we want to receive?”95 The response of traditional authorities in Odinepa had a similar thrust. As one put it, “No one receives . . . even the secretaries don’t receive.”96 In the main, chiefs were self-deprecating about their economic vulnerability and, hence, easy cooptability. In the more densely populated areas of the district, some chiefs had received a one- and, in some cases, a two-time gratuity for assisting with tax collection, netting anywhere between 10,000–50,000 meticais (approximately US$1.75–8.77 at then prevailing real exchange rates).97 Such derisory sums had, it seems, only served to highlight the state’s low esteem for the value of their labor. Referring to the 1993 tax collection campaign, Chief Comala explained, “When Alua and I passed the target for tax [receipts], we received ten contos [laughter]. Ten contos isn’t enough for anything. It’s not money.” Asked why they were working for the government without pay if that is what they thought was their due, Chief Saíde replied, “We are helping the government. Our land is here. We have nowhere to go.”98 The country’s first multiparty poll laid bare the impotence of chiefs vis-àvis the two main electoral contenders – at least in the eyes of some of their putative charges. Here I rely on public commentary in Vida Nova, a popular monthly published by the Catholic mission in Anchilo, just outside of Nampula City, and one of the few publications then circulating in the rural areas. One contributor described the behavior of chiefs in the face of electoral political pressures as follows: “They are like reeds: they arrive at the administrative post and say, ‘yes, yes’; they come to the Renamo delegation and say, ‘yes, yes’. They feel closed in on both sides and don’t really know who they should choose.” Another wrote: “They are deceived by the politics of both sides. They think they will continue to rule as in the past.”99
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Chiefs and the populace The obverse side of chiefs’ precarious position with respect to official authority was their uncertain standing and sense of vulnerability vis-à-vis the population. As we have seen, in Chief Muhula’s eyes, this ambiguity flowed from the indeterminacy of state-devolved powers. In certain areas, chiefs had been left wide open to challenge by both their principal political rivals and would-be subject populations as a result. By all accounts, secretaries could be as effective at disrupting the progress of state-assigned tasks and demobilizing the population as some disaffected chiefs reputedly had been during the exclusive official reign of secretaries.100 Chiefs Alua, Comala, Saíde and Nametemula contended that their work performance was hampered because The secretaries hold us in contempt. They don’t want us. There is confusion . . . For example, the executive council here [e.g. Alua Center] sends us to go do a job. When the secretaries find us doing this work, they disorganize, saying, ‘These are nothing. They are only capatazes of cotton’ . . . They were told that they work for the party, that they can’t resolve problems [e.g. social conflicts]. They continue to resolve problems.101 The chiefs clearly felt at a loss to prevent such blatant affronts and transgressions single-handedly. Similar dynamics were reportedly in play elsewhere in the district.102 By the same token, and despite state-applied pressure on chiefs to maximize smallholder cotton yields, the district administration had evinced a marked reticence to throw its full weight behind its newly chosen local agents in order to facilitate delivery in this regard. This reticence had paved the way for violence by chiefs to be met with popular reprisals. Chief Alua, for instance, had been roughed up twice by smallholders resisting cotton production, once in Namige and a second time in Mutahano. On the first occasion he had reportedly gone to the police but, according to one informant, “he was told that he himself was guilty and so he went home.” On the second occasion, he did not bother to seek redress through official channels, opting instead to transfer his political loyalty from Frelimo to UNAMO. In the absence of beefed-up state backing, chiefs found themselves illequipped to move against two interrelated social pathologies which their own reinstatement was widely expected to curb: lawlessness and idleness. In Chief Tubruto’s view, for instance, the principal difference between his colonial and contemporary tenure was the growing preponderance of people who would only work if they were “dragged” to the site of production and who, in the absence of such pressure, gravitated towards a life of crime. Asked to account for the expanding ranks of the idle and delinquent, he replied, “They are saying that now they are free, now they can’t be ordered, and now
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no one orders anyone else.”103 I return to this theme in the following chapter. Suffice it to say here that, on this account, one that enjoyed wide currency, blame for contemporary social ills was fixed on the legacy of Frelimo’s early radical egalitarianism – that is, its commitment to the leveling of hierarchy per se – rather than on the substitution of one hierarchy (indigenous and legitimate) by another (alien and imposed). A former colonial interpreter recalled nostalgically the days of colonial indirect rule when “there were only four thieves at the district level” and expressed confidence that, given half a chance, chiefs could restore law and order. Asked to account for the conspicuous failure of traditional authorities to make any perceptible headway against law-breakers in the years since their semi-official return to power – a period which had, if anything, witnessed fresh surges in crime – he replied, The régulos still don’t have force. Because up until now, this is running as it ran for a long time. I’m not afraid to say this. The difference [from the colonial period] is that the régulos are afraid. The difference: the chefe de povoação picks up a thief robbing in his povoação. When he arrests him, he takes him to the police. The police say, “Come tomorrow, it’s already late today. This prisoner will stay here until tomorrow.” The thief pays something. When you arrive the next day, he has escaped. The government doesn’t pay any notice. The thief takes vengeance. You are not protected . . . because the force of the régulo, the cabo, the chefe de povoação comes from the government.104 In relating this testimony, my primary concern is not to highlight the link between criminality and official corruption. Rather, it is to call attention to the fact that arguments that begin with expansive claims for the powers of chieftaincy, seemingly as a freestanding institution, are, on closer inspection, claims for this institution’s articulation with the colonial state and, indeed, for the entire grid of colonial discipline and control of which chieftaincy was but a single coordinate. Chiefs’ anxieties about falling casualty to the rising tide of lawlessness extended beyond their concerns that jail-breakers would be free to settle accounts with those responsible for their incarceration. Chiefs in Namapa went to considerable lengths to conceal the fact that they were on the local concessionary’s payroll for fear that, if they didn’t, their personal security and hard-earned wages would be placed at risk.105 Elsewhere in the province, the outlook for an easy, uncontested, transition to chiefly rule was just as bleak. In Angoche, the prospect of chiefs winning popular respect seemed distant at best. In a meeting with district officials shortly after resuming state-assigned duties, “régulos” stressed the fact that they were making “a great sacrifice, [and needed to have] courage and dedication given that they are held in contempt by some youth and political [e.g. local Frelimo party] structures in the course of their work at the base.”
Labor, tribute and authority 215 It is in this light that the significance of their request, made on the same occasion, for uniforms and the restitution of colonial residences becomes intelligible. Far from serving as an official seal on an uncontested monopoly on rural allegiances, the trappings of power were, in chiefs’ own estimation, the first indispensable step in the arduous, even perilous, road to such a monopoly’s possible future achievement.106 In at least one instance, chiefs firmly declined to run interference for the state precisely because of the perceived risks this would entail. According to the administrator of Nacarôa, chiefs balked when sounded out for their willingness to preside over rural tax collection, citing their fear of falling prey to “bandits” once their involvement in such undertakings became public knowledge.107 Back in Namapa, locally-based SODAN personnel left little doubt that, in hiring chiefs as capatazes, the company had grossly over-estimated their mobilizational and enforcement capacities. Asked about the work performance of traditional authorities in the sphere of cotton production, one representative replied, “Do you want to hear the official line or the truth?”108 A company engineer underscored what was in his view the purely conjunctural character of widespread popular support for traditional authority. Asked to explain why SODAN had laid off chiefs, he replied, “The reason is simple: they weren’t profitable.”109 He conceded that, in hiring chiefs, the company had “expected very good results in a very short space of time.” The engineer nonetheless defended the company’s hiring policy of the late 1980s: “You have to realize that, at the time, they were the only ones around with any credibility.” As he saw it, in the intervening years, chiefs had shed, or had been shorn of, their singularity in this respect: “Now, I would say, there is a crisis of authority at all levels.”110
Conclusion Four themes of the foregoing three chapters merit elaboration by way of conclusion. First, the retraditionalization of rural administration altered the terms of, but in no way resolved, longstanding local conflicts over access to, and control over, territory, tribute and labor. If anything, a bevy of fresh claims to rights in resources and authority over persons was created in the process, intensifying and complicating local disputes. The anointment of three new “regedorias” in Muanona Locality attests to this trend. So, too, does the local administration’s decision to unseat an openly Renamo-aligned chief and to place his avowedly Frelimo-friendly cousin in his stead, as was the case of the Taibos of Namapa Center. At the same time, apparently moribund claims, such as Vaquina’s and Cumar’s, were reinvigorated. Wartime displacement of Portuguese-recognized traditional authorities added another layer of complexity to rural power struggles,111 as the case of the head-on collision between the two Mejuas in Muanona illustrates. The standoff between the district court magistrate and the district administrator produced similar consequences.112
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Under the circumstances, in many areas “disorder” was the order of the day. Political analysts have recently used this term as a way of characterizing the intended effect of politico-military strategies deployed by incumbents in Africa that aim to undermine and/or discipline their most threatening domestic political rivals.113 In the case of Nampula, several dynamics contributed to this state of affairs, not least those arising from the colonial legacy. To the extent that the government’s own strategic interventions contributed to the production of disorder, this was in good measure an unintended consequence of the incumbent regime’s attempt to cultivate as many local pretenders as possible – or at least to keep them guessing – in a situation in which the provincial authorities had apparently determined that the government could ill-afford to align itself unambiguously with one constituency at the expense of another. Second, if the tenure and legacy of dynamizing groups and party cells were conditioned by the agrarian policies, political practices and counterinsurgency strategies of the Frelimo state it was their duty to defend and enforce, so, too, was the semi-official return to chiefly rule profoundly marked by the global context in which it occurred. Economic and political liberalization were prominent features of this context. Market reforms not only spelled rising living costs, the elimination of state subsidies for many basic goods, and declining terms of trade for rural producers. They also heralded the demise of official circuits of state-distributed commodities and, thus, of an important source of state patronage in post-independence Mozambique. Economic austerity further constricted never bountiful and fast-shrinking rural pork-barrels in most localities. The convergence of these developments, combined with the provincial government’s decidedly equivocal stance on the question of local political authority, further eroded state legitimacy in many rural areas both in the eyes of rival claimants on state patronage and their actual or would-be constituencies. The apparent duplication of state authority at the local level engendered distrust of the state’s long-term intentions among leading contenders for local power. At the same time, the stringencies of economic reform were such that access to, and control over, local tribute took on added importance.114 Struggles between contending royals and among staterecognized traditional authorities, Frelimo party secretaries and local judges often took the form of conflicting claims on already seriously depleted and highly precarious sources of rural tribute (e.g. in dispute resolution, on the occasion of initiation rites, as exemption from cotton cultivation). To the extent that they did, the retraditionalization of local administration and the unstable power-sharing arrangements that ensued compounded the crisis of authority at the grassroots. The fact that the return to chiefly rule occurred at a time when corruption was “taking on an abominable legitimacy,” could have only deepened this crisis still further.115 Another aspect of economic change, the trend towards privatization, also shaped the post-independence rehabilitation of chiefs qua chiefs. The
Labor, tribute and authority 217 handover of EEAN management to JFS and the subsequent formation of SODAN, combined with the transition from civil war to peace, appear to have heightened state and company expectations about what the smallholder sector could deliver in terms of cotton yields and the resolve to try to ensure that such expectations were met. In Namapa, some chiefs fell casualty to intensified pressure on smallholders to increase agricultural output. Those that did not – and here the courageous chief in Odinepa stands as a case in point – appeared to be unable (or believed themselves to be unable) to shield their constituents from that pressure or to change local labor practices. A third theme has been the centrality of the state in producing the postwar balance of power at least in the short term. This centrality was best exemplified by officialdom’s openly stated desire to revert to the late colonial status quo and its ability, at least in the short-run, to impose its will even when such a reversion met with local criticism and resistance – and in one case (that of Alua) left a former régulo open to popular retribution. The two instances where the local administration opted to depart from the configuration of power bequeathed by the Portuguese were in the regedoria of the district capital, where the colonial régulo was an open Renamo supporter, and in Namirôa Administrative Post, where the chefe do posto viewed the division of colonial-inherited chieftaincies as a precondition for ensuring the state’s presence in all corners of his sprawling jurisdiction. Both frustrated aspirants to state-recognized traditional office and incumbents facing obstreperous subordinates were counting on the state, rather than the populace, to defend and/or to further their interests. In both cases, this orientation testified at once to the balance of power between the state and traditional authorities and to the nebulous nature of chiefs’ standing in relation to the populace. The last theme has been only implicit. While my primary focus in this chapter has been on the power struggles attendant upon the retraditionalization of rural administration, this emphasis should not obscure another, less visible but no less significant, trend: one exemplified by the career moves of Bernardo Mussa and José de Almeida, as detailed in Chapter 5, and of the judge of the Napala community court mentioned above. All three individuals had, by the early 1990s, opted out of the heat of the political arena in favor of pursuits that held out the promise of greater financial rewards. In the case of Almeida, this meant foregoing his position as Secretary of the Circle and President of Muanona Locality for a job at the Rural Water Department. For Mussa, it meant giving up his newly attained positions as “cabo” and deputy chief in order to try his luck as a small-scale agricultural entrepreneur. For the judge in Napala, it meant leaving the bench for a position as a capataz. For all three men, the perquisites of traditional and/or party office were inferior to the economic opportunities offered by wage employment or credit-subsidized, own-account farming. At the same time, the structure of local economic opportunities, combined with the heavy demands of public office, made it difficult, if not impossible, for most
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Namapan residents to fully exploit such opportunities while simultaneously representing the state or party. One notable exception was Chief Namiquela who doubled as a capataz, a position he had held in the colonial period. Carlos Máquina stands as another counter-factual case, if for different reasons. In the early 1990s, he crossed from the private sector into the public sphere, becoming the “régulo” of the town of Namapa and its environs. His apparently singular trajectory can be accounted for by the unparalleled perquisites and opportunities for personal accumulation the office of chief offered in the heavily populated, politically pivotal district seat. The job choices of Namiquela and Máquina, no less than those of Mussa, Almeida and the one-time judge of Napala, indicate that patterns of struggle over local power and authority, as well as the socio-economic profiles of the people who engage in such struggles, are only intelligible when situated within the wider frame of the distribution of economic and educational opportunities in Mozambique.116
7
In the name of the state
We were simply and purely forgetting that we are in Africa, where sociocultural reality has specific characteristics. (Provincial Director of Assistance and Control, Nampula, 18 May 1991)1
The remainder of this book is largely devoted to analyzing memory practices in Mozambique in the late 1980s and early 1990s. My discussion draws on the insights of recent historical studies which show that “even at the social level, memory is a structuring of forgetfulness.”2 Like these studies and others dedicated to deconstructing the discourses of power in colonial and national settings,3 it delineates the performative effects of silences that punctuate and encode statist narratives – in this case, silences produced by repressed, buried or unacknowledged social memories. Both chapters also call attention to the ways in which forms of state legitimation, at both the local and national level, performed a species of “anti-memory” work in the early 1990s. In applying the anti-memory label, I expand the definition accorded to it by the anthropologist Richard Werbner. Werbner coined the term to denote ideological practices that call on political subjects “to remember as forgotten things they have actually never known in the past” – and thus that they could hardly be expected to be able to recollect.4 In the context considered here, participation in the exercise of feigning “delayed collective recall”5 was confined to Frelimo representatives, who were obliged to “remember” something it is doubtful that they had ever lost sight of – namely, “that we are in Africa, where socio-cultural reality has specific characteristics,” as the Director of the DPAC in Nampula put it. This chapter explores the political and ideological effects produced by “codes of oblivion” in state-sponsored retrospectives on the Frelimo revolution as it unfolded at the grassroots in Nampula and other predominantly Makua-Lomwé-speaking areas. It examines the ways in which such retrospectives, as they were formulated by local state authorities and more senior people affiliated with MAE’s “Traditional Authority/Power” (TA/P) project, highlight the fateful consequences of Frelimo’s early decision to remake rural political institutions and leadership. The essence of the ruling party’s
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alternative to indirect rule is encapsulated in these accounts in a fairly unflattering profile of the prototypical secretary: grassroots Frelimo representatives are variously depicted as slaves, as misfits, as villains, as layabouts, as ignoramuses, as self-serving power-seekers or as some combination of all of the above. Revealingly, higher-level party authorities typically remain exempt from stigmatization of this or any other kind. Such one-sided historical representations tend to obscure factors that prompted or fueled rural political discontent and dissent that had little or nothing to do with the identity of officially-appointed leadership or the organizing principles and operating procedures of the institutions of popular power. Typically, this occlusion is achieved by smuggling the adverse effects of Frelimo’s other controversial and contested development and political interventions into the already cumbrous bundle of liabilities reputedly entailed by rule by secretaries. The upshot is that post-independence developments are reduced to a face-off between indigenously-rooted and politically legitimate traditional structures, on the one hand, and deracinated, often disreputable, individuals representing culturally alien, unwelcome and imposed institutions, on the other. Ruling policies and practices are not the only lacunae worthy of note. In the majority of cases, the impact of the war and, in particular, of Renamo’s strategy of rural mobilization are also either pointedly absent or only faintly present. Apart from the specific state interventions that gave rise to the confrontation between Frelimo appointees and traditional hierarchies, translocal forces and influences are, with few exceptions, either factored out of the picture or figure only tangentially in it. The ideological effect is two-fold. First, the outcome of the conflict between local secretaries and chiefs appears inevitable rather than historically contingent. Second, Frelimo’s rapprochement with traditional authorities, where it is depicted as having already occurred, is presented as the outcome of a mid-course correction undertaken by the ruling party of its own free will, apparently without regard to the manifold stresses produced by externally-applied politico-military pressures. None of this is to imply that the mnemonic narratives examined here are of a piece. Predictably, those formulated prior to the promulgation of the 1990 constitution take a fundamentally different approach to the question of rural leadership and institutions than those articulated afterwards. In addition, the retrospectives produced by two high-level representatives of the MAE distinguish themselves from those provided by district- and provincial-level state functionaries in two basic respects. First, the evidence adduced by the latter set of interventions is much more likely to belie the historical interpretations that are laid on them. Second, those interpretations are beset by greater ambiguity and tension than the ones proffered by higher-ups. One could attribute these points of contrast to the more advanced educational level attained by senior MAE officials and associates, who, as a result, were more skilled in the art of sustaining a coherent and convincing
In the name of the state 221 argument, in smoothing over its rough edges and in screening out or downplaying data that point to different conclusions. Whatever the merits of this line of reasoning, difference #1 reveals the much greater propensity of locals drafted into the service of MAE’s TA/P Project to register, if not necessarily to grapple with, the variability and complexity of post-independence political arrangements that characterized rural Nampula even at the height of revolutionary commandism. The widespread impulse to cite instances of early official collaboration and compromises with chiefly hierarchies met two objectives. It enabled local state officials and civil servants to illustrate the ways in which traditional authorities had already served the Frelimo state honorably, as we will see below. And it fulfilled the need that these employees felt to affirm aspects of Frelimo’s socialist development strategy that had nothing to do with the socio-political identity of rural leaders. In referencing the willingness of chiefs to oversee villagization, for instance, Nampula-based government personnel were subtly legitimizing the early policy of “socializing” the countryside – a policy that had been abandoned but not officially repudiated. The urge to validate past positions reflected the fact that the messages local state agents received from higherlevel authorities during this period were often mixed, muddled and/or inconsistent and were transmitted in an overall political environment characterized by substantial flux, uncertainty and apprehension – a climate in which the ideology of state socialism had collapsed and in which a struggle for a new, still ill-defined, legitimation profile was underway. Under the circumstances, it should come as no surprise that local state employees hedged their bets by justifying new policy stances in terms of old strategic goals to the full extent possible. As for difference #2, the argument here is that it is, first and foremost, symptomatic of the extent to which the ideological tasks that certain lowerlevel functionaries felt compelled to tackle were of a higher order of complexity than those taken on by their superiors. The interventions of senior MAE representatives took their primary cue from the revisionist perspective as advanced by Geffray. This is especially apparent in the case of Irae Baptista Lundin’s work, which uses Geffray’s research findings in Eráti District as a template for her own and which, on the basis of these findings, makes generalizations about “Makua society” at large. Baptista Lundin, the technical coordinator of the MAE TA/P Project, was, certainly at this stage, an ardent advocate of a return to chiefly rule. Her field research lent support to this overall project. I can only speculate about the motivations of the second MAE representative whose work is examined here. Januario Mutaquiha, a native of Nampula Province who, in the early 1990s, worked as an outside consultant to the TA/P Project, may have shared Baptista Lundin’s views. Alternatively, or in addition, he may have believed that a return to indirect rule was inevitable in view of: (1) what he and/or others adjudged to be the balance of power in rural Nampula; and/or (2) the prevailing political climate in which the pro-chieftaincy lobby within the state and party,
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backed by key donors, seemed to be in the ascendant or on the verge of becoming so. In contrast to both Baptista Lundin and Mutaquiha, Nampula-based government employees, whatever their private views on the subject of rural leadership, were guided by a more complicated set of situational calculations. Many of their interventions are manifestly concerned to attempt to reconcile important axioms of Frelimo’s revolutionary idiom with key elements of revisionist critiques. Consciously or not, they were helping to manage the state’s legitimation crisis – or, at the very least, they were taking pains not to say or write anything that might detract from this effort and thus jeopardize their jobs. Some of them may also have been attempting to help set the stage for Frelimo’s re-legitimization in the face of constitutionally-protected political competition and opposition. To the extent that their efforts compelled them to venture onto uncharted ideological terrain, local state employees acted as “memory entrepreneurs.” In all likelihood, the aim of their entrepreneurial activity was not to gain “social recognition and political legitimacy of one (their own) interpretation or narrative of the past.”6 Rather, it was to cope with, if not necessarily to resolve, the crosscutting pressures to which they were subject by virtue of their occupations and partisan affiliations, as well as of their primary and vicarious memories. The analytic difficulties that they encountered along the way seem to have stemmed at least in part from the diverse currents of thought that pulsed through the wider society. The dominant line in the early 1990s both within the MAE and within the Nampulan state administration – that the roots of the post-independence state’s crisis of legitimacy in the hinterland lay, to a large degree, in Frelimo’s allegedly successful bid to reinvent rural hierarchies of power and privilege – struck a chord with many Nampulans. However, this reading co-existed, at times uneasily, with the view, commonly expressed in Namapa, that the crisis at hand was the direct result of the ruling party’s determination to stamp out any and all hierarchical structures per se. Local state personnel strove to harmonize both narrative lines with the party’s past rhetoric in a manner that promised to accommodate Frelimo’s present political needs and to preserve their own jobs and careers. The task of narrative harmonization was at once eased and subverted by contradictions, inconsistencies and tensions that marked forms of legitimation and self-criticism deployed by the ruling party during the early postindependence period. On the one hand, the view that Frelimo’s abaixo policy had proved to be a catastrophic success could be readily accommodated by resignifying the myth of revolutionary rupture – that is, by lifting it from the heroic narrative in which it had been previously embedded and inserting it into a cautionary tale which rehearses the brand of anti-memory work described above. The relative facility with which the goal of resignification was accomplished bore testimony to the “meaningful multivalence” of the historical moment to which the myth in question refers.7 On the other hand,
In the name of the state 223 the notion that Frelimo had leveled grassroots hierarchies in the outback called for a rather different mnemonic adjustment, prompting local state employees to look elsewhere in the ruling party’s variegated political tradition for a solution. They availed themselves of an explanation for the mounting troubles of the revolution that gained prominence within the Frelimo leadership in the late 1970s and early 1980s: namely, that the setbacks and stalled momentum of Frelimo’s political project were due in large measure to the general erosion of authority that followed from the ruling party’s reluctance to operate all the levers of power. Attempts to knit together these various, often competing, “streams of discourse”8 within and beyond the ambit of state institutions gave rise to retrospectives that reproduced the ambiguities, tensions, dissonances and divisions that marked either socialist-era forms of legitimation or contemporary popular discourses of memory, or both. The dominant narrative of inversion was at once facilitated and disrupted by a partially submerged discursive stream that highlighted Frelimo’s hostility not so much toward chieftaincy as to all forms of hierarchical organization. This subsidiary, largely subterranean, narrative produced effects that were broadly similar to its dominant complement/contender: other equally controversial and arguably more politically consequential state interventions are bypassed or, as in the case of communal villages, figure as benign, almost natural, features of the countryside. More generally, local developments and struggles are decontextualized from wider historical processes that shaped their contours and content in fundamental ways. As I show below, this second theory of causation carries a greater subversive potential than the first, if unintentionally and even in spite of itself. It is the points of intersection, symbiosis and slippage between these two narrative lines that may in good measure account for why the unresolved tensions between them seem to have escaped all notice and why, as a result, the dominant line echoed to the extent that it did both within and beyond the corridors of official power. The central thrust of my argument is three-fold. First, the myth of revolutionary rupture accommodates and yokes together both narrative lines in a manner that concentrates and distills contrasting, often self-contradictory, notions regarding the capacities and predilections of the postcolonial state. Second, it acquired these features as the result of specific historical processes, which I detail below. Third, these features, combined with the processes that produced them and bound them together, go a fair distance in helping to account for the potency of the image of rupture as a metaphor for Frelimo’s rule. Like other metaphors, the image “telescopes [the] complexity [of human experience] without simplifying it.” And like other powerful metaphors, it is “open to different interpretations by various parties who nonetheless [perceive] their respective interpretations to be widely shared, without ever realizing, as [JoAnne] Brown puts it, ‘that the consensus is created by the vagueness of the metaphor itself’.”9 Both the myth’s telescoping and consensus-generating capacities may well explain why Frelimo’s
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abaixo policy can credibly serve as a screen in the dual sense outlined in the Introduction: on the one hand, blocking out and/or filtering subsequent historical events and, on the other, acting as a backdrop onto which these events and the memories produced by them can be retrospectively projected. I do not claim that the historical accounts under review here were hegemonic.10 Given “the fragility and shallowness,” as well as the evanescence, “of successive state legitimations” in Africa from the precolonial period through to the present,11 it would have been surprising if they had been. My point, rather, is three-fold. First, they appeared to enjoy ideological ascendancy within official Nampulan circles during the period in question. Second, they were caught up in and formed part of a “hegemonic process” – that is, “a set of nested, continuous processes through which power and meaning are contested, legitimated, and redefined at all levels of society.”12 Specifically, as already noted, they were symptomatic of a process of struggle for a new legitimation profile (if not a new hegemony), whose general contours and content had yet to crystallize. Third, in the case of the retrospectives produced by Nampula-based government employees, they followed time-honored patterns of discourse formation that historically have produced “hegemonic outcomes” – that is, the point at which leaders have managed to “partially deliver on their promises and control the terms of political discourse through incorporation as well as repression.”13 Such an outcome, itself unstable and subject to contestation, is achieved when a ruling group or historic bloc is able to press elements of popular or counter-hegemonic ideologies into the service of its own political project by “impos[ing] upon them its own principles of organization.”14
Researching rural political authority The discussion which follows draws on state-sponsored written and verbal interventions concerning the history of the relationships among rural constituencies, local political authority and the state in Nampula Province and in Makua-speaking areas in southern Cabo Delgado.15 The first reports of this kind on record were solicited by the provincial government in 1987 and were conducted under the auspices of the DPAC (see Chapter 5). Further contributions on the subject were requested in May 1988, November 1990 and March 1992.16 The 1992 solicitation came at the same time as a verbal recommendation by the Minister of State Administration during a meeting with district administrators in the province to conduct a “survey on Traditional power, its organization, functioning and its local impact on state power.”17 It is unclear if there was a higher authorizing entity for earlier studies or if the provincial government was acting on its own initiative. Another set of reports was prompted by the MAE’s Ford Foundationfunded pilot project on “Traditional Authority/Power” launched in early 1992. By mid-year, the project was seeking provincial government cooperation and participation. The immediate goal was to prepare for a
In the name of the state 225 ministry-sponsored conference on the topic the following year.18 The longerterm aim was to generate a corpus of rural field research that would provide an empirical foundation for elaborating a national policy for postwar reconstruction of local government. The fruit of these efforts was the aforementioned Municipalities Law, which devolved a wide range of responsibilities and powers to local jurisdictions (see Chapter 1). The MAE asked provincial directorates of assistance and control to lend logistical and organizational support, as well as informational assistance, to members of the project’s working group during the course of their field investigations in the provinces. They were also asked to oversee district-level inquiries into traditional power. Topics specified as in need of address included the structure of traditional power, chieftaincy’s spatial and temporal reach, its “current situation,” its bases of legitimacy, and its forms of legitimation.19 Twelve interventions take the form of research reports. Eight of these are case studies undertaken at district level by functionaries of the state administration and covering six out of the province’s eighteen rural districts.20 In most cases, these functionaries were stationed in the district under study at the time of the investigation. In at least three cases, they were also born and raised in the district in question.21 Four research reports are of a more general nature. One was penned by a former interpreter of the colonial administration from Gurué, Zambézia, who, after independence, served initially as a chefe do posto in that same district.22 In the mid-1980s he worked as a substitute administrator for a year in Nacala-a-Velha. He subsequently landed a position at the DPAC, Nampula. At the time of my investigation, he was the longest-serving member of the DPAC’s Department of Assistants, the office which directly liaises with district administrations.23 The second report of this kind, already cited extensively in Chapter 5, was authored by the Director of DPAC. It synthesizes the findings of his own directorate’s investigations, as of mid-1991, and makes recommendations on the basis of them.24 Two other reports that fall into this category were authored by two representatives of MAE’s TA/P working group. One of the members, Mutaquiha, was at the time a Maputo-based UNESCO (UN Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) representative and, as already noted, was hired by MAE as an outside consultant. His report is based on interviews he conducted with district and provincial government officials, as well as with “people from different social strata,” representing various regions of the province over a sixday period in Nampula City in late 1992. His informants had either been recommended to him by the provincial government or were people with whom he was already acquainted.25 The second report was written by Baptista Lundin.26 It is based on fieldwork conducted in July 1992 in Makua-speaking southern Cabo Delgado as a consultant for ARO, a Swedish NGO. The reports are typically divided into sections on the precolonial, colonial and postcolonial periods, with attention concentrated on the latter two
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historical periods. While a few discuss the phenomenon of curandeirismo, chieftaincy is the main focus of attention.27 Only three address the question of Renamo’s wartime strategy of rural mobilization.28 Lengthier contributions are wide-ranging in their discussion, addressing topics as diverse as the origins of traditional power, local “uses and customs,” religious beliefs, matrimonial institutions and inter- and intra-clan hierarchies.29 Discussions of this sort invariably consist of normative descriptions, detached from the three historical epochs that otherwise structure the analysis. Four additional sources of information consist of minutes or transcripts of meetings. One document recaps the highlights of a seminar on reforming the “local organs” of government convened by the Director of DPAC for chefes do posto from Moma, Mogovolas and Angoche.30 The gathering, which was held in Angoche City in December 1991, came on the heels of a ministerial-level seminar of the same title. It was at this earlier meeting that the link between traditional power and local government reform was first extensively discussed.31 The second set of minutes records the Angoche administration’s first formal meeting with “traditional structures” in February 1992. Some 217 people attended, including “Régulos, Chefes das Povoações and Kings,” in addition to chefes do posto, the presidents of locality-level executive councils, members of the district executive council and representatives of various churches. The meeting’s agenda included the following points: “Reflection on traditional power in the past; Collapse of traditional power; Political reforms underway in the Country; Reflection on the reintegration of traditional structures; The role of traditional power at this time and in the future; [and] Prospects.”32 The third set of minutes covers a “mini-seminar” convened by the Angoche district executive council entitled, “Reflection on Traditional Authority/Power.” The meeting was held in November 1992 in response to the MAE’s request a few months earlier for input from the districts on this subject. Eighty people, selected on the basis of “their age, influence in their environment and nature of their activities,” attended the event. Participants included “Curandeiros, Muenes, Régulos, the eldest teachers and nurses,” as well as representatives from the local Islamic community, the Catholic Church and “other religious sects.”33 The fourth source of this kind is a transcript of a meeting of district administrators from Nampula and Cabo Delgado with the general coordinator of MAE’s TA/P project in August 1992. The transcript contains interventions by at least nine Nampulan administrators on the relationship between local political authority and the state in the colonial and post-independence periods.34
Representing chieftaincy In the written and oral accounts surveyed here, the precolonial period is dealt with in a fairly perfunctory manner, if at all. The purpose of such
In the name of the state 227 discussions, where they occur, is two-fold. In the first instance, it is to establish that chieftaincy was not a colonial invention.35 The precolonial credentials of chieftaincy, once established, provide the basis for meeting the second objective, which is to strengthen the case for continuity. The sheer longevity of chiefly institutions is adduced as irrefutable evidence of their invincibility (if not necessarily their legitimacy) and, hence, the futility of efforts undertaken by the state, colonial or otherwise, to eradicate them. In the words of the district administrator of Moma: In the same way that colonialism throughout its existence didn’t manage to destroy the culture, the tradition of each village and that, on the contrary, it took some benefit from this force to perpetrate [its] presence in the National territory, there was no way our government could eliminate this force in less than two decades.36 Discussions of the colonial period are largely devoted to showing the numerous and varied ways the Portuguese “took some benefit from this force.” Chieftaincy is cast as a faithful servant and brutally effective instrument of colonial rule. The authors of the Nacarôa report, for instance, find that: If it weren’t for traditional power, the colonialist wouldn’t have totally exercised his power over all of the natives. Thanks to traditional power, no one escaped the oppression, humiliations and exploitation of Portuguese colonialism. By way of example, there exist regions in our country where the white colonialist wasn’t seen, but there his power was exercised through traditional authorities.37 The Meconta administrator, in his turn, held that “every person who entered the village was controlled, every animal that entered the village was controlled, the person who was born, who grew up, was controlled.”38 MAE consultant Mutaquiha made similar claims.39 The only indication that the régulos’ power might have been less than absolute is the fact, alluded to in several reports, that harsh penalties were incurred when cracks in the edifice of monolithic power came to the attention of Portuguese authority.40 While the interventions in question adopt divergent positions as to whether colonialism destroyed, adulterated, intensified or otherwise transformed traditional power, they are unanimous that chieftaincy retained its hegemony at the time of decolonization. This hegemony is ascribed either to the consent of the dominated or to the chiefs’ shrewd manipulation of “diabolical norms” designed to keep the population in their thrall.41 Almost all the commentary which addresses the relationship between traditional and popular power depicts a born and abiding antagonism – even when the evidence cited frequently indicates otherwise. It is claimed that this antagonism, in turn, gave rise to a sometimes violent confrontation in which chiefs easily carried the day, an outcome that, in each and every
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instance, met with universal acclaim at the base. The single exception is the report completed by the veteran cadre of DPAC prior to the promulgation of the new constitution in November 1990. It maintained that “[c]urrently, [traditional political] power” – by which the author meant traditional authority that directly liaises with the state – “no longer exists.” What did exist were “[c]ontradictions . . . between an individual of deposed power and the Secretary of the Dynamizing Group democratically elected by the population.” Such contradictions were not particularly worrisome since the disgruntled individuals in question were on a lone, and ultimately futile, crusade: It is not all of the family of old power that reveals itself to be against the new power or its representative. One is dealing with some ambitious politicians who often don’t know what they are saying, nor what they want. These manifestations of struggles for power are well-known to the district structures and the Administrative Post which, together with the populations, immediately dismantle them [resolve the conflicts].42 In the post-1990 period, the picture painted by government officials and functionaries inverted this image. Representatives of traditional power were now touted as the true embodiments of the collective will and their Frelimobacked rivals dismissed as either universally despised local despots or simply the odd men out.43 At the same time, district administrators rhapsodized about the impressive results achieved by the state’s semi-official realignment with chiefs in the early 1990s. To hear them tell it, agricultural output and revenue performance had experienced a marked upturn. Local defense and security had registered near instantaneous improvements. Vigilance against run-away slash-and-burn fires had been enhanced. Spirited and highly effective campaigns had been mounted to maintain roads and cashew tree plantations. In short, overall levels of popular compliance with state directives had jumped. Even rainfall patterns had been regularized. Glowing appraisals such as these frequently made a point of stressing the pivotal importance of chiefs as vote-getters.44 Several district reports, as well as interventions by local government officials, forthrightly come out in favor of the formal reinstatement of chiefs. Chiefs, it was proposed, would receive some form of “stimulus” and other material inducements (including the return of their former colonial residences)45 in order “to increase their recognition in the community.”46 Education and training courses would provide the means to overcome illiteracy among traditional leaders47 and ensure that the “form and methodology of functioning” of chieftaincy are “totally different from that of the time of the Portuguese-fascist colonial period.”48 Elections for traditional offices would be based on a universal franchise with candidates drawn exclusively from royal lineages.49
In the name of the state 229 The only indication that trouble may already have been afoot or looming on the horizon is the pro forma insistence in a few of the proposals that chiefly rule be rendered compatible with freshly embraced democratic principles.50 Whatever the potential drawbacks of the retraditionalization of rural administration, these were small beer compared to the costs of breaking with hereditarian principles. It is to an assessment of these costs, as portrayed by both local officials and MAE representatives, that I now turn.
The secretary as fall-guy I begin with quotations from the person who, on the basis of the corpus of testimony at my disposal, appeared to be one of the most articulate, prolific and forceful advocates within the state administration of Nampula of a return to chiefly rule: the lead writer of the 1988 Nacarôa report and deputy administrator of Malema District. As we have seen, in the pre-1990 period, this individual found that the secretary’s track record as local party agent had been a creditable one; it was only the quality of the secretary’s performance as a local representative of the state that had been called into question. In contrast, following the formal subordination of the party to the state, the same author now gives to understand that the secretary had been sorely wanting on both counts all along. Indeed, he goes so far as to present the secretary’s inadequacies as the Achilles’ heel of the ruling party’s prestige and credibility. Like many of his colleagues and fellow researchers, the deputy administrator finds that, if colonialism had pernicious economic and political effects, culturally it was fairly benign: In a slight manner, traditional power underwent alteration in its organization when the regulados were introduced . . . When the Portuguese dominated our land and began to administrate it, they respected traditional power, but in a manner which corrupted it in the service of colonization. But they never were interested in destroying our way of life, that is, they respected our customs. I don’t want to defend the sufferings based on torture, racial discrimination, exploitation and other evils [to] which we were subjected. They studied us and took advantage of a lot of what we are. Under colonization, our being as Africans and as people who possess a culture was maintained. The assimilation of Portuguese culture was done in a manner which did not affect our culture. Some of us were assimilated into Portuguese culture [aportuguezados], but an insignificant number.51 The new government, he suggests, overreached itself and the capacities of the country with respect to social, economic and political goals, thus placing at serious risk the hitherto preserved Africanness of the general populace:
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In the name of the state In the first years of independence, in our Country we lived through a time of great Marxist-revolutionary undertakings, carried out on the basis of exaggerated populism, that to a certain extent were destroying our being as an African people and our less industrialized Nation, poor in agricultural, commercial, intellectual development and experience in governance . . . Ignoring our age, we went to lift a baggage that weighed more than we ourselves did. Those who advised us to follow them, also fell. One of the principal targets that we tried to affect in that historic process was without a doubt traditional power.52
The effects attributed to the new republic’s boldly stated commitment to eliminate “traditional structures of oppression and exploitation” are contradictory. On the one hand, rural political practices that had been slated for eradication continued much as they had in the past: The position taken by the new government of Mozambique in 1975 slightly limited the exercise of traditional power in the countryside. We say that it was a slight limitation because despite the abolition of traditional power having been declared officially, it [continued to be] exercised since people recognized and recognize their traditional authority.53 On the other hand, the statutory abolition of chieftaincy set the stage for the outbreak of local-level feuding and violence: When, in 1975, true Mozambican power was born (Independence), in the rural areas there arose contradictions in the exercise of power which could not be felt at the central and provincial level. There existed three types of power in contradiction: colonial Power, that tried to resist, recently born power (called popular power) and the very ancient traditional power . . . The colonial power overthrown, 2 Mozambican powers were left in conflict (popular power and traditional power). The leaders of popular power didn’t want to hear [or] know anything about traditional power, which constituted the first . . . serious error committed by the new authorities instituted after independence, one which cost Mozambicans a lot of blood, independently of their ideological, political and ethnic allegiances [opções]. When the offices of traditional power were abolished, Dynamizing Groups were created in their place, oriented in their organization and functioning by Marxist-Leninist methods (Soviet-Cuban style). In the process of creating Dynamizing Groups, all of the elements of the lineage of traditional political power were impeded from occupying any office in the new organs, which means the dynamizing groups, in their majority if not all, were composed of elements which traditionally are considered historic servants of the owners of the land. They didn’t have
In the name of the state 231 any recognition as chiefs of the population but rather a thing imposed on it by the government, this was aggravated by the disrespect and defamation that the traditional chiefs were victim [to] on the part of the secretaries of the dynamizing groups and some public functionaries like administrators of the Localities and Districts. Thus, traditional leaders began to do everything within their reach to impede the success of the dynamizing groups, concretely demobilization.54 At one point the author allows that widespread popular disaffection with the upending of social relations may well have been a consequence rather than a cause of the failure of Frelimo’s rural development initiatives: “Initially traditional leaders had many difficulties in managing to demobilize people because all of the people believed in the dynamizing groups, particularly youth, but when things began to go badly, the old leadership was opted for.”55 But the thrust of his argument leaves the reader to conclude that such a denouement was a foregone conclusion from the start: The introduction of dynamizing Groups, election of People’s Assemblies and a new territorial division from the Province to the Locality in substitution for the Muenes, regulados, chefados and other traditional offices created a vacuum unknown centrally [i.e. to the central authorities] even today. Society remained practically without leadership at the level of the base . . . . . . This vacuum created by the new leadership that arose in 1975 . . . made the rural areas almost ungovernable, characterized by disorganization, struggle for power, indiscipline, insubordination, violation of the Constitution, weak production and in some cases violation of the fundamental rights of man (militiamen), universally condemned by the lovers of human life.56 It is urgent to change. The Party in power still has time because up until now it enjoys popularity in the countryside as the one who expelled the white who ate my uncle’s land. . . . The secretary of the Dynamizing group is the servant of the Muene. The Muene doesn’t accept his land being governed by his old slave. It is here where the major difficulty of our secretary in being able to administer the Aldeia is born.57 A report written by a functionary of the Monapo administration likewise stresses the destructive consequences of Frelimo’s attempt to reconstruct rural hierarchies: Following the process of the creation of the bases for the birth of power of the Mozambican State and with the aim of guaranteeing the bases and influence of Frelimo in all the National territory, dynamizing groups were created in all of the collectivities [communities]. From there began the abrupt destruction of traditional social organization,
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In the name of the state without respecting the principles of diverse collectivities, principally filiation and worship. The people who made up the leadership of the dynamizing groups were elements that didn’t belong to the prestigious group of the society . . . Thus, credibility and obedience was [sic] weak because these were not considered legitimate holders of power and were strangers in the areas where they exercise power. Therefore it was a stranger to the area exercising the power of the king over the “King”.58
Drawing on the findings of his directorate’s early investigations on the relationship of local authority and the state, the then director of DPAC maintained that Frelimo’s abolition of the regedoria system, and the inversion of power relations that purportedly ensued, resulted in “lack of control, liberalism . . . disrespect, marginality, disorder and, above all, disobedience and passive insubordination of the population, and a generalized anarchy in the midst of traditional or clan society.”59 MAE consultant Mutaquiha arrived at similar findings. Frelimo’s posture toward chiefs, he found, had polarized state and rural society: Frelimo assumed the régulos and with them the Mwene(s) [muene(s)] themselves were an instrument of oppression and exploitation of the people in the service of colonialism. For this reason, the Régulos and Mwene(s) were not only held in contempt but were even hated, persecuted and arrested. In their stead were created the Secretaries of the Communal Villages and the Dynamizing Groups. In addition to the introduction of a new typology of functions and a new nomenclature, Frelimo equally ignored tradition with respect to the origin and legitimacy of power. Thus, the Secretaries created and placed in different regions were only those individuals that affirmed themselves to be committed and loyal to the political line of Frelimo. According to some interviewees, many of those Secretaries were from or were descendants of inferior clans (Milimos) that traditionally had served as suppliers of cheap labor and slaves. The new social order imposed by Frelimo imposed, thus, the subordination of the old leaders to the old subordinates. The master became the servant and the servant, the master. It was an inversion not only of people but also of values. The embryo of discontentment and of disorder from social frictions and conflicts was born. Traditional power had not only survived but thrived under Frelimo’s assaults. Officially in the shadow of, but in practice towering over, impotent and discredited Frelimo-installed rural institutions stood fully intact local governments-in-waiting, if anything reinvigorated by post-independence trials and tribulations: Thus the interviewees concluded that the action of Traditional Power, represented above all by the Mwene, not only continued to exist despite
In the name of the state 233 Frelimo’s persecution but even to be fortified and to acquire new dimensions . . . Many of the interviewees confided that in some regions, the mwenes function today as the only authority to which the population listens and obeys their orders [sic] even though no official measure has been taken in that sense by the State . . . The governor disclosed the information that, although not officially, the Provincial government was letting the phenomenon emerge naturally as effectively has been happening in some regions of the province. And it was observed that, in these regions, life has been going on without disturbances while, for example, tax collection was perfectly assured by the Régulos who had re-assumed their power. The Governor expressed concern about the slowness of the Project [e.g. MAE’s TA/P Project] in the face of the urgency of the situation. This sentiment was shared by many members of the government.60 In one interview, Mutaquiha’s interlocutor(s) reportedly had even wondered aloud why so much time was being wasted on a project whose results were a foregone conclusion.61 Baptista Lundin’s findings were broadly similar.62 An ancillary but no less telling theme is that less than stringent vetting procedures compounded the crisis of authority in the rural areas. The administrator of Ribáuè maintained that the credulity of the ruling party had enabled the accession to power of morally suspect individuals: In principle, the “Secretary” was the one who knew how to talk a lot, who would say a lot of “vivas” and, above all, who sang very well, evoking the names of our heroes. It didn’t matter if he was an alcoholic, without a house or a machamba. This resulted in the discontentment of the kings and queens, of the chefes da povoação and cabos de terra, giving rise to the failure of the secretary’s work. So our government began to appear in the eyes of the population as the enemy. And it was starting from then . . . that Renamo entered the District of Ribáuè [from Zambézia], using those chiefs as fundamental instruments for their penetration.63 The report from Monapo District toughened the charges against the secretary still further, contending that people who had earned local reputations as “outlaws” enjoyed disproportionate representation in Frelimo’s grassroots ranks.64 In summary, the state had been ill-served not only by the unsuitable social origins of its rural representatives but also by their personal character defects. To the extent that it had been hoodwinked by rogue elements of various stripes, central authority had not so much been represented at the base as it had been misrepresented. At least some of the above commentary, however, also tacitly suggests that Frelimo inadvertently created the
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conditions in which illegitimate elements could seize hold of local power. Specifically, the implication was that, in respect of rural authority, the Frelimo leadership, and apparently by extension everyone charged with executing its decisions, had somehow temporarily forgotten in which continent they were attempting to root the revolution.
The local and its limits In terms of both the object of their analysis and their methodology, the state-sponsored chronicles of crisis under review here mark the completion of a full swing of the pendulum in postcolonial Mozambican studies. During the first decade of independence, rural research, most of which was conducted under the auspices of the CEA, tended to focus on macro-economic policies and trends, class formation and market-based transactions.65 By the mid-1980s, social scientists began to investigate more fully the articulation of state agrarian policies with rural socio-political dynamics.66 The resulting studies placed questions relating to local communities, legitimacy and accountability squarely on the research agenda. A common theme of these studies was that the contours of these variables were contingent on external forces and interventions, such as changing rural terms of trade; the availability and quality of consumer goods, agricultural inputs, land and social services; conditions of access to resources, services and labor; state-dictated mechanisms of political inclusion and exclusion; and generalized warfare pitting the state against a rural-based guerrilla army. This scholarship stressed the irreducibility of local agendas and agency, as well as the contingency of the interactions between grassroots dynamics and wider geopolitical and economic forces.67 Revisionist historiography took a very different approach to the relation between the local and the translocal from the outset. Luís de Brito and Geffray in his later writing tended to cast rural conflicts, which they saw as pitting Frelimo secretaries against lineage-based communities, as pint-sized versions of the much larger confrontation between the Frelimo leadership and “urban society,” on the one hand, and rural Mozambique as a whole, on the other.68 Importantly, Geffray assigned villagization co-equal status as a source of rural dissent and dissidence. For his part, de Brito located rural power struggles alongside of – if not necessarily within the context of – Frelimo’s socialist-inspired development program, which privileged industry and large-scale commercial agriculture over smallholder livelihoods.69 In marked contrast, local factors and, most notably, local identity loom so large in state-sponsored retrospectives on Nampula’s recent past as to obscure national political and economic realities. Rural identities, as well as rural conceptions of political legitimacy and authority, therefore appear as universally held, immutable and hence impervious to non-local influences and forces.70 The cumulative effect is to relieve the state of responsibility for ill-conceived, even disastrous, rural development policies and for repressive
In the name of the state 235 political practices save for those policies and practices directly and exclusively aimed at transforming the nature of local political authority. Renamo often drops out of the picture altogether. Wildly overstating the explanatory weight of the secretary’s agenda, actions and agency is one way in which the injurious effects of central policies are de-emphasized and the war is erased from the historical record. The following passage from the Monapo administration’s report on the relationship between traditional and popular power stands as a case in point: The communal villages appeared after the creation of dynamizing groups and these were the leaders, at the base, of that creation. In this [creation], it was attempted to impose measures for the combat of tribalism, regionalism and so many other negative isms [ismos], thus cutting the direct relations that existed between components of these communities. Even so, traditional power continued, but [was] exercised through . . . apparently small things, but with great significance in the community. This provoked a contradiction between the power of the State and traditional power, seeing as it was attempted to inculcate new values without communities being prepared for such. The prohibition of genuinely traditional things had a negative impact on socio-economic development. Gradually, morals were being destroyed, which preoccupied the traditional authorities very much and made the practice of initiation rites, for example, continue in a secret manner. This contradiction manifested itself in its most vivid form in the fact that the “royal Families” didn’t agree to submit to the power of the dynamizing groups. In order to maintain order, the dynamizing groups had to defeat traditional power and in order to do this, the communities were divided in several communal villages. In these collectivities, youth in particular felt itself free of the power of their elders and each one could do everything that he pleased. Thus, traditional power fell by the wayside, taking with it order and . . . the discipline to produce consumer goods [i.e. crops]. No one respected the secretary of the dynamizing group like [he did] his uncle or the head of his community. It is because of this that in many places, if not all, production fell because no one was willing to go work on the collective machamba on the order of the secretary as if he were working on the machamba of an elder on the order of his lineage chief. . . . One observes this dissatisfaction of the population in relation to their leaders at this time in all of the population agglomerations. If you enter into a communal village, you see that a group of people construct their houses taking into consideration and as the center the house of their lineage chief or elder, giving him all of the help and respect that is his due.
