OAPS 2011 - USC by USC Libraries

O A OUTSTANDING ACADEMIC PAPERS BY STUDENTS A collaborative, international program

by academic research libraries

to encourage, recognize, and preserve excellence in student scholarship

2011 USC LIBRARIES | USC DANA AND DAVID DORNSIFE COLLEGE OF LETTERS, ARTS AND SCIENCES

UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

www.usc.edu/libraries/oaps

OAPS O U T S TANDING AC A DE MIC PA P E R S BY S T U D E N TS APRIL 2011

USC LIBRARIES | USC DANA and DAVID DORNSIFE COLLEGE of LETTERS, ARTS and SCIENCES UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

USC LIBRARIES USC Dana and David Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences Published by Figueroa Press 840 Childs Way, 3rd Floor University of Southern California Los Angeles, CA 90089-2540 ÂŠ 2011 USC Libraries All rights reserved No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the publisher, except in the context of reviews. ISBN-10: 1-932800-87-5 ISBN-13: 978-1-932800-87-6 Library of Congress Control Number: 2011927460 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data USC Libraries USC Dana and David Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences OAPS: Outstanding Academic Papers by Students

Contents 4 FOREWORD Catherine Quinlan 6 INTRODUCTION Steven L. Lamy 8 OVERRIDING RACIAL STEREOTYPES: A MULTILEVEL NEURAL NETWORK IMPLEMENTATION OF THE ITERATIVE REPROCESSING MODEL Phillip J. Ehret 28 ROCKETS OF BABEL: WAR AND TECHNOLOGY IN GRAVITY’S RAINBOW Marc Kohlbry 72 THE POLITICAL, SOCIAL, AND INSTITUTIONAL CAUSES OF THE DISPARITY BETWEEN WATER SYSTEM EFFECTIVENESS IN URUGUAY AND ARGENTINA Zara Lukens 130 TEENS, TODDLERS, AND TOTORO Victor Luo 144 EFFECTIVENESS IN PEACEKEEPING: A CASE STUDY ANALYSIS COMPARING THE UNITED NATIONS AND THE EUROPEAN UNION

Andrew Matson 216 DEAD LETTERS, DEAD AUTHORS, LIVE READERS Sarah Thermond 228 REIMAGINING THE FIGUEROA CORRIDOR, 1960-2005: GROWTH POLITICS, POLICY, AND DISPLACEMENT Daniel Wu

Foreword CATHERINE QUINLAN Dean of the USC Libraries

In 2010, the University of Southern California Libraries became the first North American institution to participate in the Outstanding Academic Papers by Students (OAPS) program with 11 universities throughout Asia. With our inaugural campus partner— the USC School of Social Work—we showcased excellent research and writing by USC students to an international audience. We are very happy to continue sharing USC students’ work with the OAPS community, as we collaborate this year with the USC Dana and David Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences. The papers in this volume represent an excellent but very small fraction of the outstanding scholarship produced by students across the USC Dornsife College. Through the Problems Without Passports initiative, the Center for International Studies, and more than 50 study-abroad programs in total, the USC Dornsife College encourages its students to approach their studies from a global point of view. These papers reflect that strong commitment to diverse and inventive perspectives. As we work to support the innovative research of faculty and the far-reaching ambitions of our students, our approach to providing library services must embrace a broad view while supporting the specific needs of our local communities. We must be active partners in inspiring curiosity about ideas that arise beyond our geographic and intellectual borders and in supporting discoveries that transcend these boundaries. Bringing OAPS to our university—and introducing our students’ scholarship to our OAPS partners—is one of the many ways our libraries work toward these goals at USC. I would like to thank Dean Howard Gillman and former Executive Vice Dean Michael Quick of the USC Dornsife College for agreeing to participate in OAPS. It has been a particular pleasure working with two of their Dornsife College colleagues—Steven Lamy, vice dean for academic programs, and Richard Fliegel, associate dean for undergraduate programs—to select this year’s papers. I also would like to express my sincere appreciation to Steve Ching, university librarian of the City University of Hong Kong, for inviting USC to join OAPS. We are very proud to participate as OAPS—thanks to Professor Ching’s vision and the dedication of our OAPS partners—becomes an ever more prestigious platform for presenting student accomplishments to the world.