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In the name of the state The order of this lineage Chief or elder, régulo, cabo or chefe da povoação is more respected within the village . . . than the order of the secretary or any other structure that is in power because of the destruction of traditional power.71
To be sure, settlement patterns within communal villages often tended to reproduce “pre-existing lineage and ward-based residence, even when a Frelimo cadre explicitly attempted to oppose this.”72 That said, perhaps the most striking feature of this passage is what is strenuously suppressed within it. With the spotlight steadfastly shining on the calculated, selfinterested manner in which the dynamizing group divided and distributed the leaders of dominant lineages among the communal villages under its stewardship, the narrative glosses over the forced relocation of the vast majority of the population, the violence with which this relocation was effected, and the heavy economic losses it entailed in terms of food reserves, unharvested crops, livestock, household belongings and labor time – all of which occurred at the behest of the superiors of grassroots secretaries within the state and party. It also fails to reference the wartime climate in which large-scale state-sponsored violence and abuse occurred. The second notable feature of the text is its explanation for catastrophic declines in agricultural production which followed villagization in the early 1980s. This occurred not because rural collectivization and forced resettlement gave rise to a thoroughly irrational allocation of land and labor. Rather, agricultural crisis resulted from – and seemingly only from – the political measures the dynamizing group was forced to take in order to defeat the most serious challenges to its tenuous rule. Villagization figures in this outcome only to the extent that it provided an enabling environment for the GD’s divide-and-rule strategy to take place. In sum, it weighs into the equation only as a backdrop – and a fairly distant one at that – rather than as an important contributor to deepening economic crisis. Once again, the war doesn’t appear at all – although, in this instance, such an omission is understandable given that the onset of agricultural crisis predated the outbreak of the war in the province. The explanation proffered for rural indifference and resistance to Frelimodefined socialist forms of production also merits comment. On this account, the collective machamba failed to elicit more than a lukewarm response from the population, first and foremost, because labor expended on it was “on the order of the secretary.” That such an order could have possibly produced the levels of compliance and performance which obtained when social juniors were exhorted to work “on the machamba of an elder on the order of his lineage chief” is considered to be laughable. In posing the problem in this way, the author of the report studiously shies away from the much thornier question of whether the will of any given lineage chief would have been abided by had he ordered his social subordinates to work on a collective machamba. Such an evasion is made possible by
In the name of the state 237 Frelimo’s own analytic framework which insists that the structures of popular power, by definition, represented the antithesis of traditional authority in all of its manifestations. On this logic, the very possibility of a lineage chief qua chief presiding over state-mandated collective forms of production constitutes an oxymoron. The author is thus able to convey the impression that low levels of compliance to Frelimo-mandated forms of production resulted from who, locally, was doing the ordering. Accordingly, the fact that collective machambas and producer cooperatives were often seen by smallholders as an onerous obligation, one which diverted already scarce labor from household plots and yielded few, if any, benefits in return, fades from view altogether.73 The near exclusive focus on the inappropriateness of Frelimo-imposed rural leadership also accords the “socialization of the countryside” kid-glove treatment in the report penned by the deputy administrator of Malema. Once again, the uninformed reader would be excused for coming away with the distinct impression that the state’s stance on the question of local authority, which he refers to as “the first and serious error committed by the new authorities instituted after independence,” was in fact the only one. This stance was, after all, ultimately responsible for “disorganization, struggle[s] for power, indiscipline, insubordination, violation of the Constitution, weak production and, in some cases, violation of the fundamental rights of man,” especially by village-based militia.74 While the role of “public functionaries like administrators of the Localities and Districts” in provoking the ire of chiefs receives passing mention, in the main they, like all other higher authorities, are consigned to walk-on parts in the unfolding drama in which the two leading protagonists are masters and servants at the grassroots. The most glaring defect of the communal villages, in the deputy administrator’s estimation, had been, and continued to be, the lack of leadership within them: “It is urgent to change things in the rural villages. Between the head of the Administrative Post and the Communal Village, there is no one who rules. The vacuum must be filled by traditional power.”75 Given this definition of the problem, the author’s overriding concern is “to change things in the rural Villages” rather than to query their raison d’être. Such formulations reveal that while the question of local authority had become a subject for state-sponsored public reflection and debate, post-independence settlement schemes had not. Communal villages remained a non-negotiable and apparently uncontroversial fixture of the rural socio-political landscape. Not only had discussion of relative merits and demerits of the aldeias as living arrangements remained off limits; so, too, had the atrocities and abuses that occurred in their formation. Thus, the violence perpetrated by state-sponsored militia is attributed in the above account to the vacuum of power which characterized rule by secretaries. There is nary a mention of the fact that these militia first gained public notoriety for actions undertaken under direct army orders to villagize the population as part of the state’s
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counter-insurgency program. Any such mention would leave little doubt that their brutality and crimes, which paralleled those committed by government troops themselves, bespeak the exercise, rather than the absence, of state power.76 As a senior official within the MAE, Baptista Lundin could presumably afford to be more openly critical of the ruling party’s agrarian policies and the coercive means that were often used to implement them. Whether she could afford to or not, criticize she did. To her credit, she used her position as a platform for pushing for revised policies which she believed would better the lot of rural dwellers and be more attuned to local cultural sensitivities. However, her writing on Makua-Lomwé-speaking areas vividly illustrates that, when taken to its extreme, the culturalist position strongly tends to eclipse some of the most repressive aspects and detrimental effects of Frelimo’s rural interventions even when the overall effect of sanitization runs directly counter to the interpreter’s apparent intent. Baptista Lundin’s assessment of the impact of Frelimo rural development policies on “Makua society” makes no bones that “the process of forced villagization began in the colonial period and continued after independence.”77 In a similar vein, she explains that she has seen fit to deploy the past imperfect tense in her discussion of Makua land use and management “because the rules of the current State don’t allow the practices of local African society with respect to land use and control.”78 The thrust of Baptista Lundin’s argument, however, softens the sting of these formulations. She attributes sharp falls in smallholder agricultural production to generalized “apathy” which set in as a result of the withdrawal of “all the mechanism [sic] of control . . . for this [i.e. production] to function.” Such social control mechanisms had been “the specific and primordial task of the Mwene.” With the Frelimo-pronounced demise of chieftaincy alone in the dock, villagization, to say nothing of the state’s failure to provision smallholders with technical assistance, agricultural inputs, consumer goods, farming tools, and adequate marketing outlets, is unwittingly acquitted of blame. Baptista Lundin’s insistence on the centrality of the n’tthetthe (mutthetthe) to the cosmology of Makua-speakers also blunts the force of her critique of state coercion. Uprooted from this critical referent, “Makua man,” she maintains, not only lost important guarantees to land access but, much more fundamentally, “he doesn’t recognize himself and doesn’t find his social being.”79 As she expresses it elsewhere, “The entire concept of human being is linked to the N’tthetthe and it is there that he positions himself in order to see and to live life.”80 This conception of self was profoundly destabilized by relocation to foreign mitthetthe. Baptista Lundin’s near-exclusive focus on extra-mitthetthe displacements misleads in two critical respects. First, it implies that mandatory resettlement within the n’tthetthe would have been significantly less reprehensible, if not altogether beyond reproach. Her contention that those families who have never experienced displacement from their own n’tthetthe “feel good”
In the name of the state 239 would seem to add corroborating evidence to such an interpretation.81 The historical facts, however, indicate otherwise. At least this is so with reference to Eráti, the case study on which Baptista Lundin’s own analytic framework heavily draws. As we have already seen, the formation of the “cotton concentrations” in the district during the 1950s and 1960s was accomplished only by recourse to coercion even though, according to Geffray and Pedersen, the new settlement pattern did not, in the main, violate inter-mitthetthe boundaries.82 The gradual crumbling of the picadas in the late 1960s and through much of the 1970s throughout the province would seem to indicate that not everyone felt “good” about Portuguese-enforced resettlement, irrespective of where the new settlements were located. Second, insofar as Baptista Lundin focuses her critique on the cultural inappropriateness of the site of resettlement, she deflects attention from the act of forced removal. Had the Makua had a less intimate, all-embracing relationship with the land in their n’tthetthe, she seems to suggest, the same act would have constituted a lesser offense. Baptista Lundin’s account is fully compatible with, and lends academic credence to, the argument that, to the extent that Frelimo’s project foundered as result of domestic factors, it was in good measure because the society in which it sought to implant that project was too traditional. As we shall see in Chapter 8, this is precisely the view which was subtly being promoted by the ruling party in the run-up to, and in the immediate aftermath of, the country’s first multiparty elections. The crucial difference between the conventional wisdom of yore and that of the 1990s is the weight accorded to rural culture in the balance of forces between the forces of revolution and those of reaction. In the early days of proclaimed socialist transition, traditionalism was cast as a largely residual phenomenon, a minor, if highly irritating, source of friction on forward revolutionary movement. In contrast, forms of Frelimo legitimation in the early to mid-1990s tended to imply that vestigial power miraculously managed to hold sway, constituting the primary domestic cause of revolutionary defeat. Thus far, the following arguments have been made in this chapter. First, in the early 1990s official reckonings of post-independence travails often tended to scapegoat rural-based Frelimo secretaries, who were variously portrayed as incompetent, lacking in gravitas, power-hungry, devious and deviant, and who were invariably depicted as questionable characters of nonroyal origin. These portrayals, it bears recall, stand in stark contrast to those characteristics ascribed to local secretaries in the early post-independence period. Then, the formation of GDs and party cells was adduced as evidence of the availability of local constituents ready and able to advance Frelimo’s socialist agenda. By the 1990s revisions to official thinking had produced the view that the ruling party had chosen grassroots agents who were neither particularly committed to, nor able to implement, any political or development program, socialist or otherwise. Glaring deficits in legitimacy
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at the local level in large measure accounted for the rootlessness of the Frelimo state. Second, in assigning historical causality to Frelimo’s choice of local agents, explanations such as these downplay or screen out other excesses and abuses committed in the name of socialist revolution. They also effectively expunge all trace of translocal forces from the recent past, thus dissociating grassroots divisions and conflicts from their historical context and lending a mythic, timeless quality to local developments.
Evidence of early negotiations and compromise While the consensus in official circles in Nampula Province in the early 1990s was that the Frelimo state succeeded in effecting a decisive, acrossthe-board and calamitous rupture with chieftaincy, the evidence from which this consensus was forged invites a quite different reconstruction of local processes of state formation in the early post-independence period. Ironically, attempts by lower-level officialdom to vouch for the amenability of chiefs to serving the Frelimo state and their capacity to do so brought to light hitherto publicly suppressed instances of early government collaboration with officially ostracized chiefs. The report from Murrupula is typical in this respect. In it, the district administrator endorses the predominant view that the official demise of the regedoria system precipitated “great contradictions in the heart of the population, especially where the Secretary of the Dynamizing Group didn’t belong to any family of Traditional Power or Tribe of that area.” The “concrete example” marshaled to substantiate this claim, however, shows the lengths to which official authorities went to nip such “contradictions” in the bud when and where they arose: “A case which occurred in the Locality of Namitotelane in the Party Cell, a secretary was rejected by the population . . . a Brigade from the District Committee of the Frelimo-Party went there and the population asked them to elect a nephew of the Cabo da Povoação.” Presumably the request was granted since the next sentence reads as follows: “There are reports that life ran normally.” Furthermore, the next – and only other – example cited reveals that “[e]qually, in the Communal Village of Umuato where, by coincidence, it is directed [sic] by a Secretary, ex-Régulo Umpuata’s nephew, everything ran well, all of the sectors.”83 To the north, in Mecubúri District, similar dynamics were clearly in play. According to a functionary of the local administration who hails from the district, a defining feature of the area is that the people who hold traditional power are people held in great admiration by the population, some for being rich, others [for being] curandeiros, others for good conduct and other qualities superior to the level of the life of the population, all contributing to [their] be[ing] respected.84
In the name of the state 241 In their early attempts to found communal villages, local state and party officials would be impressed by the salience of this local particularity and would waste no time making their peace with it: We have the case of numerous Villages [in] which there arose great mysteries in their phase of implementation that the mobilizers didn’t succeed [in solving] and no one was willing to construct [the village] without the family of the dominant tribe intervening with respect to the ceremonies of the deceased; this [occurred] in Mutapua, Micolene, [where] a rock that symbolized the urn of the king and régulo Canhaua II had to be transported from the Mountains bordering Ribáuè to the area where the works were planned; this tribal desire fulfilled, the population agreed and built that which was sought by the state. He continues: Another impact of traditional action in our area of jurisdiction was evident . . . in the Communal Village of Tivira in Muite where the Party and State Structures with all [of the] legislation had immense obstacles in implanting the village in question and electing a permanent and effective responsável. The inhabitants refused several times . . . to recognize [the established] authority, seeking out the son of the deceased régulo Mahano of the name Raúl Braz, who assured the mobilization, construction and consequent leadership (responsabilização) of the village, a task that he carried out for 8 years, resigning voluntarily and being succeeded by about 4 of his kin in the leadership of that Village. . . . This indicates to us that the power under study still has a lot of influence and the tendency toward [its] powerful resurgence with contemporary manifestations persists.85 Villagization in Nampula’s southernmost district appears to have been accomplished in like manner. A government official who was working in the Moma administration in the early 1980s disclosed that when we were creating the communal villages in Moma, the District of Moma was the second district to conclude that program. We met with all of the Mwenes, Régulos and Queens to study the way to do it. They organized the families, the populations and chose the best places to create communal villages. In less than three weeks the District of Moma already had raised some communal villages.86 It bears recall that the first district in the province to achieve full villagization, that of Ribáuè,87 owed its success to identical tactics.88 Other testimony reveals that early prohibitions against traditional
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authorities and their close relatives holding office were only loosely enforced. The administrator of Mogovolas, for instance, recalled, “During the first general elections often the choice fell to members of those structures [e.g. traditional hierarchies]. And some representatives of these . . . [have been] deputies since the first elections.”89 The administrator of Angoche, in his turn, allowed that “some” of the secretaries of the dynamizing groups had been “sons or descendants of the régulos and chefes das povoações, seeing as these possessed work experience.”90 Testimony from Nampula reveals that such patterns of political accommodation and ties were not limited to the district level. Traditional power would receive a further fillip from “high officeholders in the Government or the companies” with little to no firsthand, professional contact with the grassroots but no less sons of Nampulan soil for all that. This was because “traditional power forms part of Makua man’s being” – government and company higher-ups not excepted.91 With widening cracks in the edifice of Frelimo power, these officials lost no time in demonstrating, at least in their private capacities, where their true loyalties lay: When they exercise important offices in the government they don’t demonstrate what they are traditionally, for fear of losing their positions. Many of them had now renounced their religions of origin, opting for Marxist-Leninist civilization and culture, Soviet-Cuban style. Lately, when they go to the countryside to enjoy their holidays, they hold traditional ceremonies asking their ancestors for better fortune, health and strengthening of their position, including using the best and most expensive curandeiros in the Village . . . No one wants to show that he now accepts who he is for fear of being demoted.92 “Clandestine” cultural practices, it appears, stretched well up into the state apparatus itself. I close this section with a brief review of the manner in which Mutaquiha and Baptista Lundin handled the problem of counter-factual evidence. In Mutaquiha’s report, there is no explicit reference to such evidence; however, the existence of data of this sort nonetheless suggests itself through formulations such as those cited in the passages above – to wit, “According to some interviewees, many of those Secretaries were from or were descendants of inferior clans (Milimos) that traditionally had served as suppliers of cheap labor and slaves.”93 In contrast, Baptista Lundin is candid that “today we have information . . . that there was a certain co-habitation between the formal structure of the state and the formal structure of traditional society in many areas of the Country.” She nonetheless finds that such arrangements were in the minority, that inversions of power were common and, seemingly in every instance, illegitimate, and that other departures from inherited, descent-based hierarchies were equally poorly received.94 Rather than testifying to longstanding and/or emergent social tensions and divisions within
In the name of the state 243 “Makua society,” these latter outcomes, she implies, can be wholly attributed to the ruthlessly effective exercise of apparently unfettered state power.
The roots of rural “anarchy” reconsidered It is perhaps testimony to the extent of collaboration between official and traditional authority – to say nothing of the homage paid by the former to the latter – that the vast majority of people I interviewed in Namapa regarding the crisis of leadership gave at most cursory consideration to the person and actions of the secretary. This was the case even when they insisted on the adverse effects of Frelimo’s abaixo policy, as they typically did. Instead, many rural dwellers laid stress on an emphasis present in the above-cited retrospectives but partly drowned out by the dominant one: Frelimo deliberately fostered the degradation of the very concept of authority with equally negative repercussions for all claimants on local power and prestige. This alternative view impinged upon the dominant discourse in official circles in ways that both dovetailed with, and created dissonance within, what had by then become a fairly standardized statist narrative. If the Namapan case was anything to go by, the standardizing potential of government mnemonic practices beyond the confines of state bureaucracy was, at this stage, largely a function of the extent to which these practices managed to adopt and domesticate the popular discourse of Frelimo-enforced sociopolitical leveling. While, as we have seen, the deputy administrator of Malema found that rule by commoners-cum-slaves bore primary responsibility for rendering “the rural areas almost ungovernable,” this was not, in his view, the sole factor contributing to this outcome. The multiplication of local institutions had also engendered widespread confusion and disorder: There is no one who rules and who should be ruled. If someone rules, to whom do they answer? Even today it is not known who is the head chief, for example, of a determinate Communal Village. Is it the Secretary of the dynamizing group? Is it the secretary of the Cell of the Frelimo-Party? Is it the secretary of OJM? Is it the secretary of OMM? Is it the Deputy? Is it the Commander of the militias? Through whom does the Administrator inform himself about the state of affairs in the Village? . . . [It’s] [n]ot because the rural populations became disobedient when independence was proclaimed on June 25, 1975. The major problem was the abolition of traditional power and to have put in its place a thing without any weight or norms [to] regulate its organization and functioning (dynamizing Group). No Minister or Governor of the Province is prepared to say what the rights and duties of a Deputy secretary of the dynamizing group in an aldeia are for example. In order for power to function better, it is necessary to organize it.95
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The Mecubúri district administration advanced a similar argument, holding that “proliferation of structures of the base without decisons [sic: without decision-making powers?]” after independence had “devaloriz[ed]” local official representatives. “And,” making matters worse, “they didn’t have definition of [sic] visible areas of operation.”96 More importantly, purges and reshufflings, no matter how frequent or thoroughgoing, were a poor substitute for the kinds of disciplining mechanisms to which local rural authorities had been regularly subject under the Portuguese. This at least was the case made by a former deputy régulo who, after independence, became an assembly deputy in his locality, as paraphrased – and seconded – by the two state functionaries who interviewed him: Traditional authorities facilitated everything colonialist. They had the administrative and judicial power and were subjected to a heavy penalty [responsabilização]. In the event of any anomaly, they paid dearly, punishment could go as far as the beating of the régulo, cabo or chefe de povoação himself. According to the opinion of Lourenço Hanle, the old deputy [of] régulo Penhavate and deputy of the Assembly of the Locality of Muaphili, he was frank and open in affirming that these days no one respects the . . . orders of the government, starting with the secretaries themselves through to the population. According to him, this happens because there is no one who answers dearly in the event of the failure of activities, while in the colonial period, who suffered in the first place was the régulo himself and he, in his turn, would settle accounts with his people. He gave the concrete example of there not being measures against those that don’t pay tax [under] the current Government, it is not known who rules and who should be ruled, people do what they want, [there is] no obligation for people to work for their own wellbeing. That old authority, in speaking about agricultural production today, affirmed that today agricultural production is weak because all of the people want to rule and no one wants to work. In our time there was no hunger, because we were forced to work and it had . . . become a tradition for people to work and lately we don’t chase behind people, he emphasized. In the words of that old deputy régulo, the administration knew everything that happened through the régulos: taxes were collected on time and all of the people paid, people had to work in agriculture, all of the vagrants, prostitutes, marginals, lazy ones, feiticeiros and drug users were known to the administration. Any type of crime, right away its author was known and, in the event of his not being known, the régulo had the obligation of finding him.97 On this view, the principal drawback of post-independence rural governance was less the illegitimacy and unaccountability of the secretary vis-à-vis the population than his lack of identification with, and answerability to, the state.
In the name of the state 245 A historical antecedent The view that no one was duty-bound after independence harks back to, and borrows liberally from, Frelimo’s discourse at the height of revolutionary fervor. Most notably, the notion that “it is not known who rules or should be ruled” evokes the oratory of Samora Machel as economic crisis loomed, bureaucratic corruption and foot-dragging became increasingly evident, and worker enthusiasm for the production line waned. Machel’s response is best exemplified in an address to health service personnel in Maputo hospital in December 1979. According to Dan O’Meara, “the hospital speech,” as it is commonly known, marked the close of Frelimo’s “triumphalist” phase (c.1975–1980) and set the tone for the increasingly open and unapologetic authoritarian political practice that came to prevail in subsequent years.98 The speech, precipitated by the late president’s discernment of a host of “breaches of the political and organizational principles of the FRELIMO party” at several of the country’s hospitals,99 “was a severe, and at the time shocking, attack on a strong culture of egalitarianism” and paved the way for the reimposition of “direct, hierarchical labour discipline on all sectors of the economy.”100 Machel remonstrated at length about Maputo hospital’s failure to meet even minimal standards of hygiene or to provide decent health care service. The lack of professionalism was exemplified by the liberal dress code and lack of protocol which prevailed among hospital staff. Both characteristics sorely challenged the hospital visitor to identify the key actors in the institution: “when workers introduce themselves, they are all in a bunch, in a jumble of categories and hierarchies that are difficult to make out . . . There are no grades, no ladder, no pyramid, no hierarchy.” Furthermore, “[t]he doctor is no longer respected as the most qualified professional in the hospital. The doctor has the same status as a technician handing out pills or preventive medicines.” The upshot was that “no one gives orders in the hospital. Or rather everyone gives orders, everyone is ‘chief’, which means there is no chief at all!”101 The generalized use of the term comrade as a substitute for status-bearing job titles both epitomized and accelerated the erosion of workplace distinctions and hierarchy. The absence of categories, authority and hierarchy reflected the “dispersal of power in the hospitals.” This, in turn, “provoke[d] a dilution of responsibility, and thus created “an environment of generalized irresponsibility.” At the heart of the problem was “a confusion between populism and people’s power.” The former ideology was the instrument of “petty-bourgeois radicalism” which “waves the revolutionary banner in order to destroy it” and which manifests itself through “liberalism, demagogy, ultra-democracy and the principle of absolute egalitarianism.”102 Reconcentrating power in the hands of management and reinstituting managerial privileges were two of the antidotes Machel prescribed. Restricting the use of revolutionary salutations to certified revolutionaries – that is,
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party militants (and then only when acting specifically in that capacity) – was another. Machel defended these moves in the name of popular power, not as a necessary counterpoint to it. He was able to mount such a defense because the problem at hand, as he saw it, was not how best to manage “the ongoing tension between centralized managerial authority on the one hand and popular power on the other”103 but rather how to ensure that popular power – of which centralized managerial authority was a critical component – definitively triumphed over populism, the thin edge of the wedge of petty bourgeois-led counter-revolution. Retrospectives on the Frelimo revolution as seen by Nampulan officials in the early 1990s share Machel’s appreciation for the value of strict hierarchical discipline, his antipathy to populism in all of its guises and his conviction that this ideology lurked behind a host of serious deviations from the party line. However, they advance a radically different explanation of that ideology’s genesis and spread. Now we discover that it was the local secretary, rather than the petty bourgeoisie, that was the principal propagator, if not necessarily an apostle, of populist political practice.104 On this logic, rule by secretaries was the functional, if not necessarily the moral, equivalent of petty-bourgeois hegemony. In carefully confining its critique to Frelimo’s original methods as described by the country’s first president, the new discourse of officialdom presents itself as an affirmation, rather than a repudiation, of revolutionary values and goals. In the process – and not incidentally – the principal target of criticism shifts away from aspirants to the bourgeoisie to rural dwellers whose forebears were subaltern subjects of precolonial chieftaincies. In Namapa, the view that no one was accountable to the state, and that this lack of accountability was a root cause of Mozambique’s multifaceted post-independence crisis, was widely held. On the face of it, this shared standpoint corroborates Achille Mbembe’s claim that, in postcolonial Africa, “officialdom and the people” hold in common “a certain conception of the aesthetics and stylistics of power and the way it operates and expands”105 – or, perhaps more to the point in the present context, the way it deflates, contracts or implodes. But the Namapan case also serves to illustrate that a common frame of reference may not provide sufficient epistemic ground for a “logic of ‘conviviality’” between rulers and ruled to assert itself.106 For while there was a rough consensus among many members of the ruling party and a substantial number of Namapans that Frelimo had conspicuously failed to exercise power (effectively or ineffectively),107 there was a lack of unanimity as to why this was the case. To Machel, this unfortunate state of affairs in good measure testified to the insidious effects of counter-revolutionary populism, particularly as these were felt within official structures. It was also a direct outgrowth of Frelimo’s ambivalence towards power. To local officials in Nampula in the 1990s, it testified to the new state’s inexperience, indecision, misguided methods and, not least, its political gullibility. In sharp contrast to both of these views, many rural residents in Namapa
In the name of the state 247 commonly attributed this state of affairs to tightly-held Frelimo political principle. In the next section, I turn to what appears to be the popular roots of the aforementioned less audible discursive stream within standardized and standardizing statist narratives. “Where does all this ‘camaraderie’ come from?”108 Asked why, in his opinion, the district administration had solicited him, in his capacity as chief, to serve as a “chief of production” in the mid-1980s, Chief Taibo, an open Renamo supporter, made clear that, in his view, this shift in policy had little to do with the rebel movement’s wartime strategy of rural mobilization: “Because at that time, people were spending all their time going around insulting one another . . . without producing.” This sorry state of affairs had, in turn, arisen “because of freedom. People would say that they were free.”109 If Taibo was less than specific about the provenance of such notions and at whose expense they had been propagated, three apuiamuene in Namapa Center left little doubt about where they stood on both counts. In their minds, generalized disregard for authority, and the no less generalized irresponsibility attendant upon it, stemmed from the oft-repeated Frelimo precept that “All of us are comrades.” “Comrades” means that we are equal. So, the children, even when they met an elderly man, an elderly woman, would say, “Good morning, comrade,” extending their hand. It’s from the word comrade that we think the lack of respect came from in our children.110 Here, as elsewhere, social seniors located the roots of rural unruliness in the flattening, rather than the inversion, of hierarchy. Disadvantage had redounded not to royals in relation to former “slave” lineages but rather to senior age classes, irrespective of their social stations, in relation to social juniors – not least their own kin.111 Female elders and an apuiamuene in Namirôa Center were of a similar mind.112 They explained that the younger generation’s nonchalance toward gerontocratic authority had expressed itself in the attenuation of channels of access to male youth labor and the monetization of kinship relations. Elders, they held, could no longer count on familial assistance in agricultural work in part because many youth, mainly young men, were now working in Nacala and Nampula. Local labor bottlenecks were compounded by the price tag those youth who had remained in the district now attached to their work services: “Those that are here say, ‘If you want to be helped, you have to pay me money.’ ” The bargaining power of young men had begun to make itself felt when they “began to work and to receive money . . . they began to be ruined starting from the time they began to earn money.” Youthful dependence on, and appetite for, cash earnings, in turn, dated from the time
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when chiefs were made to stand up in public meetings “and it was said, ‘this one has no work.’ ” The effects of the unraveling of authority on institutions of male labor appropriation were also at the forefront of Chief Tubruto’s preoccupations.113 Asked to elaborate the causes of rural emigration, Tubruto was adamant that “Frelimo is the one who did this.” As if to prove the point, he observed that Frelimo itself had recently owned up to past wrongdoing on this score: Frelimo . . . held a meeting and said, “What Frelimo said, prohibiting mpéwés, humus to work, was an error; to not educate children was an error. To put an end to a lot of freedom of youth, mpéwés and humus must continue to work to educate them.” The Maravi leader’s subsequent testimony reveals that the marginalization of traditional authorities was only one factor contributing to the excessive freedom and itinerancy of young people. Equally, if not more, important were Frelimo’s early advocacy of freedom of residence, its initial commitment to stamping out colonial forced labor practices and its antipathy to all other forms of labor control. To illustrate, Tubruto directed his attention to the period immediately following independence but prior to the first steps to implement Frelimo’s policy to “socialize the countryside” in 1977. During these years, as we have seen, the decomposition of the picada system, a process that predated independence, proceeded apace. The advantages of this system, as Tubruto catalogued them, were both numerous and self-evident. Access to transport had been greatly eased, enabling the ill to reach the hospital in Namapa in record speed. Land conflicts, which had been frequent when people “lived one by one,” had become history: “Here on the road, each one weeded within his area and it was not possible to tread on to the terrain of another person.” Field rotation was systematized. New picadas could be opened up for new machambas when the soil of the old ones was exhausted. By far and away the main advantage was that “the machambas were together.” Geographic proximity had facilitated the delivery of insecticide (“remédio”) to smallholders, the marketing of cashew nuts and the supervision of machambas by chiefs, capatazes and company higher-ups. In sum, living along the picadas “relieved us of a lot of work.” Although the population had resisted resettling along the roads and had only moved to them when forced to, living along the picadas turned out to be “a good form of organization”: “An order is an order. In the beginning we didn’t know if it was good or not. We only began to see the things that helped us, cars passing everywhere, that’s when we saw that this order is good.” That not everyone had been likewise convinced became apparent shortly after independence. Given the green light by the new government, “Each one began to look for a machamba where he wanted,” much to Tubruto’s own consternation:
In the name of the state 249 after the flag . . . Frelimo said, “Now we are independent. Each one must live where he wants. Even the schedule of the machambas, each one knows how to cultivate.” . . . Starting from the time when Frelimo said you can leave the roads, each one working according to his will, the work of cleaning the road didn’t go well. Because when we lived on the roads, it was easy to clean . . . because each one cleaned his terrain. Now, as people live separately, there exist places in the road [that are] clean and others not because of the lack of connection. . . . And, at that time, they said, “mapéwé abaixo. Even the children are free. You mustn’t have a lot of control over the children. If you see a boy with a girl coming from school, you mustn’t ask why they are together; each one can do what he wants.” And from then on, things began to be ruined because no one controlled the other. Even cultivating the machambas, in the past we cultivated until 12 o’clock, from six to 12 o’clock and from mid-day until five o’clock. When Frelimo said that each one must weed according to his ability, no one needs to have the schedule of anyone else . . . so, at that time, some people, most especially youth, stopped working. Some of them can be found in Nacala, in the companies, at work. Others, he went on to say, took to a life of petty crime to get by. And those who were gainfully employed, he emphasized, were not in the habit of “offer[ing] something” to, and heeding the advice of, their uncles, as migrant laborers had done in the past. Several aspects of this testimony merit comment. First, Tubruto firmly linked his own authority not only to the colonial model of administration but, much more specifically, to socio-spatial patterns and production relations that predominated in the late colonial period. In particular, the picadas – the very settlement pattern whose consolidation seems to have accelerated the erosion of chiefly authority in the 1960s114 – provided the foundations for the entire social order as he had known it and thought it should forever remain. Second, it had been the Frelimo-fostered reversion to the pre-picada situation, rather than any subsequent state-led attempt to will into being “higher relations of production,” which had delivered the first and, by all appearances, most resounding, blow to these foundations. Third, it had been the state’s principled (if thoroughly bemusing) abstention from exercising power, combined with its repeated injunctions for everyone else to follow suit, that had induced this reversion. On this account, the much remarked power vacuum was not the unintended consequence of the state’s determination to reinvent rural hierarchies but rather the realization of the ruling party’s original, declared intent to dispense with hierarchy altogether. Finally and tellingly, the period singled out by Tubruto as best exemplifying the Frelimo-enforced descent into social disarray was one in which, by his own description, it had been not only possible for the nephews of chiefs in
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his own area to serve as party secretaries but nothing short of “policy” for them to do so (see Chapter 3).115 That is, the period marking the steepest slope of this descending curve was one in which rule by royals, if not by chiefs, continued to hold sway, co-existing, however improbably, with abaixo incantations. These are just a few of a wide range of contemporary social ills whose genesis interviewees ascribed to Frelimo’s accession to power and its policy towards chieftaincy. Two apuiamuene and an heir apparent in Renamo’s zone bemoaned the growth of unauthorized marriages among youth, alarming rises in the rate of divorce – recalled as having been rare in the colonial period – and increased sexual promiscuity to “the arrival of Samora.”116 In Odinepa a group of women representing a cross-section of ages reiterated this litany of laments, adding the increasing incidence of premature marriage and the dissolution of bilateral matrimonial alliances to the list.117 They blamed these social trends on “the politics” prevailing “since 1975,” consisting of “ ‘we are all equal’, and if you were caught beating your son, you were tied up.” What of the views of the allegedly errant age classes themselves? Unfortunately, I did not interview enough members of this group to be able to say. It is, however, worth noting that the sentiments voiced by the women in Odinepa were echoed by a group of demobilized soldiers from both sides of the conflict. When pressed, several ex-combatants agreed that, as one put it, the only way to stem rural–urban migratory flows among their age class and to curb “marginality” in Namapa would be to “bring a company here to our zone so we can work for that company and make money right here . . . so they [their elders] won’t say youth like to do nothing but pass the time.”118 I am not suggesting that there was anything approaching uniformity of opinion in Namapa on the subject of Frelimo-mandated social camaraderie or on the roots of crime, “marginality,” out-migration, changing sexual mores, the increasing brittleness of marriage or, for that matter, on anything else. My point is that the perception that Frelimo’s tenure and, more specifically, the statutory abrogation of chieftaincy had induced a profound, unwelcome and inimical shift in the balance of forces between age classes enjoyed a currency that cut across a range of social distinctions and was far more extensive than that enjoyed by explanations which impugned the social background, competence and/or personal integrity of the secretary. Even people who had originally applauded Frelimo’s attempt to effect a definitive break with the colonial legacy of indirect rule now looked back on their initial enthusiasm as a mark of false consciousness. This at least was the conclusion reached by a local UNAMO representative: In my opinion, although they [the régulos] beat us, when they were not recognized by Frelimo’s government, many things were ruined. For example, in the colonial period, it was easy to apprehend a thief because each régulo knew his people. There could be many people but the régulo
In the name of the state 251 knew. When the colonialists left and Frelimo said that the régulos and cabos can’t work, we, with little insight, thought that it was good because they beat us – while who had beaten us had already gone away . . . We were left without régulos. That’s when we entered into confusion and there was a lot of disorder; there were many thieves, even now. And who knows the thieves is the régulo.119 A group of elderly, male smallholders in Odinepa Locality also evinced a certain nostalgia, albeit a highly qualified one, for chiefly rule.120 Like the UNAMO secretary, they appreciated the utter untenability of the structural position chiefs had occupied under the Portuguese: “They were afraid. That’s why they, too, instilled fear.” Unlike him, the smallholders persisted in their longstanding belief that chiefs had lost whatever legitimacy they may once have had, and deservedly so, for collaborating with the Portuguese. Even so, they allowed, “when traditional authorities lost power, all control over youth was lost.”121 A former colonial interpreter shared Chief Tubruto’s conviction that the abolition of the regedoria system was symptomatic of Frelimo over-permissiveness.122 Endemic uncivility in public life was the result. The ruling party’s hands-off policy likewise extended to crime: “The government, Frelimo,” he confided, “never punished thieves.” Nor, he went on to explain, would it allow anyone else to either: “No one can be tortured any old way . . . If someone steals your goat, it’s prohibited to beat the thief.” All of this went to show that “Instead of freedom, we have liberalism [Em vez de liberdade, temos liberalismo].” Clearly the postulate of socio-political leveling is as problematic as explanations predicated on the myth of socio-political inversion. But why, one might ask, did the latter interpretation strongly tend to crowd out the former in state-sponsored local retrospectives? There were two possible reasons for this. The first is that, while the language of leveling called for the reconstitution of some kind of officially-recognized political hierarchy at the base, it did not go so far as to prescribe what exact form that hierarchy should take. In failing to address this question, it carried the potential of undermining the argument that the reconstitution of chiefly authority was the state’s best (and even only) recourse. And, in all likelihood, local functionaries would have felt compelled to try to neutralize such a potential at a time when the pro-chieftaincy lobby within the provincial administration, the MAE and even the national Frelimo leadership appeared to hold, or seemed poised to seize, the upper-hand politically. A second possibility is the well-justified fear among ruling party politicians that interpretive frameworks, sympathetic to Frelimo or otherwise, that dwell on the leadership’s early, fierce commitment to achieving social and economic justice would point up (1) just how far the ruling party has moved away from its revolutionary nationalist goals, as formulated in the 1970s; and (2) the extent to which many prominent members of the leader-
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ship have personally benefited from the material rewards to be reaped as a consequence of this backsliding. A second question follows on the first: given the political risks that inhered in airing the leveling thesis, why did local officials chance referencing it at all? If the Namapan case was anything to go by, the reason Frelimo’s radical egalitarianism received any play to speak of, and as much play as it did, is because the discourse of leveling was so widespread in the population at large in the early 1990s. As such, it could hardly be completely ignored. In addition, the tendency both within and beyond official circles to elide the two explanations militated against drawing a sharp distinction between them and attracting unwanted attention to the one that posed the greatest political hazards. If anything, tendencies toward elision seemed to bolster the explanation favored by the provincial government and the ruling party at the time. Two other points merit mention here. The first is that, if the primary criterion for judging the social value of these two explanatory frameworks was their conduciveness to fostering local reconciliation, the leveling thesis would emerge as the hands-down winner. This is because, in contrast to modes of explanation that malign the person and social status of the secretary, it deftly absolves all grassroots social categories and actors from blame. It thus adheres to the injunction that, as Ali Mazrui put it, “yesterday’s heroes” – in this case, local secretaries as they were cast in Frelimo’s socialist discourse – “should not become today’s villains.”123 Another one of Mazrui’s comments concisely makes the second point: “The real danger posed by state socialism in a society with fragile institutions is not a danger of making government too strong but the risk of making it more conspicuously ineffectual.”124 In the eyes of many Namapan residents, however, Frelimo deliberately, recklessly and ultimately selfdefeatingly sacrificed state power and competence on the altar of revolutionary camaraderie. Post-independence “populism”: a Frelimo success story? That view performs two displacements whose combined effect is to assign undue influence to Frelimo’s post-independence policies and pronouncements. First, the genesis of longstanding social trends, such as rising divorce rates, premature marriage, unauthorized marriages and the dissolution of bilateral matrimonial alliances, is pushed forward to independence day. Not only did such trends predate 1975; they had also gathered considerable momentum by that time. The first displacement enables the second. The revised sequence of events allows blame for the destabilization of familial and kinship institutions to be palmed off on to the incoming regime, whose accession to power coincided with major mutations in that destabilization’s form. As we saw in Chapter 2, matrimonial institutions had come under severe strain by the early to mid-1960s. The generalization of cashew tree groves
In the name of the state 253 throughout Eráti in the 1950s and early 1960s, along with the decentralization of usufructory rights it had engendered, had loosened the dependence of young men on bride service for access to land. At the same time, substantial rises in rural incomes during the 1960s, combined with the expansion of the marketing network, had decentralized male access to cash and commodities. The cumulative result had been the demise of the mahumu’s monopoly control over matrimonial arrangements. Armed with the requisite socioeconomic means, male social juniors began to exercise greater freedom in choosing and discarding marriage partners, and thus greater leverage in setting the terms of conjugal relations. Skyrocketing divorce rates as early as the 1960s and the decrease in the average age of male marriage from twentyfive to fifteen during the 1950s and 1960s provide ample evidence of the attenuation of inter-lineage matrimonial alliances and of channels of access to male labor that had once helped to cement these alliances. The argument that large-scale male out-migration was Frelimo-induced exemplifies the second displacement. Unlike permutations of matrimonial patterns, heavy rural–urban migratory flows in Nampula are a singularly postcolonial phenomenon. The Frelimo government is thus more vulnerable to the charge of having triggered them. Nonetheless, there is more than enough reason to believe that accounts which exclusively fault Frelimo’s declared intent to revolutionize rural social relations for this outcome are in need of serious qualification. Once again, timing matters.125 At the national level, stepped up rural emigration to the cities and towns dates from the transitional government between September 1974 and June 1975. By February 1975, four months prior to independence, the phenomenon had reached such proportions as to have already become an abiding preoccupation of the Frelimo leadership. At that time, the National Meeting of District Committees urged adopting “political and administrative measures” to resolve the problem.126 It is unclear whether the advent of dramatically higher rates of migration to urban areas in Nampula predated independence day or not. According to Geffray and Pedersen, the exodus from Eráti District began on the heels of independence and, prior to the major population displacements attendant upon the local outbreak of war, reached its peak within the next couple of years.127 The late 1970s, in contrast, witnessed the ebb, followed by the reversal, of rural–urban population flows.128 That is, out-migration of male youth had already substantially leveled off by the time Frelimo moved to implement its abaixo policy with greater rigor starting from 1976–1977, tightening eligibility requirements and running more meticulous background checks on candidates to local office in the process. As we have also seen, during the first two years of independence, when the human efflux from the district reached its pre-war peak, continued rule by royals was fairly commonplace. This was the case either because candidates for office were successful in their efforts to conceal their identities from the authorities or because the authorities themselves sanctioned, tacitly or
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otherwise, the continued dominance of chiefly families. In contrast, the period in which abaixo denunciations and humiliations seem to have peaked coincided with a reduction of emigration from the district and the steady return of youth to the rural milieu. Thus, the footlooseness of youth cannot reasonably be ascribed to the social disruptions produced by overturned or overrun hierarchies. Geffray and Pedersen provide a much more plausible explanation for outmigration during this period: decolonization prompted the dissipation of administrative controls that had hitherto prevented it. Out-migration was simply the consequence, under radically, abruptly and unexpectedly altered circumstances, of social transformations that had long been underway. According to Geffray and Pedersen, colonial controls and compulsions were applied with extra rigor in Eráti, presumably because of the district’s importance as an abundant source of smallholder-produced cotton. It follows that the effects of their collapse would have been all the more striking. Neither the centrality of these controls nor the effects of their sudden, wholesale withdrawal received even passing mention by any of my informants. In the face of this resounding silence, one can only surmise the following. In the lived experience of many rural residents, the direct pressures exerted by the colonial state administrative and repressive apparatus inhibiting and penalizing the free movement of African labor were indistinguishable from the policing and disciplining powers of chiefs, lineage notables and elders which they supported. In light of this, the effects of the former were often attributed – in whole or part – to those of the latter. The colonial-era respect of young male contract workers for tributary relations, recalled by Chief Tubruto above, exemplifies this tendency: such deference was as much a function of colonial state’s labor-recruiting policies, which ensured the prompt return of African labor to its point of origin, as it was testimony to the continued draw of chieftaincy as a free-standing institution. In sum, the consequences of the removal of state controls at the time of decolonization were either seriously underestimated or entirely overlooked. People were thus obliged to look elsewhere in order to explain the hemorrhaging of male labor. Frelimo’s soon-to-be-announced agenda of allembracing social transformation meant that they didn’t have to look very long or very far. The redolence of the first years of independence still requires explanation, as do the enduring effects often accorded to them. Frelimo’s radical egalitarianism was, after all, short-lived, giving way by the beginning of the 1980s to more commandist tendencies with which that commitment had long co-existed. The mass decampment of youth was soon followed by their return to the rural areas and their resubordination to their social seniors, a state of affairs that persisted until the outbreak of Renamo’s war. One reason that this period looms large in people’s memories is that, in retrospect at least, the mass exodus of male youth at the dawn of
In the name of the state 255 independence is seen as a portent of other, comparably momentous, shifts in inter-generational and age-class relations induced by the war itself: in particular, those brought on by the two belligerents’ heavy reliance on pressganging able-bodied males to fill their ranks, by the widespread distribution of small arms, and by the rising incidence of freelance banditry and crime as Mozambique’s social fabric unraveled.129 That the first years of independence stand to the fore of local social memories may also be a consequence of the postcolonial state’s failure to render labor productive rather than of its alleged success in converting egalitarian principles into political practice.130 The fact that many people, most notably social seniors, viewed Frelimo’s failure on this score as one of its more notable, if dubious, achievements, seems to reflect the generalized perception among certain sectors of the populace that the post-independent state possessed, and continues to possess, the same powers and capacities as its predecessor. By this logic, the Frelimo state’s failure to control the disposition, activity and productivity of labor is popularly construed as a function of its obstinate and ongoing refusal to do so. Throughout sub-Saharan Africa, the power of the post-colonial state [at independence] appeared awesome, almost limitless . . . It was not just that the post-colonial state possessed all the formal powers and attributes of the colonial state, it was also that it was not subject to the constraints of colonial political accountability [e.g. to the metropolitan state]. Until new principles of accountability were established, the post-colonial state was in effect largely unrestrained.131 Or so it seemed. Such misperceptions would have been all the stronger with respect to newly sovereign countries whose independence had been achieved through force of arms and in instances in which the new government had been able to dictate unilaterally many of the terms of decolonization, as was the case in Mozambique. It would also be reasonable to expect that such erroneous views would prove particularly intractable in a context, such as the Mozambican one, in which the incumbent regime, however debilitated, had managed to survive one of the continent’s most vicious regional conflicts of the 1980s – a conflict in which it was a leading target.132 That the power of the Frelimo state continues to be overstated by many Mozambicans and sinister motivations ascribed to that state’s interventions has been perhaps most starkly and poignantly laid bare by a spate of panicsowing rumors that have gripped various parts of the country in recent years. One recurring rumor, which first broke out in 1998, had it that the government’s anti-cholera campaign was a cover for a Frelimo plot to spread the disease, especially among the poor. In Nampula, where this rumor was particularly virulent and where it erupted anew in late 2001, children were at one stage said to feature high on the government’s list of quarry.133
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According to sociologist Carlos Serra, rumors of this ilk are simply the most dramatic expression of the longstanding view, especially prevalent in the country’s northern provinces, that the post-independence state has drained ordinary citizens of their life force.134 A second rumor, also in circulation in the late 1990s, arose in response to newly passed legislation reinstating mandatory military service. Word had it that the resumption of conscription signaled the government’s plan to embark on a foreign military adventure – in all probability to Angola, where a brutal civil war then showed no signs of abating.135 It should come as no surprise that these rumors express, among other things, deep-seated, generation-related anxieties. They, and others like them, may have been exploited and fostered by Renamo.136 But the former rebel army’s mantra that Frelimo, at independence, “nationalised children” and that it now “wants to sell your children” finds fertile ground among certain sectors of the population because it articulates firmly-held popular sentiments.137 The major rural–urban migratory wave of male youth that came directly on the heels of independence appears to constitute both a formative memory that has conditioned popular perceptions and memories of subsequent post-independence developments, especially those that bear on issues pertaining to generational hierarchies, and a retrospectively portentous one.138
Conclusion The tendency to exaggerate the postcolonial state’s responsibility for engendering widespread social (if not epidemiological) pathologies was underscored by President Chissano in an address in Maputo Province in July 1994.139 He observed that the life-span of criminal activity in Maputo and its environs far outstretched Frelimo’s tenure. By way of illustration, Chissano reminded his audience that the word “tsotsi [criminal elements]” had already worked its way into the local lexicon a full decade or two before independence, emphasizing that “In 1974, there was marginality and prostitution.” The state’s eventual response had been Operation Production, a campaign which, the Mozambican president pointedly recalled, had initially met with popular acclaim. In his opinion, nothing short of a similar exercise would succeed in quickly cleaning up the streets in the present (and not simply the reinstatement of chiefs as claimed by MAE consultant Mutaquiha). But recent political reforms had foreclosed this option. Very recently, the head of state recounted, a priest had approached him and asked why he didn’t order a new Operation Production. Chissano reported that he had replied, “You [e.g. the churches] say that this is a violation of human rights.”140 If, in this instance, the president strove to dispel popular illusions about the recent past and the Frelimo state’s hand in shaping it, the same cannot be said of other, more or less contemporaneous, ruling ideological practices,
In the name of the state 257 including the president’s own. But that is the subject of the next chapter. The foregoing discussion has explored the ways in which MAE representatives and Nampula-based state authorities, drawing on a wide range of cultural and historical referents from the precolonial period through to the present, reinscribed the myth of revolutionary rupture into a chronicle of cultural destabilization, economic decline and social strife. This chapter has also highlighted the ways in which the mnemonic narratives produced by local government employees borrowed and reinflected elements of popularlygrounded revisionist critiques so as to accord them with, and affirm, certain bedrock principles of Frelimo’s socialism. The ensuing discourse sought to explain the ruling party’s legitimation crisis in rural Nampula in terms that mobilized both the rhetoric of revolutionary triumphalism, of which the founding myth of radical rupture was a salient component, and the once much vaunted tradition of socialist self-criticism that, by the late 1970s and early 1980s, was directed toward tempering that rhetoric. The revised myth both benefited from and reproduced longstanding tensions and ambiguities in Frelimo’s own discursive and political practice. It also drew on the ruling party’s longtime penchant for denying the impact of Renamo’s politico-military strategy on its own policies and actions. Districtand provincial-level officials thus managed to cast the political crisis at hand in an idiom that was at once intelligible, credible and acceptable to the state and party leadership and that carried a politically palatable, seemingly politically viable prescription for Frelimo’s re-legitimization in the face of the unprecedented challenges posed by the new constitutional dispensation. I have identified two major currents within official memory discourses concerning the subject of post-independence rural political authority. Both were path-dependent, articulating as they did with pre-existing discourses. Both were marked by a strong tendency to suppress the effects of translocal factors on grassroots developments and/or to ascribe these effects to the imposition of the organs of popular power. The dominant current zeroed in on the secretary as the revolution’s soft underbelly. The second one played up the allegedly adverse local consequences of Frelimo’s initially strong commitment to the principle of social and economic justice. The latter emphasis, which in Namapa at least appeared to be endorsed by a greater number of citizens representing a broader spectrum of constituencies, both complemented and conflicted with the former. But the tendency of people both within and beyond the state bureaucracy to conflate and apparently unconsciously slide back and forth between the two lends itself to the view that, in actual practice, the second discursive stream gave added resonance to the first. The preceding discussion suggests that the robustness and salience of the myth of revolutionary rupture within contemporary memory discourses derives from its “semiotic flexibility” and, especially, its availability to competing political agendas and critiques.141 However, it does not necessarily follow that the versatility of this myth owes to the “intrinsic meaning” of
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the remembered past if the past is understood narrowly as the statutory abolition of chieftaincy.142 Rather than being an inborn trait, the multivalence of this founding moment was, at the very least, amplified by virtue of its close historical association with, and frequent elision with, the large-scale out-migration of male youth in the first years of independence. The fixity of the past in contemporary memory practices derived from what appears to be a synergistic relationship between these two historic “events,” each of which animated the other with meaning. The resulting dynamic harnessed contrasting, often opposing and often paradoxical notions concerning the powers, inclinations and disinclinations of the Frelimo state. In doing so, it gave the myth of revolutionary rupture much of its driving force. The hypothesis I am advancing here is that it is this myth’s capacity to bundle the sum of these notions in a manner that generates a productive tension among them which enables it to discharge its double, paradoxical function as a memory screen: as an obstruction and/or filtering device, on the one hand, and as a canvas, on the other.143 The net result both constrained and opened up possibilities for inventive mnemonic performance.
8
Roots, routes and rootlessness Ruling political practice and Mozambican studies
The demise of political vanguardism destabilized the hitherto close association between difference and anti-patriotism. As Jorge Rebelo, then chief of Frelimo propaganda, put it in 1990, “Today we cannot pretend that everyone is with Frelimo.”1 The advent of multiparty politics indicated that legitimate difference, both between the party and the polity and within the polity itself, would gain recognition. It remained to be seen, however, what kinds of differences would be recognized and how they would be cast in official discursive and political practice; which social bases of dissent would be legitimized and by what rationale; and whether Frelimo’s classificatory schema, as described in Chapter 1, could accommodate these changes and how. This chapter addresses these issues.2 I argue that the built-in instability of Frelimo’s original social taxonomy provided just enough versatility not only to endure but to seek to capitalize on fairly sweeping political change. In particular, it enabled the ruling party to assimilate and turn to its advantage key elements of the revisionist critique. The facility with which this assimilation occurred discloses the extent to which Frelimo’s sociology and that of its revisionist critics move in a common conceptual universe. As already noted, instrumentalization carried risks. It also exacted an immediate price, as I show below. Moreover, there is little reason to suppose that it produced a hegemonic outcome, even in the short term. It’s also worth reiterating that the ability of the ruling regime to manipulate the myth of revolutionary rupture was a product of the specific historical circumstances laid out in previous chapters: most notably the availability of the founding moment to which this myth refers to multiple, contrasting, interpretations – an attribute that was either inherent to that moment itself or externally-conferred or, as I have suggested, some combination of the two. In addition, donor credulity with respect to the revisionist critique no doubt lent a hand to Frelimo’s efforts to mold the past to suit its contemporary political needs.
The enemies of the people revisited I suggested in Chapter 7 that, by the early 1990s, post-independence rule by non-royals had come to figure as either a foil or a fetish for the totality of
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Frelimo political and development failures in the outback in many statesponsored retrospectives on the Nampulan and Makua experiences. Here it bears noting that, just as the allegedly commoner/slave-run institutions of popular power came to perform this function, grassroots secretaries themselves tended to take on many of the most salient personal traits, behavioral patterns and, in some cases, even the ulterior motivations of “the class enemy,” as described in detail in Chapter 1. The secretary’s metamorphosis coincided with the publicly unremarked extinction of the class enemy on the national scene. Indeed, it was as if the class enemy had never lived. The upshot was that, in retrospect and in Makua-speaking areas at least, the secretary was revealed not as the co-conspirator of upwardly mobile pettybourgeois elites but as a lone agent in inhibiting inter-communication and communion between the party and the people. Both outcomes were enabled by Frelimo’s subjectivist approach to social class and the mutability and opacity of its criteria for determining class membership. Under the circumstances, the prototypical profile of the class enemy was as elusive as the class enemy itself would prove to be. The simultaneity of the above developments was not, self-evidently, fortuitous: the rapidly fading political relevance of class foes neatly coincided with mounting evidence that the majority of the Frelimo leadership not only numbered among the country’s “aspirants to the bourgeoisie” but was well along the road to seeing its aspirations fulfilled.3 The logic of Frelimo’s sociological analysis was such that, with the belated “discovery” that the class enemy had never lived, Mozambique became an essentially classless society. As we have seen, the colonial bourgeoisie had decamped en masse at independence, leaving behind no readymade African counterpart to fill its shoes. The progressive wing of the petty bourgeoisie had long ago forfeited its privileged class status, throwing in its lot with the laboring classes. But the laboring classes were, in Frelimo’s view, more notional than real: the proletariat was tiny, highly fragmented, and had yet to exhibit, in the leadership’s estimation, an adequate level of worker consciousness; the peasantry, deeply ensconced as it was in a feudal mode of production, passively awaited excavation and emancipation by an external agent. The full emergence and consolidation of both classes required the state’s development action. This side of that eventuality, class struggle could only resemble a kind of morality play between (revolutionary) virtue and (counter-revolutionary) vice. Thus, the dissolution of the class enemy conveniently spelled the demise of class per se. The sounding of the death knell for social classes in Mozambique did not, however, signal the extinction of “the enemies of the people.” Once drained of its moral and psychological content, the essence of these enemies – their foreign origins and ongoing sources of sustenance – was laid bare.4 That this was the case will become apparent in my discussion of Frelimo’s election campaign rhetoric below. First, however, we return to the Nampulan context with a view to situating the post-1990 ideological practices deployed by local government authorities with respect to the question of
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rural authority within a wider frame of reference. Specifically, how did these practices compare with those aimed at managing the political fall-out caused by other ruling party interventions in the countryside?
The politics of acknowledgment, 1989–1994 One possible objection to the argument advanced in Chapter 7 is that I have read too much into the single-minded focus which characterizes the oral and written accounts reviewed there. After all, local government officials were asked to research and to share their own reflections on the history of traditional power in what is present-day Nampula Province from the precolonial period to the present. That is what the subject of investigation was about. It was not about settlement patterns, past or present; nor about the experience of cooperativization; nor about popular perspectives on the government’s counter-insurgency strategy or police conduct. Given the narrowness of the assigned brief, the interventions in question could not reasonably have been expected to have addressed other sources of rural dissatisfaction and dissent. Under the circumstances, some allowance should be made for the tendency to overstate the effects of Frelimo’s official abolition of chieftaincy and even to displace the negative repercussions of other aspects of its rural policy and political practice on to them. Moreover, Frelimo’s policy of “socializing” the countryside has been subject to numerous officially-sponsored appraisals and reappraisals – exercises that derived substantial benefit from extensive public input. The numerous public meetings and national conferences that were instrumental in drafting Mozambique’s new land law stand as a case in point. My response is that in no other case has a policy shift been accompanied by as unqualified, as full-throated and as publicized an admission of error as was Frelimo’s initial stance on rural political institutions. The singularity of Frelimo’s management of the political damage caused by its socialist-era policy towards chiefs can be seen by reviewing the Nampulan case in the 1989–1994 period. Below I compare the manner in which the ruling party handled that damage to the way it dealt with the political costs incurred by its rural collectivization policy. As was suggested by Chief Tubruto’s testimony in Chapter 7, at the time chiefs were summoned by the district administration to resume their colonial functions, government officials went to some lengths to admit that “prohibiting mpéwés, humus to work was an error.” In addition, they offered an analysis of why this was the case and, along with it, a rationale for the reversal in policy: the abolition of the regedoria system was blamed for the loss of control over social juniors; accordingly, the declared aim of reinstating chiefs was “To put an end to a lot of freedom of youth.” Similar explanations were proffered in meetings throughout the district. Several points deserve mention here. First, as we have already had occasion to observe, this kind of explanation refrains from invoking the war as a catalyst for changes in the balance of power between generations; it also
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resolutely denies Renamo any role in bringing about a change of heart on the part of the ruling regime toward traditional authority. Second, if provincial officialdom was aware – as I have suggested Chissano seemed to be – that there was a strong tendency among the populace to confound the turbulent effects of decolonization with those produced by Frelimo’s attempt to revolutionize rural social relations, it gave no indication of this. Third, there was no attempt on the part of the provincial administration to reduce the charges against it by marshaling evidence showing that state and party officials had shown a much greater flexibility on the question of rural political authority than one might infer judging from the uncompromising militancy of their abaixo rhetoric alone. Officialdom’s silence on this score is especially significant because, as Chapters 3 and 7 show, ample evidence exists that government and party officials at all levels knew not only that such compromises had occurred but that they were, in fact, fairly commonplace. It was as if all due care was taken not to dilute the argument that (1) the rupture at independence with late colonial rural power relations had been cataclysmic; (2) the consequences of this rupture had been catastrophic; and (3) the loss of Frelimo’s political legitimacy in the rural areas followed chiefly, if not exclusively, from the combination of (1) and (2). In sum, the corollary of the provincial government’s willingness to admit error on the question of rural leadership was its seemingly noble refusal to cite mitigating circumstances that might limit its political liability. One can only conclude that, in the ruling party’s estimation, the political gains to be made by admitting and advertising such compromises were outweighed by the risks such admissions would entail. For to call public attention to the prominent positions chiefs and their close relatives held early on in the institutions of popular power would not only point up the Frelimo leadership’s inability to exert its will even within the narrow parameters of its own institutions. It would also encourage a search for other causes of rural discontent. It would even raise the possibility that it was Frelimo’s failure to stand social relations on their head, rather than its alleged success in doing so, that fueled the erosion of popular support for the post-independence regime. The government’s public relations gambit surrounding the failure of its rural collectivization policy was much more constrained and circumspect. The occasion for what would be the final appraisal of this policy was the Fifth Session of the Provincial Coordinating Commission for the Socialization of the Countryside (CCPSC), held just one month ahead of the Frelimo’s Fifth Congress in July 1989. Interestingly, official documentation of the commission’s proceedings fails to provide the slightest hint that a major political reorientation – namely, the formal abandonment of Marxism-Leninism as official ideology – was in the offing. On the contrary, the session’s point of departure was that the country was in the midst of a socialist transition. Not surprisingly, participants “were unanimous in emphasizing the importance and viability of the policy of the Socialization of the Countryside conceived and oriented by the Frelimo Party.”5
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Nonetheless, that policy was found seriously wanting on several counts. In his opening address, the then governor, Jacob Nyambir, frankly acknowledged that “there existed errors in both the conception and execution of the programs of the Socialization of the Countryside.”6 Some of the commission’s findings effectively reiterated the pronouncements of the Fourth Party Congress in 1983. Other disclosures were new. Most notably, the commission acknowledged that coercion had been used in the formation of communal villages. It also found that cultural factors had exerted an influence on village life in ways that had not been foreseen. In particular, “agglomerating people with different habits led to disagreements among neighbors and thus the displeasure of some.” The commission observed that the fact that places of worship were, on average, situated about fifteen kilometers from residential sites had seriously undermined the appeal of communal living. In addition, session participants noted that, in the process of mobilizing the population to enter into the aldeias, unrealistic promises had been made and that “demoralization” had set in when these promises had not been kept.7 What was required, the commission concluded, was greater rigor in the implementation of party orientations, as well as clarification (presumably to the public at large) “that the errors committed in the process of the socialization of the countryside, fundamentally in the creation of communal villages, are technical errors and not of a political nature.” In that spirit, the session’s final resolution recommended that socio-cultural and economic studies be undertaken to facilitate the incorporation of the population into communal villages and agricultural cooperatives, urging that future collectivization efforts try to avoid situations which foster “competition in agriculture among the inhabitants.” The resolution also disavowed the use of force and pledged “[t]o create new communal villages and agricultural cooperatives on the principle of free association.”8 In short, Frelimo’s rural collectivization policy was never as openly and roundly repudiated as was its attempt to end rule by royals. Indeed, the commission unambiguously affirmed the essential correctness of this policy. Moreover, the commission’s acknowledgment of past wrongdoing was not broadcast in rural localities and administrative posts the way that the message that “Frelimo had made a mistake” when it had substituted secretaries for chiefs would be in the early 1990s. While district administrators, district directors of agriculture and “some” agricultural cooperators from the green zones of Nampula City had attended the Fifth Session of CCPSC,9 there is no evidence that the commission’s findings and recommendations reached a wider audience. Tellingly, despite the provincial government’s admission that rural residents had all too often been forced into villages and its vow to ensure that villagization henceforth would be a purely voluntary exercise, official permission for peasants to leave the aldeias in Namapa was not forthcoming until the onset of peace three years later – even though the majority of the population had long ago abandoned the aldeias.
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Even after the signing of the general peace accord, there were indications that government officials were unwilling to forsake the former aldeias as an effective means of social control. In the run-up to the elections, at least one district administrator in the province had allegedly tried to corral people back into the old aldeias on the pretext that “at the end of the month [e.g. October] the country would be in flames.”10 Official resistance to abandoning the communal village scheme was not confined to Nampula. In Cabo Delgado, for instance, villagers who wanted to return to their former domiciles were encountering Frelimo obstructionism as late as mid-1995.11 At that stage, too, the aldeias showed no sign of losing their status as “a central reference point for Frelimo cadres” in the province “when talking about the future of rural development.”12 Finally, unlike its shift in stance on chiefly rule, the provincial government proffered no explanation at the grassroots level for its reversal on the question of rural settlement patterns. Nor did it express any regrets about (let alone apologize for) the violence committed and economic losses sustained in the course of villagization, or for the material deprivations and social injustices the vast majority of peasants had experienced once villagized.13 In short, Frelimo’s early position on rule by royals was the sole aspect of its revolutionary program for rural transformation that was singled out for official atonement. Furthermore, the provisional, semi-official reinstatement of chiefs was the only policy reversal that was expressly billed in rural localities both as a reversal and as a fence-mending exercise. A similar, if much less stark, pattern of emphasis and de-emphasis was discernible in Chissano’s campaign rhetoric in the 1994 presidential race, as will become apparent below. An examination of this rhetoric also lays bare post-1990 revisions to Frelimo’s conception of the internal and external enemy. I begin with a brief discussion of Dhlakama’s own rhetorical strategies in order to help put those deployed by Chissano into perspective.14
The electoral campaign The country’s first multiparty elections were marked by a dearth of serious discussion of the history and legacy of two decades of independence or of possible future policy directions to resolve its postwar predicament.15 As several analysts have observed, the PRE/PRES left precious little scope for meaningful public debate about the future of the Mozambican economy at least in the near term.16 However, if structural adjustment severely circumscribed the country’s economic choices, it could not, in and of itself, explain the utter vacuity of the campaign. As South African journalist Eddie Koch has suggested, other country-specific dynamics were in play. Students of regional politics, he noted, would find no replay of South Africa in April.17 No reconstruction and development program. No truth commission. No debates about widespread
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corruption that has paralyzed the economy. No talk about correcting the wrongs of the past. It is as though a moral amnesia has beset the country and its people.18 The conspicuous failure of the country’s two grandees to address issues of substance, let alone own up to, and seek expiation for, past wrongdoing, prompted indignant cries that both sides were equally guilty of a fairly flagrant and thoroughly unwarranted arrogance.19 Dhlakama’s campaign According to certain political analysts, Renamo had determined “early on that it could only survive” if it entered the political arena. It had also ascertained that this meant reaching some sort of political accommodation with Frelimo, rather than defeating its longtime military adversary either on the battlefield or at the ballot box.20 Accordingly, the rebel army set its sights on gaining what it considered to be its fair “share of the spoils” either by hammering out a power-sharing solution with Frelimo or by assuming its role as the “official” opposition party in a post-conflict, post-elections political dispensation.21 Nonetheless, Dhlakama’s ominous reminders, provoked by stone-throwers at a few of his rallies, that he still retained the capacity to “paralyze” the country at the drop of a hat contributed to the prevailing atmosphere of uncertainty, tension and fear in the run-up to the vote. So did the Renamo’s leader’s vow to reject the election results as fraudulent if they failed to match his expectations.22 Dhlakama’s attempt to rally voters on the basis of ethnic and regional sentiment, particularly among Makua-Lomwé speakers who had been under-represented in both government and Frelimo party structures, had a similar effect.23 The Renamo leader sought to discount the political relevance of his movement’s foreign origins and sponsorship. Frelimo’s war effort, he maintained, had been as reliant on arms, advice and resources supplied by other governments as Renamo’s had been: “Each one had his friends.”24 In much the same manner, he argued that his soldiers’ methods had been no more violent or brutal than the government army’s, asking crowds, “Who didn’t kill? Does Frelimo know how many people were killed by Tanzanians, Zimbabweans, Cubans?” As for the devastation Renamo had left in its wake, Dhlakama had this to say: “Wars have always caused destruction, above all when they involve deposing a dictatorship.” It was precisely for this reason that “we don’t want more war.”25 According to Dhlakama, it was years of Frelimo mismanagement, corruption and inertia, rather than the war, which explained both the country’s failure to develop and its current economic straits.26 The ruling party, in his view, “did nothing” as incumbent even though it had “promised everything.”27 Rather than making good on his party’s commitments, Chissano had “robbed the people, the taxes of the workers.”28 It was precisely because
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it had benefited from ill-gotten gains, he insisted, that Frelimo now had the means to buy votes by distributing free T-shirts and other paraphernalia at its rallies. At one point, Dhlakama quipped, “Take the T-shirts and use them. They’re yours. It’s money from your taxes.” He contrasted his own modest campaign, which, he complained, had been seriously compromised by lack of access to funds and resources, to Chissano’s, which, he implied, had dipped deep into the public purse.29 Building on this contrast, Dhlakama strove to project himself as a man of the people and Renamo as the party of the poor.30 At one rally, for instance, he assured the crowd, “Dhlakama is not the president of dollars, of the office, of the palace, of the Mercedes, he is the president of the people that you need, he is capable of sitting on the floor and eating mealie meal with his hands.”31 As the true representatives of the downtrodden and disenfranchised, he and his army-turned-party were the bearers of Mozambican democracy, Dhlakama alleged. Indeed, precisely because Renamo had brought political pluralism to Mozambique, Renamo had “already” won its struggle.32 He promised to restore traditional leaders, respect local customs, uphold “family authority,” guarantee freedom of religious worship, decentralize power, appoint local people to local administrative posts and ensure regional representation at the political center.33 In addition to democracy, justice and freedom, these were goals Renamo had held dear since 1976 “when we decided to go to the bush to fight,” he maintained.34 A Renamo electoral victory was the country’s best hope against the apparently ever-present and undiminished threat of “communism.” In Nampula, for instance, Dhlakama warned that “Frelimo was, is and will always be communist and MarxistLeninist.”35 Should it triumph at the polls, the Renamo leader predicted that “the first speech of Chissano’s will be that the Mozambican people want communal villages, guias de marcha, collective machambas, because those are its principles.”36 Chissano’s campaign In both the presidential and legislative races, Frelimo ran a “campaign of ostentation, of the affirmation of wealth . . . of new elites.”37 Its rallies were more like public spectacles than political gatherings, studded as they were by pop-star performances, parachute jumps and give-aways, such as capulanas, T-shirts, caps and plastic bags. Its aim was not so much to buy votes as to show who was “boss.”38 Party propagandists exhibited little awareness that such colossal displays of affluence and frivolity might constitute a blatant affront to the vast majority of the electorate who live in dire poverty. Nor did Frelimo operatives or leaders show any outward signs of concern that these extravaganzas might lend credibility to Dhlakama’s claims that ruling party wealth and largesse had been achieved at the people’s own expense. Frelimo’s high-impact strategy did not always produce the desired
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results. Several rallies were poorly attended and, on more than one occasion, crowds consisted, in the main, of children and teenagers of below voting age, drawn more by the promise of free entertainment and hand-outs than by a sense of party allegiance or political interest.39 Chissano concentrated his efforts on exposing the casuistry that underpinned Dhlakama’s boast that his rebel force had “brought democracy” to Mozambique. In Tete, the Frelimo leader maintained, “Those who fight for democracy don’t burn down huts, they don’t destroy peasants’ fields, they don’t kill their own parents.”40 In Nampula Province, he warned voters to be on guard for those who, “disguising themselves as defenders of democracy, carried out the orders of the enemies of the people, causing the deaths of over one million people, and destruction estimated at over twenty billion dollars.”41 A recurring theme in Chissano’s campaign was that Renamo had yet to wean itself from its lifelong foreign dependence. If, in Nampula, Chissano charged Renamo with having acted at the behest of “the enemies of the people,” in subsequent speeches he was more specific, characterizing the guerrilla army’s handlers as “colonialists, fascists and oppressors.”42 Their aim was “to see the country divided, ruled by someone receiving orders from abroad, against the interests of our people.”43 Hence, the president’s exhortation to voters “to prevent greedy people from selling our country to the old colonialists and the oppressors of the Mozambican people.”44 Remarks such as these neatly illustrate the kinds of modifications Frelimo’s social taxonomy has undergone as a result of the advent of political pluralism and official sanctification of private accumulation. First, the domestically-based junior partner of “the enemies of the people” no longer consisted of petty-bourgeois nationals in hot pursuit of self-conscious, classbased strategies either within or beyond the ambit of state institutions. It was now comprised of “greedy” individuals who, given half a chance, would simply put the country up for sale in the global marketplace and, having struck a deal, proceed to serve the new owners. Second, the political imperative to dispense with all class-based referents largely explains the kinds of foreigners most closely identified with the political project of eroding Mozambican sovereignty. In all cases, external aggressors present themselves as a decidedly outmoded lot. The main enemies of the people were “the old colonialists” and “fascists” – that is, unapologetic, unreconstructed defenders of the overturned colonial regime.45 Such characterizations studiously avoided any allusion, however oblique, to multilateral lending institutions identified in radical critiques as spearheading processes of “recolonization” from the late 1980s onwards.46 The calculation clearly was that such allusions were all too likely to prompt questions about exactly who, locally, was both facilitating and profiting from neoliberal reforms. Faced with the need to forestall the pursuit of this line of inquiry, Chissano reduced the enemy, whose hallmark had hitherto been its profit-driven internal dynamism, to a foreign entity – and a con-
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spicuously static and even anachronistic one at that. The president’s failure to invoke the responsibility of economic restructuring for the soaring cost of living, a theme which voters repeatedly forced on to the agenda in rally after rally, was dictated by similar considerations. In virtually every instance, Chissano pinned blame for both continuous declines in real earnings and ongoing retrenchments in the public and private sectors on Renamo’s wartime destruction of economic infrastructure.47 During the campaign, the only indication Chissano gave that he, as the head of state, was under foreign pressure – pressure which he was determinedly resisting – was over the question as to whether or not the two former belligerents should form a government of national unity after the elections, irrespective of the results.48 Past capitulations to outside prodding, and the socio-economic consequences of these, did not figure in the picture. It was only after the formation of a new government, and then only while addressing a press conference in Johannesburg, that Chissano made the claim that corruption had been imported into his country by “the West” – more specifically, by “those who for a very long time have had a culture of bribery, and of diverting public money for private interests in the industrialized world.”49 The accuracy of this claim is, of course, arguable: a much stronger case could be made that the PRE/PRES had fueled rather than “introduced” corruption to the Mozambican polity. My point is to underscore structural adjustment’s curious immunity to such charges – or to any commentary at all – in the run-up to the poll.50 This immunity bespoke the political necessity for Frelimo to heap blame on Renamo for the country’s economic plight and to continue to trumpet Mozambique’s structural adjustment program as its own.51 Over and above these considerations, it testified to the strategic imperative to recast the struggle between the foremost defenders and detractors of Mozambican sovereignty, both on the national and global scene, in resolutely non-class terms. Other silences were equally symptomatic. Chissano expended much more effort attacking Renamo’s record than in defending his party’s own. It is true that Frelimo “sought to emphasize its historic role in bringing first independence, and then peace and democracy to Mozambique.”52 But it is also the case that even references to the liberation war, the wellspring of Frelimo’s nationalist legitimacy, were surprisingly infrequent and fainthearted.53 Most striking was Chissano’s failure to exploit to greater effect the most tangible and incontrovertible benefits of Frelimo’s socialist-inspired development program, notably the impressive strides the country had registered in health care and education.54 Mozambican journalist Machado da Graça has suggested that Frelimo’s attempt to dissociate itself from even the most exemplary aspects of its early tenure discloses the leadership’s well-founded hunch that invocations of its past achievements would only serve to highlight just how poorly, in certain notable respects, its own members and the party as a whole measure up to their former selves.55 In da Graça’s view, the country’s rulers were acting on
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this assumption when they let the twentieth anniversary of independence pass by without a single reference, however perfunctory, to independent Mozambique’s first president. For much the same reasons, commemorations of Heroes’ Day in 1996, the year which marked the tenth anniversary of the plane crash in which Machel and many of his close colleagues died, slipped by in like manner. This official silence, da Graça noted, contrasted sharply to the volubility of Machel’s detractors, who were showing no sign of fatigue when it came to maligning the late president’s person and deeds. At the same time, the proliferation of pirated cassettes of Machel’s speeches strongly suggested that others were no less riveted by his memory but were inclined to recall it in a more favorable light. In the face of Machel’s ongoing hold on the public imagination, da Graça deduced that Samora’s is “[a]n inconvenient memory” for those who continue “to use the same party to do things so different. So opposite in many cases.” For da Graça, “the time of Samora” was one in which the country’s leaders boldly sponsored a preventive health care program that won worldwide admiration. It was also a time in which instances of corruption in public service were relatively rare; resource constraints, no matter how numerous and formidable, were never invoked as a pretext for government paralysis (although, as we have seen, they were frequently cited to explain policy setbacks and failures); widespread confidence existed that Mozambicans could tackle their own problems; and people began to experience pride in being nationals of a country “facing its difficulties with its head held high.”56 He observed that a new generation was growing up largely oblivious to the fact that the country had passed through such a period – even though a sizeable fraction of its members owed their very existence to it – and suggested that Machel’s successors were quietly complicit in this. The fact that the leadership’s “moral amnesia” extended to its own past and its (by then largely obliterated) accomplishments merits closer consideration than it has thus far received in academic writing on the transition to multipartyism. So does the fact that, of all of its rural interventions, Frelimo had considerably less trouble recalling its attempt to break with ascribed authority in the rural areas and went out of its way to show that it was now thoroughly disabused of the notion that such a break would be either possible or desirable. Chissano did not accord traditionalism as high a priority in his first electoral bid as Dhlakama did. He also stopped short of following to the letter the advice of Frelimo’s Brazilian public relations consultant to cry “mea culpa” for its past hostility to, and persecution of, traditional chiefs.57 Nonetheless, the Frelimo leader publicly professed he believed in the traditional base of Mozambican society, promised to strengthen traditional power and, according to the weekly newspaper Domingo, even went so far as to give his assurance that, “he would restore the régulos.”58 While Chissano’s bows to traditionalism on the campaign trail can be seen as a straightforward bid to win the vote of chiefs and their (sometime)
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followers, in at least one instance it was clear that something more was at stake. Publicly courting this constituency was just one aspect of a much larger effort on the part of the party and state to forge a public consensus as to why the revolution had failed and, in particular, why it had failed so abysmally in the rural outback. Speaking in Nampula City, the president conveyed the distinct impression that many of the more regrettable aspects of the Frelimo’s years in power could have been avoided had the party simply not overestimated the people’s capacity and/or willingness to change – or, more precisely, to be transformed. Elaborating on the Frelimo campaign theme that it, and it alone, was the party of hard-earned experience, Chissano claimed that “We are the only party that knows at what speed the people must march . . . Frelimo now knows, it has experience, it can comply with its program.”59 The clear implication was that the main problem had not been Frelimo’s development strategy per se but rather the over-ambitious pace at which that strategy had been implemented.60 On this logic, Frelimo had erred not because it had considered rural society obscurantist but because it had failed to appreciate just how obscurantist that society was. It is important to stress that the ideological maneuvers in evidence during the president’s electoral campaign or in Nampula in the 1989–1994 period were by no means exclusive to these two contexts. Chissano’s campaign-trail silences on the subject of market liberalization and its effects were loudly echoed in Frelimo’s Central Committee’s report to the Seventh Congress, held in 1997. In the event, a government-owned news source felt compelled to characterize “the near total lack of reference to the structural adjustment programmes that Mozambique has been obliged to implement” as the “most remarkable aspect of the economic parts of the report.”61 The final statement produced by Frelimo’s national cadres’ meeting in mid-1999 was marked by a similar lacuna.62 If international financial institutions routinely receive a pass in official discourses, the “enemies of Mozambican independence” and their local lackeys, best exemplified by the Renamo leadership, are regularly impugned by leading Frelimo figures.63 The ruling party now openly admits that Frelimo’s “mistakes” provided an opening for such malevolent forces to try to destroy the country’s hardwon sovereignty; typically, however, it fails to specify just what those fateful mistakes were.64 There has been one important and very revealing exception: the Central Committee’s report to Frelimo’s Sixth Congress in 1991. The views expressed in the report are nearly identical to the conclusion, implicit in Chissano’s speech in Nampula City, that Mozambican society was simply not ready for Frelimo-style socialism and that Frelimo’s misperception that it was ready largely accounted for the erosion of the party’s legitimacy: Today we can say that the essential errors we committed were linked to an overestimation of the degree of collective consciousness of the popular masses and to the conviction that a strong will [to change] could succeed in transforming society in a short period of time.65
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By the same token, the government’s willingness (1) to admit error on the question of rural authority; (2) to go out of its way to emphasize that it now appreciated the gravity of this error; and (3) to express its commitment to change its policies accordingly could be witnessed in the aftermath of the elections in settings other than Nampula. A meeting of MAE representatives with members of local population in Tete Province over a year after Mozambique’s first multiparty poll stands as a case in point. The gathering was one of a series of workshops organized around the country between September 1995 and October 1996 under the auspices of the MAE’s “Democratic Development in Mozambique” project. The workshops “were intended to facilitate discussion on how ‘traditional authorities’ could be clearly identified both within their communities and by government officials, on what functions they might serve, and on how their mandate could be made more certain.”66 However, the meetings, which were attended by “ ‘traditional authorities’, local officials and representatives of ‘civil society’,” proved to be less of an exploratory nature and more of an opportunity to stage “rallies on behalf of former régulos.”67 At the workshop in Tete, the National Director of the MAE’s Administrative Development Center let it be known that “the Mozambican government committed a grave error when it abolished traditional authority right after independence and today, recognizing this error, is disposed to the return of traditional power.”68 No such “confessions” were forthcoming in public forums staged in front of and/or for the benefit of rural audiences about other aspects of Frelimo’s program for agrarian transformation during this, or any other, period. This is not to imply that the government was putting forth a single coherent message on the question of rural authority during this period. Just two months prior to the pronouncement by the MAE official cited above, Chissano told a group of former régulos in Maputo Province that “they could no longer expect privileges based on hereditary principles.” However, even his comments maintained the strategic ambiguity I have examined in previous chapters: “[W]e in the government,” he went on, “do not yet know how regulos will be appointed, and what their activities will be.”69 What these messages seem to indicate is that admitting misjudgment on the question of rural leadership was a higher political priority than pledging to remedy the situation by reverting to the late colonial status quo.70 In summary, the post-socialist period bore witness to the crystallization of a new concatenation of ideological practices which drew on, reworked and rearranged selected bits and pieces of revolutionary dogma and revisionist critique. As a concatenation, such practices set the stage for Frelimo to claim that it had learned the requisite lessons, apparently on its own accord, to retain power and that it was still Mozambicans’ best insurance policy against the country’s ever-present, ever-dangerous and apparently immutable enemies.
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The petty bourgeoisie unbound One of the central arguments of this book has been that the state’s “retreat to tradition” involves not only rendering transparent what was hitherto opaque but publicly displaying longstanding practices as freshly minted. Both dimensions were neatly captured in a 1995 article in the independent weekly, Savana, covering a ceremony held to mark the official closure of the Frelimo electoral office in Xai Xai, the capital of Gaza Province. The local correspondent reported that the attention lavished on the contemporary incarnation of Mungói, a famous spirit medium from Gaza who succeeded in keeping Renamo at bay in large swaths of the province, came as a surprise to many: “what astonished many citizens, who as invited guests were also present at the ceremony, was the kowtowing prominent parliamentarians of the ruling party indulged in granting the ‘superstitious’ figure of Mungói.”71 For Savana’s correspondent, however, the significance and import of the gathering lay elsewhere. He noted that, as recently as 1989, a journalist had been imprisoned for ninety days by the secret police, charged with reporting that the then Frelimo first secretary and governor of Gaza had received the figure of Mungói in his office to discuss defense strategies aimed at protecting the populations in the event of a Renamo attack . . . At that time to say that someone in government and a prominent member of Frelimo had any type of contact with curandeiros or feiticeiros was considered a highly penalizable calumny. Observing that local businessman and “many prominent figures in the corridors of power” had long depended on Mungói’s ritual authority to secure the profitability of their private ventures, he contended, “although [Frelimo] always tried to deny it, the truth is that, in Gaza, its leaders always maintained close and constant contacts with the figure of Mungói.”72 He concluded with a query: Hence our question: are we witnessing a situation involving an aboutface and recognition of the existence of espiritismo [spirit worship] in our culture, or are we merely dealing with a case of exposing that which was formerly maintained in airtight containers? In short, the most noteworthy feature of the ceremony was leadership’s conscious attempt to ascribe a degree of novelty to the encounter that it did not in fact possess – as if the country’s rulers were clapping eyes on a living embodiment of “superstition” for the first time. The parallels with official discursive and performative practice in Nampula Province are obvious. In both cases, strategies of political crisis management and/or re-legitimation during this period were based on vigorously denying the Frelimo regime’s previous compromises with “traditional-feudal society.” In both cases, the
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upshot was to inflate that society’s importance in first frustrating and ultimately derailing Frelimo’s Third Congress political project. In both cases, statist narratives and performance took recourse in the kind of anti-memory work described in Chapter 7: in the context of post-socialist Mozambique, this entailed Frelimo cadres pretending, en masse, to belatedly recall that they were in Africa and to signal their commitment henceforth to act accordingly. If narrating the nation has historically involved chronicling “different stages and moments of coming to self-awareness” on the part of its members,73 the Mozambican case suggests that unelected incumbents of young postcolonial states who find themselves compelled to submit to a popular mandate may try a slightly different tack: namely, projecting themselves as experiencing an epiphany concerning the true identity of the newly enfranchised electorate whose members they have taken upon themselves to turn into nationals. This approach, one imagines, would carry an especially strong appeal to incumbents who had been forced by political circumstance to launch the struggle for independence from exile, as Frelimo had. The encounter staged in Xai Xai appears to have had additional narrativizing functions. The scene seems to have been painstakingly choreographed not only to exaggerate the gesture of capitulation by an assimilated African political elite to a leading representative of traditionalism but also to dramatize as fully as possible the cultural difference and social distance separating the two parties. Needless to say, spectacles of this ilk are a rarity in the context of postcolonial Africa. In particular, they stand in stark contrast to the performative practice of African politicians who subscribe to nativist philosophies. Such leaders are known for striving to dissolve the marks of their social, cultural and economic distinction by invoking their common roots with subaltern majorities in ostensibly undifferentiated societies that allegedly existed in the precolonial past. Invocations such as these form part of a broader strategy of political legitimation predicated on the appropriation of a supposedly authentic indigenous culture by incumbents or their domestic political rivals and, in the case of incumbents, the denial of any distinction of consequence between state and society.74 In Xai Xai, Frelimo leaders decisively spurned the “roots’ route,” opting instead to play up the degree of their estrangement from the indigenous culture which produced a Mungói and his latter-day incarnations – even though he and his successors were from the same province which also produced Frelimo’s first three presidents. Unlike the performative inclinations of the cultural nativists, their actions seemed deliberately designed to pave over their connection to, rather than to discount their difference from, authenticity in all of its manifold forms. At first sight what I will call “the rootlessness route” would seem to be counter-intuitive in the circumstances of present-day Mozambique. After all, in calling public attention to the contrast between its own hybridity and the culture of supposedly traditionalist rural constituencies, wouldn’t the leadership risk alienating the very constituencies it needs to appeal to if it is
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to retain power in an electoral democracy? And wouldn’t it draw the electorate’s gaze to other horizontal divides in society? Margaret Hall and Tom Young have rightly noted that Frelimo’s disavowal of Marxism-Leninism spelled the “abandonment of an ideological cohesion that, whatever its difficulties, gave the ruling group a certain coherence.”75 In what follows I highlight the ways in which the revisionist critique has enhanced both the viability and the allure of the rootlessness route should the leadership decide to go down that road. Specifically, I show that such a strategy could easily derive political advantage from the room for maneuver opened up by three distinct but overlapping equivocations in this critique. The first of these concerns the question as to whether the attribute of “southernness” carries with it any vertical linkages and, if so, what the nature and scope of these linkages might be. Michel Cahen’s writing best exemplifies the revisionist vacillation on this score. Because his work spans the greatest number of years, it also usefully registers shifts in categories and modes of analysis which have been attendant upon scholarly attempts, dating from the mid-1980s, to define and delimit the social base of domestically-rooted, anti-Frelimo political forces. Cahen’s point of departure is that the social roots of post-independence insurgency reside in the genesis and evolution of Frelimo itself.76 The defining moment in Frelimo’s pre-independence political trajectory in Cahen’s analysis, as in Frelimo official history, is the 1968–1969 crisis which beset the movement’s leadership over how to prosecute the armed struggle and how to administer the liberated zones. This crisis is depicted in Frelimo official history as a showdown between a bourgeois line and a proletarian line, from which the latter emerged as victor. The political triumph of the leadership’s radical wing, the story goes, owed in no small measure to the strong backing it received from the newly liberated peasant populations, themselves increasingly radicalized by the experience of armed struggle. Against this scenario, Cahen’s argues that the conflict pitted two distinct fractions of the racially subaltern petty bourgeoisie. On one side stood ruralbased, African commercial and entrepreneurial elites from the country’s central and northern regions. These elites were organically enmeshed in lineage and ethnic social relations – relations which underwrote their strategies of accumulation and personal aggrandizement. On the other side were congregated representatives of the urban salariat employed in the tertiary sector of the country’s southern regions, where the political center of the country was located: “the ‘nurses’ and ‘office employees’ turned soldiers.”77 Drawn from the mission-educated “assimilated and mestiço milieux,” this group represented “an ultra-minority fraction of the population.”78 The southerners were distinguished from their northern rivals by their pronounced disconnectedness from ethnic and lineage relations, their isolation from the sphere of production and exchange, and, as if by way of compensation, by a marked dependence on the colonial state for their ongoing
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social reproduction as a class fraction. It was precisely the detachment of “the bureaucratic fractions”79 from African particularisms, as well as from production and market relations in which these particularisms are embedded and reproduced, that provides the key to understanding their deep-seated aversion to sectional politics and their natural tilt towards territory-wide nationalism, universalistic ideologies and state-centric politics. Cahen explains this wing’s eventual embrace of a “profoundly Stalinized, post-Leninist Marxism”80 as the expression of these inherent predispositions in the overarching context of both Portuguese intransigence and Cold War geo-politics. The political ascendancy of the southerners represented, in his view, “the victory of the town over the countryside” and the point at which “anti-tribalism became not only the struggle against colonialist maneuvers, but also the negation of the existence of ethnic groups and lineage social relations in the heart of the peasantry, replaced wholesale by the struggle, factor of national unity.”81 Thereafter, Frelimo’s anti-tribalism and antiracism possessed “a double dimension: against discrimination but also against the very existence of different cultural communities.”82 In his more recent writing, Cahen attempts to extend Geffray’s thesis on the micro-politics of the conflict in the rural areas to the global antagonisms among various fractions of the African and mestiço petty bourgeoisie. Geffray argued that, in the hinterland, Renamo had succeeded in winning over, however temporarily, lineages and/or chieftaincies which had been marginalized first by the colonial state and, subsequently, by its postindependence successor. Significantly, these social groupings had lost out not only in absolute terms but also relative to their precolonial rivals, who had enjoyed state-conferred privileges and opportunities under colonial rule. In the course of pursuing this new research agenda, Cahen winds up redescribing the antagonists themselves. The defeated trading and farming fractions of the petty bourgeoisie now appear as the progeny of precolonial “Creole elites.” Cahen never lends any precision to the term “Creole” but it is a characteristic he accords to all fractions of the African and mestiço petty bourgeoisie and seems to designate cultural dispositions produced by prolonged and intensive exposure to foreign (e.g. European, Arabic and Asian) influences.83 The northern and central creole elites, Cahen argues, shared the common historical experience of being marginalized by two major twentieth-century developments. The first was colonial conquest and subjugation. The second was the soon-to-follow reorientation of the territory’s political economy away from the northern regions, through which had run the old ivory and slave trading routes, to the south, which became the geographic hub for servicing the “British hinterland” (e.g. Nyasaland, the Rhodesias and South Africa).84 The relocation of the country’s political center from Ilha de Moçambique to Lourenço Marques in 1902 epitomized and contributed to the fading fortunes of these previously powerful communities.85
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The creole elite from which the radical wing of the nationalist movement was drawn was born of the new political economy. Its defining features were the recency of its origins and thus its latecomer status in relation to its precolonial counterparts; the enormity of its indebtedness to the colonial state for both its birth and its ongoing social reproduction; and its genesis and development in new urban centers “created out of nothing” in the colony’s southern and central regions.86 This singularity was not lost on the older creole communities for which the very existence of their younger, more cosmopolitan competitor quickly came to symbolize the erosion of their own power and prestige in the twentieth century. Their antagonism to the “bureaucratic fractions” of the petty bourgeoisie was a natural extension of their already longstanding hostility toward the colonial state, whose formation and consolidation proved their own undoing. If, during the national liberation struggle, this hostility would find expression in the 1968–1969 political crisis, in the wake of independence it manifested itself in the indigenization of Renamo’s war and, in the post-vanguard period, in the formation of new political parties. Given Cahen’s insistence upon the rootlessness of the southern creole community and the centrality he assigns this attribute in understanding Frelimo’s eventual embrace of Stalinist socialism, it comes as something of a surprise to find repeated, if rather oblique, allusions to this group’s downward social referents, notably ethnic ones, throughout his work. In a typical aside, he argues that the southerners’ political ascendancy within Frelimo “also favored the Shangaan ethnicity of the south, where the capital and the core of the state apparatus are situated, but this is another story.”87 It is a story Cahen never gets around to telling and the reader is left in the dark as to whether the preferential treatment accorded to the Shangaans was merely situational, the unintended consequence of historical and geographical happenstance, or whether it was the outcome of a self-conscious strategy on the part of an ethnically-sighted, if not necessarily ethnically-identified, state executive. In another text, Cahen intimates that it was the latter and, furthermore, that Frelimo’s turn to ethnic politics, and the politics of clientelism in general, might have occurred even before the movement seized hold of the state apparatus.88 In any case, we are told that, certainly by the mid-1980s, the leadership had become acutely aware that differential access to the state apparatus had become a source of widespread grievance on the part of excluded or less privileged ethnic groups. By then, Cahen finds, Marxist discourse and Frelimo’s anti-tribalist diatribes had come to serve as a feint to distract attention from “Shangaan over-representation at all levels of State.”89 In yet another aside, Cahen speaks of “growing murmurs about the overwhelming predominance of ethnicities from the South in the State apparatus.”90 It is thus that we learn that the Shangaans were not the sole ethnic group to benefit from state-centered patron–client relations. In his later work, he declares his belief that ethnic tensions gave rise to much more than insistent and increasingly audible “murmurs”:
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the ethnic negation . . . was in my view an extremely important cause of the Mozambican civil war. But it would be completely false to say that the war was inter-ethnic . . . If Dhlakama hates the Frelimo state it is not only because he is Ndau and this state Shangaan or Chope, it is more because he is part of a small nuclei of elite from the center of the country that were always marginalized by the colonial state and afterwards by the independent state and hates the modern creolité (crioulidade) of Maputo.91 Here, as elsewhere, it is unclear whether post-independence ethnic assertions are to be understood as a response to Frelimo’s universalism or its pseudouniversalism – to its “violently anti-tribalist”92 ideal and its rigorous commitment to non-discriminatory policies and political practice or to its covert tribalism cunningly parading as anti-tribalism.93 How could a leadership which was determined to fashion, forcibly if necessary, the nation in its own “universalistic” image, which doggedly sought to impose a “uniformising oppression,” which enthusiastically embraced the Portuguese language “as a unifying force and destroyer of ethnic identity,”94 which had its own origins in the “old detribalized strata created by the colonizer”95 come to privilege the members of the ethnic groups which its own leading cadres were so thoroughly detribalized from, and to which they were, in Cahen’s retelling, only tenuously connected, if at all? Cahen’s narrative begs for questions such as this to be posed but only inadvertently and even in spite of itself. While his analysis makes allowance for Mozambicans to straddle or negotiate their way through ethnic boundaries,96 the line of demarcation between ethnicity and creolité appears to be much more rigid and seems to foreclose all possibility of movement from the latter identity back to the former.97 The reason Cahen is forced to relegate ethnic considerations to the status of a riveting but digressive subplot is that any serious attempt to integrate such considerations into his main story line would fundamentally alter the story itself, as well as the point of telling it. Specifically, it would, at the very least, substantially qualify his claims for a solid sociological basis for Frelimo’s allegedly strong affinity for Stalinist Marxism. For the tacit acknowledgment that the southern petty bourgeoisie was both attuned to ethnic politics and could artfully engage in them itself confers upon this class fraction a greater degree of connectedness, however circuitous, to the non-creole African majority and, in keeping with Cahen’s own logic, to the relations of production and exchange than his argument otherwise allows. And a weakened case for the southerners’ isolation and independence from the rest of the colonized population and, by extension, for their singularity in relation to other, rival “Creole elites” would, in turn, undercut Cahen’s central contention that Frelimo’s rootlessness was at the root of its inherent tendency to gravitate towards state socialism. In sum, the full integration of the ethnic story line into the revisionist analytic framework
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would compel a search for alternative explanations for this outcome. One would either have to find a different sociological basis for the “southerners’” turn to a “post-Leninist Marxism,” or to assign greater explanatory weight to structural and/or conjunctural factors, or to build a case for the primacy of politics. Cahen’s commitment to the exceptionality of the Frelimo leadership’s social character is maintained only at the expense of other analytic distortions. In particular, it is sustained by a highly truncated conception of class, one which is bereft of any sense of relationality between the “bureaucratic fractions” of the petty bourgeoisie and subaltern social groups in the country’s south.98 Noticeably absent is any appreciation that, as Lonsdale has pithily put it, “it is only within communities for whom some common history may be claimed that class formation can occur.”99 Cahen maintains that the southern elite was “a Creole formation of the 20th century entirely subordinated by the dynamics of modern Portuguese colonialism” and, moreover, that it was “totally constructed in the molds of the Portuguese bureaucratic State.”100 Nowhere, however, does he consider the stuff out of which this elite was molded – or the historical agency of the colonized populations in determining the contours of the mold itself. On the contrary, it is as though the colonial state blithely succeeded in executing the very exercise in unilateral class creation – to return to O’Meara’s formulation referred to in Chapter 1 – that the Frelimo state so wrongheadedly and fatefully imagined itself omnipotent enough to undertake. How else could it be that “the urban African elite had nothing on which to depend, no tradition”?101 Or that the “old detribalized strata” were “created,” seemingly single-handedly, “by the colonizer”?102 The tendency to reify class in Mozambique is reinforced by Cahen’s proclivity to depict the peasantry as encapsulated in an apparently unperturbed “domestic mode of production,”103 consisting of a series of contiguous, selfenclosed lineages, whose internal organization is designed to maximize the probability of ensuring their own social reproduction. It is perhaps with a view to sustaining this image that Cahen winds up misrepresenting Geffray’s work on the interaction of Frelimo’s agrarian policies with the internal dynamics of rural communities. He claims, for instance, that it was the newly dominant lineage’s monopoly of the local machinery of the party and consumer cooperative which provided an important impetus to less fortunate lineages to try “to break out of the orbit of the modern state.”104 As we have seen, it was not the dominant lineage itself which other lineages saw “clinging to the party”105 but rather the predominant element within it. While subaltern subjects within the “dominant lineage” were spared the trauma of displacement and, hence, retained their rights to land access, the worsening goods famine and Frelimo-mandated mechanisms of commodity distribution intensified their subordination and subjectification to the families of local notables in much the same manner as it did to members of newly subjugated lineages.
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It is important to emphasize that Cahen has written extensively and cogently on the history of working-class struggles.106 And he has carefully documented Frelimo’s attempt either to repress or coopt autonomous forms of labor organization in the first years of independence.107 Nonetheless, Cahen’s reliance on modes of production theory militates against an understanding of where the working class, as well as the petty bourgeoisie, sprang from.108 The second equivocation is over the precise nature and source of Frelimo’s much-remarked “insensitivity” to rural culture.109 The main argument in the revisionist literature is that the leadership, having no organic social connections to rural realities itself, was, quite simply, blind to them.110 However, one can also find within this literature, as well as in the work of authors who draw liberally on it, the working assumption that Frelimo chose to ignore, or was openly contemptuous of, these realities.111 In the first case, the leadership suffered from a kind of mental impairment which prevented it from understanding the varied social relations in which the vast majority of the population lived. In the second, no such handicap obtained. Rather, the country’s rulers, in full possession of their mental and physical faculties, chose to avert their gaze from the hinterland or to eliminate (by force, if necessary) from that gaze those features of the hinterland it deemed most objectionable and shameful. The third equivocation is a subset of the second. It is found in texts, or portions thereof, which take Frelimo’s blindness as given but which register a marked indecision as to the precise causes and nature of this condition. At stake here is whether the nationalist leaders bear some measure of responsibility for consciously inducing or cultivating their own inability to see. The overriding emphasis in the revisionist literature is that, both in its inception and in its formative stages, the leadership’s blindness was born of an honest and, under the circumstances, perfectly understandable, error. The liberated zones were the site of a “profound misunderstanding between the leaders and the rural populations that they had succeeded in mobilizing under their banner.”112 Specifically, the radical wing of the Frelimo leadership mistook peasant support and enthusiasm for the armed struggle, as well as its willing participation in collective forms of production in the liberated zones, as an incontrovertible sign of the peasantry’s will to socialist revolution. As a result of this fateful mistake, Frelimo began to fancy itself the vanguard of a revolutionary class alliance. The truth of the matter, the revisionists insist, was that peasant cooperation and collaboration during the liberation war were thoroughly bereft of an anti-capitalist, let alone a pro-socialist, impulse. Much like advocates of the dual economy thesis before them, the revisionists contend that the overriding priority of rural denizens was to throw off the yoke of colonial oppression while at the same time maintaining their own forms of social organization.113 And for the duration of the war, maintain their social organization they did, at least to a much greater degree than official history allows.
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The widespread euphoria which greeted Frelimo’s accession to power, combined with initial popular receptivity to its early appeals for rural collectivization, did nothing to dispel and, in fact, everything to reinforce Frelimo’s misinterpretation of peasant motivations and aspirations. Mozambique’s new rulers were fully convinced that, in cheerfully endorsing their authority, the rural populace was throwing its full weight behind their then rapidly crystallizing program for socialist transformation: After all, didn’t certain peasants engage in the construction of villages, carried by the great élan of confidence and popularity from which Frelimo benefited on the morrow of its victory? In town, many interpreted this remarkable popular receptivity to Frelimo’s discourse, this almost unanimous recognition of the integrity and authority of Machel and his party, as a conscious adherence of the peasantry to the content of its discourse, as a massive engagement of the rural populations on the road of a revolutionary transformation of social relations. This illusion, this mistaking of the motivations and the meaning of peasant recognition of Frelimo authority . . . confirmed for a while the credibility of a discourse on the “worker–peasant class alliance” in the name of which [state] power was convinced to be speaking.114 In short, in the immediate wake of independence the people’s “revolutionary essence was not called in question”115 and the illusory identity relation between leadership and mass was apparently confirmed. Elsewhere, however, there are broad hints in the revisionist literature that this presumed “essence” was not taken for granted even at the outset and that there was more than a touch of intentionality in Frelimo’s comprehensive erasure of the peasantry’s social existence. At one point, for instance, Geffray characterizes Frelimo’s stunning ignorance of rural social life as “self-willed.”116 In another text, Geffray accurately observes that the leadership didn’t try to promote the free expression of peasant “forms of social existence . . . not even to know the forces and interests in play – preferring to negate everything wholesale.”117 The clear implication here is that Frelimo was sufficiently cognizant of peasant social realities to be able to weigh carefully the potential risks and benefits of allowing these realities some scope, however contained and controlled, to find self-expression. In its own estimation, the risks outweighed the benefits, even when factoring in purely instrumentalist considerations. Hence, its collective preference for refraining from establishing any institutional arenas for such realities to assert themselves unfettered by official proscriptions and penalties, irrespective of the likely, known, attendant costs. All of this reinforces the impression that the leadership’s “ideological blindness”118 was in no small measure deliberately contrived and assiduously cultivated. The political possibilities opened up by the revisionist critique should, by now, be apparent. The second equivocation enables the Frelimo leadership to
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plausibly claim that its “insensitivity” to rural realities in the postindependence period flowed from its blindness to, rather than its contemptuous dismissal of, these realities. This, in effect, was the message conveyed by the above-referenced Central Committee Report to the Sixth Congress. The reason, the report found, that Frelimo had overestimated “the degree of collective consciousness of the popular masses” was because, after independence, the ruling party sought to generalize to the entire country the experiences and sentiments of the populations in the liberated zones, without taking into due account the economic and social complexity of the nation, the types of social relations, the dominant form of property relations, and the structural consequences of the colonial order.119 This admission repeats the revisionist claim that a “profound misunderstanding” regarding the revolutionary potential of the Mozambican peasantry was born in the liberated zones; however, it offers a very different interpretation of the kind of misunderstanding that occurred. If, according to the revisionists, Frelimo mistakenly read the cooperation of the rural populace in Cabo Delgado and Niassa as symptomatic of a general will, both in the affected areas and elsewhere, to socialist transformation, in the Central Committee’s retelling the problem lay in Frelimo’s erroneous assumption that the political inclinations of the peasants it encountered in the north were typical of the rural population as a whole. This version of events concedes that Frelimo overlooked regional variations that mark the smallholder population and, by extension, the possible political implications that flow from this.120 However, it does so in a manner that takes pains to preserve one of the central mythologies of the armed struggle. The third equivocation, in turn, allows the leadership to claim, with equal plausibility, that its blindness was involuntary and that, until c.1990, it was thoroughly clueless about the existence of its own condition. It could hardly be held accountable for an affliction not of its choosing and which, by its very nature, eluded early detection and treatment. Deriving maximum advantage from both equivocations, the leadership could “confess” that it had wrongly assumed that the peasantry was available for class-based politics and revolution but had now come to the realization that smallholders sorely lacked the requisite class status to engage in either activity. With the benefit of hindsight, it could claim to have arrived at the understanding that its counterpart in West Africa, the PAIGC, had reached way back in 1977: namely, that no political movement could plausibly claim to be a vanguard of a worker–peasant alliance, revolutionary or otherwise, because objective conditions in contemporary Mozambique, as in Guinea-Bissau two decades ago, ruled out the possibility of forming such an alliance in the first place – at least in the near term.
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The irony here is obvious. The revisionist critique allows the leadership to behave as though it had (mistakenly) seen classes in the rural areas when, as we have seen, the dual economy thesis which informed agrarian policy during the 1977–1983 period presupposed that the peasantry as a class did not, in fact, exist and, hence, could retreat at will into the splendid isolation of precapitalist, subsistence production. In short, the leadership could feign that it had been disabused of its former illusions when its belated “discovery” that the hinterland consists, not of classes, but of a series of discrete lineages and chieftaincies amounts to an affirmation of its original position. The first equivocation enables Frelimo’s leaders to “admit,” without risking excessive political fall-out, that its blindness was born of cultural alienation and even to go so far as to acknowledge candidly that this alienation, in turn, was born of social privilege. In doing so, it would neatly sidestep charges of tribally-rooted ethnic self-interestedness and/or favoritism. Moreover, this vacillation provides the leadership scope to boldly confess to the political pertinence of its own assimilated, petty-bourgeois status without fear of calling unwanted public attention to other horizontal social divides, most notably those associated with the relations of exploitation. That is because, in the revisionists’ scheme of things, the bureaucratic petty bourgeoisie, in its capacity as a class, or as a fraction of one, quite simply had no relationship, exploitative or otherwise, to the laboring classes to speak of. It is difficult to see how, starting from a position of near total blindness and lacking the requisite social ties to overcome this disability, the leadership could have come to establish and profit from regional and/or ethnic political identifications so rapidly in the post-independence period. Thus, while a central contention of the revisionists is that, through its control of the state apparatus, the party executive has managed to transform itself from a bureaucratic elite “entirely cut off from the means of production and exchange” into enterprising (if non-productive) accumulators,121 they notably fail to spell out when and how the leadership acquired the requisite sightedness to establish the necessary social relationships to power this transformation. A much more likely scenario has recently been proposed by Patrick Chabal – that Frelimo was “committed to supra-ethnic, non-racial politics” but “had clearly demarcated constituencies . . . which mattered more. In that sense, [it] faced the difficulty of balancing competing, or even conflicting, interests.”122 In a society otherwise vertically fractured along ethnic, cultural and/or regional lines, it would not take too much ingenuity or inventiveness to market a rootless creolité as an indispensable political asset. Such a promotional campaign could capitalize on the demonstrated failure of rival creole elites to transcend their own, more rooted, particularisms.123 It could derive additional political mileage from the fact that, as Cahen has astutely observed, the logic of structural adjustment has, certainly in the short run, sharply reduced the chances these elites have of transcending these particularisms anytime soon. If anything, austerity has forced Frelimo’s political
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challengers back onto local, sectional identities, which, under the circumstances, are the only politically serviceable resource readily at their disposal.124 Under the circumstances, it would fall well within the bounds of the possible for the Frelimo leadership to proclaim its unrivaled political legitimacy on the basis of its rigorously absolute non-representativeness.125 It could credibly claim itself to be the most suitable agent (now that it had somehow recovered its capacity to see) to build bridges – relations of “inter-culturality” as the former Minister of Culture, Luís Bernardo Honwana, has put it126 – among mutually rivalrous, often antagonistic, indigenous cultures which, history has amply shown, have proven to be a “centrifugal force,”127 exhibiting a pronounced proclivity, left to their own devices, to clash and collide. The slide into a classless cultural pluralism is facilitated by the fact that, in both Frelimo’s revolutionary classificatory schema and the revisionist critique, the petty bourgeoisie, or fractions thereof, is/are abstracted from the culturally-imbued, often ethnically-tinged, social relations which define the rest of the society and whose historical agency in its/their own formation and social reproduction is studiously denied. The judgment rendered by Frelimo sympathizers was, certainly in this respect, much harsher and effectively ruled out such maneuverings in advance. Marc Wuyts, for instance, maintained that Third Congress directives showed that “in actual practice the attitude towards the peasantry is at best ambiguous.”128 And John Saul concluded that Frelimo’s embrace of the dualist position signaled that the leadership was having “second thoughts about the revolutionary vocation of the peasantry.”129 In their eyes, the “myth of the self-sufficient peasant,” as William Finnegan described it,130 was a deliberate contrivance in the service of a national development strategy predicated on “primitive socialist accumulation,” rather than a symptom of the leadership’s cultural estrangement.
Conclusion This book has examined the genealogy of the myth of revolutionary rupture with a view to illuminating the mnemonic readjustments that have accompanied, sought to negotiate and contributed to the complicated political terrain that characterizes post-socialist Mozambique. To this end, it has probed the dissonance between the evolution of the central state’s relationship with rural political authority and various official and revisionist representations of that evolution, taking Nampula as its primary reference point. The inauguration of the institutions of popular power in Nampula during the first years of independence was not the seismic event the ruling regime made it out to be. Official proclamations trumpeting revolutionary triumph in transforming ruling relations in the outback presupposed that people who acted in the name of the Frelimo state had repudiated the “traditional-feudal
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society” from which they came and whose duty it was theirs to transform. Such pronouncements were part of a much broader effort in the first years of independence to establish the state as a juggernaut and, especially, as a revolutionizing one.131 They created the illusion that the greatest resistance to the Frelimo state’s interventions came from the people most attached to rural “obscurantism.” They also helped give rise to the extant perception that “the very thoroughness of FRELIMO’s centralising political reforms was to contribute directly to its rapid undoing”132 and that the social composition of state-sanctioned political institutions in the rural areas illustrated this. The recognition of chiefs qua chiefs in several districts in Nampula came in 1986 (in Eráti it came earlier). The state’s enlistment of former régulos to serve as “chiefs of production” was one element of a multi-pronged attempt on the part of the provincial government to reconstitute late colonial labor relations and settlement patterns and, in so doing, to forestall economic collapse. Officialdom’s refusal to acknowledge the role of wartime villagization in agricultural decline apparently confirmed one of the central tenets of the dual economy thesis: that, in the absence of force, smallholders could and would retreat from the market. It thus helped to justify the application of coercive measures to extract agricultural surpluses from small-scale producers, who were conveniently portrayed, with few exceptions, as subsistenceoriented agriculturalists. The appointment of former régulos as overseers of smallholder agricultural production bore testimony to the apparent vindication of the dualist position at least as much as it testified to the success of Renamo’s strategy of rural mobilization and Frelimo’s capitulation to Renamo on the question of traditional authority. The return to chiefly rule in Nampula came in the early 1990s. It was part and parcel of the ruling party’s attempt to meet a number of strategic objectives. These were to expand Frelimo’s social base in advance of the 1994 multiparty elections, to extend the state’s reach in preparation for postwar reconstruction, to cope with the dilemmas posed by the transition to political pluralism and to demonstrate to donors the sincerity of the leadership’s commitment to devolving power to local communities. The retraditionalization of local administration coincided with, and was justified in terms of, the advent of multipartyism. The move did not resolve longstanding conflicts over access to, and control over, labor, land and tribute. In many cases these conflicts were exacerbated as claims to title and territory proliferated. As a consequence, the crisis of state political legitimacy was not redressed. Although at least some chiefs had already resumed their colonial-era functions in the domain of agricultural production and although, from the mid-1980s, many had gained increasing prominence in the institutions of popular power, the return to indirect rule was portrayed in local official discourses as a volte face not only in state policy but in ruling institutional practice. This portrayal formed part of a general trend in state-based discourses
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toward excessively incriminating the ruling party’s detribalization policy – one of the hallmarks of the Mozambican revolution – for inducing the collapse of Frelimo’s socialist experiment and, more broadly, the unraveling of the country’s social fabric. The tendency to single out this “error” and to magnify its social, political and economic costs was especially pronounced in statist mnemonic practices concerning Nampula, where Renamo’s appeals to chiefs and chieftaincy are widely believed to have fallen on exceptionally fertile ground. But it also manifested itself in subtle ways with respect to the rural experience in socialist-era Mozambique as a whole. The cumulative effect was to package the political fall-out from the ruling party’s early agrarian policies and human rights infringements into a less damning form. In official discourses concerning Nampula, this strategy of containment frequently resulted in local Frelimo secretaries, the most politically vulnerable members of the party hierarchy, bearing the burden of blame for the totality of socioeconomic calamities and political crises that followed on state interventions in the rural areas. Statist mnemonic narratives and performance derived sustenance from the ruling party’s triumphalist claim in the late 1970s and early 1980s that Frelimo-installed rural institutions represented the negation of chieftaincy. Post-1990 official discourses and dramaturgy also took a page from revisionist critiques which foreground the ruling party’s hostility towards rural traditionalism in explaining the crisis of state legitimacy and the indigenization of Renamo’s war. If the revisionists have exaggerated the political effects of Renamo’s appeals to traditional institutions and values on the government’s own policies and practices, it is also the case that Nampula-based functionaries and officials in the early 1990s strongly tended to bend the stick too far in the other direction: their retrospectives frequently blotted out any trace of Renamo’s influence on state strategies of legitimization and control. Similar treatment was accorded Renamo in official pronouncements about, and documentation of, the trajectory of villagization in the province. In both instances, local state employees took their cue from the national leadership’s longstanding practice of “denying Renamo any legitimacy.”133 This meant, on the one hand, refusing to acknowledge that Renamo’s “successes” resulted from Frelimo’s own policies.134 On the other, it meant denying any connection whatsoever between these “successes” and shifts in official policy, practice or political orientation. The need to meet both objectives helps to explain the ruling party’s marked preference for portraying such shifts, as well as the political overhaul that began in the early 1990s, as the product of “a logical development of Frelimo’s self-critical and adaptive methodology.”135 The case of post-socialist Mozambique confirms the general proposition that memory discourses are path-dependent. It also demonstrates that, even within official circles, the paths forged may diverge in at least potentially
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discordant ways. This is the case even when the routes taken feed off one another and fall within the same broad legitimation profile. The national leadership tended to reduce the conflict with Renamo to its ideological essence and to disconnect it from the encounter/confrontation between Frelimo and the countryside it sought to transform. In the case of Nampula in the early 1990s, the attempt on the part of local state personnel to chronicle the province’s post-independence history, to contend with the history of earlier pronouncements by the state and party leadership and to respond to the exigencies of the present yielded an unexpected, counter-intuitive combination of “genre memories,”136 in which Renamo was often completely removed from the frame. In both cases, the overall result was at least partial depoliticization. Revisionist scholarship is intellectually disarmed in the face of Frelimo’s strategy of political re-legitimization because Cahen, Geffray and de Brito have, in spite of themselves and much like their intellectual antagonists, uncritically adopted officialdom’s own definition and delimitation of objects and relations of state rule. On the one hand, they have accepted at face value the presupposition that the Frelimo state and the “obscurantist” society it sought to eliminate were two mutually exclusive, antipathetic entities. Such a presupposition obfuscates the complexities of state formation in postindependence Mozambique and is at odds with the some of the pivotal findings of the revisionist school. On the other hand, revisionist scholars, like the Frelimo leadership, have tended to portray the postcolonial state as the exclusive stomping ground of a petty bourgeoisie/aspirant bourgeoisie that “lives out there in space,” as Machel once put it,137 divorced from the social relations that characterize the rest of society. The upshot has been to project an image of the state, whether conceived of as a “weak Leviathan” or as its much more menacing opposite, as suspended above the Mozambican polity.138 To deepen our understanding of the import and significance of the state’s “retreat to tradition,” I have proposed, as a first approach, viewing Frelimo’s early anti-obscurantism through the lens of its relationship to ruling party representations of “the class enemy.” “Traditional-feudal society” and its more sophisticated and much more elusive partner-in-crime were binary and contrastive social categories. Like the analytic categories of African socialist ideology that Frelimo’s Marxism had reputedly spurned, they were predicated on notions of indigeneity and foreignness.139 By extension, they expressed ruling ideas regarding forms of legitimate and illegitimate dissent. They were also tropes for visibility and invisibility and, as such, signaled varying degrees of danger to Frelimo’s revolutionary project and to that project’s midwife, the state. By the same token, the full ideological and political implications of the de-stigmatization of rural traditionalism and the return to rule by royals as royals in the 1990s can be plumbed more fruitfully when these developments are situated in juxtaposition to the rise and fall of the counter-revolutionary petty bourgeoisie – and, along with it, of class per se – in ruling discourse and political practice.