Introduction STEVEN L. LAMY

Vice Dean for Academic Programs USC Dana and David Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences

The USC Dana and David Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences is proud to work with the USC Libraries in presenting the following examples of outstanding papers written by our undergraduates. The selection represents some fine examples of carefully considered research and thoughtful analysis, conducted by students from a range of disciplines in the humanities and social sciences who share a commitment to the value of academic inquiry in understanding and solving contemporary human problems. Some of these papers were supported by grants from the USC Dornsife College program of Student Opportunities for Academic Research (SOAR) or the Summer Undergraduate Research Fund (SURF). Some are recipients of prizes at the annual Writing Conference organized by the Writing Program, or published by AngeLingo, the Dornsife College online journal written and edited by undergraduates. Some of these student authors have been nominated for distinction as Discovery Scholars this year. Their work has been exemplary, and I congratulate each of them for the further recognition this publication confers. I would like to thank also the dedicated faculty who worked with these students, inspiring and guiding them in the research projects presented here; and I would also like to say a word of gratitude to the many other students and their faculty whose outstanding research and critical analysis could not be included in this publication, due to limited space. In my capacity as the vice dean of academic programs, I have been privileged to read the work of many graduate and undergraduate students whose extraordinary accomplishments are the true signature of the USC Dornsife College. I would suggest the reader not begin on page one and read this work through as one might read a novel, but look through the table of contents, choose a topic of interest on a particular day, and read one essay at a time. Each of them represents an investment of time and thought in its creation, and each will reward a little time for contemplation on the part of the reader. Let me close by expressing my thanks to the people in the USC Libraries and Associate Dean Richard Fliegel, a first rate author in his own right and someone who helped make this opportunity available to our studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and most of all to our students, whose originality and diligence have made this project so worthwhile.

Overriding Racial Stereotypes: A Multilevel Neural Network Implementation of the Iterative Reprocessing Model PHILLIP J. EHRET Department of Psychology Professor Stephen Read

Abstract

I present a neural network of the iterative reprocessing (IR) model (Cunningham, Zelazo, Packer, & Van Bavel, 2007). The IR model argues that evaluation of social stimuli (attitudes, stereotypes) is the result of the iterative processing of stimuli in a hierarchy of neural systems: the evaluation of social stimuli develops and changes over processing. This iterative processing system contrasts with the variety of dual-process or dual-attitudes models that dominate social psychology. This model has a single, multilevel, and bidirectional feedback evaluation system that integrates initial perceptual processing and later developing cortical processing. In line with recent research, the model has separate positive and negative evaluations. This overall construction allows the network to process stimuli (e.g. the features and surrounding context of an individual) over repeated iterations, with each iteration activating higher levels of semantic processing. As a result, the networkâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s evaluations of social stimuli evolve over iterations. Separate positive and negative evaluative systems allow for a more accurate analysis of evaluation change over time and for the ability of the model to exhibit ambivalence. I discuss the implications of this model for understanding evaluation in social processes. Further, the success of my model supports the IR model framework and provides new insights into attitude theory.

INTRODUCTION

Traditional approaches to attitudinal and evaluation development are understood in a dual-attitude framework that proposes that our attitudes and evaluations are a result of two distinct neural systems: a rapid, unconscious system and a slower, explicit system (Greenwald et al., 1995; Greenwald et al., 2002; Wilson, Lindsey, & Schooler, 2000). However, Cunningham and others have recently challenged these dual-attitude models arguing that they do not capture â&#x20AC;&#x153;the way in which affective attitudes and reflective processing interact and contribute to evaluationsâ&#x20AC;? (Cunningham & Zelazo, 2007, p. 97; Cunningham et al., 2007). Consequently, they have proposed the iterative reprocessing (IR) model. Instead of relying on two separate systems that produce two different evaluations, the IR model is a single, multilevel processing circuit that continuously modifies evaluations

as valenced information is processed at higher levels. The IR model also addresses a longstanding argument in social psychology as to whether attitudes are stable or constructed. The model argues that attitudes are stored in relatively stable connection weights, whereas evaluations of a specific stimulus in context are constructed in response to the inputs. My computational neural network seeks to validate the IR model in a theoretically and biologically plausible framework. The network is presented with visual observations for 16 ‘individuals’ consisting of information about features such as skin tone, hair length, clothing, and traits of their physical environment, processed by the thalamus layer. From these observations, the network quickly identifies race, either black or white, and the sex of the individual to initially evaluate the individual based on these two factors. This initial evaluation of race and sex is part of the first iterations of the stimuli processing and likely occurs unconsciously in limbic structures such as the amygdala. This is consistent with research on early perceptual cue processing that has demonstrated that humans preferentially direct attention to black targets very early in processing (by about 100 ms after stimulus onset) and attention to gender emerges soon thereafter (about 150 ms; Ito & Urland, 2005). As activation continues to spread in subsequent iterations, the stimuli are reprocessed in higher-order semantic layers representing the orbitofrontal cortex, anterior cingulate cortex, and lateral prefrontal cortex, which recognize higher level concepts such as physical location (e.g., office or street) and profession. Once the individual’s profession is determined, stereotypic attributes such as ‘intelligent’ for a doctor, or ‘violent’ for a gang member are activated. These attributes then activate associated positive or negative evaluations or attitudes, revising evaluations in the positive and negative evaluation layers representing the amygdala. The presence of both the positive and negative evaluation layers allows us to accurately track the evolution of these two components of evaluation separately, eliminating the limitation of a single evaluation continuum that cannot capture ambivalence. This model presents examples of the continuous development of evaluation from the activation of initial racial and gender stereotypes, based on early analysis of perceptual

cues, to the later development of evaluations that integrate occupational and contextual perceptual cues. Specifically, this model demonstrates how early stereotypical evaluations based on initial perceptions can be overridden by the later activation of more complex contextual information such as occupation and profession. MODEL CONSTRUCTION AND TRAINING

My model was constructed with Emergent 5.1 neural network modeling software (Aisa, Mingus, & O’Reilly, 2008). It is a nine-layer localist network incorporating separate layers for stimulus inputs, basic race and sex recognition, race and sex conjunctions, higherorder semantic layers, and positive and negative evaluation layers. The “persons” presented to the network are each defined by 17 visual features including visual appearance (e.g. skin tone, hair length) and contextual features (e.g. type of clothing, location cues). The race and sex layers identify race and sex respectively and the race and sex conjunction layer represents each individual’s race and sex conjunction (e.g. black and male). Higher-order semantic knowledge is represented by the following layers. The context layer evaluates stimuli and determines the context in which the individual is observed: street corner, office building, hospital, professional clothing, athletic clothing, and/or gang clothing. The profession layer establishes one of four professions for the individual: doctor, gang member, business person, or athlete. The attribute layer assigns a combination of the eight available attributes to the individual: caring, athletic, popular, rich, greedy, violent, unintelligent, and/or intelligent. The attribute, profession, and race and sex conjunction layer are each connected to both the positive and negative evaluation layers. The two evaluation layers each provide scalar output value from 0.0 to 1.0 represented across 12 nodes, which is recorded at each iteration of the model to allow for the capture of ambivalence (Cacioppo, Gardner, & Berntson, 1997). Training is completed in two stages. The first stage trains the model to recognize both race and sex, and assigns highly racist evaluations (i.e. black males are evaluated highly negatively with no positive evaluation while white males and females receive highly

positive evaluations with no negative evaluations; black females receive slightly less negative evaluations than black males). In this stage, only black and white males and females are presented to the model (four persons in total in a 1:1:1:1 training ratio; because evaluation is represented in scalar value layers, I can directly teach the desired evaluation for each type of individual), no other stimulus attributes such as clothing are presented. During this training, the higher-level semantic layers (i.e. context, profession, and attributes) are lesioned (lesioned layers do not send or receive any information). After the model successfully learns the stereotypical evaluations of the black and white males and females, all layers are unlesioned. Additionally, the learning rates for the race, sex, and conjunction layers are significantly reduced to preserve the ingrained racial stereotype of the model trained in the first stage. In the second stage of training, the learned weights from stage one are maintained as the network is randomly presented with 16 new individuals: a black and white, male and female doctor, gang member, business person, and athlete. In contrast to the first stage of training, in the second stage evaluations are based on common evaluations of the professions regardless of race or sex (e.g. doctor is highly positive while gang member is highly negative). The network is also presented with two black and two white males and one white and one black female. These individuals do not have any other input attributes besides race and sex and present the same evaluations as their counterparts in the first training stage. These additional individuals serve as infrequent but powerful stereotype maintainers. TESTING RESULTS