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Any analysis that seeks to explain Frelimo’s disinclination to meaningfully engage with its past by focusing single-mindedly on the dark side of the revolution will tell only part of the story. Ruling mnemonic practices in the post-socialist period have been governed to a significant – and maybe even equal – degree by the thoroughly justified anxiety apparently felt by senior Frelimo officials that exercises in public remembrance inherently pose the danger of highlighting the “pastness” of some of the most creditable aspects of the party’s track record and previous commitments.140 Frelimo’s fraught relationship to its record in power also testifies to the constraints imposed by the temporal displacements discussed in Chapter 5 – distortions which reduce the 1975–1992 period into an ellipsis. As a result, forms of mnemonic legitimation have been forced to lean even more heavily than they previously had on Frelimo’s pre-independence history – that is, the history of the armed struggle and the liberated zones – just as the party has been compelled to face head-on the challenge of inter-generational succession. Herein lie the aforementioned costs and complications of instrumentalization. Post-1990 forms of mnemonic legitimation, like the revolutionary-era charge of obscurantism that they refer back to, draw liberally from colonial discourses and neo-Weberian theories of modernization. In each of these cases, the logic at work is that, “since peasants are imprisoned by ‘the omnipotence of custom’ and incapable of conceiving of change, their social movements [or rural resistance, in general] . . . must in essence be reactionary, their goal the defence of traditional ways of life.”141 Post-socialist legitimation practices are also fully in keeping with, and have no doubt been informed by, “the growing cultural trend of performative guilt,” one which is international in scope. In opting to join this trend, government officials have signaled that “the egalitarianism of imperfection” extends to their corner of southeast Africa.142 Government admissions of guilt have been as truncated as they have been contestable. Revealingly, none of them has risen to the threshold of an apology. Nonetheless, on a continent whose postcolonial rulers have evinced a marked predilection for blaming the detrimental effects of their own flawed policies on external factors,143 the ritualization of public confession in the political arena is notable – even for a ruling party long renowned for using strategically-timed critical self-appraisals as a powerful legitimating device. This book has sought to shed light on the historically-grounded, locallyspecific dynamics that made the pursuit of a strategy of self-blame a viable option open to the leadership in the first place. It has also emphasized the importance of these internal dynamics in shaping the distinct form that strategy took. I have argued that the politics of acknowledgment were both enabled and molded by two conjoined beliefs that are widespread within and beyond ruling institutions in Mozambique: the belief that the powers of the Frelimo state rival, or even exceed, those of its predecessor; and the
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conviction that it was Frelimo’s refusal to leverage these powers, at least as much as its misuse and abuse of them, that helped precipitate the postcolonial crisis of authority. Both beliefs grossly overstate the potency of the postindependence state and, in many instances, erroneously presume that some of the major dislocations and stresses stemming from the collapse of the colonial administration constitute evidence of Frelimo’s might. Both beliefs, I have endeavored to show, turn on a paradox: namely, that the historical events that marked the first years of independence are, at one and the same time, indicative of Frelimo’s fierce determination to invert inherited hierarchies and of its equally unwavering anti-hierarchical orientation. Over the past two decades, the myth of revolutionary rupture has served as a powerful vehicle for expressing and sustaining the paradox that resides at the core of this particularly resonant “state-idea” in Mozambique. As long as it continues to serve in this manner, one imagines that Frelimo’s detribalization policy will retain its salience in mnemonic narratives and performance – for both those in and out of power – for some time to come.
Notes
Introduction: the making and unmaking of the Namapa Naparamas 1 “Spears against bazookas – the Baramas,” Mf, 178 (May 1991); Metselaar et al. (1994: 39n.20). For the relaxation on initial prohibitions against the use of firearms by Naparama initiates, see Wilson (1992b: 569). 2 Africa Watch (1992: 39); Nordstrom (1997: 58). For a discussion of local peace zones in wartime Mozambique, see ibid., pp. 100–1, 103, 147–51 and Wilson (1992b: 554–66). 3 Hanlon (1996: 93). 4 Shorthand for the Resistência Nacional Moçambicana, the Portuguese translation of the army’s original name. 5 Hall (1990: 60). 6 Richards (1998: 3); Newitt (2002: 212). 7 Mamdani (2004). 8 Fauvet (1984); Hanlon (1986: 139); Hall and Young (1997: 120). 9 Bell with Ntsebeza (2003: 244). 10 Minter (1994: 116). 11 Davies et al. (1984: 45–7); Hanlon (1986: 14–16). For other forms of South African destabilization, see ibid., pp. 134–9 and COCAMO (1988b: 2–3). For conflicting positions regarding the existence of economic destabilization by South Africa before 1980, see Hanlon (1986: 134–5) and Hall and Young (1997: 113–14). 12 Minter (1994: 40–1, 44); Hall and Young (1997: 125–8); Harrison (1996: 23). 13 Johnson and Martin (1988: 31–4); Vines (1991: 24–5); Minter (1994: 46–7). 14 Finnegan (1992: 59). About 4,000 Renamo fighters took advantage of the amnesty program. While estimates of Renamo’s troop strength in the late 1980s vary widely (cf. ibid., p. 67), 20,537 Renamo soldiers were demobilized in the wake of the 1992 peace accord. For a discussion of the factors that deterred more Renamo guerrillas from participating in the amnesty program, see Minter (1994: 181). 15 Hanlon (1991: 38); United Nations (1995: 12). 16 See especially Wilson (1992b) and Nordstrom (1997: 57–61). 17 “Recuperation” was the government’s term for the process of transferring Renamo detainees to government-controlled areas. 18 Wilson (1992b: 564, 570, 574); Africa Watch (1992: 58–9; 79–80); Maccari and Mazzola (1992: 96–101). See also Nordstrom (1997: 61, 92–5). In Namapa, the vaccine cost anywhere between US$1.75 to US$3.50 in 1991 – fairly hefty sums given that, according to official estimates, per capita income was about US$99 that year. Interviews, Naparamas, Machicane (Mashikane,
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25 26 27 28
29 30 31 32 33
34 35 36 37 38 39
Notes Massicane), 28/8/94; Chief Comala, Napai, 7/10/94; Appendix three in Hanlon (1996: 161). Africa Watch (1992: 39–40, 128–30); Wilson (1992b: 575–80); Lester (1992: 29); Fauvet (1992: 31). Africa Watch (1992: 40, 130); Maccari and Mazzola (1992: 99–100); Paróquia do Alua, “Vamos comer . . . algodão?” Vida Nova, Janeiro 1993; Jane Perlez, “A Mozambique formally at peace is bled by hunger and brutality,” The New York Times, 13/10/94; interviews, “animators,” Alua Center, 16/6/94; elders and traditional authorities, “Zagaia” (“Azagaia”; Renamo’s name for its headquarters in Metage), Alua Administrative Post, 24/9/94. “Further mutinies and rioting,” Mf, 218 (September 1994), pp. 10–11. Ibid.; Carlos Coelho, “ ‘Naparamas’ cortam ligação entre Nampula and Cabo Delgado,” Notícias, 19/8/94. Ibid. Unless otherwise stated, the discussion which follows draws on informal conversations with missionaries based in Namapa and Alua and the following interviews: Naparamas, Namirôa Center, 20/8/94; Naparamas, Muanona Center, 23/8/94; former residents of 25 de Junho Communal Village, 25 de Junho Communal Village, 27/8/94; Chief Muhula, Namirôa Center, 28/8/94; Naparamas, Machicane, 28/8/94; and Chief Comala, Napai, 7/10/94. Zinco had reportedly learned how to make and administer the vaccine from a former Frelimo combatant from the liberation war. Metselaar et al. (1994: 39n.22). Africa Watch (1992: 40, 130), which refers to the Lalaua elder as “Cinco”; interview, elders and traditional authorities, “Zagaia,” Alua Administrative Post, 24/9/94. Personal communications, shop-owner and missionaries, Alua Center and Namapa Center, September 1994; interviews, Naparama major, Namapa Center, 29/8/94 (interview conducted by Pedro Cavala); Chief Comala, Napai, 7/10/94. Coelho, “ ‘Naparamas’ cortam . . .” I have positioned the punctuation marks as they appear in the text itself, which makes it unclear where the source’s own words begin. For more on allegedly copy-cat Naparamas, see Wilson (1992b: 573). Metselaar et al. (1994: 39n.22). See, for instance, Dinerman (1998: 8). Wilson (2001: 112). Ibid., p. 112 and p. xv, respectively. As this book goes to press, Frelimo has won Mozambique’s third general elections, held in December 2004, by a wide margin. The ruling party’s presidential candidate, Armando Guebuza, captured almost 64 percent of the vote while Renamo leader Afonso Dhlakama got less than half of that (31.7 percent). Frelimo also secured 160 seats in the 250-seat national parliament, seventy more than Renamo, which claimed majorities in only two out of the country’s eleven provinces, down from six in 1999. For Mozambicans’ “hushed discomfort with talking about the war,” see Hayner (2002: 201; 186–95). But see also Barahona de Brito et al. (2001: 9). Tutu (1999: 58, 235–6, 239); Wilson (2001: 24, 67). See, for instance, Manning (2002: 52). See, for instance, Minter (1994: 231). Manning (2002: 214). For an early instance of this tendency in the government-aligned press, see “Jamais esquerecei a noite de 26 para 27 de Outubro,” Notícias, 13/12/94. For parallels in contemporary Spanish politics, see Aguilar (2002: 65, 138, 209–210, 268).
Notes 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47
48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64
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Mamdani (2001: 32). Mamdani (1996: 136). Ibid., pp. 130–5. See, for instance, Kruks and Wisner (1984: 27). Isaacman and Isaacman (1983:130). For a comparison of first- and second-wave socialism, see Rosberg and Callaghy (1979). See, inter alia, ibid.; Young (1982: esp. chs 2 and 3); Hanlon (1984: 34); Saul (1985b: 16–17, 27–8); Saul (1985d: 137–8). The phrase was first enunciated by Amílcar Cabral, the legendary leader of the nationalist movement that fought a contemporaneous guerrilla war to liberate Guinea-Bissau and Cape Verde from Portuguese rule. Cabral was murdered by African agents of the Portuguese in 1973. His teachings were highly influential among other liberation movements in Africa and beyond. For a lessthan-glowing assessment of this particular notion, see White (1985: 331). Unless otherwise indicated, this paragraph is based on the discussion in Young (1982: 99–100). Howe (1994: 32). For a less harsh assessment, see Young (1982: 180–2). Ibid., p. 89. See, for instance, Hanlon (1984: ch. 4) and Saul (1985c: 48–61). Casal (1991: 47). Hanlon (1984: 28). Cahen (1988b; 1993); Saad Filho (1997); Manning (2002); Newitt (2002: 189). For a revisionist analysis that explicitly eschews ethnic explanations, see Brito (1991: esp. chs 2 and 3). See especially Brito (1988; 1991: chs 2–4); and Casal (1991). Ibid., p. 48. See, for instance, Egerö (1990: 183–5). O’Meara (1991: 91–2) makes a similar argument. The term and the criteria used to measure it are from Chabal (2002: 8–12). Unless otherwise stated, the following discussion is based on his analysis. Under the Armed Forces Movement, which took power in April 1974, the Portuguese would eventually yield to all of these demands. See, for instance, Hall and Young (1997: 42–3). Newitt (2002: 207). Chabal (2002: 18). Young (1982: 142, 145–6). The 1979 population census registered less than 800,000 people. Galli and Jones (1987: xiii). Chabal (1992: 78). The coup, motivated in part by ethnic tensions, put paid to the PAIGC’s vision of maintaining a bi-territorial nation–state consisting of Cape Verde and the mainland and led to the creation of the PAICV (African Party for the Independence of Cape Verde), which became the ruling party in the archipelago. Young (1982: 145–8); Chabal (2002: 53, 70). See, for instance, Minter (1994: 28–32, 39–40) and Birmingham (2002: 145–55). The joint South African-Unita military offensive began a pattern of external intervention and civil war that continued until the end of the Cold War. Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, civil war continued to plague Angola on and off until the death of Unita leader, Jonas Savimbi, at the hands of MPLA troops in 2002. Minter (1994: 40). Ibid., p. 42. Young (1982: 96). On the persistence of poverty, see, for instance, Ratilal (2002: 262) and passim. On the widening of socio-economic inequalities, see Hanlon (2002: Part I, 2)
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71 72 73 74
75 76 77 78 79
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86
Notes and “Report shows sharp drop in illiteracy,” Mf, 313 (August 2002), which notes that the most salient distinction between regions is that between the capital city, Maputo, and the rest of the country. See also O’Laughlin (2002: 529, 529n.71). On tendencies toward the “criminalization” of the Mozambican state, see, inter alia, Hanlon (2001a; 2001b); and Gastrow and Mosse (2002). On tendencies in this direction throughout the continent, see Bayart et al. (1999a). The quote is from Ellis (1998: 295). On Renamo’s evolution, see Manning (2002). The results of the 2004 elections may augur a shift in this regard. See note 33 above. Isaacman and Isaacman (1983: 100, 103–5, 171–2). Frelimo also received financial and humanitarian assistance from the Scandinavian countries, as well as religious groups and solidarity organizations in Western Europe and the United States. On Frelimo’s relationship with the USSR and other socialist countries during this period, see Isaacman and Isaacman (1983: 181–4); Hanlon (1984: 235–6); and O’Meara (1991: 82, 95). Cf. Mondlane, as cited in Saul (1983: x), who echoes this view. The term is Chabal’s (2002: 24). Pitcher (2002). The extent to which these critiques mislead in this manner is at times exaggerated by her. For instance, the point that many privately-owned companies were never nationalized (ibid., pp. 43, 79) was made long ago by Hanlon (1984: 77; 1996: 76), a leading proponent of the recolonization thesis. Pitcher (2002: 237) and passim. Metselaar et al. (1994: 38–40); Newitt (1995: 573). Bayart (1993: 150–79). Roberts (2000: 517). For a discussion of this phenomenon in other historical contexts, see LaCapra (1998: ch. 3; 2001: 171–2). Obviously, memory screens can work in a variety of manners, sometimes at the same time. In the case of French historical scholarship, for instance, the same “event,” namely Vichy, has served both as a screen and as a screened object. LaCapra (1998: 22). For a variation on this theme, see Krzysztof Pomian’s formulation, as cited in Rousso (1991: 5). “Definitive census results: 17 million people in Mozambique,” Mf, 280 (November 1999), p. 4. The plane crashed in October 1986 just inside South Africa. Machel was returning from a summit meeting of the Frontline States, a six-state regional grouping committed to liberating the sub-continent from apartheid. Cf. Munslow (1987c: 200–8). “Keeping Samora’s legacy alive,” Mf, 327 (October 2003). Machado da Graça, “10 anos sem Samora,” Savana, 23/2/96. See LaCapra (1998: 20–1) and Hynes (1999: 206–7), respectively. The transgenerational transmission of “primary memory” has been denoted by many other terms, including “postmemory,” “historical memory,” “inherited memory,” “loaned memory.” Cf. Hirsch (1997); Aguilar (2002: 6–7, 13). I prefer “vicarious memory” because it evokes the imaginary aspects that are intrinsic to the transmission process. However, it is highly likely that the phenomenon of postmemory, as defined by Marianne Hirsch (1997: 22), will assert itself in Mozambique, assuming it hasn’t already. The following discussion is based on Manning (2002: 54, 124, 135) and “Shakeup in Frelimo secretariat,” Mf, 229 (August 1995). The need for generational replacement has been driven home by the deaths of liberation war heroes, such as Sebastião Marcos Mabote, Fernando Matavele and Oswaldo Tazama.
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87 Manning (2002: 54). 88 “Chissano will not run for office again,” Mf, 299 (June 2001), p. 4. 89 “Frelimo’s Eighth Congress: Guebuza confirmed as successor,” Mf, 312 (July 2002). 90 “Luisa Diogo appointed Prime Minister,” Mozambique News Agency, AIM Reports, 270, 18/2/04. 91 Winter and Sivan (1999c: 6). Compare to Corney (2003). 92 See, for instance, Nora (1989). 93 Huyssen (2000: 23). 94 Olick (1998a: 380). The special issue of Social Science History, devoted to the theme “Memory and the Nation,” has recently been released as an edited collection which contains additional contributions. See Olick (2003a). 95 E.g. as a compensatory reflex in the face of “the deritualization of our world,” as a symptom of a general retreat from the politics of transformation, as a displacement of our fear of the future, and, perhaps most perspicaciously, as a response to “a slow but palpable transformation of temporality in our lives, centrally brought on by the complex intersections of technological change, mass media, and new patterns of consumption, work, and global mobility.” For the first two theses, see Nora (1989: 12) and passim and Maier (1993), respectively. The latter two are examined in Huyssen (2000), who argues for the primacy of the fourth explanation. Ibid., p. 31. 96 Ibid., pp. 25, 37, 38. 97 Ibid., pp. 25–6. 98 Ibid., p. 23. 99 See, for instance, the assessment of former US Deputy Assistant Secretary of State for Africa Roy Stacy, as cited in COCAMO (1988b: 5). 100 Barkan (2000: 110). See also Lazare (2004), especially pp. 5–16. 101 Henry Rousso, as cited in Feld (2000: 32). See also Hamilton (1998) in this regard. 102 O’Meara (1991: 90–4). 103 Roberts (2000: 516). 104 LaCapra (1998: 1). 105 Jelin (2003: 46). 106 Huyssen (2000: 26). 107 See, for instance, LaCapra (1998: 19–20). 108 Aguilar (2002: 14–17). Also referred to as “instrumentalism” and “essentialism,” respectively. 109 Olick (1998b: 568) and passim. For a counter-factual case, see Barkan (2000: xxi, ch. 4). 110 I follow Olick (1998b: 550) and use the term to refer to a “relatively coherent yet dynamic” representational system that solidifies over time and consists of “a variety of legitimacy claims, issue cultures, discursive styles, images of the past, Feindbilder (enemy images), and the like . . .” 111 Rousso (1991: 11); LaCapra (1998; 2001). 112 For instances of this mode of leveling, see Finnegan (1992: 8) and “Book reviews,” MPPB, AWEPA, 22 (April 1999). 113 Hanlon (1991: 5). The one official entity set up to investigate the apartheid past, the TRC, has itself been accused of deploying leveling modes of contextualization. Specifically, the TRC’s formal condemnation of all violence as equally abhorrent has left the commission open to the charge of “equating the violence of resistance with the violence of oppression” in a manner that “cut[s] the moral high ground from under the liberation forces . . .” and assists in normalizing the history of apartheid. Bell with Ntsebeza (2003: 286). See also Wilson (2001: 102–4, 111–14) In its final report the TRC found that,
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126
Notes although the liberation forces fought a “just war” against apartheid, “unjust means were sometimes used by liberation cadres.” Ibid., p. 103. O’Meara (1991: 102). Minter (1994: 8). Howe (1994: 30). Manning (2002: 16). Cf. Chapter 1 below. At the war’s end, the Mozambican government owed Russia US$850 million in military debt. Alden (2001: 90). Minter (1994: 284). Newitt (2002: 215). Chabal (2002: 119). Minter (1994: 283) and passim. Compare to Chabal (1992: 189). Minter (1994: 285). Minter hypothesizes that, had Mozambique not been subject to foreign destabilization, the country today might well look much like Tanzania, where political disillusionment is widespread but there have been no violent challenges to the long reigning regime. However, it goes without saying that Mozambique is not Tanzania, not only by virtue of geographical-historical destiny but also by virtue of the Frelimo leadership’s political choices. LaCapra (1998: 54).
1 Myth as a “meaning-making device” in post-independence Mozambique 1 Ferguson (1999: 23). 2 Renan (1990). 3 Lonsdale (1992a: 265). 4 In view of the analytic vacuity and slipperiness of terms such as “public” or “collective” memory (Winter and Sivan 1999b: 1; 1999c: 9), I hereafter opt for a vocabulary that foregrounds this study’s focus on “actors and actions” (1999c: 9). 5 See, for instance, O’Laughlin (1996: 16; 2000: 6, 27–9). 6 Brito (1991: 321). 7 As O’Laughlin (2000: 28) herself notes. See also Berry (2001: 79–80) and Wilson (2001: 198). 8 It thus provided a model of sorts for other guerrilla organizations, such as Charles Taylor’s National Patriotic Front of Liberia, seeking to terrorize civilian populations. Cf. Richards (1998: 3). 9 J.J. McCuen, as cited in Ellis (1998: 265). In this passage, McCuen was referring specifically to how an incumbent regime can defeat a revolutionary guerrilla insurgency; however, the same logic applies to low-intensity destabilization against a self-styled revolutionary state. See, for instance, Saul (1990a: 76–9). 10 Geffray (1991). Aspects of Geffray’s argument are echoed in Clarence-Smith (1989a); West and Myers (1992: 5); Alden and Simpson (1993: 123); Zartman (1995: 7); and Schutz (1995: 117), among others. 11 Baptista Lundin (1992; 1993). For the case that this policy shift is called for on pragmatic grounds, see Finnegan (1992: 242–3). 12 Roesch (1992a). 13 O’Laughlin (2000: 37). 14 Roesch (1988a: 85). 15 Roesch (1989: 11; 1992a); Saul (1993: 151, 157–8). 16 On the general tendency within Africanist scholarship to treat the relations
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31 32 33 34 35
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between states and chiefs as a “zero-sum game,” see Dijk and Rouveroy van Nieuwaal (1999: 9). Much the same type of reasoning has been used to explain the rise of ethnic nationalisms throughout the continent. See, for instance, Zartman (1995: 1). Other parallels are reviewed below and in Chapter 3. The manner in which Vail and White (1980: 328) characterize the subtle manipulation of verb tenses in Machel’s speeches. See also Abrahamsson and Nilsson (1994: 45, 46n.79). Berman and Lonsdale (1992b: 5). For instances of, or references to, the insertion of traditional hierarchies in post-independence institutions, see O’Laughlin (1992a: 31); Geffray and Pedersen (1985); Casal (1988: 176–7); Centro de Estudos Africanos (hereafter, CEA) (1986); Littlejohn (n.d.); Wilson (1992a: 5); Tanner et al. (1993: 29, 44–5); Marshall and Roesch (1993: 257–61); Arnfred (1990: 78); Metselaar et al. (1994: 15); Minter (1994: 251); Alexander (1994: 48–51); McGregor (1998: 42); Pitcher (1998: 129); West and Kloeck-Jenson (1999: 476–7); Harrison (2000: 117); Dinerman (2001: 23–39); Schafer and Bell (2002: 406); and Manning (2002: 64). The list is long. It is also growing. In contrast, counter-factual case studies feature mainly by their virtual absence. For instances of continuities in class (as well as gender and generational) relations within these institutions, see, inter alia, Harris (1980); Hermele (1988a); Littlejohn (n.d.); CEA (1986); Marshall and Roesch (1993); Myers and West (1993); O’Laughlin (1996: 24–5; 2000: 36–7, 38–9); and Bowen (2000, esp. chs 4 and 5). For similar processes in an urban setting, see Grest (1995). The approach taken by smallholders to colonial and postcolonial socio-political institutions throughout sub-Saharan Africa. See, for instance, Berry (1989). Rathbone (2000: 34). Mamdani (1996: 187–9, 297; 2000: 45). Ferguson (1999: 85). Ibid., p. 14. O’Laughlin (1992a: 32). Artigo 8. For the law’s understanding of the meaning of “traditional authority,” see RM, “Glossário de termos técnico-jurídicos empregues no quadro institucional dos distritos municipais (Lei 3/94, de 13 de Setembro).” RM, Boletim da República, primeiro série, 37, segundo suplemento, 13 de Setembro de 1994, Lei no. 3/94, Artigo 9. Alexander (1997: 17). In the event, some 75 percent of the population continues to be governed at the local level by an appointed administrator. For more recent developments, see, inter alia, “New law planned for districts” and “New decree recognises ‘traditional chiefs’ ” both in MPPB, AWEPA, 25 (August 2000); “Government rejects increased local power,” MPoPB, AWEPA, 28 (1 November 2002); Weimar (2002: 71–3) and passim; and “Calm opening to Assembly sitting,” Mf, 321 (April 2003), p. 11. See O’Laughlin’s (1996) and Bowen’s (2000: 209–10) critique of the historical analysis and policy recommendations of researchers associated with the Land Tenure Center at the University of Wisconsin. Van Kessel and Oomen (1997: 570); Van Kessel (2000: 42–3, 83–4). See also O’Laughlin (1996: 4). The quotation is from Saul (1999: 62). Hanlon (1984); Saul (1985a; 1993); Minter (1994). Attributes which, as we have seen, they have convincingly argued predated independence and thus the advent of South African destabilization. See, inter alia, Brito (1988; 1991); Cahen (1987; 1988a; 1988b; 1989; 1990; 1993); Meillassoux et al. (1990); Casal (1991); and Geffray (1988; 1991).
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36 Hanlon (1991: 5). Obviously, Renamo’s systematic destruction of the country’s schools and health clinics paved the way for the onset of this brand of amnesia. Bragança and Depelchin (1986: 31). 37 Machado da Graça, “10 anos sem Samora,” Savana, 23/2/96. See also “Savana ‘entrevista’ Samora Machel,” Savana, 19/7/96 and “Ten years without Samora,” Mf, 242 (September 1996). 38 For recent Africanist scholarship which has exposed the limits of ideological processes of invention, see Moore and Vaughan (1994) and Hamilton (1998). 39 Minter (1994: 239). See also p. 208. 40 For a classic statement with respect to worker consent to capitalist social relations of production, see Abercrombie et al. (1980). For a critique, see Eagleton (1991: 35–7). 41 Feierman (1990: 32). 42 See, for instance, Meillassoux et al. (1990: 27). 43 Cf. Harrison (2000: 88). 44 See, for instance, Nordstrom (1997: 55); West and Kloeck-Jenson (1999: 460); and Manning (2002: 65). 45 See, for instance, the sources cited in note 20 above and Chapter 3 below. 46 Cf. West and Kloeck-Jenson (1999: 460–1). Perhaps in good measure because it “tapped into broader currents of thinking,” much as Robert Kaplan’s (1994) highly influential and controversial article on “the coming anarchy” did. Cf. Richards (1998: xv). 47 Interview, Maputo, 22/12/94. The party invited Geffray to conduct research in Namapa and Nacarôa districts in 1988 at Cabaço’s behest. The primary motive was to find out if there was a social basis for the war, as Geffray had suggested there might soon be in his earlier work prior to the war’s outbreak in the area. Geffray and Pedersen (1985); Geffray and Pederson (1986). During Geffray’s field research in 1988, the party provided him with vital logistical support, official protection, and access to documentary materials, former Renamo captives and amnestied Renamo soldiers. Cf. O’Laughlin (1992b: 112). According to Cabaço, when he distributed copies of the manuscript of La Cause to the Mozambican cabinet (Council of Ministers) to discuss, no one evinced any interest in reading it. 48 A dynamic that Chabal (1996: 46) has dubbed “the Caliban syndrome.” For Frelimo’s adroitness in this regard, see Alden (2001: 111). 49 See, for instance, Grest (1995). For evidence that these goals have not been met with respect to district development planning and an analysis of why, see Bornstein (2000: 243–64). 50 For the argument that Western donors were thinking along these lines, see West and Kloeck-Jenson (1999: 461). 51 Pitcher (2002: 150). 52 Alden (2001: 90, 93, 94); Hall and Young (1997: 231). 53 See, for instance, Alden (2001: 108). 54 The donors in question, in their turn, reportedly viewed such a concession as the necessary price Frelimo should pay for forestalling some sort of powersharing solution. Cf. West and Kloeck-Jenson (1999: 461). 55 West and Kloeck-Jenson (1999: 462); Harrison (2002: 117–21, 123–4); Chapter 5 below. 56 West and Kloeck-Jenson (1999: 462–3). 57 For a discussion of the pressures and constraints on career-minded African bureaucrats, see Feierman (1990: 23–4). 58 Although dissenting party members no longer had to defend these decisions as their own. “Frelimo publishes draft statutes,” Mf, 180 (July 1991), p. 15; “Frelimo Sixth Congress,” Mf, 182 (September 1991), p. 6. It is true that, at
Notes
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65 66 67 68
69 70 71 72 73 74 75
76
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independence, the Frelimo leadership was home to diverse currents of political opinion. According to O’Laughlin (2000: 26), the ideological mix included “African socialism, social democracy, Maoism and pro-Soviet Communism.” See also Chabal (2002: 62). However, it is also the case that open political debate regarding questions of Marxist doctrine or non-Marxist versus Marxist ideological orientation was actively discouraged and suppressed. Under the circumstances, political differences manifested themselves elliptically in the form of disputes over the direction and pace of “development,” particularly in the rural areas. Brito (1991: 200ff.). See also Saul (1990a: 58). For steps towards internal democratization in the postwar period, see “Candidates register, campaign starts,” Mf, 280 (November 1999), p. 9. Cf. Manning (2002: 198). See also Serra (1999b: 120–7, 132). Alexander (1994: 35–6); O’Laughlin (1996); West and Kloeck-Jenson (1999: 473–6). Ibid., pp. 473–4; Harrison (2002: 122–5). A post he held until a new government was formed after the second general elections in 1999. Moore and Vaughan (1994: xxii). The classic case is, of course, the invention of “tradition” and ethnicity in colonial Africa. See, in particular, Ranger (1983); Chanock (1985); Vail (1989); and Berry (1992). The terms are Lonsdale’s (1992a: 265) and Sunseri’s (2000: 567), respectively. Invoking Sunseri’s terminology here is especially apt given the parallels between his case study of statist narratives of Tanzanian history and the present monograph. One parallel is the presupposition of a potent state (whether conceived in genocidal, revolutionary or nationalist terms) and of rural subjects as hapless and bereft of agency. See O’Laughlin (1996: 2) and Sunseri (2000: 573), respectively. The terms are drawn from Beck (2001: 611), who deploys a similar logic with respect to Mouride marabouts in Senegal as the one applied here. Roesch (1989/1990: 22). Hall and Young (1997: 181) echo this argument. For these arguments, see Roesch (1989/1990: 22) and Hall and Young (1997: 181). I base this assessment on the research findings of scholars whose field investigations were more or less contemporaneous with my own, e.g. Harrison (1996); Alexander (1997); McGregor (1998); West (1998) in the provinces of Cabo Delgado, Maputo and Manica and on the state of play in official dealings with rural political authority in seven of Mozambique’s rural provinces in the 1995–97 period, as reported by West and Kloeck-Jenson (1999: 464–8). Ibid., pp. 466–9. “Government rejects increased local power,” MPoPB, AWEPA, 28 (1 November 2002), p. 8. See also “Donors lose interest” in this same issue. Manicom (1992: 455). Abrams (1988: 76). See ibid., pp. 71, 82. Abrams (1988: 82, 63–4). Bragança and Depelchin (1986: 40, 44). See also O’Laughlin (1996: 3). According to Bragança and Depelchin (1986: 40–1), Frelimo’s early, rather benign, conception of the state co-existed with the understanding, articulated by Machel, that government employees were deeply enmeshed in the social relations that constituted the wider society and that such ties heavily influenced their behavior on the job. This inconsistency is one reason I do not share the view that Frelimo’s socialist project was ideologically coherent. Cf. O’Laughlin (2000: 26). Mbembe (2001: 105).
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77 In the context of Southern African historiography, I have found Manicom’s review article (1992) particularly illuminating in this regard. 78 Originally FRELIMO, Front for the Liberation of Mozambique. Following the transformation of the front into a vanguard party in 1977, the name became Frelimo. For the sake of convenience, I use the latter form throughout the present text. 79 Isaacman and Isaacman (1983: 173); O’Meara (1991: 82–3, 89). 80 Since renamed the ZANU (PF), the Zimbabwe African National Union (Patriotic Front). The other movement was the Zimbabwe African’s People’s Union (ZAPU), which used Zambia as a rear base. 81 This often overlooked point is made by White (1985: 330). 82 For general descriptions of the disruptions caused by decolonization, see Hanlon (1984: 38, 46–9); Saul (1985c: 63–4); and Pinsky (1985: 284–5). See also Chapter 3 below. 83 Wuyts (1978: 30). 84 First (1983: 189–90); Raikes (1984: 96); West and Myers (1996: 31). 85 On this arrangement, which began during the colonial period and ended in 1978, and the revenue it generated, see First (1983: 189–91); Hanlon (1984: 51); and Roesch (1988a: 75). 86 Hanlon (1984: 46, 75–6, 100). 87 In Frelimo political parlance, an “orientation” is, in principle, a guideline emanating from higher government authorities. In practice, it is synonymous with directive. 88 Isaacman and Isaacman (1983: 116–20); Hanlon (1984: 49–50); Pinsky (1985: 288–90); Egerö (1990: 132). For the composition of the GDs, see Munslow (1983: 151). For a geography of the liberation war, see Hall and Young (1997: 14–35). 89 Hanlon (1984: 73, 95, 103). “Family farmers,” a term carried over from the colonial period, denotes smallholders who do not use wage labor in their farming operations – although, during peak agricultural periods, they may rely on extra-familial labor remunerated in payments-in-kind – and produce primarily to meet their subsistence needs. In both colonial and postindependence official classificatory schemes, the “family sector” is contrasted to “private sector” farming – that is, to capitalist farmers who own factors of production such as tractors and other mechanized equipment, employ wage labor and market a significant portion of their harvests. Hanlon (ibid.: 183); Bowen (1989: 358); Tanner et al. (1993: 25, 45–7). The distinction between the two sectors is arbitrary and hides both the fluidity and important socioeconomic ties between the two farming types. Ibid. 90 Egerö (1990: 35–6). For Frelimo’s vision of communal villages, see, inter alia, Hanlon (1984: 98–9) and Roesch (1984: 294–5). 91 For discussions of OMM, see Urdang (1985; 1989); and Sheldon (1994: 43–9). On the OJM and OTM, see Egerö (1990: 111, 138–41). 92 Ibid., p. 122. For the differences in election procedures at the provincial and national levels, see ibid. 93 Sachs and Honwana (1990: 74–5). The switch to community courts came in 1992. KARIBU, Nampula et al. (1994: 26). 94 Hanlon (1984: 95); Wuyts (1978: 6, 8). The figures are from 1970. 95 Hanlon (1984: 84–5, 95) and ibid., Appendix 4, p. 275. 96 Hermele (1990a: 40–1); Saul (1985d: 113–14). 97 Wuyts (1985: 187); Deere (1986: 131). 98 See, inter alia, CEA (1980: 64); Roesch (1984: 301–2, 310); Wardman (1985); and Dolny (1985: 237–8) and passim. 99 Casal (1988: 165).
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100 Hanlon (1984: 110). 101 O’Laughlin (1981: 15–16). 102 Raikes (1984: 106–7); Hanlon (1984: 111–13); Casal (1988: 169–71); Brito (1991: 299–300). 103 Figures for these falls range widely. Compare, for instance, Table 1 in CEA (1981: 58); Table 2 in Hermele (1990a: 11); and Table 4.4 in Hall and Young (1997: 108). All three sources report falls of well over 50 percent for both crops between 1973 and 1979–80. 104 Hanlon (1984: 101); EIU, Country Profile: Mozambique, 1986–87, The Economist Publications, London, p. 26; Myers and West (1993: 8). 105 Hanlon (1984: 79, 87, 128); Araújo (1985: 156–7); Roesch (1988a: 76). 106 Egerö (1990: 114–15, 117–18, 121–2, 125, 127–9, 133–4). 107 Brito (1988); O’Meara (1991: 89). 108 Egerö (1990: 117–18) and passim. 109 This emphasis is most explicitly expressed in the charter of democratic mass organizations (FRELIMO [1978: 41]) but is also discernible with respect to the functioning of the other institutions of popular power and was especially apparent in the run-up to and during the Fourth Party Congress. For a description of the pre-congress preparations and the congress itself, see Hanlon (1984: 3–4, 105, 146, 204–5, 250–1) and Saul (1985d: 92–5, 111–13, 124–5). 110 The argument made by Miliband (1977: 149–50) with respect to Maoism. 111 Barker (1985: 331–3); Cliff et al. (1986: 14, 16); COCAMO (1988d: 2–4). 112 Marshall (1985: 170–1, 174–6, 188–9). 113 For the definition of “private farmers,” see note 89 above. 114 Hanlon (1984: 101); Saul (1985d: 94–5, 112–13); Roesch (1986; 1988a: 78–9); Egerö (1990: 105–7). 115 Hanlon (1984: 102–3); Roesch (1986; 1988a: 79–81). 116 Hanlon (1984: 113–14, 118–19, 209, 264); Urdang (1989: 27); Tanner et al. (1993: 35); Myers and West (1993: 21, 63–5). 117 Hanlon (1984: 251); Wuyts (1985: 204). See also Myers and West (1993: 9). 118 Davies (1991: 4). 119 Hall and Young (1997: 129). 120 Hanlon (1986: 146); Green et al. (1987: 18); Gersony (1988); COCAMO (1988b: 3, 5); Magaia (1988); Vines (1991: 89–91) and passim; Africa Watch (1992: 43–56, 122, 129); Wilson (1992b: 531–8, 577–8). 121 Hanlon (1986: 143–4); Africa Watch (1992: 102). 122 The preceding two paragraphs are based on Hanlon (1986: 141); COCAMO (1988b: 3); Hall (1990: 52–3); Vines (1991: 90); Africa Watch (1992: 65) and passim; Wilson (1992b); and Hall and Young (1997: 129–30, 168–9). For an important counter-factual case study, see Schafer (2001). 123 Hall (1990: 43); Vines (1991: 77); Manning (1998: 180). 124 Hall and Young (1997: 136, 176–7). 125 Roesch (1989: 10; 1992a: 27–8; 1992b: 476); Geffray (1991); Vines (1991: 93); Wilson (1992a: 3). 126 The Renamo leadership, however, forbade efforts by its soldiers to propitiate their own household spirits. Such forms of religious observance, which were widespread, took place on the sly. Schafer (2001: 228). 127 Vines (1991: 109, 111–19); Roesch (1992b: 476–9); Wilson (1992b: 540–8); Hall and Young (1997: 177–80). With respect to religious beliefs and practices Renamo’s tactics closely paralleled those of other insurgent movements in independent Africa. See Clapham (1998b: 12). 128 Hanlon (1984: 228–9); Minter (1989b: 8); Roesch (1989/1990; 1992a: 10; 1994: 19); Hall (1990: 48); Geffray (1991); Vines (1991: 113); Wilson
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142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156
Notes (1992a: 5); Metselaar et al. (1994: 39, 39–40n.23). On the divided response of curandeiros to Renamo, see Nordstrom (1997: 55). Hanlon (1984: 231; 1986: 142); Roesch (1989/1990: 20; 1992a: 27–8); Geffray (1991); Vines (1991: 115–16). For an apparent exception, see Roesch (1992b: 468). Hanlon (1984: 231; 1986: 142); Geffray and Pedersen (1985); Geffray and Pederson (1986); CEA (1986); Casal (1988). For a different assessment, see Morier-Genoud (2002: 129). The characterization was codified in the 1930 Colonial Act. Hedges (1985: 10). Ibid., pp. 7–15; Mondlane (1983: 58–75); Minter (1994: 253). Ibid., pp. 253–4; Morier-Genoud (1996: 2). See also António Cadavez, “Arcebispo de Nampula ao EXPRESSO: ‘Criou-se um vazio que os novos valores não conseguiram preencher’,” Expresso (Lisbon), 31/8/85. The government’s pledge, in 1988, to return all church property marked something of a watershed here. Morier-Genoud (1996: 3). Vines (1991: 105); Minter (1994: 253–4). Morier-Genoud (2002: 130). Hanlon (1986: 142); Vines (1991: 93); Manning (1998: 186–7). Hanlon (1984: 228). For conditions at these camps, see Cadavez, “Arcebispo de Nampula . . .” Geffray (1991: 71–9); Hanlon (1984: 229; 1986: 141); Roesch (1992b: 477–8); Wilson (1992b: 536). For a counter-factual case study, see Schafer (2001). Schafer’s research, conducted in Manica Province, corroborates the argument that dismal job prospects in the local or wider economy were a critical feature of the overall context in which some of these inductees, most of whom were forcibly recruited, acquired a “lukewarm acceptance” of life with Renamo. Ibid., pp. 224, 229. Geffray (1991: 25, 59–62); O’Laughlin (1996); Schafer (2001). Hanlon (1984: 244–8, 262–3); Africa Watch (1992: 28–9, 139). See Brito (1991: 250n.30). Ibid., pp. 240–50; O’Meara (1991: 98–9); Africa Watch (1992: 67–70); Urdang (1989: 187–99). Hall and Young (1997: 169–70, 172); Hanlon (1986: 141); Minter (1989b: 5); Vines (1991: 95–6); Africa Watch (1992: 95–8). At the war’s end, Renamo demobilized more than 2,000 child soldiers. Hanlon (1996: 18). For an exception to this, see Schafer (2001: 224–5). Minter (1989b: 3–7; 1994: 174–6, 179–83); Geffray (1991: 69–70); Vines (1991: 95–6); Hall and Young (1997: 169–71); Manning (1998). For other control mechanisms, see Roesch (1989/1990: 21). Gersony (1988: 11, 25); Roesch (1989/1990: 21–2); Geffray (1991: 119–22); Vines (1991: 94); Africa Watch (1992: 37); McGregor (1998: 50). Minter (1994: 60, 239–40); Hanlon (1984: 231); Darch (1989: 45); Roesch (1989: 10–11; 1989/1990: 22); Saul (1990a: 92); Vines (1991: 94–5). Contra Clarence-Smith (1989b). See Minter (1994: 172) and passim and Hall and Young (1997: 167–8, 168n.10). For this and other violations, see Johnson and Martin (1988: 31–4); Vines (1991: 24–5); and Minter (1994: 46–7). See also Vines (1991: 25, 30–1) and Minter (1994: 136–8). Vines (1991: 25, 27, 31, 62, 67, 87–90); Minter (1994: 137–8); Hall and Young (1997: 165–8); McGregor (1998: 51–6). Gersony (1988: 11). Ibid., pp. 10–21. Hall and Young (1997: 167, 167–8n.9); Fauvet (1989: 27); Vines (1991:
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160 161 162 163 164
165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177
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91–3); Geffray (1991: 9, 81–112); Roesch (1992b: 477); Africa Watch (1992: 124–8); Minter (1994: 206–17). For qualifications to Gersony’s generalizations, see Vines (1991: 91, 114–15); Wilson (1992a); McGregor (1998: 48–51); and Schafer (2001). None of these sources challenge Gersony’s characterization of Renamo as a violent, parasitical and coercive movement. Minter (1994: 206–17) provides a careful review of the available evidence. For the ecological and topographical inhospitability of the south, see Manning (1998: 168). Minter (1994: 136). Hanlon (1986: 146–9); Gifford (1988: 79–82); Nesbitt (1988; 1991: 75–82); Diamond (1989: 197–200); Eddie Koch, “Renamo’s secret SA bases,” Weekly Mail, 6 (9) 16–22/3/90; Nilsson (1990); Vines (1991: 31–60, 67–8); Minter (1994: 127, 136–8). For an analysis of the relationship between SADF and private South African support for Renamo, see ibid., pp. 134–8 and Ellis (1998). Wilson (2001: 79) aptly characterizes the networks of support that became increasingly important in the run-up to majority rule as “officialinformal” groupings. COCAMO (1988b: 6; 1988c: 6; 1988d: 5; 1988e: 1–2); Green et al. (1987: 20, 31). Gersony (1988: 25). Marshall (1990: 35); Table 1 in Cliff et al. (1986: 9). COCAMO (1988b: 6). Unless otherwise stated, the following two paragraphs are based on Manning (1998: 176–87).The initiative also entailed asserting the primacy of the internal movement over Renamo’s divided and self-destructive external wing. Ibid., pp. 180–2. Vines (1991: 121–8). Manning (2002: 118). United Nations (1995: 61, 64). On Renamo’s electoral support, see Manning (1998: 176–87). On its political and administrative capacity in the 1992–1994 period, see Alexander (1997: 13–15) and Cahen (1997: 74). For more recent developments on the electoral front, see note 33 of the Introduction above. Davies (1991: 5). Africa Watch (1992: 1, 56–9, 85–6, 116–18) and passim. See also Gersony (1988: 21–4). Roesch (1989); Marshall and Roesch (1993: 268); Hermele (1990a: 42). Cf. Vines (1991: 78). Saul (1993; 1994a: 5). Cahen (1988b: 4). Minter (1994: 87); Marshall (1985: 159). Brito (1991: 78–9); Minter (1994: 87–8). A representative sampling of the main players in the first group includes Egerö (1990); Hanlon (1984); Isaacman and Isaacman (1983); Munslow (1983); O’Meara (1991); Roesch (1988a; 1988b); and Saul (1985d; 1985e; 1990a: ch. 2; 1990b). The second group’s position is outlined in Brito (1988; 1991); Cahen (1987; 1988a; 1988b; 1989); Casal (1991); and Geffray (1988; 1991). Criticisms of the first group have also come from writers who defy easy classification, e.g. Adam (1991); Bragança and Depelchin (1986); Penvenne (1985); and White (1985). Criticisms have come mainly from Minter (1989a; 1994: 207–9, 256n.17); Saul (1990b: 20; 1994b: 28); Adam (1991); O’Meara (1991: 84–5, 102–3); O’Laughlin (1992a; 1992b; 1995; 1996: 1–3, 18–19 and passim; 2000); Alexander (1994: 34–6, 48–9); Dinerman (1994); Manning (1998: 171,
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179 180 181 182 183
184 185 186
187 188 189
190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203
204 205 206
Notes 173–4); Pitcher (1998: 131–2); and Bowen (2000: 14–16, 46–8, 96–102, 168, 207). O’Laughlin (1996; 2000). For an eloquent statement of these points, see Minter (1994). Alexander (1994). See also Minter (1994: 251). The discussion which follows draws on O’Laughlin (1981). As João dos Santos Ferreira, a Frelimo leader who, in 1983, became the Minister of Agriculture, put it. As cited by Brito (1991: 254). The dual economy thesis is outlined by leading party theoretician Marcelino dos Santos (1973: 28–9). As de Brito (1991: 202–3n.37) argues, his was, in fact, an advanced understanding relative to the one that informed the work of the National Planning Commission during its first years of operation. For the institutional expression of the dualist perspective in state planning agencies, see Dolny (1985: 213–14) and Brito (1991: 204–5). For the theoretical underpinnings, see Saul (1990a: 21–2). O’Meara (1991: 83). See also Saad Filho (1997: 199–200). Wuyts (1985: 192); Raikes (1984: 99). Brito (1991: 201). For the argument that elements within Frelimo supported these findings and recommendations, see O’Laughlin (2000: 26n.80). However, judging from the results, it is clear that the CEA’s supporters within the party leadership were systematically overruled. Hanlon (1984: 262–4; 1986: 142); Hall (1990: 55–8); Geffray (1991); Roesch (1989; 1992a; 1992b). Cahen (1988b); Brito (1991); Geffray (1991). Significantly, however, de Brito, unlike Cahen, does not consider ethnicity to be a significant political determinant. The ethnic question is only one point of difference between de Brito and Cahen. Compare, for instance, their divergent treatment of the social composition of the leadership and base of the anti“southerner” coalition. Brito (1991: 112, 125) and Chapter 8 below. After independence, Lourenço Marques was renamed Maputo. A term de Brito frames in scare quotes. Brito (1991: 111–12). Ibid., p. 311. See ibid., p. 165 and p. 255, respectively. Ibid., p. 313. Ibid., p. 186. Ibid., pp. 158–9. For a more detailed description of Frelimo’s relationship to traditional authorities in the liberated zones, one which qualifies de Brito’s version of events, see West (1998: 149–54). Brito (1991: 321). Ibid., p. 189. Geffray (1991: 20–1). O’Laughlin (1981); CEA (1986: 5). Baptista Lundin (1993: 22). See also Geffray (1991: 19, 53) and passim. For a critique, see O’Laughlin (1995). The charge of urban bias in this instance, as in others, “is at the very least a rough and potentially misleading proxy for the fundamental inequalities of wealth and power that do exist.” Cooper (1993: 199n.10). Brito (1991: 203). See Kruks and Wisner (1984: 27) and Isaacman and Isaacman (1983: 154), respectively. Hyden (1980). Many leading Africanists, representing a wide range of political perspectives, have recently emphasized the degree to which the state in Africa has become indigenized and have explored the social, political and
Notes
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223
224 225 226 227
228 229 230 231 232 233
303
economic processes that have produced and reproduced this outcome. See, inter alia, Berman and Lonsdale (1992a); Bayart (1993); Mamdani (1996); and Mbembe (2001). Ottaway (1988: 222). A similar argument, from a different political perspective, is made by Minter (1994: 250). Saul (1993: 150). Much as Africans throughout the continent experienced the imposition of formal colonial rule. See, for instance, Chanock (1985: 12–13, 15). Ibid., p. 15. Wuyts (1985: 203). Hanlon (1984: 182–3). O’Laughlin (1996: 19) and passim. For a similarly circuitous approach to studying the history of “the family” in Malawi, see Vaughan (1983: 281–3). With colonialism conceived of as the bearer of capitalism. For a critique of this conception, see Ranger (1978: 102). These themes are ubiquitous but see, in particular, Machel (1980a; 1980b). Ottaway and Ottaway (1981: 77–8); O’Meara (1991: 92). Machel (1980b: 92–3). Hanlon (1984: 203). Ibid., p. 185. Saul (1985d: 93–4). For factors that may have contributed to Frelimo’s distorted understanding of social relations in rural Mozambique, see, among others, Vail and White (1980: 398–9); White (1985: 330); O’Meara (1991: 92); and O’Laughlin (1996: 34). First (1983: 128–33); Hanlon (1984: 180–1); O’Meara (1991: 92). Although there is general agreement on this point, analysts differ in their estimation of the extent to which Frelimo was exercised about an emergent kulak class and its subversive potential. Compare, for instance, Hanlon (1984: 180) and O’Meara (1991: 92) to O’Laughlin (1996: 16; 2000: 27). O’Laughlin (ibid., pp. 38–9) emphasizes what Frelimo underestimated – namely, the political influence of better-off smallholders, who were able to dominate the leadership of producer cooperatives, “turning their hold on offices to their advantage.” See also Saad Filho (1997: 202–3) and Bowen (2000). Frelimo also seriously underestimated the heterogeneity of rural livelihoods. O’Laughlin (1996). As cited in Brito (1991: 240). Saul (1985d: 93). Hanlon (1984: 180). Ottaway and Ottaway (1981: 78–9); Hanlon (1984: 185–7); Hall and Young (1997: 66–7, 74–5). For a glimpse at pictorial representations of the class enemy, see Isaacman and Isaacman (1983: 114) and Egerö (1990: 140). As Bragança and Depelchin (1986: 41) have pointed out, even the term “infiltration” reflects Frelimo’s propensity to theorize the “enemy” in individual rather than in sociological terms. See, for instance, Van Kessel (2000: 63–5) and Pool (1998: 20–1) for the cases of the United Democratic Front in South Africa and the Eritrean People’s Liberation Front in pre-1991 Ethiopia, respectively. For an alternative reading, see Alpers (1994). Casal (1991: 70–5); Young (1988: 179–80); Cahen (1988b: 5–6). See also Saul (1985d: 102). Geffray (1987a: 21–2; 1988: 78, 78n.3). Machel (1981: 195–6). Ibid., p. 194.
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234 Ibid., p. 199. For similar formulations, see Machel (1975: 48). 235 The remarks made by Machel in 1976, as cited in Saul (1985b: 16–17), are illustrative in this regard. 236 West (1998: 152). 237 Cited in Bragança and Wallerstein (1982: 120). For similar formulations, see Mondlane (1983: 164–5). 238 Brito (1991: 158–9). See also the pronouncement the previous year by Frelimo’s official mouthpiece, Mozambique Revolution, as cited in Munslow (1983: 106). 239 With the onset of Renamo’s war, the charge of obscurantism tended to shade over into, and become indistinguishable from, the “subversion.” See Geffray (1988: 78n.3). 240 For the discursive constitution of underdeveloped societies as an object and a target of outside development interventions, see Ferguson (1990). 241 The following discussion draws on CEA (1986). The CEA’s findings were subsequently published in Egerö (1990: 143–69). 242 CEA (1986: 5). 243 Ibid., p. 28. 244 Ibid., p. 18. 245 Ibid., p. 20. 246 Ibid., p. 25. In fact, in officially-recognized villages, “councils of elders” continued to hold de facto political power and were regularly consulted by local executive councils and courts. Egerö (1990: 160). 247 CEA (1986: 20). 248 Saad Filho (1997: 205, 214n.25). 249 As variously expressed in Geffray (1991: 54); Baptista Lundin (1993: 13); and Alexander (1994: 49). 250 Hall (1990: 47). A similar argument has been made by Newitt (2002: 200) with respect to the politicization of regional and ethnic identifications. 251 Reno (1998). 252 Ibid. The quote is from Bayart et al. (1999b: 9). 253 The term is Bayart’s (1993: 20–32) and passim. 254 Reno (1998: 8). 255 Bayart (1999: 114). 256 Hanlon (2001b); Gastrow and Mosse (2002); Ellis (1999: 63–5); Hibou (1999: 84). Many trafficking operations are a legacy of South Africa’s “total strategy,” having served as conduits for the funneling of covert supplies to South African-sponsored surrogate forces destabilizing the region. Ellis (1998). As Ellis points out elsewhere (1994: 63–4), the ivory and rhino-horn trades, which had previously been an important spur to the growth of the underground economy, had diminished markedly by 1993 due to the temporary global ban on ivory products and stepped up law enforcement. 257 Such destruction, Reno shows, has been undertaken by warlord rulers with a view to ridding themselves of longstanding but financially and politically onerous patronage networks that are no longer sustainable in the post-Cold War period and, at the same time, to ensuring their internal rivals are unable to avail themselves of a potentially politically influential and profitable institutional base. The strategy enables warlord rulers “to use global recognition of sovereignty to serve their own private interests.” Reno (1998: 9). 258 Ibid., pp. 70–2. 259 On this dynamic, see, for instance, Hibou (1999: 96). 260 See Bayart et al. (1999b: 20, 26) for the first and third labels. See Zartman (1995) for the second. For the limits of criminalizing tendencies, as they played themselves out in Mozambique and elsewhere through the 1990s, see
Notes
261 262 263 264 265
266 267 268
269 270 271
272 273 274 275 276 277 278
279 280
305
Bayart et al. (1999b: 26) and passim. On the analytic distortions that arise from lumping Mozambique, Angola and Guinea Bissau under the generic label of collapsed states, see Allen (1995: 314–15). Roesch (1989/1990: 22); Hall and Young (1997: 181). Table 1 in Wuyts (1978: 34); O’Laughlin (1996: 36n.15). Table 2 and Table 3 in CEA (1981: 60–4). O’Laughlin (1996: 36n.15). United Nations Operation in Mozambique, Office for Humanitarian Assistance Coordination (1994: 33); United Nations (1995: 64). Maputo City is also a province. The 1997 national population census estimated the total population was just under 16.1 million and Nampula’s population was about 2,975,700 (according to adjusted figures, it was about 3,074,956). Zambézia’s population had, by that time, overtaken Nampula’s by a slim margin. On Portugal’s counter-insurgency strategy in Nampula, see CEA (1981: 15–16); Henriksen (1983: 79, 159); Branquinho, “Prospecção . . .”; and Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 59–60). White (1985: 329); Roesch (1989/1990: 22). See also Vail and White (1980: 392). According to the 1997 population census, 26.3 percent of the total population speaks Makua (Emakhuwa) and 7.9 percent speaks Lomwé (Elomue) as their first language. It estimated that 90 percent of the population in Nampula speaks Makua as their maternal tongue. Henriksen (1983: 79, 159); Roesch (1989/1990: 22). White (1985: 329). Minter (1994: 103); Roesch (1989/1990: 22); Hall (1990: 55); Conceição (1993: 234–5). Starting from the mid-1980s, growing numbers of MakuaLomwé-speakers gained appointments as district administrators in Nampula. Dinerman (1998: 61n.196). At the same time, regional representation became more even at the level of the national state and party leadership. See Minter (1994: 103). Nonetheless, political liberalization has also brought to the fore tensions within Frelimo regarding Makua representation within party structures. Manning (2002: 134). Conceição (1993: 229–33, 236, 266); Ivala (1993: 59–63); Penvenne (1996: 456, 456n.144). By the early 1980s Frelimo had adopted a more evenhanded historiographical approach. Ibid. For more recent developments, see note 33 of the Introduction. On this issue, see Cahen (1987: 62–70) and Minter (1994: 249–50). Geffray (1991). Dinerman (1994). See, inter alia, Faria Lobo (1962); Gray (1980); CEA (1980); Conceição (1984); Geffray (1984; 1985; 1987a); Geffray and Pedersen (1985); and Geffray and Pederson (1986). United Nations Operation in Mozambique, Office for Humanitarian Assistance Coordination (1994: 33). The 1997 national census came up with significantly different numbers. District residents, it found, accounted for only 7.1 percent of the provincial population. That would put the Namapan population at under 220,000. The 1980 census registered 290,000 residents in Eráti District. Geffray (1987a: 38n.1). Namapa’s agricultural and demographic importance has made it a focal point of government initiatives aimed at reviving rural economic activity starting from the mid-1980s. Quadro VII in Brito (1995: 497); Anexo 1 in Tollenaere (2002: 248). On the politics of splitting the vote in 1994, see ibid., p. 234 and Alden (2001: 64–5). Newitt (2002: 213, 217, 220).
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281 Alexander (1994: 36, 57) and passim; West (1998: 157–60). 282 Bayart (1993: ch. 3, 176–9), among others, has argued against the existence of either a bourgeoisie, in the classical sense, or of a “dominant class” within the African context. 283 On the lack of an explicitly ethnic consciousness among the Makua-Lomwé, see Henriksen (1983: 79); Mbwiliza (1991: 50); and Minter (1994: 85–6); see also Geffray (1987a: 32–33n.1). On the instability of the meaning of “Makua,” see Conceição (1993: 263n.3). 284 Minter (1994: ch. 4) reviews evidence of the historical basis for the emergence of ethno-regional distinctions and the politicization of these distinctions during the colonial and post-independence periods. For studies of assimilado identity during the colonial period, see Penvenne (1989; 1996). 285 Specialists in particular may wish to note that I do not take up the question of precolonial “historic oppositions” within Eráti/Namapa, hostilities which Geffray (1991: 25, 59–62) argued influenced the local dynamics of the war. A possible alternative interpretation of these same occurrences is suggested by Minter (1994: 208). On the instability of the term “Macuane,” see Geffray (1991: 25n.16). Both the Eráti and the Macuane, however defined, fall into the Makua-Lomwé ethno-linguistic cluster. 286 Rathbone (2000: 4). 287 See, inter alia, ibid.; Alexander (1996); Maxwell (1999); Rouveroy van Nieuwaal and Dijk (1999); Vaughan (2000); and Berry (2001) for recent scholarship probing these themes. 288 See, for instance, West and Kloeck-Jenson (1999) and Harrison (2002). Cabaço, the former Minister of Information, also emphasized this point. Interview, Maputo, 22/12/94. 289 According to the 1997 population census, 23.8 percent of the population is Catholic and 17.8 percent is Muslim. Morier-Genoud (2002: 142) puts the latter figure at “at least 20%.” In Nampula, Islam is the leading faith, accounting for 39.7 percent of the provincial population, according to official figures. Catholics account for 27.3 percent of all Nampulans. For a detailed study of the history of Islamic communities on the littoral of Cabo Delgado, which takes the story into the early post-independence period, see Conceição (1993). The complex interconnections between rural political authority and religious hierarchies beg for investigation, especially in view of the politicization of religion in general (and of Islam in particular) attendant upon political liberalization in the 1990s. Cf. Morier-Genoud (2002). On wartime and postwar social, spiritual and psychological healing and the pivotal role of curandeiros in this, see, inter alia, Nordstrom (1997); Honwana (1998); and Baptista Lundin et al. (2000: 197–200). On sorcery and witchcraft accusations in post-independence Mozambique, see Alexander (1995: 58–61) and West (1997). 290 Mbembe (2001: 32). Or what Chabal (1992: 232) conceptualizes as the colonization of the state by “civil society.” 2 Aspects of precolonial and colonial Nampula 1 The following two paragraphs are based on Mbwiliza (1991: 1–37) unless otherwise stated. 2 Newitt (1995: 119). In 1902, Lourenço Marques was designated as the colony’s capital. 3 Isaacman and Isaacman (1983: 19); Hall and Young (1997: 2). 4 Departamento de História, Universidade Eduardo Mondlane (UEM) (1988: 100–1); Mbwiliza (1991: 40–4).
Notes 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17
18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25
26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38
307
Ibid., pp. 84–94, 105–6, 120; Newitt (1995: 270). Departamento de História, UEM (1988: 102). Newitt (1995: 270); Mbwiliza (1991: 87–8). Ibid., p. 105. See also Medeiros (1988: 45–6). Pitcher (1991: 50). On the uses of slave labor at the end of the nineteenth century in the Nampulan hinterland, see Mbwiliza (1991: 112–13). A state of affairs that he contrasts with that prevailing on the littoral. Ibid., pp. 105, 120–1. See especially da Conceição (1984: 12). See also Geffray (1984; 1987b). Mbwiliza (1991: xii, 37, 66–74). Ibid., p. 143. Ibid., p. 128; Geffray (1984: 20–5, 27, 34–5); Brito João (1993: 179–80). René Pélissier, has questioned whether these groups were the descendants of the Nguni who fled Zululand during the mfecane. Ibid., p. 179. Mbwiliza (1991: 24, ch. 4, 108); Geffray (1984: 30). Geffray (1984: 28–31). For other meanings of the term “epotha,” see Geffray (1987b: 51n.4). The following two paragraphs draw on Geffray (1984: 7–8). Ibid., pp. 9–14; Geffray (1987b: 45). According to Geffray, this could take anywhere between four and six generations. See ibid., p. 46 and Geffray (1984: 14) for different estimates. For qualifications to his argument, see ibid., pp. 10, 14. Conceição (1984: 11–13). Gray (1980: 69–72). See also Ivala (1993: 28–9, 41). Conceição (1984: 16–17). West (1998: 167). Pockets of armed resistance continued into the early 1920s, however. Mondlane (1983: 27). Conceição (1984: 82–4); Geffray (1984: 4); Gerard (1941: 15). Duffy (1959: 281–3, 290–1); Borges Coelho (1993: 114–15); Newitt (1995: 383, 388); Penvenne (1995: 1, 4, 65, 67–8). Conceição (1984: 36–9). A.E. Pinto Correia, Província do Niassa, Inspecção dos Serviços Administrativos e dos Negócios Indígenas, Relatório e documentos referentes à Inspecção ordinária feita na Província do Niassa, 1938–1940, Vol. 1, p. 69, AHM, ISANI, Cx. 94; A. E. Pinto Correia, Colónia de Moçambique, Província do Niassa, Inspecção dos Serviços Administrativos e dos Negócios Indígenas, Relatório da Inspecção ordinária às circunscrições do Distrito de Moçambique, 1936–37, Vol. 1, pp. 41, 160, AHM, ISANI, Cx. 76. Ibid., p. 41; Almeida (1957a: 73); Isaacman (1985: 32); Borges Coelho (1993: 116–17). Pinto Correia, Colónia de Moçambique, Província do Niassa, Inspecção dos Serviços Administrativos e dos Negócios Indígenas, Relatório da Inspecção . . ., 1936–37, Vol. 1, p. 42. Vail and White (1980: 307–8); Brito João (1989: 154); Hedges (1993: 98–9). Newitt (1995: 449); Vail and White (1980: 245–6). Hedges (1993: 85–6). Ibid., 183–6; Vail and White (1980: 308). Ibid., pp. 302, 307; Duffy (1959: 280). For similar ploys, see ibid., pp. 279–80 and Pereira (1986: 212–14). Vail and White (1980: 307). See, for instance, Coissoró (1964: 73). Brito João (1989: 110); Isaacman (1992b: 493). Wuyts (1980: 14–18); Isaacman and Isaacman (1983: 39). Isaacman (1992b: 493). Vail and White (1978: 257–62); Hedges (1993: 93).
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39 Vail and White (1978: 252–3); Isaacman (1992b: 493–5, 498–501). 40 Ibid., pp. 501–5 and pp. 516–17. 41 The following discussion is based on Isaacman (1985: 22–39) and Isaacman (1992b: 514–16) unless otherwise stated. 42 For other beneficiaries, see O’Laughlin (2002: 520). 43 Isaacman (1992b: 498); Hedges (1993: 92). 44 Table A4 in Pitcher (1993: 283). 45 Hedges (1993: 153–6); Isaacman (1992a: 827; 1996: 150–70); Geffray (1985: 14n.2). 46 Hedges (1993: 136). 47 Isaacman (1996:114). 48 Pitcher (1993:129); Hedges (1993: 104); Isaacman (1996:117). 49 Fortuna (1993: 144–7); Isaacman (1996: 116–17). 50 Isaacman (1992b: 507–8; 1996: 105–13); Hedges (1993: 90–1); Fortuna (1993: 134–5, 135n.117). 51 Ibid., p. 149; Geffray (1985: 20). 52 Ibid., pp. 13–14; Isaacman (1996: 150–63; 166–70). 53 Hedges (1993: 93–5, 130–1); Pitcher (1993: 131–5, 191); Isaacman (1996: 124–5). 54 Pitcher (1993: 124, 126, 137, 179–80, 187–90). 55 Vail and White (1980: 280, 282); Hedges (1993: 95–7). For additional measures taken at this time, see ibid. That the circular brazenly contravened 1930 legislation which, among other things, explicitly proscribed “forced labour for private purposes,” was, in the Governor-General’s eyes, clearly besides the point. White (1985: 325); Vail and White (1980: 249–53, 280, 282). 56 Isaacman (1996: 107). 57 Hedges (1993: 131); Isaacman (1992b: 512; 1996: 142–3); Pitcher (1993: 191). 58 Ibid., pp. 183, 192, 197; Isaacman (1982; 1996: 131–7, 141–2); Hedges (1993: 132–3). 59 See, for instance, CEA (1981: 15). 60 Hedges (1993: 153–6); Isaacman (1992b: 509; 1996: 166–8). 61 Pitcher (1993: 194); Hedges (1993: 136–8). 62 Isaacman (1996: 139) and Pitcher (1993: 194), respectively. 63 For these and other drawbacks, see Hedges (1993: 133, 136–7, 151); Fortuna (1993: 140, 164); and Isaacman (1996: 116, 137–41, 165–6). 64 Isaacman (1992b: 519). 65 Pitcher (1993: 196). 66 Hedges (1993: 140, 142). 67 Ibid., pp. 138–45. See also Isaacman (1996: 81–2). 68 Pitcher (1993: 270). 69 CEA (1981: 15–16); Pitcher (1993: 258–9, 266–7). 70 CEA (1981: 15–16); Pitcher (1993: 259, 262, 265–6, 274). 71 CEA (1981: 15). 72 Pitcher (1993: 262, 264). 73 CEA (1981: 20–1). 74 Pitcher (1993: 263–4). 75 CEA (1981: 15, 17–18); ibid., Table 2, p. 60. 76 Ibid., pp. 15, 17; Pitcher (1993: 265–6). 77 Isaacman (1996: 75). 78 Vail and White (1980: 310–13); Newitt (1995: 409); Wuyts (1978: 13–20). 79 Isaacman (1996: 74). 80 Ibid., pp. 77, 102 and Table 4-4, p. 103; Pitcher (1993: 118). 81 Almeida (1957b: 91); CEA (1980: 16); Isaacman (1992b: 522–4; 1992a: 832; 1996: 74).
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82 Ibid., pp. 81–2, 147. See also Hedges (1993: 155). 83 Alpers (1984: 375, 377–9); Isaacman (1996: 147). Whole families also migrated. However, while Alpers’ study (1984: 371, 374, 377) refers to Makonde families settling in Tanganyika, it is unclear if Makua families did likewise. 84 Isaacman (1996: 134–5). 85 Pitcher (1996: 59); Isaacman (1996: 36, 76). 86 Ibid., pp. 70–1 and Table 6-2, p. 135. 87 Hedges (1993: 137); Dinerman (1998: 96). 88 Hedges (1993: 103, 154–6); Isaacman (1996: 160–1, 166). 89 CEA (1981: 15–16). 90 Ibid., p. 18; CEA (1980: 8). 91 Ibid., Table 2, p. 60 and Table 3, p. 62, respectively. 92 Faria Lobo, “Extractos . . .,” p. 12. 93 CEA (1980: 7). 94 Ibid., p. 7; CEA (1981: 16–17); Faria Lobo, “Extractos . . .,” p. 12. 95 RPM, IAM, Delegação do Norte, “Relatório suscinto do Instituto do Algodão de Moçambique, em Nampula, para a reunião a nível Provincial, para estudo e resoluções a tomar, na produção individual e colectiva, a prazos imediato e curto,” Nampula, 2 de Novembro de 1975, p. 5, JBFL. 96 Faria Lobo, “Extractos . . .,” p. 12. 97 Henriksen (1983: 143–70); Borges Coelho (1993: 160–322). 98 See, for instance, J.A.G.M. Branquinho, “Prospecção das forças tradicionais. Distrito de Moçambique,” Governo-Geral de Moçambique, Serviços de Centralização e Coordenação de Informações, Lourenço Marques, 1969, p. 116, AHM, SE, 20 and Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 59–60). 99 RPM, IAM, Delegação do Norte, “Relatório suscinto . . .,” p. 5; CEA (1980: 16, 25). 100 Geffray (1984: 32–3); Capelo and Medeiros (1987: 114). 101 Geffray (1984: 25, 33); Medeiros (1988: 39). 102 Geffray (1984: 9–19, 33–4). 103 Compare Capela and Medeiros (1987: 114) to Brito João (1993: 182–3n.10). 104 Geffray (1984: 20–3). 105 Ibid., pp. 21, 23. 106 Brito João (1993: 182–3n.10). 107 Geffray (1984: 23–4). The Meto confederation in southern Cabo Delgado emerged during the same period as the chieftaincy of Comala. Medeiros (1988: 39); Capela and Medeiros (1987: 114). For divergent explanations of the provenance and meaning of the term “Meto,” see Brito João (1993: 182n.3). 108 For one account, that of Chief Tubruto’s, see Geffray (1984: 24–5). 109 Ibid., pp. 24–5, 33 and passim. 110 For the early administrative history of the district, see A. Cotta Mesquita, Relatório das Inspecções ao Concelho e Comissão Municipal do Eráti, Feitas em 1965, n.d. [1966], pp. 4–5, AHM, ISANI, Inventário dos Relatórios das Inspecções Administração Civil, Fundo de Administração Civil de Lourenço Marques, 27 and Conceição (1984: 17–18, 33–4). 111 Ibid., pp. 24–9; Branquinho, “Prospecção . . .,” pp. 24–5. 112 Gray (1980: 69–72); Conceição (1984: 21–4, 29–31). 113 Hedges (1993: 103); Soares (1988). 114 Cf. Mesquita, Relatório das Inspecções . . ., p. 50. 115 Conceição (1984: 157). 116 Almeida (1957b: 21); Faria Lobo (1962: 35); Mesquita, Relatório das Inspecções . . ., p. 51; Soares (1993: 155); Dinerman (1998: 103). 117 Conceição (1984: 88, 88n.6); Fortuna (1993: 130).
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118 Conceição (1984: 89); Dinerman (1998: 104). 119 Fortuna (1993: 130–2); Hedges (1993: 85–6). 120 Fortuna (1993: 133–4, 136, 136n.118, 136–137n.119); Hedges (1993: 104); Faria Lobo (1962: 27, 142). 121 Ibid., p. 72; Hedges (1993: 103, 154); Fortuna (1993: 149). 122 For colony-wide statistics, see Table 2 in CEA (1981: 60). For statistics on Eráti, see M. Gouveia, “O algodão na economia do Distrito de Moçambique,” Centro de Documentação Económica, C.T.P.I.E., 1968, Quadro 2.3, p. 39, CEA Documentation Center and Mesquita, Relatório das Inspecções . . ., p. 42. 123 Quadro 6.1 in Fortuna (1993: 144); Geffray (1985: 20). 124 Ibid., pp. 12, 14. 125 Hedges (1993: 154); Mesquita, Relatório das Inspecções . . ., pp. 43, 47; Faria Lobo (1962: 24, 27–9, 33, 113, 118, 141–3). 126 J.B. de Faria Lobo, “Breve resumo histórico,” in Faria Lobo, “Monografia do Cajueiro,” n.d., pp. 13–15, JBFL; Geffray (1985: 26); Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 60). On this phenomenon more generally, see Hyden (1983: 17–18, 199). 127 For figures, see Geffray (1985: 28). By then, cashew nuts had surpassed cotton in terms of export earnings. See Table 3 in Wuyts (1978: 8). 128 See Faria Lobo (1962: 40) and Mesquita, “Relatório das Inspecções . . .,” p. 44, for the numbers of retail stores in 1950 and 1965, respectively. 129 Table 2 in Geffray (1985: 27). 130 Almeida (1957b: 91–5); Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 63). 131 According to da Conceição (1984: 48n.7), the first white settlers arrived in Eráti in the 1950s. 132 Dinerman (1998: 108–9). 133 Conceição (1984: 48n.7); Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 13). 134 Branquinho, “Prospecção . . .,” pp. 116–17; Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 59–60). According to an IAM official who was familiar with the state of affairs in Eráti, about 80 percent of the rural population in the district was relocated to the picadas during the colonial period. Interview, José Bernardo de Faria Lobo, Galizes, Portugal, 9/7/95. 135 Branquinho, “Prospecção . . .” details the first waves of such arrests in Nampula. See pp. 109–12 for the case of Eráti. 136 For details as they pertain to Eráti, see Dinerman (1999: 212n.90). 137 Interview, Chief Intalia, Napala, 25/8/94. Intalia was also a mwalimo. If, as Morier-Genoud (2002: 127) conjectures, Portugal succeeded in its bid “to coopt or at least to neutralize politically the majority of Mozambican Muslims” during the last decade of colonial rule, it also seems to be the case that the colonial state remained less than convinced of its success in this regard. 138 Conceição (1984: 48). 139 For an exception, see Dinerman (1998: 110). 140 Personal communication, STAE Director of Namapa District, October 1994. The STAE Director was from the area in question. On Portugal’s “hearts and minds” programs, see Borges Coelho (1993: 197–202). 141 Unless otherwise indicated, the following discussion is based on Geffray (1985). 142 Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 65). 143 Ibid., and passim. 144 Ibid., p. 60 and O’Laughlin (2002: 523), respectively. 145 Mandala (1990: 158). 146 Roesch (1989/1990: 22); Hall and Young (1997: 181).
Notes
311
3 From “abaixo” to “chiefs of production,” 1975–1987 1 2 3 4
5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
16 17 18 19 20 21 22
23 24 25 26 27 28 29
Geffray (1991). Roesch (1988a: 85; 1989: 11; 1992a); Saul (1993: 151, 157–8). Geffray and Pedersen (1985). Ibid., p. 23; Roesch (1992b: 466); O’Laughlin (1992a: 28; 1996: 18, 36n.18); Alexander (1994: 44–5). Rural support for the abolition of the regedoria system did not necessarily imply popular endorsement of Frelimo-imposed prohibitions on former régulos and their underlings holding public office. O’Laughlin (2000: 30); Bowen (2000: 99). In principle, a mapéwé is direct descendant of, and heir to, a precolonial paramount chief; he is thus not necessarily a former colonial régulo or a descendant of one. In practice, virtually all holders of the office of “régulo” and all claimants on this office in contemporary Namapa contended that they were mpéwé. Cahen (1987: 62–70); Geffray (1991: 46–7, 133–7). O’Laughlin (1996: 36n.23; 2000: 33–4). For various views on when this crisis began, see, inter alia, O’Meara (1991: 99); Bowen (2000: 102, 112); and O’Laughlin (2000: 34–5). CEA (1981: 22, 25); Hanlon (1984: 100). For the case of Nampula, see Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 13) and Marshall and Roesch (1993: 245). CEA (1981: 26, 29). Ibid; Borges Coelho (1993: 355–6). CEA (1980: 8, 29, 43, 50; 1981: 25). Ibid., pp. 18, 40; Pitcher (1996: 57). Ibid.; CEA (1981: 23). RPM, MOA, PN, DPA, “Orientações específicas da Provincial [sic] de Nampula para o sector agrário,” Nampula, 20 de Maio de 1986, p. 4 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo,” DPA. For JFS’s rather unique historical trajectory, see Pitcher (1996: 59–60). CEA (1980: 8, 14). See also Habermeier (1981: 41–2). Table 2 in CEA (1981: 60). Table 4 in CEA (1980: 22). Wuyts (1978: 30). CEA (1980: 44). Personal communication, António Carvalho Neves, Maputo, April 1994. RPM, PN, CDAC de Eráti, “Relatório,” Namapa, 5 de Outubro de 1983. Nudity was also cited as an important factor in declining school attendance rates. RPM, PN, CDAC de Eráti, “Relatório,” Namapa, 3 de Julho de 1983. Both reports are in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPA. RPM, PN, DDA de Eráti, “Relatório,” Eráti, 12 de Maio de 1984 in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPA. O’Laughlin (1996: 28). CEA (1980: 31–2). Ibid., p. 44. Isaacman and Isaacman (1983: 156–7). CEA (1980: 17, 43, 64, 70). Ibid., p. 84; RPM, PN, Comissão D. das Aldeias Comunais, “Relatório,” Namapa, 4 de Janeiro de 1983; RPM, PN, CDAC de Eráti, “Relatório,” Namapa, 31 de Março de 1983; RPM, PN, CDAC de Eráti, “Relatório,” Namapa, 10 de Janeiro de 1984; and RPM, PN, CDAC de Eráti, “Mapa de controle de rendimento de produção agrícola da campanha 81/82, cooperativas agrícolas e m. [machambas] colectivas,” Namapa, 21 de Junho de 1983, all in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPA; GPN, DPA, “Relatório sobre o movimento
312
30
31
32 33 34
35 36 37 38
39
40 41 42 43
44 45
Notes cooperativo,” Nampula, 12 de Fevereiro de 1982, pp. 1–3 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo,” DPA. Interviews, traditional authorities and Frelimo party secretaries, Muanona Center, 22/8/94; male elders and traditional authorities, “Zagaia,” Alua Administrative Post, 23/9/94; former residents of Samora Machel Communal Village, Samora Machel Center, 30/9/94; UNAMO representatives and members, Alua Center, 15/6/94; Frelimo party secretaries, Namirôa Center, 11/6/94; traditional authorities, shéhé and Frelimo party secretary, Nahachari, 12/6/94. In Nampula, the point was candidly acknowledged by DPA in 1982. GPN, DPA, “Relatório sobre o movimento cooperativo.” See also Marshall and Roesch (1993: 249). For the case of Tete, see Borges Coelho (1993: 408–9, 437). RPM, PN, Comissão Coordenadora Provincial para Socialização [sic] do Campo, IV Sessão Ordinária, “Relatório,” Nampula, 28 de Setembro de 1985, p. 3 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo,” DPA. See also CEA (1980: 2, 62). Ibid., pp. 62, 65, 68–71; Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 15). Geffray (1991: 19–20). The point is acknowledged in RPM, MOA, Programa Nacional CRED, Centro Regional de Experimentação e Desenvolvimento de Napai, Distrito de Eráti, “Relatório,” CRED Napai, 21 de Outubro de 1983 in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPA. GPN, DPA, “Relatório sobre o movimento cooperativo,” p. 7. Personal communication, Phil Woodhouse, former cooperante (developmentcum-solidarity worker) in Eráti, June 1996. GPN, DPA, “Relatório sobre o movimento cooperativo,” pp. 1–2. RPM, PN, DPA, Departamento para a Socialização do Campo, “Sector cooperativo 83/84,” pp. 1–2 in DPA, Departamento Provincial para Socialização do Campo, Nampula, “Dados estatísticos . . .,” Nampula, 27 de Novembro de 1984 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo,” DPA. The total is approximate because the number indicating the membership of one pilot cooperative is illegible. With respect to Eráti, this problem was cited in interviews (for instance, by Chiefs Alua, Comala, Saíde and Nametemula, Alua Center, 14/6/94 and Frelimo party secretaries, Namirôa Center, 11/6/94) and in RPM, PN, CDAC de Eráti, “Relatório,” Namapa, 5 de Outubro de 1983. For the case of Nampula as a whole, see RPM, PN, V Sessão da Comissão Coordenadora Provincial para a Socialização do Campo, “Síntese,” Nampula, 23 de Junho de 1989, pp. 2–3 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo,” DPA. For the argument that this problem was nationwide, see Borges Coelho (1993: 334–5, 339). Roesch (1988a: 77). Dinerman (1998: 130n.49; 1999: 131). Geffray (1991: 17–18). “Mapa de novas aldeias comunais surgidas em 1980” and “Mapa das aldeias comunais existentes na Província,” in RPM, CPAC, Nampula, “Relatório das actividades desenvolvidas em 1980,” Nampula, Dezembro de 1980, p. 3 and p. 5, respectively in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo,” DPA; Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 3–4). RPM, PN, CDAC Eráti, untitled list, Namapa, 2 de Fevereiro de 1983 in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPA. Letter, RPM, PN, Comissão Distrital das Aldeias Comunais de Eráti à Comissão Provincial das Aldeias Comunais, Nota. No. 1/CDAE/84, Namapa, 10 de Fevereiro de 1984 in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPA. For a brief description of the various stages of village formation, and the criteria deployed in distinguishing
Notes
313
among them, see Borges Coelho (1993: 372). 46 Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 4). 47 Ibid.; Geffray (1991: 22); Vieira Pinto (1984: 2–3); EIU, Quarterly Economic Review of Tanzania, Mozambique, 3, The Economist Publications, London, 1984, p. 17; Grest (1986: 342–3). 48 Table 9.5 in Borges Coelho (1993: 345). 49 As reported in DPA, Departamento Provincial para Socialização do Campo, Nampula, “Dados estatísticos . . .,” p. 1 and RPM, PN, Comissão Coordenadora Provincial para Socialização do Campo, IV Sessão Ordinária, “Relatório,” p. 9. 50 See, for instance, Minter (1994: 269) and O’Laughlin (1996: 18–19). 51 As most forcefully articulated by Geffray (1991: 21) and passim. See also Cahen (1987: 49–60, 68–70) and Brito (1991: 252–69). 52 See also Geffray (1991: 123–30, 135–6). 53 RPM, PN, CDAC de Eráti, “Relatório,” Namapa, 9 de Junho de 1983; RPM, PN, CDAC de Eráti, “Relatório,” Namapa, 3 de Julho de 1983. 54 Geffray (1991: 134–7). 55 Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 3). 56 Ibid., p. 24. 57 Ibid., pp. 7–15. 58 The following discussion is based on ibid., pp. 31–49. 59 Ibid., pp. 9–11, 18–21, 26–7. 60 Unless otherwise indicated, the following discussion is based on ibid, pp. 28–30. 61 For the workings and effects of Operation Production in Nampula, see J.B. de Faria Lobo, “Contributo para a prevenção contra a fome em Moçambique. Alguns temas, Provincia de Nampula,” 1989, pp. 16–17, JBFL and Marshall and Roesch (1993: 246–8). According to Egerö (1990: 188), forced removals from Nampulan towns and cities began in 1982. They thus served as a kind of dress rehearsal for the national campaign the following year. 62 Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 20, 27). 63 Ibid., p. 25 and unnumbered note at the bottom of the page. 64 Interview, former administrator of Eráti/Namapa (1984–1987), Nampula City, 10/9/94. 65 The use of surrogates by local notables has been carried forward into the postwar period as a means of maintaining control over state-sponsored rural development projects. See Schafer and Bell (2002: 412). 66 Baptista Lundin (1992: 27); Alexander (1994: 48–9). 67 Interview, traditional authorities and party secretaries, Muanona Center, 22/8/94. 68 Interview, Namapa Center, 28/9/94. In Portuguese people often spoke of “humus” and “n’jeios” when referring to mahumu and mi-jeio. 69 Interviews, Chief Taibo (former former colonial régulo) Namapa Center, 2/10/94; Chief Comala, Napai, 1/10/94; Cabo Cumar, Namapa Center, 15/10/94. 70 Ibid. 71 Interview, Namapa Center, 27/9/94. 72 Interview, Namapa Center, 28/9/94. 73 According to José Branquinho, the regedoria of the chief in question, Nametaramo (Nametarramo), had been absorbed by Chief Mumia’s. J.A.G.M. Branquinho, “Prospecção das forças tradicionais. Distrito de Moçambique,” Governo-Geral de Moçambique, Serviços de Centralização e Coordenação de Informações, Lourenço Marques, 1969, p. 51, AHM, SE, 20. I was unable to determine if Nametaramo regained recognition as a régulo during the last years
314
74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84
85 86 87 88 89 90 91
92 93 94 95 96 97 98
99
Notes of colonial rule or whether it was only in the early 1990s that his regedoria was reborn. The First Party Secretary, typically mindful of distinctions in chiefly rank, was, however, insistent that Nametaramo was, and had been in the recent past, a “régulo.” Interviews, Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, 27/9/94; Bernardo Mussa, Namapa Center, 17/11/94. Interview, Namirôa Center, 13/6/94. Interview, Namapa Center, 28/8/94. Ivala (1993). Personal communication, Nampula City, May 1994. As reported in Mutaquiha (1992: 8). For historical antecedents to this stratagem, see J. de Figueiredo, Relatório – 1938. II Parte, Governo da Província do Niassa, 1938, AHM, FGG, Cx. 86 and Baptista Lundin (1992: 10n.8). The difficulties in investigating this question are noted in Baptista Lundin Coloane (1990: 2–3, 10–11) and Geffray (1987b). For similar dynamics during Zimbabwe’s liberation war, see Kriger (1992: 196–206). Interview, “Zagaia,” Alua Administrative Post, 25/9/94. Interview, male elders and traditional authorities, “Zagaia,” Alua Administrative Post, 24/9/94. For another instance of locals masking the identity of a Frelimo party secretary – in this case, a uterine nephew of a former régulo – see West and Kloeck-Jenson (1999: 476–7). Interview, Namapa Center, 27/9/94. Gundana was subsequently appointed Minister in the Presidency and went on to become General Secretary of the Frelimo Party with the creation of the post in 1991. Interview, Nampula City, 2/8/94. Geffray and Pederson (1986: 317). The CCPSC was the successor to the Provincial Commission for Communal Villages which, along with the national commission, had been extinguished in 1983. Metselaar et al. (1994: 15n.16); O’Laughlin (1992a: 31; 1992b: 135; 2000: 39); Pitcher (1998: 129); Dinerman (2001: 35–9). Hanlon (1984: 170–4). See also Borges Coelho (1998b: 81). Interviews, former administrator of Namapa District, Ilha de Moçambique, 31/8/94; António Gabriel Comala, Alua Center, 30/9/94; Ernesto Mabonhane, Nampula City, 2/8/94; Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, 27/9/94. Interviews, Chief Muhula, Namirôa Center, 28/9/94; community court judges, Namapa Center, 27/9/94; Cabo Cumar, Namapa Center, 15/10/94. Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 25) and unnumbered note at the bottom of the page. Geffray (1991: 44–50). Interview, Nampula City, 9/10/94. Roesch (1988a: 89). EIU, Quarterly Economic Review of Tanzania, Mozambique, 3, The Economist Publications, London, 1985, p. 22; EIU, Country Profile. Mozambique, 1986–87, The Economist Publications, London, 1986, p. 9. The following discussion is based on Faria Lobo’s curriculum vitae (Nampula, 12 de Maio de 1993) and conversations with him in Galizes, Portugal, 5–11/7/95. The Namapa section consisted of Eráti, as well as Mecúfi and Ancuabe districts in southern Cabo Delgado. His ideas are laid out in RPM, IAM, Delegação do Norte, “Relatório suscinto do Instituto do Algodão de Moçambique, em Nampula, para a reunião Provin-
Notes
100 101 102 103 104 105
106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113
114
115
116 117 118 119 120
315
cial, para estudo e resoluções a tomar, na produção individual e colectiva, a prazos imediato e curto,” Nampula, 2 de Novembro de 1975, JBFL. Ibid., p. 2. Borges Coelho (1993: 350); Hanlon (1984: 108–9). Quoted and paraphrased in ibid., p. 109. RPM, PN, DPA, Departamento para a Socialização do Campo, no title, pp. 2–3 in DPA, Departamento Provincial para Socialização do Campo, Nampula, “Dados estatísticos . . .” Faria Lobo, “Contributo para a prevenção . . .,” p. 8. MOA, DPA de Nampula, Departamento de Arvenses, “Assunto: Recuperação das areas assoladas pela Depressão ANGEL. Proposta para plano de actuação,” Nampula, 1 de Janeiro de 1979 and related documentation, pp. 59–68 in J.B. de Faria Lobo, “Contributo para a recuperação de areas afectadas por deficiência alimentar,” in Faria Lobo, Contributos, 1989, JBFL. Interview, Galizes, Portugal, 9/7/95. Ibid. As he emphasized in personal correspondence, 15 May 1997. Loxley (1988: 3). Africa Watch (1992: 29); Casal (1988: 164–5); COCAMO (1988c: 6); EIU, Country Profile. Mozambique, 1986–87, 1986, pp. 10, 25. See note 158 below. Ibid., pp. 10, 28; Hanlon (1984: 87, 95–120); Loxley (1988: 4); Roesch (1988a: 76–8). Casal (1988). For a review and appraisal of the debate on the relationship between Renamo’s military success and villagization, see, inter alia, Hall (1990: 57–8); Hall and Young (1997: 183–4); Brito (1991: 266–7); and Borges Coelho (1993: 431, 431n.166; 1998a). Grupo de Empresas João Ferreira dos Santos, Direcção Geral de Produção, Nampula, No. 1/DGP/Conf., Ao Estado Maior da Economia, Província de Nampula, 4 de Setembro (de 1985), “Assunto: Campanhas agrícolas. Contributo para a sua reestruturação” (signed José Bernardo de Faria Lobo) in J.B. de Faria Lobo, Contributos, 1989, JBFL. The document claims to represent the personal views of its author only. The meeting with Gundana took place on 22 August 1985. IV [Quarta] Sessão da Comissão Coordenadora para Socialização do Campo, “Documento final,” Nampula, 2 de Outubro de 1985, p. 3 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo,” DPA. The figures are from RPM, GPN, “Relatório do Governo Provincial por ocasião da visita de Sua Excelência, JOAQUIM ALBERTO CHISSANO, Presidente do Partido FRELIMO e Presidente da República Popular de Moçambique à Província de Nampula,” Nampula, Outubro de 1988 in Land Tenure Center Library, Maputo. A higher total for 1985 is cited in RPM, PN, “Relatório da Comissão Executiva para a Socialização do Campo, V-Sessão Extraordinária,” Nampula, n.d. [1989], p. 2 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo,” DPA. All figures are, at best, ballpark estimates. IV [Quarta] Sessão da Comissão para Socialização do Campo, “Documento final,” p. 5. Ibid., p. 4. Another one of the fourth session’s documents puts the figure at 72 percent. On the instability of the commission’s numbers, see Dinerman (2001: 48–9). RPM, PN, IV Sessão da Comissão Coordenadora para Socialização do Campo, untitled speech, p. 1. Ibid., pp. 1–2. Ibid., p. 2.
316
Notes
121 Interview, José Bernardo de Faria Lobo, Galizes, Portugal, 9/7/95. 122 Interview, Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, 4/10/94; RPM, PN, DDA de Eráti, “Relatório,” Eráti, 12 de Maio de 1984. 123 RPM, PN, DPA, Departamento para a Socialização do Campo, “Relatório das actividades desenvolvidas durante o ano de 1984,” Nampula, 22 de Fevereiro de 1984 [sic: given the title and contents of the report, the year was probably 1985], p. 2 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo,” DPA. For earlier national attempts to raise cashew nut production, see Pitcher (2002: 90). 124 Samora Machel, “Mistakes and deviations persist. A speech by President Samora Machel during the debates on the laws for the state budget and plan for 1986 in the December 1985 session of the People’s Assembly,” Supplement to Mozambique News (AIM), no. 114, January 1986, pp. 2–3. 125 Ibid., p. 6. A slightly different version of this portion of the speech appeared in Tempo and is cited by Cahen (1987: 63). 126 Hanlon (1984: 231). 127 Hanlon (1991: 32); Vines (1991: 55–6); Minter (1994: 47, 137). 128 EIU, Quarterly Economic Review of Tanzania, Mozambique, 3, 1984, p. 17; Vieira Pinto (1984: 1, 3). 129 Metselaar et al. (1994: 37n.16). 130 Hanlon (1991: 32). 131 Vieira Pinto (1984: 3). 132 For the political and diplomatic background to this invasion and the possible reasons for it, see Davies (1986) and Vines (1991: 55–6). On the invasion itself and its aftermath, see Hanlon (1991: 33, 37–8). 133 Vines (1991: 56). See also Wilson (1992a: 3–4). 134 See Salomão Moyana, “Produzir algodão e castanha de caju não é favor, é ordem do Estado,” Tempo, 836, 19/10/86, p. 13. The local party committee was also involved in the decision. All of the quotations cited here appear in ibid., pp. 13–14. 135 Minter (1994: 250). 136 On the political significance of such violence, see Mamdani (1996: 178). 137 Interviews, chief and smallholders, settlement, Odinepa Locality, 2/6/94; male elders, Odinepa Center, 6/6/94; Chiefs Alua, Comala, Saíde and Nametemula, Alua Center, 16/6/94; animadores (“animators,” grassroots leaders of the Catholic Church), Alua Center, 16/6/94; Chief Khanatepa Ali, Alua Center, 17/10/94; Comala, Napai, 1/10/94. 138 Interview, Namapa Center, 17/6/94. 139 Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 42). 140 See, for instance, the views expressed by the then Second Secretary of the Frelimo Party Provincial Committee and provincial military commander, Eduardo Nihia, and Dzimba earlier that year in Salomão Moyana, “Nampula: passar da candonga ao trabalho,” Tempo, 826, 10 de Agosto de 1986, p. 11. See also the ominous pronouncements by the president of the Nampula City executive council in Tabo Motema, “Nampula em tempo de eleições,” Tempo, 832, 21/9/86, p. 17. 141 Geffray (1991: 134–5, 135n.10); interview, former administrator of Eráti/Namapa (1984–87), Nampula City, 9/10/94. 142 Dinerman (2001: 56–7). 143 Interview, former administrator of Eráti/Namapa (1984–87), Nampula City, 9/10/94. 144 For the flawed logic underpinning this policy, see Wuyts (1985: 200–1). 145 RPM, GPN, “Relatório do Governo Provincial . . .,” p. 8; IAM, “Mapa da evolução da produção no país,” 1994. Indeed, the entire economy benefited
Notes
146 147 148 149 150 151
152 153
154 155 156 157 158
159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169
317
from a major, donor-enabled import of consumer goods that year. Hanlon (1996: 114); Pitcher (2002: 110). RPM, GPN, “Relatório do Governo Provincial . . .,” p. 8. Interview, administrator of Eráti/Namapa District (1984–1987), Nampula City, 9/10/94. Interview, First Frelimo Party Secretary, Namapa District, Namapa Center, 18/10/94. Interview, Faria Lobo, Galizes, Portugal, 9/7/95.The following discussion is based on this interview. Minter (1994: 252). See also Gil Lauriciano, as cited in Nordstrom (1997: 151). It is unclear how extensive this phenomenon was. However, Renamo appears to have received support from former régulos and/or people claiming the mantle of chieftaincy in parts of Mogovolas, Murrupula, Muecate and Namapa/Nacarôa. In each case, the political sympathies of the traditional authority in question was deemed by government officials to have had an adverse effect on the local security situation. Lourenço (1992: 18). Geffray (1991: 44–50). Branquinho, “Prospecção . . ..” For details, see Dinerman (2001: 60). Gamito, the governor of Nampula in the early 1990s, regularly consulted Branquinho’s study. Personal observation and communication by Gamito, April 1994. For the speculation that Pretoria’s military strategists were making use of Branquinho’s study to further South Africa’s destabilization campaign, see Roesch (1989/1990: 21). Geffray (1991: 136–7). Interview, former administrator of Eráti/Namapa District (1984–1987), Nampula City, 9/10/94. See Chapter 6 below. Interview, Galizes, Portugal, 9/7/95; personal correspondence, José Bernardo de Faria Lobo, 15 August 1995, Galizes, Portugal. In recent years, the importance of agriculture – and, by extension, Nampula’s marketed agricultural output – to Mozambique’s foreign-exchange-earning strategy has been dramatically diminished by the growing importance of manufactured products (most notably, aluminum ingots produced by Mozal, a mammoth smelter inaugurated in 2000) in securing hard currency. Statistical Appendix, Table 1, p. 34 and Table II, p. 35 in Wuyts (1978). See also O’Laughlin (1996: 36n.15) DPA, Departamento de Estatística, “Produção comercializada de castanha de caju na Província de Nampula,” Nampula, 1993, JBFL; EIU, Country Profile. Mozambique, 1986–87, 1986, p. 14; Cahen (1987: 70). Table 2 in CEA (1981: 60). Ibid., p. 46 and Table 2 on p. 60. Ibid., and Table 3 on p. 62, respectively. These figures are from J.B. de Faria Lobo, “Apresentação e oferecimento,” in Faria Lobo, Monografia: Nampula, I, Nampula, 17 de Agosto de 1986, p. 17, JBFL and Appendix 5 in Hanlon (1984: 284), respectively. IAM, “Mapa da evolução . . .,” Nampula, 1994. The 5,200 figure is also cited in section 7.2 in Bawden et al. (2001), among other sources. A higher total (10,000 tons) is cited by Boughton et al. (2003), among others. “Surplus crops unsold,” Mf, 209 (December 1993). Africa Watch (1992: 103, 112, 116, 128–9). Cahen (1987: 70). Luís David and António Elias, “Organizar o sucesso das eleições gerais é um dever de todos os moçambicanos,” Tempo, 825, 3/8/86, p. 8. See also Cahen (1987: 81).
318
Notes
170 Ibid., p. 40; Alexander (1997: 3). 171 Cahen (1987: 40, 60). 172 For contrasting views of the government’s objective in holding elections, see ibid., p. 80 and Grest (1987: 370). 173 Cahen (1987: 78). 174 Lourenço and Hilário (1988a: 8); letter from the district administrator of Lalaua, RM, PN, Administração do Distrito de Lalaua, “Informação circunstanciada sobre o artigo publicado no jornal Notícias de 16/6/92 com o título ‘Poder tradicional-tribal’ ganha força em Lalaua) [sic] da autoria de Pedro Nacuo da Delegação de Nampula,” Lalaua, 20 de Julho de 1992, p. 4 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA; interviews, José de Almeida, former Frelimo First Secretary of Muanona Locality, Namapa Center, 28/9/94; Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, 4/10/94. 175 Interview, Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, 4/10/94. For the case of Manica Province, see Alexander (1994: 51–2). 176 Ibid. See also Harrison (2000: 127n.299). 177 Cahen (1987: 76–7). 178 Egerö (1990: 127). 179 For analyses which stress continuity, see Wilson (1995: 31); Grest (1989: 209); and Newitt (2002: 216–17). For an alternative view, see Hall and Young (1997: 190). 4 The context, 1987–1994 1 For discussions of the PRE, see, inter alia, Roesch (1988b); Loxley (1988); Hermele (1988b; 1990a; 1992); Wuyts (1991); Hanlon (1991: 118–51); Marshall (1992); and Tickner (1992). Mozambique joined the IMF in September 1984 but talks between the two parties began more than a year before that. Hanlon (1996: 25). 2 Minter (1994: 273). 3 Bowen (1992: 264); Hanlon (1996: 92–3). 4 Ibid., p. 70. 5 United Nations (1995: 12). 6 Hanlon (1991: 149–51). 7 “Strike wave spreads across Mozambique,” Mf, 163 (February 1990). 8 Bowen (1992: 265). See also Hanlon (1991: 129, 147–9). 9 Marshall (1992: 15–16, 70–4); Hanlon (1996: 64). 10 Ibid., pp. 93–4. 11 “State budget for 1993,” Mf, 198 (January 1993), p. 12; “Budget for 1994,” Mf, 210 (January 1994), p. 16. 12 “Mixed news on the economy,” Mf, 210 (January 1994), p. 14. 13 Plank (1993: 410); Hanlon (1996: 16–17, 118–19). 14 Ibid., pp. 49–50; Hanlon (1991: 151, 230–8); Abrahamsson and Nilsson (1994: 292). 15 Africa Watch (1992: 116–21). 16 Hanlon (1991: 207, 233–4, 236; 1996: 112); Abrahamsson and Nilsson (1994: 293–4). For other effects of the donor presence in Mozambique at this time, see, inter alia, Marshall (1989: 5); Hanlon (1991); and Wuyts (1991: 230–2). 17 “Reaching the ‘riot threshold’ ” and “Criminal lynchings,” both in Mf, 182 (September 1991); “Police? What police?” Mf, 224 (March 1995); Hanlon (1996: 5). 18 Hanlon (1991: 34–6), who also discusses the geo-political factors which caused this shift.
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19 For varying estimates, ibid., p. 42 and Africa Watch (1992: 2). 20 Ibid., pp. 3, 102–5, 113; Hanlon (1996: 15–16); United Nations (1995: 12, 13, 52). 21 For demobilization and the formation of the new army, see ibid., pp. 38–43 and Hanlon (1996: 18). For all other points in this paragraph, see United Nations (1995: 4, 22, 34, 46, 48, 50, 59). 22 Hanlon (1996: 19). 23 Hall and Young (1997: 231); Alden (2001: 51). 24 Alden (2002). 25 Manning (2002: 75). 26 Much the same can be said of the 2004 general elections, whose results were endorsed by independent observers but which were nonetheless deemed to be plagued by irregularities, including fraud on a significant scale (committed primarily by Frelimo) in Tete Province. 27 Ibid., p. 133. 28 The World Bank Group (2004); “Economic growth lower than expected,” Mf, 322 (May 2003), p. 22; “Plan and budget for 2004,” Mf, 330 (January 2004), p. 13. 29 Alden (2001: 90); “Consultative Group discusses crime,” Mf, 304 (November 2001); “Consultative Group meets in Paris,” Mf, 288 (July 2000), p. 15; “Donors give more than requested,” Mf, 329 (December 2003), p. 9. 30 “Phase two of MOZAL breaks records,” Mozambique News Agency, AIM Reports, 262 (9 October 2003). 31 “More children than ever attend school,” Mf, 310 (May 2002); “Report shows sharp fall in illiteracy,” Mf, 313 (August 2002), p. 8; “Plan and budget for 2002,” Mf, 306 (January 2002), p. 11; “Frelimo analyses nation’s progress,” Mozambique News Agency, AIM Reports, 278 (22 June 2004). 32 “Fewer Mozambicans living in poverty,” Mozambique News Agency, AIM Reports, 273 (April 2004). 33 The World Bank Group (2004). 34 “Consultative Group discusses . . .,” Mf, p. 10; “Donors promise Mozambique $790 million,” Mozambique News Agency, AIM Reports, 262 (9 October 2003). The government’s goal for 2004 is for aid to account for less than 50 percent of government expenditure, a substantial reduction from current levels. Ibid. 35 “Ten years of peace celebrated,” Mf, 316 (November 2002), p. 12; Part I, p. 2 in Hanlon (2002); “Can government meet poverty reduction targets?” Mf, 323 (June 2003), p. 10. 36 “AIDS now one of main causes of death,” Mozambique News Agency, AIM Reports, 280 (27 July 2004). 37 “Lower growth than expected,” Mf, 298 (May 2001), p. 14. For other factors depressing raw cashew nuts sales and, by extension, peasant incomes, see Pitcher (2002: 232–3). It should be noted that, since late 2003, the cotton sector has shown signs of recovery. “New cotton prices fixed,” Mozambique News Agency, AIM Reports, 277 (7 June 2004); Ofiço and Tschirley (2003: 4). 38 “No banks for peasants,” Mf, 296 (March 2001). 39 “New paper appears,” Mf, 308 (March 2002), p. 20. See also Pitcher (2002: 170, 189). 40 “Cashew industry in death throes,” Mf, 320 (March 2003), p. 18. For an analysis of the industry’s collapse, see Pitcher (2002: 225–33). 41 Ibid., pp. 193, 196; “Government exempts sugar from VAT,” Mf, 309 (April 2002); “Mozambican economy resumes rapid growth,” Mozambique News Agency, AIM Reports, 215 (20 September 2001). 42 Hanlon (2001b); Part II in Gastrow and Mosse (2002); “Anti-corruption unit
320
43 44
45 46 47 48 49
50
51
52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64
Notes publishes report” and “Policemen turn to drug trafficking,” both in Mf, 329 (December 2003); Alden (2002: 350). Cf. “Sombre picture of justice system,” Mf, 309 (April 2002) and Part IV, p. 2 in Gastrow and Mosse (2002). For the financial repercussions of the banking scandals, see “Who will pay for the ruined banks?” and “Plan and budget for 2002,” p. 12, both in Mf, 306 (January 2002); “Can government meet . . .?” Mf; Section 3.4 in Hanlon (2002); “Business as usual?” Mf, 323 (June 2003). Manning (2002: 214). Ibid., p. 208. Ibid., pp. 24, 215. The manner in which the former Minister of Culture, Mateus Katupha, described this dynamic. Cited in “Renamo insists on a recount,” Mf, 286 (May 2000), p. 8. See especially Manning (2002: 8, 186). For discussions of other intra-party divisions within Frelimo and Renamo, see ibid., pp. 42–4, 54, 124–5, 126–7, 134, 135, 136–7 and Chapter 5, especially pp. 111–18, respectively. The term is Bayart’s (1993: 20–32) and passim. See, for instance, Weinstein (2002: 151–3). Parliamentary efforts to introduce constitutional amendments that would have moved Mozambique to a “semipresidential” system were defeated by Renamo MPs in 1999. For the promulgation of a much more modest set of constitutional amendments pertaining to the office of the presidency, see “Assembly finally passes constitutional amendments,” Mf, 341 (December 2004). “Land law increases peasant rights,” MPPB, AWEPA, 19 (September 1997) and related articles in this issue. A “local community” is defined in “Key points of land law” in ibid. For the flaws that inhere in this definition, see Kloeck-Jenson (2000: 2); Schafer and Bell (2002); and Pitcher (2002: 212). On the dearth of supporting institutional arrangements to give the land bill legislative teeth, see Weimar (2002: 70–1). Other concerns are raised by Kloeck-Jenson (2000: 4) and Schafer and Bell (2002: 404). “Land law increases . . .,” MPPB. For an even rosier assessment, see Braathen and Palmero (2001: 281–4, 293). According to Braathen and Palmero (ibid., p. 285ff.), municipal reform, although designed and imposed from above, “is likely to produce important participatory effects in its implementation . . .” (ibid., p. 294). Section 3.4 in Hanlon (2002). The figures are from “More Montepuez rioters sentenced,” Mf, 307 (February 2002). “More disturbances in Maringue,” Mf, 326 (September 2003); “Renamo demands right to keep armed bands,” Mozambique News Agency, AIM Reports, 278 (22 June 2004). “Renamo attacks dissident conference,” Mf, 327 (October 2003). Alden (2001: 110). Hall and Young (1997: 218). The figure given by the then UNDP administrator Mark Malloch Brown. “Human development report launched,” Mf, 325 (August 2003), p. 9. United Nations (1995: 4, 67). See note 29 above. Section 1.3 in Hanlon (2002). It has also strengthened the government’s negotiating position in relation to foreign investors, whose interest in Mozambique intensified following the successful conclusion to the 1994 elections in both Mozambique and South Africa. Pitcher (2002: 150).