After the second stage of training is completed, the network is presented with the appropriate inputs for an individual such as a black male doctor. By recording the positive and negative evaluation over each network iteration, I tracked the complete time course of the networkâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s evaluation of the individual. This monitoring allowed us to see the clear effects of later iterations and revisions of initial evaluations. Figures 2-7 each show the positive and negative activations (representing evaluation) on a scale from 0.0 to 1.0

over number of cycles (representing iterations) for a black and a white male doctor, a black and white male gangster, and a black and white female gangster. Evaluation Evolution Analysis Males. The black male doctor (Figure 2) demonstrates an early spike of negative

activation that rapidly decreases after the eighth cycle. The ninth cycle evinces a second spike of positive activation. The model settles on a final, highly positive activation and displays no negative activation, demonstrating an initially negative evaluation based on basic cues, which is overridden by later higher-level semantic processing. The white male doctor (Figure 3) records a strong spike of positive activation at the ninth cycle that endures until the final, extremely positive evaluation with no negative activation. The black male gangster (Figure 4) displays an early and strong spike of negative activation at the fifth cycle that marginally increases to settle on a final, extremely negative evaluation with no positive activation. Both the white male doctor and black male gangster record an initial evaluation based on basic cues, which is reinforced by later semantic processing. The white male gangster (Figure 5) shows both a medium strength positive and negative activation at the ninth cycle. After the 12th cycle, positive activation declines rapidly and negative activation ascends quickly for an extremely negative final evaluation with no positive activation. As with the black male doctor, the initial evaluation based on basic cues is overridden by later semantic processing. Females. The black female gangster (Figure 6) displays a later (relative to the black

male gangster) and strong spike of negative activation at the ninth cycle that marginally increases to settle on a final, extremely negative evaluation. There is an additional small bump of positive activation that precedes the negative spike at cycle eight, but quickly falls below 0.1 by the 11th cycle. The final evaluation is extremely negative with no positive activation. The white female gangster (Figure 7) shows a medium-strong positive evaluation that endures substantially longer (six cycles) than the positive evaluation for the white male gangster (about one cycle). While there is a small bump of negative

activation at the ninth cycle, the negative spike does not appear until the 17th cycle. After the 17th cycle, positive activation declines rapidly and negative activation ascends quickly for an extremely negative final evaluation with no positive activation. For both female examples, the initial evaluations based on basic cues are overridden by later higher-level semantic processing. DISCUSSION

My model successfully supports the theoretical IR model framework and demonstrates the modelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s advantages over the traditional understanding of evaluation by demonstrating continuous evaluation modification over time. The traditional understanding of evaluation is based on dual-process models that propose two distinct evaluation systems, an implicit and an explicit system. The implicit system is an immediate and automatic unconscious evaluation of a stimulus. For example, the immediate feeling of fear when you unexpectedly encounter a snake is attributed to this system. The explicit system is distinct from the implicit system. It is an effortful and controlled conscious processing of a stimulus. It would be your mental dialogue that recognizes that the snake is a harmless garter snake and poses no threat to you. This dual-attitudes model proposes that each system results in an independent evaluation of the stimulus (Greenwald et al., 1995; Greenwald et al., 2002; Wilson, Lindsey, & Schooler, 2000). For most individuals, the implicit attitude is ignored or given little consideration in favor of the explicit attitude (Baumeister & Bushman, 2008). The results of the IR model provide an alternative understanding of evaluation that proposes a single evaluation processing circuit that integrates across multiple neural systems to produce evaluations that evolve over time. Evaluations are constructed from the input of multiple semantic systems that are likely determined by a large set of factors such as context, priming, emotion, and/or goals specific to the evaluation situation. Each individual presented to the network was initially and quickly evaluated based on stereotypical racial and sexual stereotypes as evidenced in Figures 2-7. Further iterations that recruited higher-level semantic layers as represented by the context, profession,

and attribute layers then influenced the evaluations for the individual presented to the network. For example, the white male doctor (Figure 3) and black male gang member (Figure 4) recruited further attributes that were supportive of the network’s stereotype, so further iterations over time only strengthened the model’s initial evaluations. However, both the black male doctor (Figure 2) and white male gang member (Figure 5) activate contradictory characteristics to the network’s stereotypes. When these later iterations activate contradictory characteristics at cycle 12, the evaluations evolve in a drastic manner. In the case of the black male doctor and the context of a hospital, recognition of “doctor” as the individual’s profession and activation of attributes such as intelligent and caring result in an increase in positive activation and a decrease in negative activation that overrides the network’s initial evaluation for an opposite final evaluation. The same pattern holds for the white male gang member, just working in the opposite direction. The network immediately recognizes the white individual and begins to positively evaluate him. However, later iterations bring about the recognition that this individual is on a street corner, in gang clothes, and is unintelligent and violent. The high-order semantic layers representing these characteristics begin to influence the evaluation resulting in a final, extremely negative evaluation with no remaining positive activation. Essentially, the model is demonstrating an initial stereotypical evaluation of the individual. But these stereotypical evaluations are overridden by the activation of higher-level semantic layers that provide contradictory information influential enough to completely reverse initial evaluations. Similar, but more nuanced results were found for females. While the model was trained with a racist evaluation for black females, this stereotype was not as strongly negative as black males. Additionally, white females were slightly more positive than white males in the initial training. Figure 6 shows the effect this slightly less negative black female stereotype had on evaluation where a small, but significant, positive peak in activation is observed slightly before the strong negative activation appears. The model also takes more iterations to determine these evaluations as compared to the black make gangster reflecting the higher degree of conflicting information the model needed to

process before beginning its evaluations. The white female gangster has a much more pronounced and enduring positive activation than the white male gangster. Again, this is the result of a more positive stereotype for white women. As with the black female gangster, the model needs more iterations to resolve the conflicting information it is receiving to arrive at a final evaluation. These patterns of evaluation account for commonly observed and experienced evaluation processes attributed to an implicit and explicit system. However, the IR model demonstrates that we do not need to postulate that we are experiencing two independent attitudes, but instead a single evaluation that quickly evolves over time as additional neural systems are activated. This furthers our understanding of the underlying mechanisms by shifting our attention away from distinct implicit and explicit systems and focusing it on the difference between early and later iterative processing. Early processing results in quick and automatic evaluations while later iterations recruit a dynamic interaction between several bottom-up and top-down processes that allow attitudes to be established in accordance with current contexts and goals. This evolution of evaluations elucidates important implications in our understanding of evaluation processes and the nature and establishment of attitudes. This has significant implications for the stability of attitudes and for the issue of whether attitudes are stored or constructed. The IR model suggests that attitudes are stored in a given set of weights, that when activated, combine to create an evaluation. My model demonstrates that stable attitudes are stored in the connection weights for specific concepts, and it is the combination of these various weights that construct the evaluation. Thus, in this model the attitude can be viewed as stable, whereas the specific evaluation of a stimulus in context is constructed. An additional implication is that the number of attitudes a person can hold is large, if not infinite, as evaluations are constructed based on the extent of evaluation processing and available cues. Further, my model allows one to naturally capture situations in which an evaluation of an individual can change dramatically over time, as I demonstrated with the example of a black male

doctor. In this specific case, the model is showing how a stereotype may function, and more importantly, how it can be overridden by further processing. CONCLUSION

The neural network presented provides support for the theoretical IR model. Instead of assuming two independent evaluations arising from two distinct systems (i.e. implicit and explicit), my model demonstrates that the underlying processes for a single evaluation system can capture the interaction of initial processing and reflective processing in the determination of social evaluations. It further explains how an individual engaging in reflective processing can formulate complex, nuanced, and possibly conflicting evaluations of a stimulus. These insights into the mechanisms of human evaluation have significant implications for our understanding of how attitudes are stored, constructed, and changed, affecting how we approach many social and cognitive phenomena.

OVERRIDING RACIAL STEREOTYPES 18

Table 1: Second stage training frequencies. Individual

Presentations per epoch

Individual

Presentations per epoch

White male doctor

White female athlete

Black male doctor

Black female athlete

White female doctor

White male gang member

Black female doctor

Black male gang member

White male businessman

White female gang member

Black male businessman

Black female gang member

White female businesswoman

White male

Black female businesswoman

Black male

White male athlete

White female

Black male athlete

Black female

TABLE 1: Second stage training frequencies.