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65 Alden (2001: 111); Hanlon (2002); “Business as usual?” Mf, 323 (June 2003). For specific examples, see Pitcher (2002: ch. 4), especially pp. 150–1, 173–8; “New provincial governors appointed,” Mf, 289 (August 2000), pp. 9–10; “New governors,” MPPB, AWEPA, 25 (August 2000); sections 4.1 and 1.3, respectively, in Hanlon (2002); and “Early tests for U.S. in its global fight on AIDS,” The New York Times, 14/7/04. 66 “Government rejects increased local power,” MPoPB, AWEPA, 28 (1 November 2002), p. 8. See also “Donors lose interest” in this same issue. 67 “Renamo constitutional amendments unthinkable,” Mf, 278 (September 1999), p. 10; “Bill on forestry and wildlife,” Mf, 274 (May 1999), p. 13; Weimar (2002: 70). 68 “Will régulos be tax collectors?” MPPB, AWEPA, 19 (September 1997). 69 “Disinformation leads to riots,” Mf, 307 (February 2002), p.23; “Bill on forestry . . .,” Mf, p. 13; “Elections: dispute over registration,” Mf, 276 (July 1999), pp. 4, 7; “Crisis in justice system denounced,” Mf, 295 (February 2001), p. 23; “Assembly passes family law,” Mf, 330 (January 2004), p. 13; Ivala (1999: 324); Serra (1999b: 130, 149, 172); Schafer and Bell (2002). See also Kloeck-Jenson (2000: 5n.1). 70 These points can be found in the sources cited above and “What role for ‘traditional’ leaders?” MPPB, AWEPA, 19 (September 1997). 71 “Land law increases . . .,” MPPB and related articles in this issue. “Assembly passes new land law,” Mf, 253 (August 1997), p. 6; “Renamo opposed” and “Land law recognises ‘custom,’ ” both in MPPB, AWEPA, 19 (September 1997). 72 Geffray (1991: 133, 133n.7); RM, PN, DN, Ano de 1991, Mês de Julho, “Relatório”; RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1991, Mês de Janeiro, “Relatório”; RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1991, Mês de Fevereiro; “Relatório”; RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1991, Mês de Março, “Relatório”; RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1991, Mês de Agosto, “Relatório”; RM, PN, DN, primeiro semestre, 1991, “Relatório,” Namapa, 10 de Julho de 1991, p. 2; all in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA. Second references to district reports in this chapter are referred to in English by month (or months) and year. 73 January 1991 and February 1991 district reports; RM, PN, DN, Ano de 1991, Mês de Maio, “Relatório” in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA. 74 RM, PN, Ano de 1991, Mês de Outubro, “Relatório”; RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1992, Mês de Fevereiro, “Relatório”; RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1992, Mês de Abril, “Relatório”; RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1992, Mês de Maio, “Relatório”; all in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA. 75 Ibid. 76 Ibid.; February 1992 district report; RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1992, Mês de Setembro, “Relatório”; RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1992, Mês de Agosto, “Relatório”; RM, PN, DN, “Relatório,” Ano de 1993, Mêses Janeiro/Fevereiro, “Relatório”; all in Dossier, DPAC, DA. 77 RM, PN, DN, “Monografia do Distrito de Namapa,” n.d., pp. 24–8, DPAC, DA. Judging from its contents, the monograph appears to have been written in mid-1992. For other constraints on access to education in the postwar period, see RM, PN, DN, Ano de 1993, Mês de Abril, “Relatório” in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA; Metselaar et al. (1994: 108); and Marshall (1992: 33–4). 78 February 1991, April 1992, May 1992, August 1992 and April 1993 district reports; first semester district report for 1991; RM, PN, DN, “Monografia . . .,” p. 30; RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1993, Mês de Setembro, “Relatório” and DPAC, DA, “Breve informação sobre o Distrito de Namapa,” Nampula, Fevereiro de 1994, respectively, both in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA. Smits (1994) reviews the health situation of children at this time.
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79 May 1992, August 1992 and September 1992 district reports; RM, PN, DN, “Relatório do primeiro trimestre, Ano de 1993,” 31 de Março de 1993, p. 4 in Dossier, “Namapa” DPAC, DA. 80 First trimester district report for 1993, p. 3; DPAC, DA, “Breve informação sobre o Distrito de Namapa,” Nampula, 26 de Agosto de 1993 in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA; September 1992 district. 81 RM, PN, DN, “Monografia . . .,” p. 23. 82 As described in the February 1991 district report. 83 Rehabilitating the water supply system in the town was an objective of Memisa, a Dutch NGO. 84 Cf. Roesch (1989: 12). 85 Interview, Provincial Coordinator, Agricultural Recovery Program, World Vision, Nampula City, 22/10/94. 86 August 1991 district report. 87 Interview, Chief Comala, Napai, Samora Machel Locality, 1/10/94. 88 United Nations (1995: 34, 46); “Renamo admin boycott,” MPPB, AWEPA, 13 (11 October 1994), p. 7; “Dual administration continues,” MPPB, AWEPA, 16 (December 1995), pp. 1–2. 89 Hanlon (1996: 19). 90 Interview, District Director of STAE, Namapa Center, 1/10/94. 91 For the situation elsewhere, see, for instance, “Zonas da Renamo continuam vedados a livre circulação,” Notícias, 4/21/94; “Access stll [sic] restricted,” MPPB, AWEPA, 13 (11 October 1994), p. 3. 92 Interviews, male elders and traditional authorities, “Zagaia,” Alua Administrative Post, 24/9/94; Chiefs Alua, Comala, Saíde and Nametemula, Alua Center, 14/6/94; District Director of Agriculture, Namapa Center, 17/10/94. 93 For the argument that the PRE/PRES’ designers failed to take the impact of the war on the economy and thus on the economy’s response to “adjustment,” see, inter alia, Wuyts (1991); Marshall (1992); Tickner (1992); and Hermele (1992). 94 For an overview of rural commerce in Nampula in the late 1980s, see Roesch (1989). 95 RPM, PN, “Programa geral de reabilitação agrária dos distritos prioritários’ realizado por Abdulcarimo Ismael e Dionisio Chereua,” n.d., p. 93, DPAC, DA. While this study has no date of publication, its findings are based on a survey undertaken in May 1989. 96 March 1991 district report. 97 RM, GPN, DPAC, “Informação sobre a situação do Distrito de Namapa,” n.d., p. 3, attachment to the 1991 first semester district report and first trimester district report for 1993, p. 2, respectively. 98 May 1991 report. 99 RM, GPN, DPAC, “Informação sobre . . .,” p. 3. 100 For the case of Namapa, see, inter alia, district reports for August 1991, April 1992 and April 1993; RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1993, Mêses Julho/Agosto, “Relatório” in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA and RPM, PN, “Programa geral . . .,” p. 93. For the case of the province, see Momade (1994: 53–4) and Metselaar et al. (1994: 113). For a review of the credit situation in the country as a whole, see Hanlon (1996: 7, 57–62). See also Pitcher (2002: 94, 204). On the ways in which neoliberal policies and the privatization of the banking sector have aggravated difficulties in obtaining rural credit, see Ratilal (2002: 276, 291). 101 Metselaar et al. (1994: 113); Roesch (1989: 13); Tickner (1992). 102 August 1991 and July/August 1993 district reports; DPAC, DA, “Breve informação . . .,” Nampula, 26 de Agosto de 1993.
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103 Metselaar et al. (1994: 113–14). For the case of Cabo Delgado, see Harrison (1996: 26). 104 Metselaar et al. (1994: 109). 105 Ibid., pp. 108–10. See Hanlon (1991: 149) and Tickner (1992) for this tendency nationally. For the shift from fixed to minimum producer prices, in accord with World Bank mandates, see ibid. For subsequent changes to the pricing of agricultural products, see “Increase in agricultural marketing,” Mf, 274 (May 1999), p. 17 and “MOZAL leads to huge rise in exports,” Mf, 301 (August 2001), p. 15. 106 Metselaar et al. (1994: 42, 114); Marshall (1992); Tickner (1992); March 1991 district report. A sufficient number of sacks only became available throughout the country in 1997. “Increase in . . .,” Mf, p. 17. Other structural constraints mentioned here persist and continue to hinder the expansion of agricultural production and marketing. Ratilal (2002: 275–7). 107 Personal observation; DPAC, DA, “Breve informação sobre o Distrito de Namapa,” Nampula, 7 de Junho de 1993 in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA. 108 The rationale given by the Namapa administration’s report for July/August 1993. 109 For the case of Nampula, see Roesch (1989) and Hermele (1990b). See also Hermele (1992). 110 Pitcher (1996: 57, 59, 61, 63). For an overview of changes to the cotton sector in the last decade, see ibid., pp. 212–25 and Ofiço and Tschirley (2003). 111 Interviews, Chief Namiquela, Mirrote, 8/5/94; Chief Namiquela, Nahopa, 12/5/94; Chief Muhula, Namirôa Center, 11/6/94; Chief Tubruto, Namirôa Center, 13/6/94; Chiefs Alua, Comala, Saíde and Nametemula, Alua Center, 14/6/94; cotton growers, Namirôa Center, 21/8/94; Chief Comala, Napai, 1/10/94; Chief Taibo (former colonial régulo), Namapa Center, 2/10/94; SODAN engineer, Namapa Center, 15/10/94. Chief Taibo also had been a colonial capataz but lost his position for reasons discussed in Chapter 6 below. 112 Marshall (1992: 50). 113 “Situação salarial nas administrações de distritos da Província de Nampula,” n.d. in Dossier, “DPAC 88, 22.3 Vencimentos,” Arquivo, GPN. The last part of the document is missing which is why there is no date. Judging from its contents, it was written in 1990 or 1991. 114 January 1991 and February 1991 district reports, respectively. 115 RM, GPN, DPAC, “Informação sobre . . .,” p. 3. The escape of inmates with the apparent connivance of prison guards is a common occurrence throughout the country. “Sombre picture . . .,” Mf, p. 10. See also Harrison (2000: 94–5). 116 August 1991 district report. 117 October 1991, February 1992, April 1992, May 1992 and January/February 1993 district reports; first semester district report for 1991, p. 8; RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1992, Mês de Março, “Relatório” in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA. 118 First trimester district report for 1993, p. 8; DPAC, DA, “Breve informação . . .,” Nampula, 26 de Agosto de 1993. Its functioning prior to then had been highly problematic. Dinerman (1998: 220n.137). As Hall and Young (1997: 78) point out, it was never transparent what people’s assemblies “were supposed to do at all.” 119 RM, PN, DN, “Monografia . . .,” p. 31. 120 January 1991 and February 1992 district reports. 121 April 1993 district report. 122 Alexander (1995: 34–5; 1997: 12). 123 First semester district report for 1991, p. 7. 124 March 1993 district report; DPAC, DA, “Breve informação . . .,” Nampula, 26
324
125 126
127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140
141 142 143 144 145
146
147
Notes de Agosto de 1993; DPAC, DA, “Breve informação . . .,” Nampula, Fevereiro de 1994. First semester district report for 1991, pp. 7–8; RM, GPN, DPAC, “Informação sobre . . .,” p. 1. RM, PN, DPF de Nampula, “Assunto: Relatório à Primeira Sessão Ordinária do Governo Provincial sobre a Situação Financeira dos Orgãos Locais (Distritos e Cidades),” Nampula, 29 de Janeiro de 1992 in Dossier, “Aparelho do Estado 1992, 2.2,” Arquivo, GPN, pp. 1–2. Ibid., p. 2. Ibid., p. 3. “Situação salarial . . .” RM, PN, DPF de Nampula, “Assunto: Relatório . . .” February 1992, March 1992 and April 1992 district reports; RM, PN, DN, Ano de 1993, Mês de Março, “Relatório” in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA. Secretária de Administração do Distrito de Namapa, 21 de Abril de 1994; signed by the head of the accounting department. April 1992, May 1992, August 1992, September 1992 and July/August district reports and RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1993, Mês de Junho, “Relatório” in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA. Interview, Namapa Center, 17/11/94. June 1993 and September 1993 district reports; RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1993, Mês de Outubro, “Relatório” and RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1993, Mês de Novembro, “Relatório,” both in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA. See Dinerman (1998: 223–5). DPAC, DA, “Breve informação . . .,” Nampula, 26 de Agosto de 1993. DPAC, DA, “Breve informação . . .,” Nampula, Fevereiro de 1994. Interview, SODAN engineer, Namialo, Meconta District, 30/8/94. Because of their centrality to tax collection in northern Mozambique, the cotton markets hardly qualify as “minor theatres of bureaucratic power,” as they do in neighboring Zimbabwe. See Worby (1998: 561). It is, however, unclear to what extent the cotton markets constitute a site for the assertion of such power today in view of government attempts, initiated in 2000, to gradually liberalize the concession model and to allow peasant associations to sell their cotton to the highest bidder. On reform efforts, the glitches they encountered and the return, in 2001, to the “older, closed model,” see Ofiço and Tschirley (2003: 7). January 1991 district report. First trimester district report for 1993, p. 7. Ibid., and September 1993 and October 1993 district reports, respectively. For other instances, both historical and contemporary, in which revenueraising on the part of cash-starved local authorities in Africa has helped fuel corruption at the grassroots, see Mamdani (1996: 57–9). “Interior Minister still in place,” Mf, 226 (May 1995), p. 17; “Nampula governor hits out,” Mf, 225 (April 1995). It is unclear if police conduct in Nampula was any worse than elsewhere in the country at this time. For the implicit suggestion that it was, see “The minister versus the media,” Mf, 226 (May 1995). See, inter alia, “Demobilisation by mutiny,” Mf, 229 (August 1994); “Further mutinies and rioting,” Mf, 218 (September 1994), pp. 10–11. According to Alden (2001: 53), there were about 155,000 government irregulars at the time of the AGP. Pedro Nacuo, “Nampula faz reflexão sobre a causa dos motins,” Notícias, 9/9/94; “ ‘Violent monsters on the dole,’ ” Mf, 219 (October 1994), p. 15.
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148 Interview, local manager of Casa Salvador, Namapa Center, 21/9/94; November 1993 district report. 149 “Ex-soldados e milicianos ameaçam amotinar-se em Nampula,” Notícias. 5 Multipartyism, the retraditionalization of local administration and the apparent duplication of state authority 1 See Baptista Lundin (1993: 1–2). 2 Lourenço and Hilário (1988a; 1988b). 3 Lourenço and Hilário (1988a: 6–7). The same story is described, blow-for-blow, in Geffray (1991: 32–4). 4 Lourenço and Hilário (1988b: 11). See also Lourenço and Hilário (1988a: 8, 10). 5 The practice was known to – and was apparently perfectly acceptable to – the colonial authorities. See, for instance, J.A.G.M. Branquinho, “Prospecção das forças tradicionais.” Distrito de Moçambique, Serviços de Centralização e Coordenação de Informações, Governo-Geral de Moçambique, Lourenço Marques, 1969, p. 115, AHM, SE, 20 and passim. 6 Lourenço and Hilário (1988b: 6). 7 Ibid., p. 9. 8 Lourenço and Hilário (1988a: 10). 9 Lourenço and Hilário (1988b: 9). 10 Lourenço and Hilário (1988a: 9). 11 Ibid., p. 5. 12 Lourenço and Hilário (1988b: 7–8). 13 Ibid., pp. 10–11. 14 As cited in Alpers (1994: 10). His emphasis. 15 FRELIMO (1978: 42). 16 Hanlon (1984: 135); Saul (1985d: 77–8). 17 Hanlon (1984: 140). 18 Ottaway and Ottaway (1981: 84). 19 Egerö (1990: 114). For the case of Maputo, see Grest (1995). 20 Egerö (1990: 114–15, 129); Hanlon (1983: 140). 21 Egerö (1986: 131–2). 22 Ibid., p. 113; Hanlon (1984: 137). 23 As cited in Egerö (1990: 115). 24 Saul (1985d: 86). His emphasis. 25 Egerö (1990: 119). 26 Hanlon (1984: 203). 27 See ibid., p. 186 for the key excerpt. 28 Ibid., pp. 140, 202–7; Saul (1985d: 91–6). 29 If anything, the Central Committee appears to have lost power vis-à-vis the Politbureau. Manning (2002: 138n.11). 30 Egerö (1990: 110, 122). 31 As specified by the CCPSC. RPM, MOA, DPA, “Orientações específicas da Provincial [sic] de Nampula para o sector agrário,” Nampula, 21 de Maio de 1986, p. 6 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo,” DPA. For the prevalence of GDs nationally during the mid-1990s, see Irene Jamisse, “GD’s ultrapassados no tempo,” Savana, 14/4/95. 32 Egerö (1990: 130). 33 As suggested by Young (1988: 173). 34 Personal communication, April 1994. 35 MAE, a equipe técnica do projecto, “Documento sumário de trabalho para apresentação às Províncias. Projecto: autoridade/poder tradicional no contexto sócio-cultural, sócio-económico e sócio-político de Moçambique,” 7 de Agosto de 1992, Maputo.
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36 DPAC, Nampula, “Reflexão sobre a autoridade tradicional,” 18 de Maio de 1991 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA. 37 On the absence of an organic link between many newly emergent parties in Africa and the general electorate, see Manning (2002: 27). 38 Gonçalves (1998: 25). 39 See, for instance, “Dispute over agenda holds up peace talks,” Mf, 179 (June 1991), p. 4. 40 Interviews, former administrator of Namapa (1984–87), Nampula City, 9/10/94; chefe do posto, Namirôa Center, 16/10/94; Administrator and Deputy Administrator of Murrupula District, Murrupula Center, Murrupula District, 10/11/94. The administrator of Lalaua District also invoked the Sixth Party Congress in defending his administration’s collaboration with former régulos in the early 1990s. Letter from the district administrator of Lalaua, RM, PN, Administração do Distrito de Lalaua, “Informação: circunstanciada sobre o artigo publicado no jornal Notícias de 16/6/92 com o título ‘Poder traditionaltribal’ ganha força em Lalaua) [sic] da autoria de Pedro Nacuo da Delegação de Nampula,” Lalaua, 22 de Junho de 1992 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA. 41 MIO, “Frelimo’s Sixth Congress looks to the future,” Special Report, 7 (4 September 1991), p. 1. 42 As cited in “Frelimo Sixth Congress,” Mf, 182 (September 1991), p. 9. 43 MIO, “Party membership on the increase,” Special Report, 7 (4 September 1991), p. 3. 44 “Renamo rejects truce,” Mf, 186 (January 1992); Vines (1994: 22). 45 As described in a proposed DPAC circular, enclosure to letter from the Director of the DPAC to the Governor of Nampula Province, 15/7/92 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA. 46 See, for instance, the intervention of the district administrator of Mogovolas, as transcribed in MAE, “Província de Nampula,” 15 de Agosto de 1992, Maputo. If the districts were left largely in the dark as to how best to decipher the provincial government’s precise intent, NGOs were given at least one broad hint as to how they might go about incorporating chiefs into their local activities. In June 1992, Nampulan government officials issued straightforward instructions to relief agencies to involve traditional authorities, as well as party secretaries, in food distributions. Interview, Provincial Coordinator for German Agro Action, Nampula City, 21/4/94. 47 Proposed DPAC circular. 48 RM, PN, Administração do Distrito de Angoche, “Síntese da primeira reunião com as estruturas tradicionais (Régulos, Chefes das Povoações e Reis),” 14 de Fevereiro de 1992 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA. 49 RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1992, Mês de Abril, “Relatório,” in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA. My emphasis. 50 Interview, Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, 27/9/94. Also letter from the Secretariat of the District Committee of the Frelimo Party, Murrupula District, to the Secretariat of the Provincial Committee of the Frelimo Party, “Assunto: informação,” Nampula, 19 de Março de 1992 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA. 51 RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1992, Mês de Maio, “Relatório,” in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA; interviews, President of the Locality, Odinepa Center, 1/6/94; Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, 27/9/94; chefe do posto, Namirôa Center, 16/10/94; personal communication, the chefe do posto, Alua Center; personal communication, district administrator of Namapa, Namapa Center, June 1994. 52 Interview, Frelimo party secretaries, Odinepa Center, 3/6/94.
Notes 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60
61 62 63
64
65 66 67 68
69 70
71 72 73
327
Interview, Namapa Center, 9/6/94. Interview, Namirôa Center, 11/6/94. Interview, Frelimo party secretaries, Namirôa Center, 11/6/94. Interview, traditional authorities and Frelimo party secretaries, Muanona Center, 22/8/94. Interview, Nahopa, 12/5/94. Interview, male elders, traditional authorities and Frelimo party secretaries, Nantoge, 24/8/94. For the case of Angoche, see Dinerman (1998: 253–4). According to the First Secretary, 16 of the province’s 21 district-level party secretariats had been so outfitted. Personal communication, June 1994. It is likely that, in equipping party secretariats in the districts with new motor vehicles, Frelimo was seeking to cement their political loyalty as much as providing them with the means to win over voters. Similar considerations had, no doubt, informed the central government’s decision to provide district-level first secretaries with salaries in 1991, as well as its decision to give these secretaries a raise in the months preceding the election. Personal communication, June 1994. In all cases, civil servants and members of the provincial government were on full government salary. For controversy over Nihia’s double identity, see “Ngonhamo diz que CCF comprovou alegações contra General Nihia,” Notícias, 15/2/94 and “Ngonhamo’s war of words,” Mf, 212 (March 1994). The latter article fails, tendentiously, to mention Nihia’s government hat. The Frelimo general’s demobilization awaited the extinction of the FAM high command in August 1994. UNAMO is a splinter group of Renamo which, after its founding in 1987, operated as an armed movement against both Renamo and the government army in Zambézia in the 1980s. Hall (1990: 47); Africa Watch (1992: 40). UNAMO became a minor political party after the adoption of the new constitution. In 1999, it joined a coalition of opposition parties headed by Renamo but it has subsequently broken with this grouping. “Administrador de Rapale confirma fraqueza da oposição,” Notícias, 2/2/94. “Moçambique sem oposição?” mediaFAX, 623, 1/11/94; Fernando Lima, “Notas eleitorais. A contabilidade da democracia”; Fernando Manuel, “Nampula: Os destinos do voto macua,” both in Savana, 4/11/94. See Pedro Nacuo, “Coisas de coração . . .,” Notícias, 10/11/94. Personal observation as a UN Elections Observer in Maluma, Mualamacosi and Alua Center, all in Alua Administrative Post, Namapa District. Other members of the UN contingent in Namapa reported similar findings. For an instance of party monitors candidly admitting that they had voted for parties other than the ones for which they were working, see “Elections held, Frelimo wins,” Mf, 220 (November 1994), p. 10. The 5 percent clause was included in the AGP at Renamo’s insistence much to the consternation of the unarmed opposition. “Final battles over electoral law,” Mf, 209 (December 1993). Cited in Pedro Nacuo, “Só teremos partidos políticos nas vésperas das eleições?” Notícias, 5/1/95. See also Pedro Nacuo, “Oposição está ‘muda’ em Nampula,” Notícias, 13/1/95. The evanescence of the “newly emergent” opposition has been a standard feature of more recent electoral cycles. Interviews, Renamo officials, “Zagaia,” Alua Administrative Post, 22/9/94; Fernando Maela, Renamo’s deputy provincial political delegate, Nampula City, 9/9/94. “The peace agreement in detail,” Mf, 196 (November 1992), p. 5. See MIO, “Party membership . . .”
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74 Interview, former administrator of Namapa District (1984–1987), Nampula City, 9/10/94. See the intervention of the administrator of Ribáuè dating the recruitment of former régulos to the party from 1990 in MAE, “Província de Nampula,” 15 de Agosto de 1992, Maputo. See also the interventions of the district administrators of Angoche and Mogovolas on this occasion. 75 Interviews, Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center 27/9/94; UNAMO representatives and members, Alua Center, 15/6/94; Renamo representatives and members, Alua Center, 16/6/94. 76 Interview, administrator of Nacarôa District, Nampula City, 10/9/94; “Nampula governor hits out,” Mf, 225 (April 1995). 77 Cited in “Qual é a posição dos régulos?” Vida Nova, 12 (Dezembro 1993), p. 8. 78 This view is common among chiefs themselves. See the blunt remark of an Ashante chief in Ghana, as cited in Berry (2001: 140). 79 Interview, UNAMO representatives and members, Alua Center, 15/6/94. Suspicion of chiefly authority by African political leaders is by no means unique to Mozambique. Rouveroy van Nieuwaal (1987: 3–4). No doubt the perceived ideological and political flexibility of chiefs has fed into such suspicions. 80 The operative assumption at work here seems to have been that chiefs were only to be considered politicized if they aligned themselves with a party other than Frelimo. It was just such an assumption that informed the Convention People’s Party’s understanding of chiefly political activism in Ghana throughout the 1950s, as Richard Rathbone (2000: 26, 62–3, 116–17, 121–2) has shown. 81 Letter from the Head of the Department for Mobilization and Propaganda, Provincial Committee of Nampula to the Governor of Nampula Province, 9/9/92, Nota No./88/SCPPF/92 in Dossier, “Informação 20.2, 1992,” Arquivo, GPN. 82 First meeting between the STAE director and traditional authorities, Namapa Center, 14/5/94; interview, Namapa STAE Director, Namapa Center, 1/10/94. For CNE President Brazão Mazula’s positive appraisal of the role played by traditional authorities in voter registration nationally, see Salomão Moyana, “O recenseamento e um desafio a capacidade do cidadão,” Savana, 12/8/94. 83 See “Lideres tradicionais trabalharam para as eleições,” Notícias, 5/11/94. The article’s focus is Namapa. 84 Interview, Namapa Center, 17/11/94. 85 Interview, Frelimo First Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, 4/10/94. 86 See Chapter 3 above; Dinerman (1998: 264); Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 7–45). 87 Interview, Ilha de Moçambique, 1/9/94. 88 Interview, Murrupula Center, Murrupula District, 10/11/94. An early party recruit, the administrator had been a member of one of the provincial brigades that were sent to the districts to form dynamizing groups. By coincidence, he had been sent to Murrupula, his home district, where he observed the nominating process firsthand. He recalled that a nephew of former Régulo Umpuata served as a secretary from the beginning; another chief, Cavar, was himself elected secretary. See also RPM, PN, Distrito de Murrupula, “Relatório sobre o poder tradicional,” Murrupula, 19 de Novembro de 1990, DPAC, DA, GPN. 89 My thinking on this point has been clarified by reading Rousso’s analysis of the ways in which Gaullist symbolism finessed the differences between the two world wars by placing both under the rubric of the “thirty years’ war.” The upshot was that the historical specificity of the Second World War and the role of the Vichy regime in it was blurred. Rousso (1991), especially pp. 17, 25, 71–4, 171–2. For an instance of the opposite phenomenon, that of a “temporal hiatus,” see the review of Alessandro Portelli’s work in Jelin (2003: 57–9).
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90 Olick (2003b: 11). 91 I have borrowed and adapted the term from Appiah (1992: 145–8), who uses it to denote the contemporary multiplication of identities, which, he argues, is a function of the commodification of identity per se. 92 Interview, Ilha de Moçambique, 31/8/94. Both emphases are his. 6 Labor, tribute and authority 1 Berry (1992: 327–55). 2 For a discussion of the implications of this development as it bears on Mamdani’s global analysis of the experience and prospects of radical regimes in postcolonial Africa (i.e. Mamdani ([1996]), see Dinerman (2004). 3 Geffray (1991: 132–7); Baptista Lundin (1993); Mutaquiha (1992: 7–9). The governor’s views are expressed in the latter source. The governor in question, Alfredo Gamito, was subsequently appointed Minister of the MAE upon the formation of a new government following the 1994 elections, a post he held through 1999. 4 Interview, traditional authorities, Odinepa Center, 4/6/94. 5 Interview, Namirôa Center, 11/6/94. 6 Interview, Nahopa, 7/5/94. 7 As a SODAN field agent characterized it. Interview, Mirrote, 11/5/94. 8 Interview, Napala, 25/8/94. 9 Interview, Nampula City, 10/9/94. In the district seat, for instance, a prominent humu and a muene sat on the bench of the local court. Much the same seems to have been the case in Lalaua District further to the west. Pedro Nacuo, “Poder tradicional-tribal ganha força em Lalaua,” Notícias, 16/6/92. 10 Mbwiliza (1991: xiii, 69–70); Soares (1993: 162); Conceiçao (1984: 67–8). 11 Interview, Nakapa (Nakhapa), 5/6/94. 12 Interview, Namapa Center, 27/9/94. Unless otherwise indicated, all quotations of community court judges are from this meeting. 13 He had also expressed great enthusiasm when I proposed holding a group interview with local judges and had organized the meeting. 14 RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Tribunal Comunitário do Posto Administrativo de AluaSede, “Relatório,” Alua, 17 de Dezembro de Ano de 1992, archives of the District Court, Namapa. 15 RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Tribunal Comunitário da Aldeia Comunal de Namajupa No. 1, ex: Ripiha, “Informação,” Namajupa No. 1, 10 de Março de 1993, archives of the District Court, Namapa. 16 RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Posto Administrativo de Namirôa, Tribunal Comunitário de Napala, “Relatório,” 1 de Julho de 1993, archives of the District Court, Namapa. 17 RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Tribunal Comunitário da Localidade de Muanona, “Assunto: informação no. 1/tclm/94,” 25 de Agosto de 1994, letter from the Magistrate of Muanona to the District Magistrate of Namapa and RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Tribunal Comunitário da Localidade de Muanona, “Relatório de (2) mêses Junho Julho/9,” 25 de Agosto de 1994; both in archives of the District Court, Namapa. 18 RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Tribunal Comunitário da Localidade de Muanona, “Assunto: informação . . .” 19 A third humu, who headed the community court of Namapa Center, did not attend the meeting. 20 The problem is by no means confined to dispute resolution at the local level. “Sombre picture of justice system,” Mf, 309 (April 2002), p. 9. 21 Interview, Nampula City, 15/9/94.
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22 Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 37). 23 Interviews, Frelimo First Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, 27/9/94; District Magistrate and Registrar, Namapa Center, 29/8/94. 24 As articulated in several of the reports cited above, as well as RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Tribunal Comunidário [sic] da aldeia comunal de Eduardo Mondlane, “Relatório anual,” 28 de Março de 1993, archives of the District Court; and interviews, community court judges, Namapa Center, 27/9/94 and District Magistrate and Registrar, Namapa Center, 29/8/94. 25 RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Posto Administrativo de Namirôa, Tribunal Comunitário de Napala, “Relatório.” 26 See RM, PN, DN, “Monografia do Distrito de Namapa,” n.d. [c.1992], p. 33, DPAC, DA. 27 For an overview of the functioning of local courts during the first decade of independence, see Sachs and Honwana Welch (1990), especially Chapters 3 and 4. 28 RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Tribunal Comunitário do Posto Administrativo de AluaSede, “Relatório.” 29 RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Tribunal Comunitário da Localidade de Muanona, “Relatório de (2) mêses Junho Julho/9.” 30 RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Posto Administrativo de Namirôa, Tribunal Comunitário de Napala, “Relatório”; RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Tribunal Comunidário [sic] da aldeia comunal de Eduardo Mondlane, “Relatório anual.” 31 Interviews, Chief Vaquina, counselors and heir apparent, Nahopa, 7/5/94; “animators” (animadores) of the Catholic Church, Alua Center, 16/6/94; parishioner, Namapa Center, 27/5/94; parishioner/smallholder, Namapa Center, 6/5/94; Frelimo First Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, 27/9/94; António Gabriel Comala (Frelimo party member and cousin of Chief Comala), Alua Center, 30/9/94; Chief Taibo (former colonial régulo), Namapa Center, 2/10/94. 32 Interview, Namirôa Center, 16/10/94. 33 Interview, District Magistrate and Registrar, Namapa Center, 29/8/94. 34 Interview, António Gabriel Comala, Alua Center, 30/9/94. 35 The de facto juridical pluralism which characterized Namapa at this stage appears to be a feature of much of Mozambique today. See “Crisis in justice system denounced,” Mf, 295 (February 2001). 36 Interview, Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, 4/10/94. 37 Interview, missionary, Namapa Center, 4/10/94. 38 Such notions were also expressed by interested parties in the conflict over the stewardship of Alua regedoria. See Dinerman (1998: 290–1). 39 Interviews, Chief Vaquina, counselors and heir apparent, Nahopa, 7/5/94; Chief Taibo (former colonial régulo), Namapa Center, 9/6/94; former cipaio and Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, 18/10/94; former colonial interpreter, Namapa Center, 19/10/94. 40 Interview, Chiefs Alua, Comala, Saíde and Nametemula, Alua Center, 14/6/94. 41 Interview, Namapa Center, 15/10/94. For more on Mateus’ gatekeeping powers and influence-peddling, see H.E. de Sousa, “Relatório da Inspecção Ordinária ao Distrito de Nampula, da Província do Niassa, 1946–1948,” Vol. III, pp. 644–5, AHM, ISANI, Cx. 77 and Branquinho, “Prospecção . . .,” p. 21. 42 Such machambas were common in the colony’s three northern provinces. Hedges (1993: 50). 43 Coordenador [Brigada Distrital para Assuntos de Autoridades Tradicionais], “Autoridade tradicional do Distrito de Namapa,” 2 de Fevereiro de 1993.
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44 Interview, Namapa Center, 19/10/94. 45 Interview, Chiefs Alua, Comala, Saíde and Nametemula, Alua Center, 14/6/94. 46 Interview, Namapa Center, 10/15/94. 47 Branquinho, “Prospecção . . .,” p. 21. 48 Interviews, Chief Vaquina, counselors and heir apparent, Nahopa, 7/5/94; Chief Taibo (former colonial régulo), Namapa Center, 9/6/94; Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District and former cipaio, Namapa Center, 18/10/94; former colonial interpreter, Namapa Center, 19/10/94. 49 Interviews, Cassimo, Namapa Center, 6/5/94; Chiefs Alua, Comala, Saíde and Nametemula, Alua Center, 14/6/94. 50 For evidence of such maneuvers in the late 1960s, see Branquinho, “Prospecção . . .,” pp. 24–5. 51 Interview, Namapa Center, 9/6/94. 52 Interview, Chief Taibo (Carlos Máquina), Namapa Center, 5/5/94. 53 See Chapter 2 above. 54 According to Branquinho (“Prospecção . . .,” p. 21), this expansion took place “around 1943,” thus placing it a year after the then Governor-General Bettencourt had enunciated the general framework in which the process of centralizing and consolidating chieftaincy would take place. The colonial anthropologist estimated that the regedoria had more than 26,000 inhabitants in 1967. 55 Hedges (1993: 98). 56 I am uncertain as to the precise timing of this shift. However, as the above quote suggests, it seems to have occurred after the Taibo/Máquina replaced his cousin as régulo. 57 Namirôa has a surface area of 2,171 square kilometers; that of Alua’s is 1,600 square kilometers; that of Namapa’s is 1,900 square kilometers. RM, PN, DN, “Monografia . . .,” p. 8. Namirôa’s administrative seat is situated sixty-six kilometers from Namapa Center, whereas that of Alua’s and Odinepa’s are only twenty-five and thirty-two kilometers, respectively, from the district capital. 58 Interviews, chefe do posto, Namirôa Center, 16/10/94; Chief Tubruto, Namirôa Center, 13/6/94; former residents of 25 de Junho Communal Village, 25 de Junho Communal Village, 27/8/94. 59 Interview, President of Muanona Locality, Muanona Center, 22/8/94. 60 Cf. Geffray (1991: 133) for this portrayal. For details of the challenge the ruling family faced, see Dinerman (1998: 291–2). 61 Coordenador [Brigada Distrital para os Assuntos das Autoridades Tradicionais], “Autoridade tradicional . . .” 62 Interview, Namapa Center, 6/5/94. 63 Nacuo, “Poder tradicional-tribal . . .” 64 Proposed circular, enclosure to letter from the Director of DPAC to the Governor of Nampula Province, 15/7/92 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA; cover letter from the Director of DPAC to the Governor of Nampula Province, 15/7/92 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA. 65 Mutaquiha (1992). 66 This view was expressed by members of UNAMO and Renamo, with the latter group maintaining that such disputes could be settled by other régulos. Interviews, Alua Center, 14/6/94 and 15/6/94, respectively. 67 Interview, Chief Vaquina, counselors and heir apparent, Nahopa, 7/5/94. 68 Interview, Nahachari, 12/6/94. 69 Interviews, UNAMO members and representatives, 15/6/94 and Chief Khanatepa Ali, 17/10/94, both in Alua Center; former cipaio and Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, 18/10/94. Many people in the crowd reportedly perceived the administrator’s response as a form of
332
70 71 72 73
74 75
76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91
92 93
Notes stonewalling. For some background to this encounter, see Chapter 5 above and Dinerman (1998: 290–1). Interview, Namapa Center, 15/10/94. Interview, Chief Vaquina, counselors and heir apparent, Nahopa, 7/5/94. Interview, former cipaio and Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, 18/10/94; Branquinho, “Prospecção . . .,” pp. 26, 30. Interviews, male elders and Frelimo party secretary, Odinepa Center, 6/6/94; chief and smallholders, settlement, Odinepa Locality, 2/6/94; Chiefs Alua, Comala, Saíde and Nametemula, Alua Center, 14/6/94; animadores, Alua Center, 16/6/94. Chief Taibo and Chief Muhula implied as much when they maintained that contemporary forms of resistance to cotton production are the same as they had been during the colonial period. Interviews, Chief Taibo (former colonial régulo), Namapa Center, 9/6/94; Chief Muhula, Namirôa Center, 11/6/94. Interview, Nahopa, 7/5/94. Interviews, missionary, Mirrote, 7/5/94; Chief Namiquela, Mirrote, 8/5/94; SODAN field agent, Mirrote, 11/5/94; animadores, Alua Center, 16/6/94; former capataz, Namapa Center, 17/6/94; SODAN engineer, Namialo, Meconta District, 30/8/94. Paróquia do Alua, “Vamos comer . . . algodão?” Vida Nova, Janeiro 1993, p. 25. SODAN statistics; RM, MOA, DDA de Namapa, “Plano agrícola, Campanha 93/94 – Interno,” n.d. [1993], DDA records, Namapa. Interview, Alua Center, 16/6/94. Paróquia do Alua, “Vamos comer . . . algodão?” p. 25. “Chamboco: acabou ou não acabou?” Vida Nova, Maio 1993, p. 26. The appearance of the report in the pages of Vida Nova was delayed because, at the time it was written, it had been censored by government authorities. Paróquia de Namapa, “Dignidade humana,” Vida Nova, Março 1993, p. 27. Interview, smallholder/parishioner, Namapa Center, 6/5/94; informal conversations with the missionaries in Namapa Center; anonymous sources in the bairros of the town and in Nahopa. Paróquia de Namapa (1994). Interview, Namapa Center, 17/6/94. Interview, Mirrote, 7/5/94. Interview, Mirrote, 11/5/94. RM, MOA, DDA de Namapa, “Plano agrícola . . .” Interviews, cotton growers, Namirôa Center, 21/8/94 and Muanona Center, 22/8/94. Interview, Namirôa Center, 20/8/94. Interview, Chiefs Alua, Comala, Saíde and Nametemula, Alua Center, 14/6/94. Interview, Chief Comala, Napai, 1/10/94. The inadequacy of the soil stood as testimony to the exhaustion of the land following the intensive, uninterrrupted cultivation of cotton during the colonial period, when Alua was a premier smallholder cotton-producing region. The fact that Alua had been a major site of pest infestations during the colonial period may well have also dimmed smallholder enthusiasm for cotton production. Faria Lobo (1962: 31–2). Interview, Namapa Center, 17/6/94. Interview, settlement, Odinepa Locality, 2/6/94. By late 1994, the state had made no move, in Namapa at least, to distance itself from private capital, a precondition for any attempt on its part to derive political mileage from the process of privatization. For the argument that the Frelimo state was pursuing such a strategy of re-legitimization in cotton-growing zones through the formation of joint ventures, see Pitcher (1996; 2002: 208ff).
Notes 94 95 96 97 98 99
100
101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114
115 116
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Interview, Alua Center, 15/6/94. Interview, Napala, 25/8/94. Interview, Odinepa Center, 4/6/94. Secretaria da Administração do Distrito de Namapa, 21 de Abril de 1994; signed by the head of the accounting department; interview, Chief Namiquela, Mirrote, 8/5/94. Interview, Chiefs Alua, Comala, Saíde and Nametemula, Alua Center, 14/6/94. See “Qual é a posição dos régulos?” Vida Nova, 12, Dezembro 1993, pp. 7–8. The journal canvassed 52 people from all districts in the province and from both government and Renamo-held zones. Other responses struck a similar chord. The argument that chiefs could sway ordinary citizens to disobey the directives of secretaries or otherwise subvert Frelimo rule is made in Lourenço (1992: 17–20). See also the comments of the district administrator of Ribáuè in MAE, “Província de Nampula,” Maputo, 15/8/92, p. 3. Interview, Chiefs Alua, Comala, Saíde and Nametemula, Alua Center, 14/6/94. Interviews, José de Almeida (former party secretary and former administrator of Muanona Locality), Namapa Center, 28/9/94; Chief Tubruto, Namirôa Center, 13/6/94; Chief Namiquela, Mirrote, 8/5/94. Interview, Namirôa Center, 13/6/94. Interview, Namapa Center, 19/10/94. His emphasis. Dinerman (2001: 59). RM, GPN, DPAC, DA, “Análise sobre a reunião havida no Distrito de Angoche com as estruturas tradicionais, realizada nos dias 13 e 14.02.92,” 4 de Maio de 1992 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA. Interview, Nampula City, 10/9/94. Personal communication, José Salvador, Namapa Center, September 1994. Cotton growers in Namirôa shared this assessment. Interview, Namirôa Center, 21/8/94. Interview, Namialo, Meconta District, 30/8/94. Much as it had during the colonial period (e.g. witness the example of the friction between Muhula’s and Momola’s families, which persisted into the 1990s). For a study that highlights competing interests and agendas within and between state institutions, see Bowen (2000: 4, 16–17) and passim. See also Schafer and Bell (2002). See, inter alia, Reno (1998); Chabal and Daloz (1999); and McGregor (2002). For a journalistic account that is informed by this kind of analysis, see Berkeley (2001). The trend toward increased reliance on tributary earnings was partially mitigated in certain areas by the control of grassroots leaders over the distribution of humanitarian aid rendered by NGOs, which had been authorized and encouraged by the provincial government in mid-1992 to involve both traditional authorities and Frelimo party secretaries in such distributions. In Namapa, NGOs were, at the time, few and far between reportedly because of their reluctance to tread on the turf of cotton concessionaries. In more recent years, international NGOs have become active in concession zones. Ofiço and Tschirley (2003: 13). Hermele (1990b: 11). That the appeal of holding royal office to those able to exploit such opportunities is anything but static is demonstrated by the case of postcolonial Ghana. See Rathbone (2000: 147, 163–4).
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7 In the name of the state 1 DPAC, Nampula, “Reflexão sobre a autoridade tradicional,” 18 de Maio de 1991 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA. 2 Rousso (1991: 4). 3 Recent studies and/or overviews of the African context that I have found useful in this regard are Callaway (1993); Kriger (1995); Werbner (1998a); Nuttall and Coetzee (1998); Roberts (2000); and Sunseri (2000). I also owe an intellectual debt to Stoler’s study (1995) on the discourse of power in the Dutch East Indies. 4 Werbner (1998b: 13; 1998c: 73–4). 5 I have borrowed the term from Peter Schneider, “The Germans are breaking an old taboo: speaking about the trauma of carpet-bombing and ruin after 50 years of silence,” The New York Times, 18 January 2003, p. A19. 6 Jelin (2003: 33–4ff). 7 Olick (1998a: 384). 8 Jelin (2003: 33) and passim. 9 Hamilton (1998: 32, 33). My argument owes much to Hamilton’s analysis of how the figure of Shaka and Shakan rule became powerful metaphors in political discourse in segregationist South Africa and of why, as metaphors, they have continued to resonate powerfully through to the present day. See, in particular, her illuminating discussion of the antinomies and constant slippage between two prevailing images of Shaka’s kingdom that have marked African and “white” political discourse in South Africa starting from the preconquest period. Ibid., pp. 91–2, 209–13. 10 As in the sense elaborated by Gramsci. See Hoare and Nowell Smith (1971). 11 Ranger and Vaughan (1993b: 2). 12 Mallon (1995: 6). 13 Ibid., p. 7. 14 Feierman (1990: 222). 15 The party has also conducted its own studies on this subject but I did not have the opportunity to consult its archives. MAE, “Província de Nampula,” Maputo, 15/8/92. 16 Lourenço and Hilário (1988b); RPM, PN, Distrito de Murrupula, “Relatório sobre o poder tradicional,” 19 de Novembro de 1990 (hereafter the Murrupula report); Lourenço (1992), all in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA. 17 As cited in the Monapo district administration’s untitled report’s cover letter, RPM, PN, Gabinete do Administrador do Distrito de Monapo à Direcção Provincial de Apoio e Controlo de Nampula, Nampula, 85/ADM/3.6, 6/6/92 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA (hereafter the Monapo report). 18 MAE, “Reforma dos Orgãos Locais e o Papel da Autoridade Tradicional no Processo de Descentralização,” 19–23 de Abril de 1993, Maputo. 19 MAE, a equipe técnica do projecto, “Documento sumário de trabalho para apresentação às Províncias; Projecto: Autoridade/Poder Tradicional no contexto sócio-cultural, sócio-econômico e sócio-político de Moçambique,” Maputo, 7 de Agosto de 1992 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA. 20 The Monapo report; the Murrupula report; Lourenço and Hilário (1988a; 1988b); Lourenço (1992); RM, PN, Administração do Distrito de Malema, “Informe sobre o poder tradicional,” Malema, 21 de Janeiro de 1991; cover letter: RPM, PN, Administração do Distrito de Malema à Direcção Provincial de Apoio e Controlo, 23/ADM/17.9, 7/2/91 (hereafter the Malema report); RM, PN, Administração do Distrito de Mecubúri, “Levantamento efectuado
Notes
21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30
31 32
33 34 35
36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43
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sobre o poder tradicional (Distrito de Mecubúri),” elaborado por A. Tesoura, Dezembro de 1990 (hereafter the Mecubúri report); RM, PN, Distrito de Mogovolas, Administração do Distrito de Mogovolas, “Reflexão sobre autoridade poder tradicional,” Nametil, 19/10/92 (hereafter the 1992 Mogovolas report); RM, PN, Distrito de Mogovolas, Administração do Distrito de Mogovolas, “Reflexão sobre autoridade poder tradicional,” Nametil, 5 de Maio de 1993 (hereafter the 1993 Mogovolas report). All of the above documents were housed in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA. This is the case of the authors of the reports from Monapo, Mogovolas and Mecubúri. Cavala (1990). Interview, functionary, DA, DPAC, Nampula, Nampula City, 4/8/94. DPAC, Nampula, “Reflexão sobre . . .” Mutaquiha (1992). Baptista Lundin (1992). The Mecubúri report, pp. 1–2; RM, PN, Conselho Executivo do Distrito de Angoche, “Reflexão sobre a autoridade/poder tradicional,” Angoche, 16 de Novembro de 1992, pp. 3–4; cover letter: RM, PN, Administração do Distrito de Angoche a Exmo. Senhor, Director Provincial de Apoio e Controlo de Nampula, Nampula, 649/ADA/9.12, 3/12/92 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA. Baptista Lundin (1992: 28, 29); Lourenço and Hilário (1988a; 1988b); Lourenço (1992). Ibid.; the Monapo report; Cavala (1990). RM, PN, Distrito de Angoche, “Comunicado final,” Angoche, 4 de Dezembro de 1991; cover letter: RM, PN, Administração do Distrito de Angoche à Direcção Provincial de Apoio e Controlo, Nampula, 383/ADA/18.7, 19/12/91 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA. Grest (1995); Metselaar et al. (1994). RM, PN, Administração do Distrito de Angoche, “Síntese da primeira reunião com as estruturas tradicionais (Régulos, Chefes das Povoações e Reis),” Angoche, 14 de Fevereiro de 1992 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA; cover letter: RM, PN, Administração do Distrito de Angoche à Direcção Provincial de Apoio e Controlo de Nampula, Nampula, 5/ADA/2.5, 31/3/92 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA, p. 1. RM, PN, Conselho Executivo do Distrito de Angoche, “Reflexão sobre . . .,” p.10. MAE, “Província de Nampula.” Lourenço and Hilário (1988a: 10). RM, GPN, DPAC, DA, “Apreciação sobre o poder tradicional: Reflexão do Distrito de Mogovolas,” Nampula, 13 de Novembro de 1992 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DPAC, DA. Cf. MAE, “Província de Nampula,” p. 6 and p. 7, respectively. Ibid., p. 6. Cf. Lourenço and Hilário (1988a; 1988b); Lourenço (1992); the Mecubúri report. Lourenço and Hilário (1988b: 7). MAE, “Província de Nampula,” p. 16. Mutaquiha (1992: 7). Cf. the Malema report, p. 2; the Murrupula report, p. 2; Lourenço and Hilário (1988b: 8). For the first emphasis, see the Monapo report, p. 6. For the second emphasis, see RM, PN, Conselho Executivo do Distrito de Angoche, “Reflexão sobre . . .,” p. 2. Cavala (1990: 5–6). To this extent, they represented what Tom Holt has called “symmetrical
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44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66
67 68
Notes discourses” in which secretaries and chiefs occupied structurally homologous positions. Cf. Stoler (1995: 127). See Malkki (1995), especially Chapter 3, for a recent extended study of this phenomenon in independent Africa. Interventions by the administrators of Mogovolas, Angoche, Ribáuè and Murrupula in MAE, “Província de Nampula”; the Malema report, p. 3. RM, PN, Distrito de Angoche, “Comunicado final,” p. 4. The 1993 Mogovolas report, p. 3. See also the 1992 Mogovolas report, p. 2. Ibid.; RM, PN, Conselho Executivo do Distrito de Angoche, “Reflexão sobre . . .,” p. 5. Ibid. Ibid; Lourenço (1992: 21–4); DPAC, Nampula, “Reflexão sobre . . .,” p. 8. Cf. ibid.; RM, PN, Conselho Executivo do Distrito de Angoche, “Reflexão sobre . . .,” p. 5; Lourenço (1992: 20–1); the 1993 Mogovolas report, p. 2. Lourenço (1992: 9–10; 11–12). Ibid., pp. 15–16. Ibid., p. 16. Ibid., pp. 17–18. Ibid., p. 18. In Portuguese the passage reads as follows: “violação dos direitos fundamentais do homem, universalmente condenados pelos amantes da vida humana (milicianos).” Ibid., pp. 19–20. The Monapo report, p. 13. DPAC, Nampula, “Reflexão sobre . . .,” p. 5. Mutaquiha (1992: 7–9). Ibid., p. 9. Baptista Lundin (1992: 28, 36–7, 39–40). MAE, “Província de Nampula,” p. 3. The Monapo report, p. 13. For a harsh assessment, see Geffray (1988: 72–6). CEA (1986); Geffray and Pederson (1985); Geffray and Pederson (1986); Hermele (1988a). Harris’ study of social relations in a production cooperation deployed a similar approach and, to a certain extent, prefigured this later work. See Harris (1980). It did not, however, problematize, as Englund (2002) does, the ways in which the local and external are mutually constitutive in the historical process. See, in particular, ibid., pp. 78–9. Brito (1991: 189); Geffray (1991). See also Finnegan’s (1992: 228–9) late night musings. A variation of this theme is also to be found in Geffray’s later work: that the nationwide confrontation was reproduced at the local level in a violent clash between historically marginalized, more traditional, lineagebased communities and groupings which had reaped some of the fruits of modernization but still retained their essential character as lineages. For an extended case study that underscores the fallacies of viewing local wartime and postwar dynamics through the prism of the official ideologies of the two main belligerents, see Englund (2002), especially pp. 2, 58–9, 66, 70, 151. In certain critical respects, the accounts provided by de Brito and Geffray represent inverted versions of “nationalist epics” that have found it useful to identify and showcase leaders of early anti-colonial, inter-ethnic rebellions and to portray these individuals as the political and intellectual forebears of modern pan-African nationalist leaders. Sunseri (2000: 575–9). If the political objective of the nationalist epic was to stress the indigenous roots of nationalism, the aim of revisionist historiography of post-independence Mozambique is to assert the foreign provenance of Frelimo’s Marxist-inspired nationalism,
Notes
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the steadfast refusal of the Mozambique’s rural populace to assist in this ideology’s indigenization, and the suspect character of Frelimo’s grassroots devotees. Whereas the central protagonists in the nationalist epic are heroes, self-evidently the secretary in revisionist historiography is anything but. See especially Brito (1991: 269–301). A variation on this theme which appears in policy-oriented writing is that local conceptions of legitimacy and accountability are negotiated and contested but that such negotiations and contestations are waged and settled independently of their engagement with outside influences and forces, most notably those exerted by state institutions. Cf. West and Myers (1992); Baptista Lundin (1993). The Monapo report, pp. 13–15. O’Laughlin (2000: 33). See, inter alia, Casal (1988: 187–8); Geffray (1991: 17); Marshall and Roesch (1993: 249); and Borges Coelho (1993: 392–416). See also Chapter 3 above. Lourenço (1992: 19). Ibid., p. 20. For the case of Eráti, see Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 4, 8, 24). For the case of Nampula Province more generally, see Vieira Pinto (1984). Baptista Lundin (1992: 10). Ibid., p. 12. Cf. ibid., pp. 9n.6, 26, 33–4. Ibid., p. 38. Ibid., p. 34. Ibid. Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 60). The Murrupula report, p. 3. The Mecubúri report, pp. 3–4. Ibid., pp. 4–5. MAE, “Província de Nampula,” p. 6. Geffray and Pederson (1986: 317). Interview, former administrator of Ribáuè District, Nampula City, 2/8/94. See Chapter 3 above. MAE, “Província de Nampula,” p. 1. RM, PN, Administração do Distrito de Angoche, “Síntese da primeira reunião . . .,” p. 2. Lourenço (1992: 16). Ibid. My emphases. Baptista Lundin (1992: 27, 28, 36–7). Lourenço (1992: 19, 21). The Mecubúri report, p. 3. Lourenço and Hilário (1988b: 8). My emphasis. O’Meara (1991). See also Hanlon (1984: 67–70) and Saul (1985d: 82–3). Machel (1979: 156). O’Meara (1991: 94–5). Machel (1979: 158). Ibid., p. 163. Munslow (1987b: xxvii). For a variation on this theme, see Nordstrom (1997: 100–1). Mbembe (2001: 109). Ibid., p. 110. Compare to ibid., p. 104. That Frelimo leaders were of this opinion is asserted by Hanlon (1984: 145). Machel (1979: 160). Interview, Chief Taibo (the former colonial régulo), Namapa Center, 2/10/94.
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110 Interview, three apuiamuene, Namapa Center, 3/10/94. 111 Similar themes have been recently sounded by Renamo MP’s. See “Family law to protect women’s rights,” Mf, 322 (May 2003), p. 11. 112 Interview, Namirôa Center, 26/8/94. 113 Interview, former residents of 25 de Junho Communal Village, 25 de Junho Communal Village, 27/8/94. 114 See Chapter 2 above. 115 Interview, Chief Tubruto, Namirôa Center, 13/6/94. 116 Interview, “Zagaia,” Alua Administrative Post, 24/9/94. 117 Interview, Odinepa Center, 3/6/94. 118 Interview, demobilized troops, “Zagaia,” Alua Administrative Post, 25/9/94. 119 Interview, UNAMO representatives and members, Alua Center, 15/6/94. 120 Interview, Odinepa Center, 6/6/94. 121 For more on the phenomenon of “colonial nostalgia” in postcolonial Mozambique, see Englund (1996; 2002: 67–8, 116); O’Laughlin (2000: 40); and Harrison (2000: 76, 187–93). The “boom” in colonial and precolonial nostalgia throughout the continent has been widely remarked. Werbner (1998b: 1; 1996: 3–4); Ranger and Vaughan (1993b: 1). 122 Interview, Namapa Center, 19/10/94. 123 Mazrui (1969: 201). On the subject of heroes and villains in the context of postwar Mozambique, see Englund (2002: 39). 124 As cited in Clapham (1991: 263–4). 125 A point driven home by Minter (1994: 9ff). 126 Brito (1991: 242–3). 127 Geffray and Pedersen (1985: 29). 128 Geffray (1991: 74). 129 See Weinstein (2002: 145) on both sides’ heavy reliance on forced recruitment. 130 Minter (1994: 250). 131 Chabal (1992: 72ff), especially pp. 74, 228, 229. 132 Ibid., p. 187. 133 Serra (1999b: 175); “Disinformation leads to riots,” Mf, 307 (February 2002). 134 Serra (1999b: 176) and passim. 135 Ibid., pp. 133–4, 177. For similar, contemporaneous fears, see Schafer and Bell (2002: 412). The 1997 conscription law mandates that all Mozambicans must register for military service within the year following their 18th birthdays. It empowers the army to select a determinate number from this pool of potential recruits and to train them for a two-year-period of compulsory military service. Recruitment targets set by the military have been low and, by early 2001, only 1,000 recruits had undergone training and were serving under the new program. The vast majority of draft-age youngsters dodge their legal obligation to register for military service. “Defence Ministry out to conscript 3,000,” Mozambique News Agency, AIM Reports, 143 (23 September 1998); “Youngsters ignore conscription,” Mozambique News Agency, AIM Reports, 201 (19 February 2001); “Most youngsters not registering for military service,” Mozambique News Agency, AIM Reports, 225 (11 February 2002). 136 “Polemic over cholera violence,” Mf, 274 (May 1999). 137 See “Family law . . .,” Mf, p. 11 and Serra (1999b: 133), respectively. See ibid., pp. 133–4, 172–7 for a discussion of similar rumors, how they might be interpreted, and how they were cast publicly by the government. See “No evidence for tales of trafficking in human body parts,” Mf, 332 (March 2004) and “Assembly approves agenda,” Mozambique News Agency, AIM Reports, 271 (4 March 2004) for more recent developments along these lines. 138 If this reading is correct, the influence exerted by the memory of large-scale out-migration serves, at one and the same time, as the metaphorical social
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equivalent of what psychologists call “proactive” and “retroactive” interference. Winter and Sivan (1999c: 12). “A criminalidade em Maputo data do periodo colonial,” Domingo, 10/7/94. For a similar speech, see Africa Watch (1992: 67). Spillman (2003: 185) and passim. This is my reading of how the logic of Spillman’s argument (ibid.) would apply to the present case study. On the need to investigate why an object of mnemonic practice comes to function as a screening device (of whatever ilk) in the first place, see WagnerPacifici and Schwartz (1991: 403). See also Hamilton (1998).
8 Roots, routes and rootlessness 1 Quoted in “Second month of national debate on draft constitution,” Mozambiquefile, 167 (June 1990), p. 8. See also the remark made by Chissano the previous year, as cited in Matonse (1992: 31). 2 For other aspects of Frelimo’s legitimation profile in the post-1990 period, see Pitcher (2002: ch. 7). 3 Cahen (1993: 58). 4 Here and elsewhere I owe an intellectual debt to Ann Stoler’s work on the deep connections between the making of the bourgeois body and that of the modern national body politic. See Stoler (1995), especially Chapter 4. 5 RPM, PN, V Sessão da Comissão Coordenadora Provincial para a Socialização do Campo, “Síntese,” Nampula, 23 de Junho de 1989, p. 5 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo,” DPA, Nampula. 6 Ibid., p. 1. 7 Ibid., pp. 2–3. 8 V [Quinta] Sessão da Comissão Executiva Provincial para Socialização do Campo, “Resolução sobre Socialização,” Nampula, 23 de Junho de 1989, pp. 2–3 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo,” DPA, Nampula. 9 RPM, PN, V Sessão da Comissão Coordenadora Provincial para a Socialização do Campo, “Síntese,” p. 1. 10 Rural testimony as paraphrased in Salomão Muiambo, “Chissano e Frelimo sentem-se derrotados,” Notícias, 10/10/94. 11 Harrison (1996: 25). 12 Harrison (2000: 180). 13 Interviews, Chief Taibo (former colonial régulo), Namapa Center, 9/6/94; Frelimo party secretaries, Namirôa Center, 11/6/94; Chief Tubruto, Namirôa Center, 13/6/94. 14 Overviews of the campaign, or aspects of it, are taken up in Saul (1994a); Cahen (1994; 1995; 1997; 2000); Hall and Young (1997: 233); and Manning (2002), as well as in the sources cited below. 15 Saul (1994a); Allen (1994); “Sluggish start to campaign,” MPPB, AWEPA, 13 (11 October 1994); Eddie Koch, “Who cares about electing ‘thieves’ and ‘murderers’?” Weekly Mail and Guardian, 10, 42, 21–27/10/94. 16 Cahen (1992: 10; 1993: 57); Saul (1994a); Harrison (1996). 17 When the country held its first presidential and general elections based on the principle of universal franchise. 18 Koch, “Who cares . . .?” 19 Lourenço Jossias, “Arrogância,” Savana, 14/10/94. 20 Cahen (2000: 183). 21 Chabal (2002: 119, 102). Chabal emphasizes Renamo’s commitment to the latter option while Cahen (1995: 151) concedes that there were leading elements within Renamo that were hostile to the prospect of elections. Cahen
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22
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24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33
34 35 36 37 38 39
40 41
42 43 44 45
Notes also makes various allusions to Dhlakama’s growing conviction that he could win the presidential race. Ibid., pp. 143–6. “ ‘Em campanha ataca-se o mais forte’,” Savana, 7/10/94; Salomão Muiambo, “Ontem foi dia negro para Dhlakama em Nampula,” Notícias, 8/10/94; Carlos Coelho, “Helicóptero de Dhlakama apedrejado em Mogovolas,” Notícias, 10/5/94; “Dhlakama’s election campaign,” Mf, 220 (November 1994). Ibid.; Lourenço Jossias, “ ‘Dêem-nos uma oportunidade’,” Savana, 7/10/94. This was perhaps especially the case in southern Mozambique where, according to Cahen (1995: 139), Frelimo “did not hesitate to instill tribalist resentments in order to win votes.” It is important to stress, however, that ethnicity was far from being the dominant theme of either sides’ campaign. Manning (2002: 148). For more on Dhlakama’s political appeals, and especially on the contrasting ways in which he addressed urban and rural voters, see ibid., p. 135 and Cahen (2000: 174). Jossias, “ ‘Dêem-nos . . .’” This view was apparently widespread among Renamo’s cadres. Cahen (1995: 129). António Elias, “Dhlakama está seguro em Sofala,” Savana, 1/7/94. Ibid.; Jossias, “ ‘Dêem-nos . . .’ ” Ibid.; Lourenço Jossias, “Dhlakama a todo gás na Zambezia,” Savana, 30/9/94; Alexandre Chiúre, “Dhlakama pisa terreno falso,” Savana, 14/10/94. Jossias, “ ‘Dêem-nos . . .’ ” Fernando Manuel, “Santo de casa também faz milagre,” Savana, 26/10/94. See also Cahen (1995: 135, 139, 141) on this point. Jossias, “Dhlakama a todo gás . . .” For this claim and the psychology behind it, see Cahen (1995: 143–4). Manuel, “Santo de casa . . .”; Elias, “Dhlakama está seguro . . .”; Jossias, “Dhlakama a todo gás . . .”; Jossias, “ ‘Dêem-nos . . .’ ”; Chiúre, “Dhlakama pisa . . .”; “Sluggish start . . .,” MPPB; “Dhlakama’s election campaign,” Mf; “The other giant,” MPPB, AWEPA, 13 (11 October 1994). Manuel, “Santo de casa . . ..” See also Salomao Muiambo, “Dhlakama segue hoje para Cabo Delgado,” Notícias, 11/10/94; Chiúre, “Dhlakama pisa . . .”; Muiambo, “Chissano e Frelimo . . .”; Elias, “Dhlakama está seguro . . .” Muiambo, “Dhlakama segue . . .” Elias, “Dhlakama está seguro . . .” See also Manuel, “Santo de casa . . .” and “Dhlakama’s election campaign,” Mf. For an interpretation of these allegations and predictions, see Cahen (1994; 1995: 134–5). Marcelo Mosse, “Homoine hostil a Chissano,” Savana, 21/10/94. Cahen (1995: 141). Hilton Cuvaca, “O centro é baluarte da RENAMO mas a FRELIMO provou a sua implantação,” Savana, 14/10/94; Fernando Veloso, “ ‘Se a Frelimo se safar é boleia de Chissano’,” Savana, 14/10/94; Alexandre Chiúre, “O ‘showmício’ e as ‘promessas’,” Savana, 26/10/94. “Chissano on the campaign trail,” Mf, 215 (June 1994), p. 15. Ibid., p. 16. See also “Chissano on the hustings,” Mf, 220 (November 1994); Salomão Muiambo (texto) and Amadeu Marrengula (foto), “Guerra dos que se afirmam democratas foi de destruições, roubos e matanças,” Notícias, 7/7/94; Fernando Manuel, “Lar, doce lar,” Savana, 15/7/94; and Severino Sumbe, “O mérito de chamar as coisas pelos nomes,” Domingo, 29/5/94. “Chissano on the hustings,” Mf, p. 9. Ibid., p. 10. Ibid., p. 8. “Chissano tours Nampula province,” Mf, 178 (May 1991), p. 6 sounds similar themes.
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46 See, inter alia, Hanlon (1991); Plank (1993); and Saul (1994a; 1996). For a critique, see Freund (1995) and Pitcher (1996; 2002). 47 See, inter alia, “Chissano on the campaign trail,” Mf, p. 16; “Chissano on the hustings,” Mf, p. 7; Salomão Muiambo (texto) and Isidro Pascoal (foto), “Rombézia está condenada a desaparecer do país,” Notícias, 27/8/94; Manuel, “Lar . . .”; Sumbe, “O mérito . . .”; and “Biggest show,” MPPB, AWEPA, 13 (11 October 1994). For an exception, see Bento Balói, “Um povo que reclama sem papas na língua,” Domingo, 1/5/94. 48 See, in particular, “O Governo está sob pressões internacionais,” Domingo, 10/7/94. 49 “Chissano visits South Africa and Malawi,” Mf, 225 (April 1995), p. 15. For a variation on this theme, which is recurrent in Chissano’s speeches, see “ ‘Organised crime’ killed Cardoso,” Mf, 294 (January 2001), p. 15. 50 See also Hall and Young (1997: 231) on this point. 51 On this latter point, see Hanlon (1991: 120–1) and Hall and Young (1997: 198). 52 Manning (2002: 133). 53 Cf. Muiambo and Marrengula, “Guerra . . .”; Bento Balói, “O voto já (?) está no bolso,” Domingo, 8/5/94; “Chissano on the campaign trail,” Mf, p. 15. 54 For the few instances where these benefits were invoked, see “Chissano on the hustings,” Mf, p. 7 and Sumbe, “O mérito . . .” 55 Machado da Graça, “10 anos sem Samora,” Savana, 23/2/96. Unless otherwise noted, the discussion which follows is based on this article. See also “Savana ‘entrevista’ Samora Machel,” Savana, 19/7/96; “Ten years without Samora,” Mf, 242 (September 1996). 56 For similar views, see Manning (2002: 133). 57 As reported in “Mais traficantes do que comerciantes,” Savana, 16/9/94. 58 “Chuva de inaugurações, apoio ao poder tradicional e crença em Deus,” Domingo, 31/7/94. 59 Fernando Lima, “Chissano em Nampula de camisete e boné,” Savana, 23/9/94. 60 For a critique of this argument as articulated by Sachs and Honwana Welch (1990: 71–2), see Mamdani (1996: 132). 61 “Renewal or continuity? Frelimo’s Seventh Congress,” Mf, 251 (June 1997), p. 6. 62 “Elections: dispute over registration,” Mf, 276 (July 1999), p. 5. 63 “Mocumbi defends nationalisations,” Mf, 274 (May 1999), pp. 6, 8; “Assembly throws out Renamo bills,” Mf, 275 (June 1999), p. 14; “Renamo aborts constitutional change,” Mf, 279 (October 1999), p. 9. 64 “Frelimo cadre conference in Beira,” Mf, 303 (October 2001), p. 4. If anything, it has shown itself much more prone to underscore what did not qualify as such an error. The many round-ups of “anti-social elements” from the streets of Maputo that both preceded and marked Operation Production stand as a case in point. See “ ‘Guebuza’s not from the north or south – he’s from Mozambique,’ ” Mf, 312 (July 2002), p. 11. 65 As cited in Manning (2002: 131–2). 66 West and Kloeck-Jensen (1999: 463). 67 Ibid., and p. 464, respectively. 68 As cited in ibid. 69 As cited in “Chissano addresses regulos,” Mf, 232 (November 1995). 70 What the entire ensemble of practices examined here also suggests is that, in the post-1990 period Frelimo has pursued a strategy of normalization via ritualization; in contrast, Renamo has elected to try to normalize its past through a strategy of relativization, as attested by Dhlakama’s campaign rhetoric reviewed above. For a discussion and evaluation of these two routes as played
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Notes out in the Federal Republic of Germany and in a reunited Germany, see Olick (1998b). B.B., “Frelimo e Mungói,” Savana, 24/2/95. For more on the spirit of Mungói and its evolving relationship with the government, see Nordstrom (1997: 147–51). Balibar (1991: 86). Cf. Chapter 3 in Appiah (1992), especially pp. 60–1, and Mbembe (2001: 105). Hall and Young (1997: 231). Cahen (1988b: 13). Cahen (1987: 157). Cahen (1988b: 4). Cahen (1987: 158). Ibid., p. 159. Cahen (1988b: 3). Cahen (1992: 3; 2000: 168). Cahen (1995: 127) specifies the social groups he believes the label should apply to. Cahen (1993: 49). This argument is echoed by Saad Filho (1997: 195–6). For the general case that the creation of new capital cities under colonial rule gave birth to new geographic centers of power and thus carried consequences for post-conquest state consolidation, see Herbst (2000: 16–17). Cahen (1993: 49). Cahen (1987: 159). Cahen (1993: 56). Cahen (1987: 162). Cahen (1988b: 12). Cahen (1992: 9). My emphasis. Cahen (1987: 160). The problem is not resolved in Cahen’s subsequent work, which I am unable to delve into in detail here. In a more recent piece, for instance, Cahen finds, on the one hand, that Frelimo was true to its declared commitment to antiracist and anti-tribalist principles; on the other, he argues that: Since they [the social group which came to power under “Southernist ethnic hegemony” but which was not reducible to a single ethnic group, nor to a coalition of ethnicities] expressed themselves through a “national” discourse, without ever publicly revealing their own identity, the denial of ethnicity classically served to disguise the strong ethnicity of Southern groups, particularly those of the Shangaan. (Cahen 2000: 168–70) See also ibid., p. 171. Cahen (1993: 50). Cahen (1988b: 10). Cahen (1992: 5). For an instance of such a movement, see Dinerman (1998: 377–8). For the tendency for Africanists to abstract the petty bourgeoisie from relations with other classes and the social relations of production, see Williams (1976). Lonsdale (1992b: 352). Cahen (1993: 49; 1992: 3). Cahen (1993: 49). Cahen (1988b: 10).
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103 Ibid., p. 8; Cahen (1992: 4; 1993: 48). The term derives from French Marxist anthropology, most notably the scholarship of Meillassoux (1981). Meillassoux’s work, like modes of production theory in general, has been critiqued for being functionalist. For the intellectual influence Meillassoux exerted on Geffray, see O’Laughlin (1992b: 110). 104 Cahen (1993: 54). 105 Ibid. 106 Cahen (1983; 1984). 107 Cahen (1985: 52–6). 108 O’Laughlin (1977). For a review of the feminist critique of the concept of the domestic mode of production and the theory of the relationship between production and reproduction it explicates, see Moore (1988: 49–54). 109 As Minter (1994: 256n.17) has described it. 110 Geffray (1991: 16). 111 Ibid, p. 53; Young (1994: 166); Finnegan (1992: 125–6), who cites the then Minister of Culture approvingly to this effect. 112 Geffray (1991: 14). See also the section entitled, “Le malentendu,” in Brito (1991: 153–61). 113 Ibid., pp. 160, 162–3. See also pp. 131–2. This reading is curious given that the prevailing view is that popular support for conventional nationalism on the continent was predicated on a very different, if no less colossal, misunderstanding. As Chabal (1992: 160) puts it,
114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133
The masses who supported nationalism expected or were led to expect that independence would bring an end to colonial inequalities. But the new African élites, who largely ran the nationalist parties, expected for their part that independence would permit the unfettered development of the pattern of productive inequalities which had served them well. Geffray (1988: 79). My emphases. This view is now widely held. See Manning (2002: 49). Geffray (1991: 14). Geffray (1987a: 29). Geffray (1991: 16). Geffray (1988: 80). Manning (2002: 131–2). See, in particular, O’Laughlin (1996) on this point. Cahen (1993: 58); Brito (1991: 324). Chabal (2002: 98). Cahen (1993: 56). Cahen (1992: 10). See also Cahen (1993: 57). For the argument that dynamics such as these are typically in play in “Third World” nationalisms, see Nairn (1975). I owe this point to Fine (1992), especially p. 78. See Honwana (1993: 7). The characterization is Mateus Katupha’s (1993: 1). Katupha was then serving as Minister of Culture, Youth and Sport. Wuyts (1985: 198). Saul (1985d: 116). Finnegan (1992: 115). On the importance of “claims for the genuineness of revolution” (Olick 2003b: 10) in the Soviet Union and fascist Italy, for instance, see Corney (2003) and Falasca Zamponi (2003), respectively. Newitt (2002: 198). Ibid., p. 217.
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Notes
134 Ibid., p. 213. 135 This is the way Manning (2002: 131) describes the manner in which Frelimo cast its embrace of formal democratic institutions in the party’s Central Committee report to the Sixth Congress. 136 Olick (1999). 137 As cited in Saul (1985b: 16–17). 138 The term is Thomas Callaghy’s. As cited in Mamdani (1996: 11). 139 The line of demarcation between foreign-manufactured social forces and precapitalist local societies was situated differently in the two ideologies – in Frelimo’s case, squarely inside the polity; in the case of African socialism, virtually at its margins. But, in both cases, the market remained an alien (super)imposition that had left precolonial social formations essentially intact – even though these formations were the progenitors of the African petty bourgeoisie. Given this common presupposition, the real source of division between African socialism and Frelimo’s Marxism was in their contrasting assessments of the political significance of the near absolute autonomy of most Africans from the market. For devotees of African socialism, the virtual absence of classes was a boon since it meant that traditional African societies would be naturally disposed to socialist politics. For the Frelimo leadership, this selfsame attribute was an obstacle that had to be overcome through stateled development. 140 The term derives from Polletta (1998: 480). Emphasis in original. See ibid., and Falasca Zamponi (2003: 60) on the working through of this dynamic in other contexts. Compare Frelimo’s ulterior motives in this respect to those underlying the SWAPO (South West Africa People’s Organization) government’s “national reconciliation” policy in Namibia. Saul and Leys (2003). 141 Glassman (1995: 9). 142 Both phrases are from Barkan (2000: 323). 143 Chabal and Daloz (1999: 69).
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II Mozambican central government and Frelimo party sources Baptista Lundin, I. (1992) “Algumas considerações sobre a sociedade Amakhuwa,” MAE, Projeto “Autoridade/poder tradicional”: documento de pesquisa, Maputo. —— (1993) “A pesquisa piloto sobre a autoridade/poder tradicional em Moçambique: um somatório comentado e analisado,” II Seminário sobre “A Reforma dos Orgãos Locais” e “O Papel da Autoridade Tradicional no Processo de Descentralização,” MAE, 19–23 de Abril. FRELIMO (1978) Central Committee Report to the Third Congress of FRELIMO. London. Honwana, L.B. (1993) “Intervenção do Senhor Luís Bernardo Honwana,” República de Moçambique, Ministério da Cultura e Juventude, Primeira Conferência Nacional sobre Cultura, Maputo, de 12 a 16 de Julho. Instituto do Algodão de Moçambique (IAM), “Mapa da evolução da produção no país,” 1994. Katupha, M. (1993) “Discurso pronunciado por Sua Excelência o Ministro da Cultura e Juventude na sessão de abertura da conferência,” República de Moçambique, Ministério da Cultura e Juventude, Primeira Conferência Nacional sobre Cultura, Maputo, de 12 a 16 de Julho. MAE, a equipe técnica do projecto, “Documento sumário de trabalho para apresentação às Províncias. Projecto: Autoridade/Poder Tradicional no contexto sócio-cultural, sócio-económico e sócio-político de Moçambique,” 7 de Agosto de 1992, Maputo. MAE, “Província de Nampula,” Maputo, 15/8/92. Mutaquiha, J. (1992) “Relatório do trabalho de campo realizado na Província de Nampula,” Direcção Nacional de Organização da Administração Estatal, Projecto de Investigação sobre a Autoridade/Poder Tradicional, Maputo. RM, “Glossário de termos técnico-jurídicos empregues no quadro institucional dos distritos municipais (Lei 3/94, de 13 de Setembro).” RM, Boletim da República, primeiro série, 37, segundo suplemento, 13 de Setembro de 1994, Lei no. 3/94.
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III Provincial government sources, Nampula A Documents in the provincial government archives and in the Land Tenure Center Library, Maputo RPM, GPN, “Relatório do Governo Provincial por ocasião da visita de Sua Excelência, JOAQUIM ALBERTO CHISSANO, Presidente do Partido FRELIMO e Presidente da República Popular de Moçambique à Província de Nampula,” Nampula, Outubro de 1988 in Land Tenure Center Library, Maputo. “Situação salarial nas administrações de distritos da Província de Nampula,” n.d. [c. 1990/1991], in Dossier, “DPAC 88, 22.3 Vencimentos,” Arquivo, GPN. RM, PN, DPF de Nampula, “Assunto: Relatório à Primeira Sessão Ordinária do Governo Provincial sobre a Situação Financeira dos Orgãos Locais (Distritos e Cidades),” Nampula, 29 de Janeiro de 1992 in Dossier, “Aparelho do Estado 1992, 2.2,” Arquivo, GPN. Letter from the Head of the Department for Mobilization and Propaganda, Provincial Committee of Nampula to the Governor of Nampula Province, 9/9/92, Nota No./88/SCPPF/92 in Dossier, “Informação 20.2, 1992,” Arquivo, GPN.
B Provincial Directorate of Agriculture (Direcção Provincial de Agricultura, or DPA) “Mapa de novas aldeias comunais surgidas em 1980,” in RPM, CPAC, Nampula, “Relatório das actividades desenvolvidas em 1980,” Nampula, Dezembro de 1980 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo.” “Mapa das aldeias comunais existentes na Província,” in RPM, CPAC, Nampula, “Relatório das actividades desenvolvidas em 1980,” Nampula, Dezembro de 1980 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo.” GPN, DPA, “Relatório sobre o movimento cooperativo,” Nampula, 12 de Fevereiro de 1982 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo.” RPM, PN, Comissão D. das Aldeias Comunais Eráti, “Relatório,” Namapa, 4 de Janeiro de 1983 in Dossier, “Namapa.” RPM, PN, CDAC das Aldeias Comunais Eráti, untitled list, Namapa, 2 de Fevereiro de 1983 in Dossier, “Namapa.” RPM, PN, CDAC de Eráti, “Relatório,” Namapa, 31 de Março de 1983 in Dossier, “Namapa.” RPM, PN, CDAC de Eráti, “Relatório,” Namapa, 9 de Junho de 1983 in Dossier, “Namapa.” RPM, PN, CDAC de Eráti, “Mapa de controle de rendimento de produção agrícola da campanha 81/82, cooperativas agrícolas e m. [machambas] colectivas,” Namapa, 21 de Junho de 1983 in Dossier, “Namapa.” RPM, PN, CDAC de Eráti, “Relatório,” Namapa, 3 de Julho de 1983 in Dossier, “Namapa.” RPM, PN, CDAC de Eráti, “Relatório,” Namapa, 5 de Outubro de 1983 in Dossier, “Namapa.” RPM, MOA, Programa Nacional CRED, Centro Regional de Experimentação e Desenvolvimento de Napai, Distrito de Eráti, “Relatório,” CRED Napai, 21 de Outubro de 1983 in Dossier, “Namapa.”
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RPM, PN, CDAC de Eráti, “Relatório,” Namapa, 10 de Janeiro de 1984 in Dossier, “Namapa.” Letter, RPM, PN, Comissão Distrital das Aldeias Comunais de Eráti à Comissão Provincial das Aldeias Comunais, Nota. No. 1/CDAE/84, Namapa, 10 de Fevereiro de 1984 in Dossier, “Namapa.” RPM, PN, Direcção Distrital de Agricultura de Eráti, “Relatório,” Eráti, 12 de Maio de 1984 in Dossier, “Namapa.” RPM, PN, DPA, Departamento para a Socialização do Campo, “Sector cooperativo 83/84,” in DPA, Departamento Provincial para Socialização do Campo, Nampula, “Dados estatísticos dos sectores: cooperativo, familiar, pequenos privados e aldeias comunais,” Nampula, 27 de Novembro de 1984 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo.” RPM, PN, DPA, Departamento para a Socialização do Campo, “Relatório das actividades desenvolvidas durante o ano de 1984,” Nampula, 22 de Fevereiro de 1984 [sic: given the title and the contents of the report, the year was probably 1985] in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo.” RPM, PN, Comissão Coordenadora Provincial para Socialização do Campo, IV Sessão Ordinária, “Relatório,” Nampula, 28 de Setembro de 1985 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo.” IV [Quarta] Sessão da Comissão Coordenadora para Socialização do Campo, “Documento final,” Nampula, 2 de Outubro de 1985 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo.” RPM, PN, IV Sessão da Comissão Coordenadora para Socialização do Campo, untitled speech given at the session’s close by an unidentified member of the commission, Nampula, 2 de Outubro de 1985 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo.” RPM, MOA, PN, DPA, “Orientações específicas da Provincial [sic] de Nampula para o sector agrário,” Nampula, 20 de Maio de 1986 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo.” V [Quinta] Sessão da Comissão Executiva Provincial para Socialização do Campo, “Resolução sobre Socialização,” Nampula, 23 de Junho de 1989 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo.” RPM, PN, V Sessão da Comissão Coordenadora Provincial para a Socialização do Campo, “Síntese,” Nampula, 23 de Junho de 1989 in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo.” RPM, PN, “Relatório da Comissão Executiva para a Socialização do Campo, V – Sessão Extraordinária,” n.d. [1989] in Dossier, “Socialização do Campo.”
C Provincial Directorate of Assistance and Control (Direcção Provincial de Apoio e Controlo, or DPAC) Lourenço, O.A. and Hilário, M.E. (1988a) “Fenómenos da socialização política-cultural; o poder tradicional e seu relacionamento com o poder popular: Distrito do Eráti-Nacarôa. Primeira Parte,” in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DA. Lourenço, O.A. and Hilário, M.E. (1988b) “Fenómenos da socialização política-cultural; o poder tradicional e seu relacionamento com o poder popular: Distrito do Eráti-Nacarôa. Segunda Parte,” in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DA. RM, PN, Direcção do Plano, “Programa geral de reabilitação agrária dos distritos prioritários,” realizado por Abdulcarimo e Dionisio Chereua, n.d., [c.1989], DA.
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RM, GPN, DPAC, DA, “Análise sobre a reunião havida no Distrito de Angoche com as estruturas tradicionais, realizada nos dias 13 e 14.02.92,” 4 de Maio de 1992 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DA. Lourenço, O.A. 1992, “O poder tradicional macua e o seu impacto na Direcção e Administração territorial na base,” Projecto Moz/91/002 – PNUD, Malema, Maio in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DA. RM, PN, ADN, Ano de (1992) Mês de Maio, “Relatório,” in Dossier, “Namapa,” DA [May 1992 district report]. Cover letter, RPM, PN, Gabinete do Administrador do Distrito de Monapo à Direcção Provincial de Apoio e Controlo de Nampula, Nampula, 85/ADM/3.6, 6/6/92 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DA [the Monapo report]. Letter from the district administrator of Lalaua, RM, PN, Administração do Distrito de Lalaua, “Informação circunstanciada sobre o artigo publicado no jornal Notícias de 16/6/92 com o título ‘Poder tradicional-tribal’ ganha força em Lalaua) [sic] da autoria de Pedro Nacuo da Delegação de Nampula,” Lalaua, 20 de Junho de 1992 in Dossier “O Sistema Tradicional,” DA. Letter from the Director of DPAC to the Governor of Nampula Province (enc: proposed circular), 15/7/92 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DA. Proposed circular, enclosure to letter from the director of the DPAC to the Governor of Nampula Province, 15/7/92 in Dossier, “O Sistema Traditional,” DA [proposed DPAC circular]. RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1992, Mês de Agosto, “Relatório,” in Dossier, “Namapa,” DA [August 1992 district report]. RM, PN, ADN, Ano de 1992, Mês de Setembro, “Relatório,” in Dossier, “Namapa,” DA [September 1992 district report]. RM, PN, Distrito de Mogovolas, Administração do Distrito de Mogovolas, “Reflexão sobre autoridade poder tradicional,” Nametil, 19/10/92 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DA [the 1992 Mogovolas report]. RM, GPN, DPAC, DA, “Apreciação sobre o poder tradicional: Reflexão do Distrito de Mogovolas,” Nampula, 13 de Novembro de 1992 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DA. RM, PN, Conselho Executivo do Distrito de Angoche, “Reflexão sobre a autoridade/poder tradicional,” Angoche, 16 de Novembro de 1992; cover letter: RM, PN, Administração do Distrito de Angoche a Exmo. Senhor, Director Provincial de Apoio e Controlo de Nampula, Nampula, 649/ADA/9.12, 3/12/92 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DA. RM, PN, DN, “Monografia do Distrito de Namapa,” n.d. [c.1992], DA. RM, PN, DN, Ano de 1993, Mêses de Janeiro/Fevereiro, “Relatório,” in Dossier, “Namapa,” DA [January/February 1993 district report]. RM, PN, DN, “Relatório do primeiro trimestre, Ano de 1993,” 31 de Março de 1993 in Dossier, “Namapa,” DPAC, DA [first trimester district report for 1993]. RM, PN, DN, Ano de 1993, Mês de Março, “Relatório,” in Dossier, “Namapa,” DA [March 1993 district report]. RM, PN, DN, Ano de 1993, Mês de Abril, “Relatório,” in Dossier, “Namapa,” DA [April 1993 district report]. RM, PN, Distrito de Mogovolas, Administração do Distrito de Mogovolas, “Reflexão sobre autoridade poder tradicional,” Nametil, 5 de Maio de 1993 in Dossier, “O Sistema Tradicional,” DA [the 1993 Mogovolas report].
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IV District government sources, Namapa A District Secretariat (Secretaria Distrital) Coordenador [Brigada Distrital para Assunto de Autoridade Tradicionais], “Autoridade tradicional do Distrito de Namapa,” 2 de Fevereiro de 1993. Secretaria da ADN, 21 de Abril de 1994 [list of gratuities paid to chiefs during the 1993–1994 fiscal year]; signed by the head of the accounting department.
B District Directorate of Agriculture (Direcção Distrital de Agricultura, or DDA) RM, MOA, DDA de Namapa, “Plano agrícola, Campanha 93/94 – Interno,” n.d. [1993].
C District Court (Tribunal Distrital) RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Tribunal Comunitário do Posto Administrativo de Alua-Sede, “Relatório,” Alua, 17 de Dezembro de ano de 1992. RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Tribunal Comunitário da Aldeia Comunal de Namajupa No. 1, ex: Ripiha, “Informação,” Namajupa No. 1., 10 de Março de 1993. RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Tribunal Comunidário [sic] da aldeia comunal de Eduardo Mondlane, “Relatório anual,” 28 de Março de 1993. RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Posto Administrativo de Namirôa, Tribunal Comunitário de Napala, “Relatório,” 1 de Julho de 1993. RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Tribunal Comunitário da Localidade de Muanona, “Assunto: informação no. 1/tclm/94,” 25 de Agosto de 1994, letter from the Magistrate of Muanona to the District Magistrate of Namapa. RM, MOJ, PN, DN, Tribunal Comunitário da Localidade de Muanona, “Relatório de (2) mêses Junho Julho/94,” 25 de Agosto de 1994.
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V Colonial sources A Published Almeida, E.F. de (1957a) Governo do Distrito de Moçambique, Relatório, 1953–1956. Vol. I. Agência Geral do Ultramar, Lisboa. —— (1957b) Governo do Distrito de Moçambique, Relatório, 1953–1956. Vol. II. Agência Geral do Ultramar, Lisboa. Coissoró, N. (1964) “O regime de terras em Moçambique,” Moçambique: curso de extensão universitária, ano lectivo de 1964–1965. Instituto Superior de Ciências Sociais e Política Ultramarina, Lisboa. Faria Lobo, J.B. de (1962) Distrito de Moçambique: Circunscrição de Erati. AgênciaGeral do Ultramar, MCMLXII, Lisboa. Gerard, P. (1941) “ ‘Mahimo’ Macuas,” Moçambique (Imprensa Nacional de Moçambique, Lourenço Marques), 26: 5–22. Pegado e Silva, J.R. (1961) “Agrupamentos étnicos e religiões do Erati (Distrito de Moçambique),” (Separata do Boletim do Instituto de Investigação Científica de Moçambique, Vol. 1. No. 2, pp. 174–82), Lourenço Marques, AHM, SE, 93.
B Unpublished A.E. Pinto Correia, Colónia de Moçambique, Província do Niassa, Inspecção dos Serviços Administrativos e dos Negócios Indígenas, Relatório da Inspecção ordinária às circunscrições do Distrito de Moçambique, 1936–1937. Vol. 1, AHM, ISANI, Cx. 76. J. de Figueiredo, Relatório – 1938. II Parte, Governo da Província do Niassa, 1938, AHM, FGG, Cx. 86. A.E. Pinto Correia, Província do Niassa, Inspecção dos Serviços Administrativos e do Negócios Indígenas, Relatório e documentos referentes à Inspecção ordinária feita na Província do Niassa, 1938–1940, Vol. 1, AHM, ISANI, Cx. 94. H.E. de Sousa, Relatório de Inspecção Ordinária ao Distrito de Nampula, da Província do Niassa, 1946–1948, Vol. III, AHM, ISANI, Cx. 77. A. Cotta Mesquita, Relatório das Inspecções ao Concelho e Comissão Municipal do Eráti, Feitas em 1965, n.d. [1966], AHM, ISANI, Inventário dos Relatórios das Inspecções Administração Civil, Fundo de Administração Civil de Lourenço Marques, 27. M. Gouveia, “O algodão na economia do Distrito de Moçambique,” Centro de Documentação Económica, C.T.P.I.E., 1968, CEA Documentation Center. J.A.G.M. Branquinho, “Prospecção das forças tradicionais. Distrito de Moçambique,” Governo-Geral de Moçambique, Serviços de Centralização e Coordenação de Informações, Lourenço Marques, 1969, AHM, SE, 20.
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tomar, na produção individual e colectiva, a prazos imediato e curto,” Nampula, 2 de Novembro de 1975. MOA, DPA de Nampula, Departamento de Arvenses, “Assunto: Recuperação das areas assoladas pela Depressão ANGEL. Proposta para plano de actuação,” Nampula, 1 de Janeiro de 1979 and related documentation, pp. 59–68, in J.B. de Faria Lobo, “Contributo para a recuperação de areas afectadas por deficiência alimentar,” in Faria Lobo, Contributos, 1989, unpublished volume. Grupo de Empresas João Ferreira dos Santos, Direcção Geral de Produção, Nampula, No. 1/DGP/Conf., Ao Estado Maior da Economia, Província de Nampula, 4 de Setembro (de 1985), “Assunto: Campanhas agrícolas. Contributo para a sua reestruturação” (signed José Bernardo de Faria Lobo) in J.B. de Faria Lobo, Contributos, 1989, unpublished volume. J.B. de Faria Lobo, “Apresentação e oferecimento,” in Faria Lobo, Monografia: Nampula I, Nampula, 17 de Agosto de 1986, unpublished volume. J.B. de Faria Lobo, “Contributo para a prevenção contra a fome em Moçambique. Alguns temas, Província de Nampula,” 1989, unpublished pamphlet. Curriculum vitae, José Bernardo de Faria Lobo, Nampula, 12 de Maio de 1993. DPA, Departamento de Estatística, “Produção comercializada de castanha de caju na Província de Nampula,” Nampula,1993, DPA.
VII Magazines and other news sources Agência de Informação de Moçambique (AIM), publishes Mozambiquefile and various news supplements. Domingo, weekly newspaper, Maputo. Expresso, weekly newspaper, Lisbon. mediaFAX, daily facsimile, Maputo. Mozambiquefile (Mf), monthly publication, Maputo. Mozambique Peace Process Bulletin (MPPB), see entry for Mozambique Political Process Bulletin. Mozambique Political Process Bulletin (MPoPB), formerly Mozambique Peace Process Bulletin; news bulletin published irregularly by AWEPA, European Parliamentarians for Africa (formerly Association of West European Parliamentarians against Apartheid), Amsterdam and Maputo. News Review, fortnightly news bulletin, Mozambique Information Office (MIO), London. Notícias, daily newspaper, Maputo. Savana, weekly newspaper, Maputo. Tempo, weekly news magazine, Maputo. The Economist Intelligence Unit (EIU), quarterly and annual reports, The Economist Publications, London. The New York Times, daily newspaper, New York. Weekly Mail, weekly newspaper, Johannesburg (now the Weekly Mail and Guardian). Weekly Mail and Guardian, weekly newspaper, Johannesburg. Vida Nova, monthly (sometimes bi-monthly) magazine, Centro Catequético Paulo VI, Anchilo, Nampula.
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VIII Personal correspondence From José Bernardo de Faria Lobo, Galizes, Portugal, 15 May 1997. From José Bernardo de Faria Lobo, Galizes, Portugal, 15 August 1995.
IX Interviews and meetings “Zagaia” (“Azagaia”) refers to Renamo’s name for the site of its headquarters in the zone under its control in Namapa District in 1994. In official parlance, the area is known as Metage. Provincial Coordinator for German Agro Action, Nampula City, 21/4/94. Chief Taibo (Carlos Máquina), Namapa Center, Namapa District, 5/5/94. Cassimo, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 6/5/94. Parishioner/smallholder, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 6/5/94. Missionary, Mirrote, Namirôa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 7/5/94. Chief Vaquina (Vakina), two counselors and heir apparent, Nahopa, Namapa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 7/5/94. Chief Namiquela (Namikela, Namequela), Mirrote, Namirôa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 8/5/94. SODAN field agent, Mirrote, Namirôa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 11/5/94. Frelimo party secretary, Nahopa, Namapa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 12/5/94. Chief Namiquela, Nahopa, Namapa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 12/5/94. First meeting of the District Director of the STAE and traditional authorities (four chiefs and fifteen cabos), Namapa Center, Namapa District, 14/5/94. President of the Locality, Odinepa Center, Odinepa Locality, Namapa District, 1/6/94. Male smallholders, settlement, Odinepa Locality, Namapa District, 2/6/94. Twelve cotton growers, including a chief. Frelimo party secretaries, Odinepa Center, Odinepa Locality, Namapa District, 3/6/94. Six men present, including the President of the Locality. Female smallholders, Odinepa Center, Odinepa Locality, Namapa District, 3/6/94. Eight women present, including three who were elderly. Traditional authorities, Odinepa Center, Odinepa Locality, Namapa District, 4/6/94. Nine men present, including Chief Mepera, two substitute chiefs, two cabos, three mahumu and Frelimo party secretary. Female smallholders, Odinepa Center, Odinepa Locality, Namapa District, 4/6/94. Three women present, including one who was elderly. Chief Mepera, Nakapa (Nakhapa), Odinepa Locality, Namapa District, 5/6/94. Male elders, Odinepa Center, Odinepa Locality, Namapa District, 6/6/94. Six men present, including a Frelimo party secretary. Chief Taibo (former colonial régulo and colonial capataz), Namapa Center, Namapa District, 9/6/94. Chief Muhula, Namirôa Center, Namirôa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 11/6/94. Frelimo party secretaries, Namirôa Center, Namirôa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 11/6/94. Thirteen men present, including the First Party Secretary of
374
Bibliography
Namirôa, a nephew of Chief Muhula, a first cousin of Cabo Mwehiyo, a brother of Chief Mucarara (Mukarara, Mukharara) and a first cousin of Chief Uantera. Traditional authorities, Nahachari, Muanona Locality, Namapa District, 12/6/94. Ten people present, including Chief Mucarara, his substitute, Frelimo party secretary, six mahumu and one shéhé. Chief Tubruto, Namirôa Center, Namirôa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 13/6/94. Chiefs Alua, Comala (Komala, Khomala), Saíde and Nametemula, Alua Center, Alua Administrative Post, Namapa District, 14/6/94. Frelimo party secretaries, Alua Center, Alua Administrative Post, Namapa District, 15/6/94. Fifteen men present, including the First Party Secretary of Alua and the Secretary for Party Organization. UNAMO members and representatives, Alua Center, Alua Administrative Post, Namapa District, 15/6/94. Nine people present, including two women, two elderly men, the First Party Secretary of the District and the Secretary for Mobilization and Propaganda. Renamo members, Alua Center, Alua Administrative Post, Namapa District, 16/6/94. Four men present, including the Secretary of the Youth League and a local trader. Animadores (“animators” or local leaders of the Catholic Church), Alua Center, Alua Administrative Post, Namapa District, 16/6/94. Twenty-one men present from Renamo- and government-held zones in Alua Administrative Post. Former EEAN and SODAN capataz, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 17/6/94. Ernesto Mabonhane, former administrator of Ribáuè District, Nampula City, 2/8/94. Functionary of the DA, DPAC, Nampula City, 4/8/94. Shop-owner, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 19/8/94. Naparamas, Namirôa Center, Namirôa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 20/8/94. Seven men present, including the commander, the deputy commander, the political commissar, a sergeant and an adviser to the commander. Male and female elders, Namirôa Center, Namirôa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 20/8/94. Eight people present including Chief Muhula, an apuiamuene, a cabo and five other men. Cotton growers, Namirôa Center, Namirôa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 21/8/94. Sixteen men and two women present, including Chief Muhula and an apuiamuene. Traditional authorities and Frelimo party secretaries, Muanona Center, Muanona Locality, Namapa District, 22/8/94. Sixteen men present, including the President of the Locality, Chief Intalia, Chief Uantera, Uantera’s deputy, Cabo Mejua, cabo of Muanona, one capitão, two deputies of capitães, a member of the local secretariat, the Secretary of the Muanona Circle, the Secretary of Napala Circle and four other party secretaries. President of the Locality, Odinepa Center, Odinepa Locality, Namapa District, 22/8/94. Male cotton growers, Muanona Center, Muanona Locality, Namapa District, 22/8/94. Seven men present. Male elders, Muanona Center, Muanona Locality, Namapa District, 23/8/94. Four people present, including Chief Uantera and a humu. Naparamas, Muanona Center, Muanona Locality, Namapa District, 23/8/94. Nine young men (all between fifteen and twenty years old), including the commander.
Bibliography
375
Male elders, traditional authorities and Frelimo party secretaries, Nantoge (Nanthoge, Nantoje, Nantodge, Nantoxe), Muanona Locality, Namapa District, 24/8/94. Thirteen men present, including Chief Muipita, three cabos and two Frelimo party secretaries. Chief Intalia, Napala, Muanona Locality, Namapa District, 25/8/94. Three female elders and one apuiamuene, Namirôa Center, Namirôa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 26/8/94. Former residents of 25 de Junho Communal Village, 25 de Junho Communal Village, Namirôa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 27/8/94. Fourteen men present, including Chief Tubruto, seven mahumu, one capitão, one deputy of the community court, three smallholders and one mechanic. Naparamas, Machicane (Massicane, Mashikane), Namirôa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 28/8/94. Nineteen men present, including the commander, the deputy commander and the political commissar. District Magistrate and Registrar, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 29/8/94. Naparama major, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 29/8/94. Interview conducted by Pedro Cavala. SODAN engineer, Namialo, Meconta District, 30/8/94. Former administrator of Namapa, Ilha de Moçambique, 31/8/94. Fernando Maela, Renamo Deputy Political Delegate, Nampula Province, Nampula City, 9/9/94. Administrator of Nacarôa District, Nampula City, 10/9/94. Magistrate of Nampula Province, Nampula City, 15/9/94. Local manager of Casa Salvador, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 21/9/94. Renamo officials, “Zagaia,” Alua Administrative Post, Namapa District, 22/9/94. Six men present, including the President (the local administrator), the Chief Justice, the District Director of Education, the Renamo Political Delegate and two mahumu. Male elders and traditional authorities, “Zagaia,” Alua Administrative Post, Namapa District, 23/9/94. Thirteen men present, including Chief Meliva, Chief Mepacala (Mepakala, M’pakala), nine mahumu, two cabos and one elder. Male elders and traditional authorities, “Zagaia,” Alua Administrative Post, Namapa District, 24/9/94. Six men present, including Chief Meliva, two mahumu, one cabo, one elder and a primary school teacher visiting from Alua. Two apuiamuene and one heir apparent, “Zagaia,” Alua Administrative Post, Namapa District, 24/9/94. Demobilized soldiers, “Zagaia,” Alua Administrative Post, Namapa District, 25/9/94. Eighteen men present: fourteen former Renamo fighters and four former FAM soldiers. Former Frelimo party secretary (“Vasco”), “Zagaia,” Alua Administrative Post, Namapa District, 25/9/94. Community court judges, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 27/9/94. Ten men present: eight judges (two of whom were also mahumu), the District Court Magistrate and the Registrar. Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 27/9/94. José de Almeida (former Frelimo First Party Secretary of Muanona Circle and President of the Locality; also the nephew of “the real” [o próprio] Chief Uantera), Namapa Center, Namapa District, 28/9/94.
376
Bibliography
Former residents of Samora Machel Communal Village, Samora Machel Center, Samora Machel Locality, Namapa District, 30/9/94. Twenty-eight people present (twenty-four men and four women), including five Frelimo party secretaries, four zone committee members, one OMM secretary, one OMM member, three mahumu (one of whom doubled as a cabo), one shéhé, one capitão, seven Frelimo party members, the coordinator for the local school and the substitute for the President of the Locality. António Gabriel Comala (first cousin of Chief Comala and Frelimo party cell member), Alua Center, Alua Administrative Post, Namapa District, 30/9/94. Chief Comala, Napai, Samora Machel Locality, Namapa District, 1/10/94. STAE Director of Namapa District, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 1/10/94. Chief Taibo (former colonial régulo and capataz), Namapa Center, Namapa District, 2/10/94. Three apuiamuene, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 3/10/94. Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 4/10/94. Missionary, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 4/10/94. Former administrator of Eráti/Namapa District (“Bahia,” 1984–1987), Nampula City, 9/10/94. Cabo Cumar, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 15/10/94. SODAN engineer, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 15/10/94. Chefe do posto, Namirôa Center, Namirôa Administrative Post, Namapa District, 16/10/94. Chief Khanatepa Ali, Alua Center, Alua Administrative Post, Namapa District, 17/10/94. District Director of Agriculture, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 17/10/94. Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 18/10/94. Frelimo First Party Secretary of Namapa District and former cipaio, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 18/10/94. Former colonial interpreter, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 19/10/94. Provincial Coordinator of World Vision’s Agricultural Recovery Program, Nampula City, 22/10/94. Administrator and Deputy Administrator of Murrupula District, Murrupula Center, Murrupula District, 10/11/94. Chief Adviser, Namapa District Secretariat, Namapa Center, Namapa District, 17/11/94. Bernardo Mussa (former Frelimo party secretary, former cabo and nephew of the late Chief Nametaramo [Nametarramo]), Namapa Center, Namapa District, 17/11/94. José Luís Cabaço (former Minister of Information), Maputo, 22/12/94. José Bernardo de Faria Lobo, Galizes, Portugal, 9/7/95.