OVERRIDING RACIAL STEREOTYPES

Table 2: Trained features. Profession

Input

Context

Attributes

Doctor

Lab coat, tie, dress shoes, patient, bed, nurse station, receptionist Tie, dress shoes, suit jacket, receptionist, cubicles

Professional clothing, hospital

Caring, popular, rich, intelligent

Professional clothing, office building

Rich, greedy, intelligent

Athlete

Sweatpants, street signs, cars

Street corner, athletic clothing

Athletic, popular, rich

Gang Member

Gang colors, sweatpants, tattoos, street signs, cars

Street corner, gang clothing

Violent, unintelligent

Businessperson

TABLE 2: Trained features.

OVERRIDING RACIAL STEREOTYPES

Figure 1: Network structure with nodes and connections.

FIGURE 1: Network structure with nodes and connections.

OVERRIDING RACIAL STEREOTYPES

Figure 2: Black male doctor evaluation.

FIGURE 2: Black male doctor evaluation.

OVERRIDING RACIAL STEREOTYPES

Figure 3: White male doctor evaluation.

FIGURE 3: White male doctor evaluation.

OVERRIDING RACIAL STEREOTYPES

FIGURE 4: Black gangster evaluation. Figure 4:male Black male gangster

evaluation.

OVERRIDING RACIAL STEREOTYPES

Figure 5: White male gangster evaluation.

FIGURE 5: White male gangster evaluation.

OVERRIDING RACIAL STEREOTYPES

Figure Black female gangster FIGURE 6: Black6: female gangster evaluation.

evaluation.

OVERRIDING RACIAL STEREOTYPES

7: White female gangster FIGUREFigure 7: White female gangster evaluation.

evaluation.

REFERENCES Aisa, B., Mingus, B., & Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Reilly, R. (2008). The Emergent neural modeling system.

Neural Networks, 21(8), 1146-1152.

Baumeister, R. F. & Bushman, B. J. (2008). Social psychology and human nature.

United States: Thomson Wadsworth.

Cacioppo, J. T., Gardner, W. L., & Berntson, G. G. (1997). Beyond bipolar

conceptualizations and measures: The case of attitudes and evaluative space.

Personality and Social Psychology Review, 1(1), 3-25.

Cunningham, W. A. & Zelazo P. D. (2007). Attitudes and evaluations: A social cognitive

neuroscience perspective. TRENDS in Cognitive Sciences, 11, 97-104.

Cunningham, W. A., Zelazo, P., Packer, D. J., & Van Bavel, J. J. (2007). The iterative

reprocessing model: A multilevel framework for attitudes and evaluation.

Social Cognition, 25(5), 736-760.

Greenwald, A.G. & Banaji, M.R. (1995). Implicit social cognition: Attitudes, self-esteem,

and stereotypes. Psychology Review, 102, 4-27.

Greenwald, A. G., Banaji, M. R., Rudman, L. A., Farnham, S. D., Nosek, B. A., & Mellott, D.

S. (2002). A unified theory of implicit attitudes, stereotypes, self-esteem, and

self-concept. Psychological Review, 109(1), 3-25. Ito, T. A., & Urland, G. R. (2005). The influence of processing objectives on the perception

of faces: An ERP study of race and gender perception. Cognitive, Affective &

Behavioral Neuroscience, 5(1), 21-36.

Wilson, T. D., Lindsey, S., & Schooler, T. Y. (2000). A model of dual attitudes. Psychology Review, 107, 101-126.

Rockets of Babel:

War and Technology in Gravityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Rainbow MARC KOHLBRY Department of Comparative Literature Associate Professor Michael Du Plessis

1. FICTIONS 1.1 Choosing a Lens

The text is a technology.1 Gravity’s Rainbow’s reputation precedes it. Since its publication in 1973, critics

have considered Thomas Pynchon’s epic alongside James Joyce’s Ulysses, some even heralding the text as “the most profound and accomplished American novel since the end of World War II” (The New Republic). These comparisons and praise are rooted in Gravity’s Rainbow’s encyclopedic nature, as Pynchon’s extensive research is evident