Index
The arrangement is letter-by-letter. “abaixo”: policy 115–16, 129, 222; rhetoric 223–4, 243, 250, 253, 254, 262 Abrams, Philip 47–8 acknowledgment, politics of 26, 86, 248, 261–4, 270–1, 284–5, 287–8 administrative reorganization xiv, 130, 150 African National Congress of South Africa (ANC) 3, 4, 5, 10, 36 African Party for the Independence of Guinea and Cape Verde (PAIGC) 17, 18, 281 “African socialism” 13, 14, 286 AGP see General Peace Accord Agricom 164 agricultural exports 52, 80,148, 149, 153, 156 agricultural producer cooperatives see cooperative farming agriculture see communal villages; cooperative farming; cotton production; “family sector” farming; famines/famine conditions; settler farms/agriculture; smallholders/smallholder agriculture; state farms/state farm sector aid-dependency 19, 42, 154 aldeamentos 106 aldeias comunais see communal villages Algeria: support from 21 Almeida, José de 129–30, 131, 217, 218 Al Qaeda 2 Alua, Chief 147, 148, 202, 203, 207, 213, 217 Alua, regedoria of 206–7
Alua Administrative Post 121, 146, 163, 198, 200, 208, 210 Alua Center 121, 186–7, 200, 206–7, 208, 210 Alua parish 208–9 amnesia 23; historical 30, 32; moral 265, 269; see also “anti-memory” work; memory; memory practices; mnemonic legitimation; politics of acknowledgment amnesty program 4 ANC see African National Congress of South Africa Angoche District 137, 183, 214–15, 226 Angola 3, 5–6, 17, 18, 143–4, 159, 256 anti-cholera campaign 255–6 “anti-memory” work 219, 222, 273 António, Manuel 1, 5 apartheid 24, 28, 30; see also South Africa armed struggle/liberated zones 2, 12, 15–17, 20, 25, 51, 66–8, 74, 81, 110, 274, 279, 281, 287 ARO 225 Arquivo Histórico de Moçambique 89 Asians 49, 56, 93; as traders 101; see also “Creole elites” assimilados 62, 66, 93, 273, 274, 282 atrocities: government army 62, 237; Naparamas 5, 7; Renamo 33, 54 austerity 153–4; see also Economic Rehabilitation Program (PRE); Economic and Social Rehabilitation Program (PRES); structural adjustment “Bahia” (district administrator) 134–5, 137, 147–8, 197
378
Index
banking sector: privatization of 156; scandals in 157, 158, 159 Baptista Lundin, Irae 43, 44, 68, 221, 225, 233, 238–9, 242–3 baraza 76 barter 163, 164–5 Bayart, Jean-François 23 Beira 54; port of 180 Belgian Congo 96 Bell, Terry 3 Berlin Conference 93 black/parallel markets 52, 57, 69, 72, 153 block farming 136–8 blood ties 173, 190–1; see also surrogates Botha, P.W. 2 Braga, Manuel 7, 197 Branquinho, José 147 Brazil 90 Britain 2, 59; support to Portuguese (World War I) 108 Brito, Luís de 62–3, 66–7, 234, 286 Brown, JoAnne 223 budget crisis, Nampula 165–6 Bush, G.H.W. administration 3 Cabaço, José Luís 41 Cabinda 18 Cabo Delgado Province 46, 75, 80, 81, 93, 101, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 110, 162, 196, 201, 205, 207, 224, 225, 226, 264, 281 caderneta 99, 145 Cahen, Michel 62, 117, 274–9, 282, 286 CAM see Mozambique Cotton Company “camaraderie” 245, 247, 252 Cape Verde 17 capitalist cotton farming 102–3, 105, 106 capital punishment 57 Casa Salvador 164, 170 cashew nuts 80, 101, 109–10, 126, 128, 141, 149, 150, 248 cashew-processing plants 157 cashew trees 105, 109–10, 126, 133, 135, 140, 143, 146, 252–3 Cassimo 203, 204, 205 Catholic Church 56, 201–2, 208, 226; and peace talks 60; see also Alua parish; missionaries (Catholic) ; missions (Catholic); Namapa parish; Vida Nova CCPSC see Provincial Coordinating
Commission for the Socialization of the Countryside, Nampula CDE see District Elections Commission, Namapa CEA see Center for African Studies Ceasefire, partial 180 Center for African Studies (CEA) 66, 68, 76, 79, 82, 89, 234 Central Intelligence Organisation (Rhodesia) 2 Chabal, Patrick 282 Chaka 107 “chiefs of production” 82, 83–4, 117–18, 134, 146, 147–8, 247, 284 chiefs/régulos: 12, 13, 23, 32, 34, 36, 46, 73, 74, 84, 87, 115, 116, 117, 128, 129, 132, 134–5, 137, 152, 193, 195, 196, 206–7, 213–14, 215–17, 247–8, 249, 250–1, 253–4, 256, 266; as capatazes 146, 148, 165, 215, 218; colonial 94–5, 97, 110, 204; colonial cotton regime 97; and communal villages/villagization 132, 133, 135; and community court judges 194, 197–201; and crime/”marginality” 170, 213, 214; differentiation of local power 182–5, 190–1; and elections/electoral preparations 189–90; and forced cotton cultivation (post-independence) 207, 208, 210–12, 213, 217; historiography 40, 68, 79, 83; initiation rites 201–2; Makua 90, 92, 173; and Nampula 39–40, 46, 79, 284, 285; and official discourses 40, 44–5, 82, 169, 173, 174, 180, 181, 183–4, 189, 190–2, 220, 221, 227, 228, 231, 232, 233, 237, 240, 262, 263, 264, 269; politicization of 188–9, 212; and privatization 216; and remuneration 146, 168, 212, 214; Renamo (postwar) 189, 200, 212; revisionist critique 39–40, 63, 67–8, 82, 117–18, 147, 148, 193–4; and secretaries 195, 196–7, 213, 214–15; succession struggles/territorial disputes 202–5, 206, 207; surrogates of 129–31, 173, 249–50; and tax (IRN) collection 168, 212, 215; “valorizing” 181; and war/Renamo/rural dissidence 33, 39–40, 55, 58, 82, 117–18, 134, 146–7, 172, 233, 285; see also “chiefs of production”; chieftaincy; “detribalization”; inter-generational relations; lineage chiefs;
Index 379 “obscurantism”; rural administration, “retraditionalization” of; sub-chiefs; traditional authorities; traditional authority/powerchiefs’ courts chieftaincy: 9, 12, 13, 32, 33, 34, 35, 47, 77, 85, 86, 87, 117, 202, 203, 205, 214, 221, 223, 240, 250–1, 254; colonial 93, 94, 95, 97, 110; decentralization 41; and DPAC’s proposals 180–2; “effective occupation” 93; Geffray, Christian 40, 82, 115–16, 274; MAE’s TA/P project 171, 179, 225; Nampula/northern Mozambique 46, 83; 113; official discourses 38, 44, 172–4, 176, 226, 227, 228, 238, 240, 246, 261, 285; politicization of 188–90, 202; precolonial/colonial conquest 91, 92, 93, 94, 106–7, 108; Renamo 115–16, 275, 285; revisionist critique 82, 115–16, 274, 282; “valorizing” 94, 179; see also chiefs/régulos; legitimacy; “obscurantism”; traditional authority/ power; traditional authorities children 54, 58, 60, 153, 155, 156, 255–6; in oral testimony 247, 248, 249; see also initiation rites; marriages; Naparamas China: support from 21 Chissano, Joaquim 25, 61, 151, 163, 182, 256, 266–71 circumscriptions xiv, 93–4 citizenship: Portuguese 62, 93–4 civil war 4, 37; as a label 29–30; see also Namapa “class enemies” 45, 70–3, 75, 260, 267–8, 286 class formation 14, 73, 86, 153, 234, 278 clientelism 78, 276 CNE see National Elections Commission Cold War 3, 18, 20, 24, 30, 78 collaborators, colonial 13, 71; see also “compromised,” the collective agriculture see cooperative farming; cooperative sector Colonial Act 96 colonial conquest/occupation 93, 107–8 Colonial Cotton Export Board (JEAC) 96, 97, 100, 102 Comala: chieftaincy of 107, 205; regedoria of 205 Comala, Chief 202, 203, 210–11, 212, 213
Comecon (Council for Mutual Economic Aid) 21 communal villages (aldeias comunais) 51, 55–6, 75–6, 117, 118, 123–7, 139–41, 172, 174, 236, 263–4; and official discourses 139–41, 172, 174, 223, 231, 232, 235–9, 243, 263–4; and Renamo 55–6, 161, 266; see also villagization community courts 51, 197–201; see also popular/people’s courts Comoros 56 “compromised,” the 134, 151 Conçeicão, Rafael da 82 concentrações algodoeiras see cotton concentrations concessionaires 96, 97, 99, 100, 102, 103, 108–9; payroll of 212, 214; and tax collection 169 concession scheme 22, 102, 108 concession zones 96, 97, 99, 100, 101, 102, 109 conscription: into unified army 256; see also press-ganging; Renamo: forced recruitment constitution, multiparty (1990) 9, 61, 152, 180, 186, 208, 220, 228 consumer cooperatives 76, 123, 125, 127, 278 contract killings 157 cooperative farming 51, 52, 68, 69, 76, 119, 122–3, 128; and dual economy thesis 65, 66; in liberated zones 16–17; and lineage social relations 125–7; and official discourses 235, 236–7; see also cooperative sector cooperative sector 50, 52, 53, 65, 122; see also cooperative farming corruption: of chiefs 198–9, 200; official 19, 62, 71, 78, 153, 154, 157, 162, 166, 168, 170, 177, 214, 216, 245, 268, 269; of rural political authority 216 cost: of war 1; of peace process 155 cotton 80, 141; see also cotton production Cotton Board see Colonial Cotton Export Board (JEAC) “cotton concentrations” (concentrações algodoeiras) 100–1, 105–6, 109, 136, 239 Cotton Development Society of Namialo (SODAN) 165, 190, 208–9, 215, 217
380
Index
Cotton Fund 100, 101 Cotton Institute (IAM) 102, 106, 119–20, 136 cotton markets 97, 100, 112; and tax collection 98, 169 cotton production: capitalist 102–3, 105, 106; colonial 80, 82–3, 96–106, 149; compulsory (post-independence) 144, 207–12; Eráti/Namapa 120, 128, 144, 145, 207–12; Nampula 80, 82–3, 103–6, 120–1, 139, 145, 149; northern Mozambique (colonial) 103–6; and official discourses 139–40, 141; postindependence period 119–21, 139, 144, 145, 149, 207–12; reform of (colonialera): 98–103; and strictures on rural trade 145; tools 104; see also Cotton Development Society of Namialo (SODAN); João Ferreira dos Santos (JFS); settler farms/agriculture; smallholders/smallholder agriculture; State Cotton Farm of Nampula (EEAN) Council for Mutual Economic Aid (Comecon) 21 Council of Ministers 68, 71, 178 councils, colonial administrative areas xiv, 93 counter-insurgency campaigns/strategies: of colonial state 80, 81, 106, 110, 147, 189; of postindependence state 22, 84, 119, 124, 139, 147, 150, 189, 237–8, 261 counter-revolution: Renamo 54–61 “Creole elites” 275–8, 282; see also revisionist critique crime 78, 154, 169, 214, 238, 244, 249, 251, 255, 256; see also crime syndicates; lawlessness crime syndicates 20, 154, 157 culturalist critique 36, 39, 41, 44, 77, 238–9; see also Baptista Lundin, Irae; revisionist critique cultural pluralism 87, 283 Cumar, Cabo 202, 203, 207, 215 currency xv “customary” law 12–13; see also land law cyclones: (1956) 109; (1979) 137 debt, external 42, 154 debt relief programs 156 decentralization 41, 47, 158, 160, 165; see also Ministry of State Administration (MAE); Municipalities Law
decolonization: effects of 49–50, 114, 119, 136, 254, 262; “false” 13; terms of 17, 255 “deethnicization” 12 defense spending 60 demobilization 6, 155 demobilized soldiers 155, 157, 162, 170, 250 Democratic Union (UD) 187 democratization 41, 157–8 demographics 24, 80, 83 deracialization 12 destabilization 1, 2–4, 30, 37, 38, 60, 66, 70, 72, 138, 142, 155, 200; in Angola 18, 143; as a term 29–30; see also Renamo; South African Defence Force (SADF); South Africa “detribalization” 12, 13, 22–3, 28, 34, 38–9, 284–5, 288 Dhlakama, Afonso 61, 163, 187, 264, 265–6, 267, 269, 277 Diogo, Luisa 25 discourses see culturalist critique; Frelimo: discursive repertoire; memory practices; Nampula: local official discourses; official discourses; revisionist critique displacement/displaced people: and destabilization 4, 60, 155 dissent 87, 259, 286; and state-idea 48; see also chiefs/régulos: war/Renamo/rural dissidence; “class enemies”; rural dissent District Commission for Communal Villages (CDAC), Eráti 123 District Elections Commission (CDE), Namapa 185–6, 189 districts xiv, 94 divorce 112, 250, 252, 253 domestic slavery 92–3; see also epotha donors, aid 41–2, 47, 145, 156, 159, 160, 165, 179, 259, 284; see also International Monetary Fund (IMF); non-governmental organizations NGOs); World Bank DPA see Provincial Directorate of Agriculture DPAC see Provincial Directorate of Assistance and Control, Nampula droughts 52, 54, 153, 155 drug trafficking 157 dual administration 163 dual economy thesis 64–6, 118, 144–5, 279, 282, 284
Index 381 dynamizing groups (GDs) 50, 177, 178, 216; in official discourses 174, 183, 228, 230–2, 235–6, 239–40, 242, 243 Dzimba, Gaspar 141–3, 150 Economic and Social Rehabilitation Program (PRES) 153, 156–7, 163; see also structural adjustment economic conditions 19, 138 economic crises 49–50, 138, 245 economic growth 153, 156 economic reforms see Economic and Social Rehabilitation Program (PRES); Economic Rehabilitation Program (PRE); structural adjustment Economic Rehabilitation Program (PRE) 152–3, 163; see also structural adjustment education 50, 155; and opportunity 218; and teachers 53, 54, 153; see also schools EEAN see State Cotton Farm of Nampula Egerö, Bertil 178 Egypt, support from 21 elder, use of term xv elections: (1986) 150–1; (1994) 10, 81, 83, 155, 187; (1998–2003) 155–6; (1999) 81, 83, 158; local 36, 81, 158, 160 electoral campaigns (1994) 264–71 emigration see labor migration, transnational; out-migration epotha: (precolonial “slaves” and their descendants) 91–3, 106, 107, 117, 173; in official discourses 133, 172, 231; as secretaries 131, 172 Eráti District: Baptista Lundin, Irae 221, 239; (c. 1830–1974) 106–14; “chiefs of production” 82, 83–4, 117–18, 134–5, 146, 147–8; collective agriculture 122–3, 128; communal villages (aldeais comunais) 12–15; division of 81, 130; local state formation (early independence period) 120–32; maps of xxiii; out-migration 114, 127–8, 248, 253–5; population density xxiii; and Renamo 40, 82, 123, 124, 131–2, 134, 135; as a research site 81–3; war in (Eráti/Namapa) 39–40, 82, 123, 134–5; see also chiefs/régulos;
chieftaincy; cotton production; forced villagization; Geffray, Christian; inter-generational relations; lineage social relations; male youth; marriages; matrimonial areas; surrogates Errate 107 ethnicity/ethnic politics 73, 80–1, 87; and electoral campaign (1994) 265; and revisionist critique and 16–17, 274–5, 276–8, 282–3; see also “deethnicization” executions 57 FAM (Mozambique Armed Forces) see government army “family sector” farming 51, 52, 53, 64–5, 80, 103, 104, 105, 120–1, 138, 141, 144, 145, 148, 149; see also smallholders/smallholder agriculture famines/famine conditions 33–4, 82, 89, 98, 100, 105, 109, 127, 138, 150, 155; see also starvation Faria Lobo, José Bernardo de 82, 89, 135–8, 139, 140, 148 Feudalism see modes of production; “obscurantism”; “traditional-feudal society” Finnegan, William 283 fiscal reform 167–9 FLEC see Front for the Liberation of the Enclave of Cabinda flogging 57 floods 52 156; and chiefs 160 FNLA see National Front for the Liberation of Angola food shortages see shortages forced labor/crop cultivation 5, 81, 94, 95, 96–8, 99, 101–2, 105, 108, 112, 120, 143–5, 207–12, 248; exemptions from (colonial) 100, 101, 104; and Renamo 59, 144; resistance to/avoidance of 97, 99, 100, 102, 104, 208, 209–10, 213; see also smallholders/smallholder agriculture: colonial cotton regime forced resettlement 39–40; 100, 106, 110, 123, 126, 132, 135, 138, 140, 142, 239; resistance to/avoidance of 75–7, 106, 125–6, 132, 133, 172; see also chiefs/régulos; chieftaincy; “cotton concentrations”; Operation Production; picadas; villagization; war Ford Foundation 41, 224
382
Index
foreign aid see international aid/assistance foreign debt 42, 154 Frelimo: achievements of 17–18, 38, 52–3; and “African socialism” 14, 286; ambivalence toward power 223, 246, 287–8; anti-hierarchical orientation of 86, 222, 223, 288; anti-obscurantism 64, 70, 77; class analysis of 14, 64–5, 70–3, 260, 286; conversion to Marxist-Leninist vanguard party 50; conversion to neoliberal doctrine 20; and decolonization 17, 49–50; “detribalization” policy 12–13; discursive repertoire 27; education (socialist-era) 52–3; egalitarianism 214, 245, 252, 254–5; election campaign (1994) 207, 266–71; elections see elections; and Eráti/Namapa 39–40, 82–3; foreign policy orientation of 21; founding of 49; Fourth Congress reforms 53, 120, 124, 135; Fourth Party Congress (1983) 53, 72, 135, 178; Fifth Party Congress (1989) 61, 152, 188; and generational replacement 25, 287; government initiatives (mid-1980s) 150–1; growing likeness to Renamo 10–11; 62; and health care (socialistera) 52–3; and historiography 3, 20–3, 28–9, 37–8, 62–3, 66–9, 79, 80–1; ideological reorientation of 11; internal dynamics of party 42, 158; and La Cause des Armes 41; leadership of 13, 16, 17–18, 24, 32, 38, 44, 46, 48, 49, 54, 59, 62, 66–7, 74, 78, 86, 118, 125, 135, 150, 151, 158, 176, 177, 178–9, 191, 223, 234, 251, 253, 257, 260, 262, 266, 268–9, 272, 273, 274, 276, 277, 279, 280–2, 283, 284, 285, 286, 287; and Makua-Lomwé speakers 81; and Marxism 9, 14, 286; and MarxismLeninism 3, 28, 61, 152; and Nampula 46, 79–81; Naparama phenomenon 22–3; “nationalist success” of 17; official history/historiography/propaganda 13, 15, 16, 17, 28, 62, 81, 87, 274, 279; out-migration 248, 253–5; party cells 52, 177, 178, 183, 216, 239, 240; party membership 56, 188; party secretariat 25, 182; Politbureau
178, 182; post-independence failures of 38; postwar political interactions with Renamo 11, 157; preindependence 2, 12, 15–17, 20, 21, 25, 49, 51, 66–8, 74, 80–1, 110, 274, 279, 281, 287; and privatization 154; re-education camps of 2, 57; and re-legitimization 33, 79, 222, 257, 286; and religion/religious constituencies 56–7, 188; and Renamo counter-revolution 54–61; revitalization campaigns 130, 178; revolution 24, 49–54, 285; and rural goods famine 33–4; secularism of 55; and self-criticism 26, 257, 285, 287; Sixth Party Congress 182, 188; socialist legacy of 22, 192, 264, 269; “socialization of the countryside” 51, 55, 123, 124, 133, 221, 237, 248, 261–3; Third Party Congress (1977) 50–1, 71, 124, 176; see also amnesia; amnesty; “anti-memory” work; armed struggle/liberated zones; atrocities; Chissano, Joaquim; civil war; “class enemies”; communal villages; “compromised,” the; cooperative farming; corruption; Council of Ministers; counter-insurgency campaigns/strategies; decentralization; decolonization; destabilization; “detribalization”; dissent; donors; dynamizing groups (GDs); elections; Eráti District; ethnicity/ethnic politics; forced labor/crop cultivation; forced resettlement; Frelimo Central Committee; General Peace Accord (AGP); government army; International Monetary Fund (IMF); legitimacy; legitimation; legitimation profile; Machel, Samora; memory practices; “myth of revolutionary rupture”; Namapa District; Nampula Province; national sovereignty; Nkomati Accord; official discourses; Operation Production; peace talks; petty bourgeoisie; politicization of chieftaincy; politics of acknowledgment; popular/people’s power; “populism”; postcolonial state; provincial government, Nampula; revisionist critique; Rhodesia; rural administration, retraditionalization” of; secretaries (local); South Africa;
Index 383 South African Development and Coordination Conference (SADCC); state/party: distinction; structural adjustment, state, the ideas of; United Nations (UN); villagization; war; World Bank Frelimo Central Committee 25, 136, 177, 178 Frelimo Central Committee, reports to: Fifth Party Congress (1989) 262; Fourth Party Congress (1983) 178, 263; Seventh Party Congress (1997) 270; Sixth Party Congress (1991) 270, 281; Third Party Congress (1977) 176 Front for the Liberation of the Enclave of Cabinda (FLEC) 18 Gamito, Alfredo 43, 179 Gaza Province 66, 81, 138, 155, 272 GDs see dynamizing groups Geffray, Christian 39, 41, 45, 62–3, 81, 82, 92–3, 106, 110–11, 113, 115–16, 117, 118–19, 125, 128, 138–9, 144, 145, 147, 148, 194, 199, 221, 234, 239, 253, 254, 275, 278, 280, 286; see also revisionist critique General Peace Accord (AGP) 1, 2, 5, 9–10, 61, 64, 152, 162, 163, 164, 188 German troops (World War I) 108, 207 Germany, Federal Republic of see West Germany Gersony, Robert 59, 60 Gonçalves, R.M.A. 22 goods shortages see shortages government army (FAM) 1, 45, 56, 62, 123, 142, 150, 154, 155, 161, 237–8 Graça, Machado da 268–9 GRANDUCOL (Société Colonial LusoLuxembourgeoise) 108, 109 Gray, Richard 82 Guebuza, Armando 25 Guinea-Bissau 17, 18, 281 Gundana, Feliciano 133, 139 Hall, Margaret 274 Hanlon, Joseph 37–8, 160 healers 1, 7, 55, 88, 226, 240, 242 health care 50, 52–3, 56, 154, 162; and destabilization 54, 142, 155 Heavily Indebted Poor Country Program (HIPC) 156
hegemony, ideological 224; see also legitimation; legitimation profile; memory practices; mnemonic legitimation Heroes’ Day 269 hierarchy: flattening of 214, 247, 251–2 HIV/AIDs 156 Holocaust, the: as trope 26 Honwana, Luís Bernardo 283 human rights 208, 256 human rights abuses 29, 45, 236, 237, 240, 285; see also atrocities; forced labor/crop cultivation; forced resettlement; government army; militia/militiamen; Operation Production; Renamo; war Huyssen, Andreas 26 Hyden, Goran 69 IAM see Cotton Institute ideological hegemony 224; see also legitimation; legitimation profile; memory practices; mnemonic legitimation idleness 213–14 IFIs see international financial institutions illegal imports 157 IMF see International Monetary Fund independence: (1974) 49–50; twentieth anniversary of 268–9 indígenas (“natives”) 94 indirect rule: colonial 12; see also chiefs/régulos; chieftaincy; “detribalization”; Renamo; rural administration, “retraditionalization” of industrial production 138, 153 infant mortality 53, 153, 156 inflation 153 initiation rites 112, 131, 134, 163, 201–2, 216, 235 Intalia, Chief 129–30, 196, 198, 212 Intalia, regedoria of 204–5 inter-generational relations 112–14, 127–8, 247–8, 249–50, 251, 252–6, 261 international aid/assistance 4, 42, 118, 138, 144, 145, 153, 154, 159, 163; convoys carrying 5, 155 international financial institutions (IFIs) 159; see also International Monetary Fund (IMF); multilateral lenders; World Bank
384
Index
International Monetary Fund (IMF) 19, 61, 78, 156,179 IRN see national reconstruction tax; tax collection Islam 56–7, 91, 110, 226; see also Muslims Ivala, Adelino 131 ivory: and post-independence trafficking in 59, 78; and precolonial trade 90, 91; and Renamo 59 Ivory Coast 13 JEAC see Colonial Cotton Export Board Jelin, Elizabeth 27 JFS see João Ferreira dos Santos João Ferreira dos Santos (JFS) 1, 120, 136, 186, 209, 210, 211, 217 Judges (community courts) 197–202 judicial authority, local conflicts over 197–201 judiciary 157 juridical system, colonial 12 Kaunda, Kenneth 13 Kenya 13, 59 kinship ties see blood ties; surrogates Koch, Eddie 264–5 “kulak” class 71, 72 labor migration, transnational 81, 103, 104; see also South Africa LaCapra, Dominick 27, 31 La Cause des Armes 41; see also Geffray, Christian Lalaua District 7, 205; precolonial area of 131 land claims 119 land law (1997) 158, 161 land rights 158 Lapone clan 106, 204 law enforcement 50, 158, 168, 169–70; see also police lawlessness 170, 213, 214, 215; see also crime; law enforcement; police Legality Offensive 177 legitimacy chiefly succession/chiefs 74, 147, 148, 161, 200, 205–6, 251; chieftaincy 46, 113, 225; Frelimo party/state 78, 85, 148, 171, 193, 216, 222, 257, 262, 268, 270, 283, 284, 285; local leadership 175, 234, 239–40; Renamo (in official discourses) 192, 285; see also Frelimo;
legitimation; legitimation profile; memory practices; mnemonic; official discourses legitimation practices chiefs 225; crisis of (Frelimo state/party) 222, 257; cultural nativists 273; Frelimo party/state 23, 219, 223, 239, 287; see also amnesia; “anti-memory” work; Frelimo; legitimation profile; memory practices; mnemonic legitimation; politics of acknowledgment legitimation profile 28, 221, 224, 286 leveling thesis 214, 247, 251–2; see also Frelimo: anti-hierarchical orientation of liberated zones see armed struggle/liberated zones Liberia 78 Licença, Joaquim 185 life expectancy 156 lineage chiefs 92, 111, 112, 113, 125, 126, 127, 134, 135, 253; and official discourses 235–7; see also sub-chiefs lineage notables: 75, 112, 127, 128, 135, 254 lineages 91–3, 95, 106–7, 184, 236, 247; in official discourses 228; revisionist critique 234, 282 lineage social relations 91–3, 110–14, 125–8, 253; and revisionist critique 274–5, 278 living costs 101, 164–5, 216, 268 living standards 10, 19, 34, 50, 55, 65, 153, 156 “local communities” 158 local elections 36, 155–6, 158, 160 local government 35–6; see also decentralization; Municipalities Law localities 150 “local organs” 165, 166–8, 226 “local peace zones” 2 Lonsdale, John 32, 278 Lourenço Marques 66, 275 Luanda 18 Luxemburg 108 Mabonhane, Ernesto 132–3 Machel, Samora 16, 18, 71, 73, 134, 141, 144, 151, 177, 245–6, 286; legacy/memory of 24, 269; in oral testimony 250 Macherika 107 MAE see Ministry of State Administration
Index 385 magistrates (lay), community courts 197–201 Makonde speakers 16, 81, 93 Makua: and Baptista Lundin 221, 238–9, 242–3; chiefs 90, 92, 173; -Lomwé speakers 80–1, 91, 265; -Lomwé-speaking areas 238; and Makonde 81; -speaking areas 224, 260 Malawi 54, 59, 141–2, 149–50; see also Nyasaland Malema District 189; precolonial 93 male youth 40, 57, 111–14, 127–8, 253–5, 256, 258; and oral testimony 247–8, 249, 250, 251; see also intergenerational relations; youth malnutrition 100, 105, 121, 211 Manica Province 2, 19, 142 Manicom, Linzi 47 Manning, Carrie 29 maps: Eráti District xxiii; Mozambique xxi; Namapa District xxiii; Nampula Province xxii Máquina, Carlos (Taibo) 204, 218 Maravi 107 Maravi conquest 90 “marginality” 169–70, 232, 250, 256 market liberalization see structural adjustment marriages 111–13, 250, 252–3; epotha 92–3 Marxism/Marxism–Leninism/socialism 3, 9, 13–15, 18–19, 257, 270, 286; and official discourses 28, 77, 252, 276; revisionist critique of 37, 275–8; and scholarly debate 20–1, 37–8; in state-sponsored retrospectives 230, 242 Mateus, Mario 202–3 matrimonial areas (mitthetthe) 111, 113, 125–6, 238–9 Mbembe, Achille 88, 246 Mbwiliza, J.F. 91 Mecubúri District 7, 8, 240 Mecubúri District report 240–1, 244 media 156; see also press, the Mejua, Cabo 205, 215 Meliva, regedoria of 131 Memba District 146, 163, 203; precolonial 106 memory: boom in 26; “entrepreneurs” 222; epochal changes to 25; formative 256; and history 27, 28; marketing of 26; path-dependence of 27–8, 257, 285–6; “primary” 24, 222; screen 23,
224, 258; “sites” 25; and the stateidea 48; temporality 84–5, 171, 191–2, 287; transmission (intergenerational) of 24; “vicarious” 24, 222; see also amnesia; “anti-memory” work; memory practices; mnemonic legitimation; “myth of revolutionary rupture”; official discourses; presentism; “taxidermism” memory practices 29; official 9, 11, 23–4, 26, 27, 28, 39, 43, 47, 63, 88, 125, 171, 191–2, 219, 220, 222–3, 243, 257–8, 273, 283, 285–6, 287, 288; popular 28, 43, 223, 255, 256, 257–8; see also amnesia; “antimemory” work; memory; mnemonic legitimation; “myth of revolutionary rupture”; official discourses; politics of acknowledgment men, young see male youth; youth Mepera, Chief 195, 196–7 mestiços 49, 62, 66; revisionist critique 274, 275 Meto communities 107 migratory flows 250, 253–5; see also outmigration militia/militiamen 143, 170; Casa Salvador 170; of chief 209; Cotton Development Society of Namialo (SODAN) 209; “popular” (liberation war) 15; Renamo 158–9; statesponsored 45, 123–4, 126, 154; in state-sponsored retrospectives 231, 237–9; see also Naparamas Ministry of Agriculture (MOA) 136 Ministry of State Administration (MAE) 43, 171, 179, 222, 225, 226, 271; “Democratic Development in Mozambique” project 271; representatives of 179, 181–2, 194, 206, 219, 220–1, 225, 226, 227, 232, 238–9, 251, 257, 271; Traditional Authority/Power (TA/P) project 171, 179–80, 219, 221, 224–5, 226, 233; see also Baptista Lundin, Irae; Municipalities Law; Provincial Directorate of Assistance and Control (DPAC), Nampula Minter, William 19, 30, 39–40, 143, 144, 146 Mirrote 107, 147, 208, 209 missionaries (Catholic) 56, 58, 201, 209 mitthetthe (common matrimonial areas) 111, 113, 238
386
Index
mnemonic legitimation 19, 125, 287; see also amnesia; “anti-memory” work; legitimation; memory practices MNR see Mozambique National Resistance MOA see Ministry of Agriculture modes of production: “domestic” 278, 279; “feudal” 260; theory of 279 Mogincual 137 Mogovolas 109, 137, 226 Moi, Daniel Arap 60 Moma 8, 113, 133, 137, 241 Momola 207 Monapo District 163 Monapo report 231, 233, 234, 235–6 Mondlane, Eduardo 15, 21, 74 Monteiro, Oscar 176 MOZAL 156 Mozambique: map of xxi Mozambique Armed Forces (FAM) see government army Mozambique Cotton Company (CAM) 103, 104, 105, 108–9, 120, 135, 147 Mozambique Island 90, 275 Mozambique National Resistance (MNR) 2, 19; see also Renamo Mozambique National Union (UNAMO) 186–7, 188–9, 212, 213, 250–1 mpéwé (paramount chiefs) 116; see also chiefs MPLA see Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola Muanona Center 129 Muanona Locality 107,129, 130, 198, 200, 205, 210, 215 Muatuca lineage 106, 107 Mucarara, Chief 206 Mugabe, Robert 60 Muhula, Chief 148, 184, 195–6, 207, 213 Muhula, regedoria of 207 Muipita, Chief 185 Mulima clan 107, 172 multilateral lenders 78; see also international financial institutions (IFIs); International Monetary Fund (IMF); World Bank multiparty constitution (1990) see constitution, multiparty (1990) multipartyism, transition to 26, 42, 80, 152, 179–92, 259, 269, 284 Mungói 272, 273 Municipalities Law 35–6, 160, 225; see
also Ministry of State Administration (MAE) Murrupula District 191 Murrupula report 240 Muslims 56–7, 88; see also Islam Mussa, Bernard 130, 190, 191, 217, 218 Mutaquiha, Januario 221–2, 225, 227, 232–3, 242, 256 “myth of revolutionary rupture” 23–4, 27, 29, 35, 39, 44, 47, 191, 222, 223–4, 257–8, 259, 283, 288 Nacala City 54, 145, 162, 188 Nacala corridor 142 Nacarôa, town of 110 Nacarôa District xiv, 93, 107, 130, 172, 196, 215; precolonial 107; see also Eráti District Nacarôa report 172–6, 179, 180, 224, 227, 229 Namapa: agricultural campaigns 145–6; balance of power between secretaries and chiefs in 195–7; blood ties 190–1; and budget crisis 166–7; and Catholic Church 201–2, 208; and cotton 145, 207–12, 216–17; differentiation of local authority 183–6; 186–7, 189–91; and dual administration 163; in early 1990s 161–70; elections (1994; 1999) 83; electoral campaign/preparations (1994) in 185–6, 189; as a field study site 81–3; initiation rites 162–3, 201–2; local assemblies 166–7; local judicial system 197–201; memory discourses 222, 243, 246–52, 257; official discourses 169; politicization of chieftaincy 188–9, 212; succession and territorial disputes 202–5, 206–7; tax collection 168–9; terminology xiv; war in (Eráti/Namapa) 39–40, 82, 123, 134–5, 161–2; see also Alua parish; “Bahia”; “chiefs of production”; Cotton Development Society of Namialo (SODAN); crime; Eráti District; Namapa parish; Naparamas; rural trade; State Cotton Farm of Nampula (EEAN); structural adjustment; surrogates Namapa Center 110, 132, 147, 162, 198, 208; see also Taibo, regedoria of Namapa parish 209
Index 387 Nametaramo, Chief 190, 202 Nametemula, Chief 213 Namialo 162 Namiquela, Chief 165, 218 Namiquela, regedoria of 202 Namirôa, town of 107 Namirôa Administrative Post 6, 129, 132, 184, 204–5, 208, 210, 217 Nampula City 8, 187, 199, 212, 225, 263, 270; green zones of 145; and war 142 Nampula City Executive Council 167–8 Nampula District 187 Nampula Province 1, 6, 7, 9, 32, 35, 40; agricultural campaigns (postindependence) 145–6; agricultural cooperatives 122–3; block farming 136–8; budget crisis 165–6; Catholic Church 208; chiefs as capatazes 146; chiefs/chieftaincy 39, 46, 188, 285; “chiefs of production” 83–4, 117–18, 146; colonial conquest/occupation 93; colonial cotton regime 104–6; colonial period 79–80, 80–1, 101–2, 103–6; communal villages/ villagization 55, 123–5, 137, 138, 139–40, 141–3; dual administration 163; Dzimba, Gaspar 141–3, 144–5, 150; easing of official stance on things traditional 134, 151; elections (multiparty) 61, 81; “family sector” cotton production (postindependence) 120–1, 148–50; as a fieldwork site 79–83; fiscal reform 167–8; GDs/party cells in 178; and government counter-insurgency campaign 146–7; governors of 43, 133, 137, 139, 141, 143, 146, 167, 179, 194, 233, 263; and law enforcement 170; local official discourses 11, 27, 38–9, 42–6, 77, 84–5, 85–6, 119, 124, 139–40, 169, 171, 172–6, 179, 180–4, 189, 191, 192, 205–6, 219–24, 226–32, 233–4, 234–8, 239–42, 243–4, 257, 260–3, 264, 284–5, 286; and official corruption 170; precolonial 90–3; and pre-election instability 170; Renamo 39, 55, 81, 123, 124, 133, 142, 146–7, 148, 172, 173, 187, 285; “retraditionalization” of rural administration 84–5, 152, 171, 180–3, 185, 186–8, 189, 190–2, 193–4, 205–6, 212, 214-15, 216,
229, 284; revisionist critique 117–19, 125–6, 139, 193–4, 271; and second general elections (1986) 151; strategic importance of 79–81, 83; 148–50; unarmed opposition 186–7; war 133, 142, 155; see also chiefs/régulos, chieftaincy; Eráti District; Makua; Ministry of State Administration (MAE); Namapa District; police; Provincial Coordinating Commission for the Socialization of the Countryside (CCPSC); Provincial Directorate of Agriculture (DPA), Nampula; Provincial Directorate of Assistance and Control (DPAC), Nampula; provincial government, Nampula; “retreat to tradition”; secretaries (local); surrogates; villagization não-indígena (“non-natives”) 93 Naparama phenomenon 4–5, 22–3 Naparamas 1–2, 4–5, 6, 8–9, 161–2, 170, 208 national demographics 24 National Elections Commission (CNE) 163, 186, 189 National Front for the Liberation of Angola (FNLA) 18 nationalizations 50, 51–2 national parliament: politically pluralist 10, 20, 80, 156; single-party 51, 133; see also elections national politics (postwar): character of 157–8 national reconstruction tax (IRN) 167–9; see also tax collection national sovereignty 17; erosion of 155; and official discourses 11, 86, 267, 268, 270 National Union for Total Independence of Angola (Unita) 3, 6, 18, 159 “natives” (indígenas) 94 nativism, cultural 273 NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization) 20–1 neoliberal doctrine/principles/reforms 19, 20, 24, 26, 78, 156, 267 nepotism see blood ties; surrogates Newitt, Malyn 22 New State 56, 95, 96; and Portuguese nationalism 108 “Ngoni” passage 92, 107 NGOs see non-governmental organizations
388
Index
Niassa 15, 46, 58, 101, 103, 106, 281 Nigeria 13 Nihia, Eduardo 133, 186, 189 Nkomati Accord 4, 58 non-governmental organizations (NGOs) 8, 154, 155, 160, 162, 165, 235; see also World Vision, ARO “non-natives” (não-indígena) 93 North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) 20–1 Notícias 8, 205 Nyambir, Jacob 146, 263 Nyasaland 103; see also Malawi Nyerere, Julius 12, 13 “obscurantism” 12, 22, 63, 75, 77, 130–1, 133, 151, 270, 284, 286, 287 Odinepa Locality 130, 144, 184, 209, 211, 217, 250, 251 official discourses 9, 11, 23, 26–7, 27, 38–9, 119, 124, 139–41, 147, 169, 171, 172–6, 176–7, 178–9, 179–80, 180–2, 182–4, 189, 191, 192, 205–6, 219–24, 226–9, 229–32, 232–3, 233–4, 234–5, 235–8, 238–9, 239–40, 240–2, 242–3, 243–4, 245–6, 256–7, 260, 261–3, 264, 266–71, 283–4, 284–5, 286, 287; see also amnesia; “anti-memory” work; dual economy thesis; Frelimo; legitimation; memory practices; mnemonic legitimation; “myth of revolutionary rupture”; politics of acknowledgment OJM see Organization of Mozambican Youth O’Laughlin, Bridget 63 Oman 56 O’Meara, Dan 65, 245, 278 OMM see Organization of Mozambican Women ONUMOZ (United Nations Operation in Mozambique) 1, 152, 155, 159; see also peacekeeping forces; United Nations Operation Production 57–8, 127–8, 256 Organization of African Unity (OAU) 182 Organization of Mozambican Trade Unions (OTM) 51 Organization of Mozambican Women (OMM) 51, 201 Organization of Mozambican Youth (OJM) 51
orthography xv OTM see Organization of Mozambican Trade Unions Ottaway, Marina 68–9 out-migration 114, 127–8, 248, 250, 253–5, 258; see also male youth; youth Pademo (Mozambique Democratic Party) 187 PAIGC see African Party for the Independence of Guinea and Cape Verde parama see “vaccine” paramilitary forces see militia/ militiamen paramount chiefs (mpéwé) 116; see also chiefs (régulos) parishes/parish reports see Alua parish; Namapa parish party/state 176–9, 183–90; see also secretary/chief: distinction peace accord see General Peace Accord (AGP) peacekeeping forces 6; see also ONUMOZ; United Nations (UN) peace talks 60–1, 152, 157, 180, 182 peasant militias see Naparamas Pedersen, Mögens 113, 116, 125, 128, 138, 144, 199, 239, 253, 254 “people’s shops” 51 people’s tribunals see community courts; popular/people’s tribunals petty bourgeoisie: in Frelimo’s revolutionary discourse 14, 71, 74, 260, 283, 286; in post-1990 official discourses (Nampula) 246; in revisionist critique 274–5, 277–8, 282, 283, 286; see also “populism”; postcolonial state; revisionist critique picadas 100, 105–6, 109, 135, 136–7, 139, 142, 145, 146, 239, 248–9 Pitcher, M. Anne 22, 23 police 7, 8, 154, 157, 158, 168, 169, 170, 213, 214; see also law enforcement political parties 155, 180, 186–8; and revisionist critique 276 politics of acknowledgment 26, 86, 248, 261–4, 270–1, 284–5, 287–8 Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA) 6, 18, 159 popular/people’s power: institutions of 51, 52, 75, 83, 84, 150, 167, 172–6,
Index 389 182, 191, 220, 227, 230, 235, 237, 245–6, 257, 260, 262, 283, 284 popular/people’s tribunals 12–13, 51, 174; see also community courts population: density (Eráti District) xxiii; Nampula 80; youthfulness of 24 “populism”: in official discourses 70, 230, 245–6; in popular memory discourses 253–6 ports 3, 34, 49, 54, 180 Portugal: 2, 79; Caetano government 49; and Catholic Church 56; “effective occupation” 93; international criticism of 95, 99, 102; and NATO 20–1; and private support for Renamo 56, 59; “psycho-social action” programs 110; “revolution of carnations” 49; slave trade 90–1; textile industry in 96, 100; and United Nations 95; see also counterinsurgency campaigns/strategies; forced labor/crop cultivation; New State; Salazar, António; settler farms/ agriculture; settlers; smallholders/ smallholder agriculture: colonial cotton regime postcolonial state: bureaucratization of 71; bureaucracy 42, 53, 165, 177, 243, 257; characterizations/ perceptions/representations of 47–8, 68–9, 73–7, 75, 78, 79, 223, 253–6, 258, 273, 286, 287–8; see also budget crisis; “class enemies”; corruption; crime syndicates; decentralization; destabilization; donors; fiscal reform; ONUMOZ; privatization; revisionist critique; state formation; state/party: distinction; structural adjustment poverty 19, 121, 153, 156 PRE see Economic Rehabilitation Program; PRE/PRES; structural adjustment PRE/PRES 264, 268; see also Economic Rehabilitation Program; Economic and Social Rehabilitation Program; structural adjustment PRES (Economic and Social Rehabilitation Program) 153, 163; see also Economic and Social Rehabilitation Program; PRE/PRES; structural adjustment presentism 27 presidentialism 158 Presidential Political and Organizational Offensive 71, 177–9
press, the 156; see also media press-ganging: government army 62, 255; Renamo 58, 255 “primary” memory 24, 222 privatization 78, 154, 156–7, 165, 216–17 provinces xiv, 94 Provincial Coordinating Commission for the Socialization of the Countryside (CCPSC) 133, 139–40, 262–3 Provincial Directorate of Agriculture (DPA), Nampula 89, 122 Provincial Directorate of Assistance and Control (DPAC), Nampula 166, 168, 169, 172, 180–2, 205–6, 219, 224, 225, 226, 228, 232 Provincial Directorate of Finances (DPF): report (1992) 167–8 provincial government, Nampula: 8, 46, 83–4, 85, 117–19, 123, 132, 139, 146–7, 165–6, 167, 167–8, 170, 171, 224, 225, 233, 251, 252, 262, 264, 284; communiqués/orientations issued or relayed by 135, 182–3, 205–6; see also; politics of acknowledgment Provincial Coordinating Commission for the Socialization of the Countryside (CCPSC), Nampula; Provincial Directorate of Agriculture (DPA), Nampula; Provincial Directorate of Assistance and Control (DPAC), Nampula; Provincial Directorate of Finances (DPF), Nampula; Nampula Province public expenditure 60 public works projects 101 railways 3, 142, 180; see also “transport corridors” rape 54, 97 Rathbone, Richard 87 Reagan, Ronald 2 Reagan administration 2–3 Rebelo, Jorge 259 “recolonization” thesis 22, 267 refugees 4, 60, 142, 150, 155 regedorias 94–6; post-independence partitioning of 204, 215 regional differentiation/disparities 19, 46, 59, 81, 103–4, 156, 281; see also Renamo: and uneven development; revisionist critique régulos see chiefs/régulos
390
Index
Renamo: 28, 42, 88; and chiefs 33, 34–5, 39, 40, 55, 82, 115–16, 118, 134, 146–7, 148, 172, 173, 188, 196, 200, 203, 212, 215, 217, 247, 285; and communal villages/ villagization 55, 123, 124, 133, 135, 141, 142, 161, 266; counterrevolution 54–61; destabilization 1, 2–4, 29–30, 32–3, 37, 38, 39–40, 49–50, 60, 66, 70, 72, 118, 123, 138, 142, 149–150, 155, 161–2, 193, 200; and dual administration 163, 188; and Dzimba, Gaspar 141–3; electoral campaign (1994) 265–6; Eráti/Namapa District 40, 82, 123, 124, 131–2, 134; forced recruitment 58; forced relocation 39–40, 59; and Frelimo’s counterinsurgency campaign 146–7, 150; Frelimo’s growing likeness to 10, 62; historiography 37–8, 40, 62, 63; international support for 56, 59; invasion of central Mozambique 141–2; “Manifesto and Program” 54–5; military bases 57, 59, 141, 162; militia 158–9; Namapa District 83, 131–2, 134, 135, 161–2, 203;Nampula Province 55, 81, 123, 124, 133, 142, 146–7, 148, 172, 173, 187, 285; and official discourses 45–6, 84–5, 118–19, 124, 140, 147, 171, 192, 220, 226, 233, 235, 257, 262, 267, 268, 270, 285–6; and partial ceasefire 180; peace accord 9–10, 61; postwar 11, 20, 157, 158–9, 192, 256; and religion 55; and “retreat to tradition” 83–4; in revisionist critique 37, 39, 63, 66, 82, 116, 117, 193–4, 275, 276, 285; strategy of popular mobilization 33, 117, 135, 146, 148, 284, 285; transformation into political party 1, 20, 60–1, 155; and uneven development 57; zones of control 33, 55, 57, 59, 61, 88, 131–2, 155, 163, 188, 189, 200; see also atrocities; civil war; destabilization; Dhlakama, Afonso; elections; Mozambique National Resistance (MNR); Naparamas; press-ganging; Renamo-Electoral Union (UE); rural dissent; secretaries (local); South Africa
Renamo-Electoral Union (União Electoral, UE) 61, 81 Renan, Ernest 32 “retreat to tradition” 33, 77, 83, 84, 116, 117, 272, 286 revisionist critique 37–8, 62–3, 66–8, 86–7, 115–16, 274–82, 286; and chiefs/chieftaincy 40, 68, 82, 115–16, 117, 193–4; and class 274–9, 282, 283, 286; and communal villages/villagization 82, 117, 118–19, 124–5, 139, 234; on “Creole elites” 275–8, 282; and ethnicity 274–5, 276–8, 282; Frelimo’s socialism 37, 275, 276; historiography 16–17, 21–2, 39–40, 62–3, 124–5, 234; liberation war/liberated zones 16–17, 21, 67, 276, 279, 281, 286; lineage social relations 274–5, 278; and official discourses 64, 68, 82, 84, 117, 119, 124–5, 139, 147; political parties 276; in post-1990 official discourses 77, 85, 221, 222, 259, 285; and Renamo 37, 39, 63, 66, 82, 116, 117, 119, 193–4, 275, 276, 285; and the “rootlessness route” 274–83; and secretaries 68, 234; and “southerners” 66–7, 274–8, 285; see also Baptista Lundin, Irae; Brito, Luís de; Cahen, Michel; culturalist critique; Geffray, Christian revolutionary rupture: myth see “myth of revolutionary rupture” Rhodesia 2, 49 Ribáuè District 8, 133, 142, 189, 233, 241 rice 96 rioting 7, 8, 170 Ripua, Wehia 187 roads, conditions of 121, 165; see also picadas Roesch, Otto 116 rumors: panic-sowing 255–6 rural administration, “retraditionalization” of 84–5, 152, 171, 180–3, 185, 186–8, 189, 190–2, 193–4, 205–6, 212, 214–15, 216, 229, 284 rural “anarchy” 243–56 rural collectivization 51, 261–4; see also communal villages; cooperative farming; cooperative sector; state farms/state farm sector; villagization
Index 391 rural differentiation 69–70, 76 rural dissent 20, 35, 41, 45, 58, 77, 79, 83, 86, 138, 142, 220, 234, 261; see also chiefs/régulos: war/Renamo/rural dissidence; “class enemies”; dissent rural emigration see out-migration rural governance 35–6 rural leadership 235–9 rural markets 145, 163–5 rural obscurantism see “obscurantism” rural trade (post-independence) 128; collapse/instability of 49–50, 66, 128, 119, 120, 121; strictures on 143, 145; and structural adjustment 163–5; terms of 53, 121, 164, 165, 216 Rwanda 159 SADCC (Southern African Development and Coordination Conference) 4 SADF see South African Defence Force Saíde, Chief 212, 213 Salazar, António 95, 96 sanctions: against Rhodesia 49 Saudi Arabia 56 Saul, John 62, 69, 116, 178, 283 Savana 272 schools 53, 60, 142, 155, 161, 162; and student enrollment 53,156 secretaries (local) 32, 40; and centralized decision-making 178; as chiefly surrogates 129–32, 249–50; and chiefs 183–5, 195–7, 201, 213, 214, 220, 228; and “class enemy” 260; and community court judges 199–200; and differentiation of local power 182–5, 190–2; epotha as 131, 172; as fall-guy 229–34; as interlopers 172–6; in official discourses 45, 85–6, 117, 174, 175, 229, 231, 232, 233, 235–7, 239, 240, 242, 244, 252, 257, 260, 285; and “populism” 246; profile of 85–6, 220; Renamo attacks on 54, 193; in Renamo-held territory 131–2; in revisionist critique 68, 234; and state-sponsored retrospectives 229, 231, 232, 233, 235–6, 239, 244; and tribute 216; and villagization 172; see also dynamizing groups (GDs); leveling thesis secretary/chief: distinction 183–5; see also state/party: distinction Senghor, Leopold 13
Serra, Carlos 256 settler farms/agriculture 50, 64, 80, 95, 102, 103, 105, 110, 119, 149; and cotton production 102–3, 105 settler flight 14, 49–50, 119, 127, 149 settlers 53, 105, 110; preconquest 90; support for Renamo 59; see also decolonization; settler farms/agriculture; settler flight sexual promiscuity 250 Shangaans 276 shortages: of food 98, 100, 105, 109, 127, 138; of goods 33–4, 52, 115, 121, 128, 138, 163–4, 278; of labor 52, 65, 99, 101, 120, 143 Sierra Leone 78 sisal industry 101, 103 Sivan, Emmanuel 25 slaves 90–3, 106; see also epotha: (precolonial “slaves” and their descendants) slave trade 90–1, 107 smallholders/smallholder agriculture 5, 11, 34, 45, 49–50, 52, 53, 57, 65, 75–6, 80, 82–3, 87, 88, 96–7, 116, 119, 120–1, 124, 125, 126–7, 128, 135–8, 142–3, 144–6, 153, 158, 163–5, 207, 208, 210–12, 216–17; colonial cotton regime 96–8, 100–1, 104, 105–6; colonial Eráti 108, 109–10, 110–14; culturalist critique 36; dual economy thesis 65, 284; Frelimo’s class analysis 72; official discourses 39, 139, 238, 281, 284; see also communal villages; cooperative farming; cooperative sector; cotton production; dual economy thesis; “family sector” farming; forced labor/crop cultivation; forced resettlement; lineage social relations; rural dissent; villagization smuggling 19–20, 157; and Renamo 59; see also trafficking social/economic indicators 19, 153, 156 socialism 13–15, 18–19; and scholarly debate 20–1, 37–8; see also “African socialism”; Frelimo; Marxism/ Marxism–Leninism/socialism; revisionist critique socio-economic inequalities 19, 156; see also class formation; lineage social relations; poverty; rural differentiation; social/economic indicators
392
Index
SODAN see Cotton Development Society of Namialo Sofala Province 2, 19,142 Somalia 159 sorcery/sorcerers 55, 88, 173, 199, 244 South Africa: 2–4, 5, 6, 10, 18, 20, 29–30, 32, 36, 55, 59, 58, 66, 72, 78, 103, 138, 142, 264, 275; see also apartheid; destabilization South African Communist Party 3 South African Defence Force (SADF) 2, 4, 10, 18, 30, 59 South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) 10 Southern African Development and Coordination Conference (SADCC) 4 “southerners” see revisionist critique Soviet Union: and Angola 18; assistance from 3, 18, 21, 29; collapse of 159 spirit mediums 55, 272 STAE see Technical Secretariat for Elections Administration starvation 54, 58; see also famines/famine conditions state, the: ideas of 47–8, 87, 288; see also postcolonial state state budget 60 State Cotton Farm of Nampula (EEAN) 120, 165, 209, 217 state divestiture see privatization state farms/state farm sector 50, 51, 52–3, 65, 69, 165; see also State Cotton Farm of Nampula (EEAN) state formation 69, 83, 111, 286; and state building 34; see also lineage social relations; state-sponsored retrospectives; surrogates state-idea see state, the; idea of state institutions, destruction of 78 state/party: distinction 176–9, 183–9; see also secretary/chief: distinction state-sponsored retrospectives 9, 43, 44, 84, 86, 219–44, 260, 285 “strategies of extraversion” 78, 158 strikes 6–7, 153, 166 structural adjustment 34, 61, 116, 152–4, 156, 163–5, 167, 216, 264, 268, 270, 282–3; and official discourses 268, 270; see also budget crisis; fiscal reform sub-chiefs 87, 173; see also lineage chiefs; traditional authorities subsidies, removal of 153, 216 succession disputes 202–5, 206
surrogates 129–32, 173, 249–50; see also blood ties Taibo, Chief 147, 184, 203–4, 215, 247 Taibo, regedoria of 202, 204 Tanganyika 104; border with Mozambique 104, 108; see also Tanzania Tanzania 12, 15, 21, 49; troops from 142; see also Tanganyika TA/P project see Traditional Authority/Power (TA/P) project tax collection 167–9, 183, 212, 215, 244; and cotton markets 98, 215; and DPAC’s proposals 181; and official discourses 169, 233 “taxidermism” 27 Technical Secretariat for Elections Administration (STAE) 163, 185–6, 189 territorial disputes 202–5 Tete Province 80, 81, 142, 155, 267, 271 Thatcher, Margaret 2 “total strategy” 2, 3 trade see rural trade traders and war/structural adjustment 163–5 traditional: use of term xiv traditional authorities 34, 128, 129, 165, 168, 180–2, 183, 194, 195, 196, 198, 205, 215, 216, 217, 248, 251; as “chiefs of production” 82, 135; and colonial cotton regime 97, 104; colonial period 95, 96, 97, 104, 110; and culturalist accounts 36; and decentralization 41; and government decree (2000) 160; historiography 34, 40; and MAE’s “Democratic Development” Project; and Municipalities Law 35, 160; and official discourses 84, 172–3, 189, 220, 221, 227, 240–2, 244, 266; recent activities of 160–1; Renamo 55, 117, 146–7, 196; revisionist critique 39; secretaries 195; see also “chiefs of production”; chiefs/régulos; chieftaincy; lineage chiefs; obscurantism”; sub-chiefs traditional authority/power 67, 128, 183, 195, 261, 284; historiography 79; forced cotton cultivation 209; and local government reform 226; and official discourses 172–6, 180–1, 224,
Index 393 225, 226, 227, 228, 229, 230, 235, 237, 240, 242, 243, 261–2, 266, 271; overlap/relations of accommodation with official authority 115, 131, 134, 190, 196, 243; realignment with official authority 194, 195, 205; and secretaries 195; “valorizing” 181; see also “chiefs of production”; chiefs/régulos; chieftaincy; lineage chiefs; Ministry of State Administration (MAE): Traditional Authority/Power project; “obscurantism”; sub-chiefs Traditional Authority/Power (TA/P) project 43, 86, 171, 179, 221, 224–5; see also Ministry of State Administration (MAE) “traditional-feudal society” 70, 73–4, 75, 272–3, 283–4; and “class enemy” 286 trafficking 78, 157; see also slave trade; smuggling transitional government 49, 50, 130, 253 transport: and cotton sector 119; and electoral preparation (1994) 185–6; and local justice system 200; and rural trade 164, 165; system 3; see also “transport corridors” “transport corridors” 54; see also Nacala corridor TRC see South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission tribute 85, 199, 201–2, 216, 284 Tubruto, Chief 130, 213, 248–9, 254, 261 Tubruto, José 190, 191 Tubruto, regedoria of 204–5 Uantera, Chief 129 UD see Democratic Union UN see United Nations UNAMO see Mozambique National Union “unarmed opposition” 187–8; see also political parties underground economy 20, 157; see also crime syndicates; smuggling; trafficking Unita see National Union for the Total Independence of Angola United 95; peacekeeping operation (ONUMOZ: United Nations Operation in Mozambique) 1, 6, 152, 155, 159; population estimates 83;
sanctions against Rhodesia 49; trust funds: 155, 187–8; United Nations Development Fund (UNDP) 156 United States Agency for International Development (USAID) 41 United States of America (USA) 2–3, 18, 25, 59; State Department 59; see also United States Agency for International Development (USAID) urban areas 50, 57–8, 153; see also Operation Production urban growth 101 urban residents 153 USA see United States of America USAID see United States Agency for International Development “vaccine” (parama) 1, 5, 7, 8; see also Naparama phenomenon; Naparamas “vagrants” (vadios) 99, 101 Vaquina, Chief 202, 203, 204, 206, 207, 208, 215 “vicarious” memory 24, 222 Vida Nova 212 Vietnam 2 vigilantism 154 village project see villagization villagization 121,128, 135, 143; and chiefs 133, 135, 172, 221; and dual economy thesis 118; 144; and economic decline 137; Faria Lobo 137–8, 139; forced 56, 123–4, 126, 132, 138, 263; and historiography 124–5; official discourses 45, 139–41, 145, 221, 234, 235–9, 238, 241, 263, 264, 284, 285; Renamo 55, 56, 124, 142; revisionist critique 82, 117, 118–19, 124–5, 139, 234; see also militia/militiamen; state-sponsored retrospectives; war war (post-independence) 2, 54–61, 142, 149–50, 154–5, 161–2; see also civil war; destabilization; South Africa warlordism 78 water (Namapa) 162 Werbner, Richard 219 West Africa 2, 281 Western donors see donors, aid West Germany 59 Wilson, Richard 9 Winter, Jay 25 women 92–3, 104, 108, 121, 158, 247, 250; rights of 16, 158; and sexual
394
Index
women continued violence 59, 97; see also epotha; lineage social relations; marriages; Organization of Mozambican Women (OMM); rape; slaves women’s organization 51 World Bank 35, 153, 156, 157 World Vision 8, 162 World War I 108, 207 World War II 99, 108 Wuyts, Marc 121, 283 Xai Xai: ceremony at 272–3 Young, Crawford 19 Young, Tom 274 young men see male youth; youth youth 40, 57, 111–14, 127–8, 161, 214, 253–5, 256, 258; and oral testimony 247–8, 249, 250, 251,
261; revisionist critique 68; and statesponsored retrospectives 231, 235; see also inter-generational relations; male youth; Organization of Mozambican Youth (OJM) Zaire 78 Zambézia Province 1–2, 5, 6, 61, 80, 81, 133, 137, 142, 149–50, 155; see also “family sector” farming Zambézia river/valley 90 Zambia 54; support from 21 ZANU see Zimbabwe African National Union Zimbabwe 19, 54, 142, 180; independence of 2, 3–4; troops from 142 Zimbabwe African National Union (ZANU) 49 Zinco 7, 8, 131
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