from any critical angle. This density is most apparent in Pynchon’s prose and in the novel’s intertexts. Pynchon’s prose is dizzying—Gravity’s Rainbow is loaded with free indirect discourse, imaginary words, complex sentence structures, and a surreal treatment of word order. In addition to the somersaults that Pynchon conducts with his prose, the novel’s intertexts bear testament to a vast amount of research conducted on Pynchon’s behalf. The intertexts that Pynchon embeds in Gravity’s Rainbow are astounding in their scope—Pynchon seems to deal with a limitless number of paradigms: historical, scientific, metaphysical, philosophical, ad infinitum. But a technology? In our epoch, technology is defined by speed, as arguably, all technological progress is a movement towards a greater velocity. However, when one juxtaposes Pynchon’s text with this ever-quickening rate of technology, Gravity’s Rainbow provides an alternative to speed. Consider how the text comes to us: Pynchon provides the reader with an overload of information at an incredible tempo, but the actual act of reading Gravity’s Rainbow remains exceptionally slow. Perhaps Pynchon is calling on his readers to mind the speed of what is being read, as if any increase in the barrage of information we are receiving would plunge the novel in chaos and unreadability. Where, then, can we begin to make sense of Pynchon’s world? Among the vast amount of information in Gravity’s Rainbow, it is simple to see that the text is framed by war. The narrative takes place during the end and aftermath of World War II, yet Pynchon

does not confine himself to this period. Written roughly thirty years after the end of the war, Gravity’s Rainbow is anything but a mere exposition of the historical events surrounding World War II—it is a genealogy of our present. Michel Foucault has contended that everything within our present can be understood as a reflection of power and power relations. Further, he asks, “Shouldn’t one therefore conceive all problems of power in terms of relations of war?” (Foucault 123). Consequently, in order to understand power relations, we must analyze them in their most overt manifestation: war. But what is war in the present? As Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri state on the first page of Multitude, the world is again at war, or rather, it is still at war. War, however, has changed over time—its present is strikingly different from its past. During and before World War II, for example, war was limited to conflict between nation-states, and kept external to societies as a limited state of exception. Today, war has become “a general phenomenon, global and interminable,” supported by (weapons/communication) technology and “a regime of biopower, that is a form of rule aimed not only at controlling the population but producing and reproducing all aspects of life” (Multitude 3, 13). As a work of fiction, Gravity’s Rainbow is an unlikely candidate in helping us come to terms with our epoch’s state of war/power. Further, Pynchon wrote Gravity’s Rainbow nearly forty years ago while living in Manhattan Beach, Los Angeles; however, the text’s temporal distancing from World War II and from the present works both in the text’s favor and in our own, for in an epoch where technology and progress are defined by speed, Gravity’s Rainbow provides us with a means of (slowly) making sense of the world around us. 1.2 Charting a Constellation

The context of Gravity’s Rainbow is relevant, as it deals with a period that “[reorganized] international relations, [decolonized] the colonies, and [laid] the groundwork for the emergence of a new economic world system” (Jameson xx). The intertexts in Gravity’s Rainbow establish a deeper relationship with the history of this new world system. These

intertexts also exist alongside a large amount of metafictional elements, a combination that establishes Gravity’s Rainbow as a work of historiographic metafiction. Linda Hutcheon has detailed the genre—historiographic metafiction consists of two key mechanisms: metafiction and intertextuality. While postmodernism has tended to be “characterized by intense self-reflexivity and overtly parodic intertextuality,” historiographic metafiction also enjoys “an equally self-conscious dimension of history” (Hutcheon 3). While this enables postmodern fiction to identify itself as fiction (metafiction), intertextuality provides a means by which a text can “[open] itself up to history, to what Edward Said calls a ‘world’” (Hutcheon 4). These intertexts can be literary, historical, psychoanalytical, sociological, theoretical, philosophical, filmic, etc. Authors such as Pynchon deliberately exploit intertextuality, but also use metafiction to establish a “world” in which the text is positioned as a world of discourse (a world that has “direct links to the world of empirical reality, but is not itself that empirical reality”) (Hutcheon 6). Gravity’s Rainbow is indeed a work of historiographic metafiction. Pynchon uses

the mechanisms of the genre to first establish a mobile historical framework (an intertextual “setting” of sorts), which would be impossible to create outside of a fictional setting. Second, Pynchon uses the tools that Hutcheon has attributed to the genre in order to create a bridge that not only historicizes his text, but that also textualizes both history and the present. This textualization of history creates a genealogy of the contemporary. The relationship between Gravity’s Rainbow and history is paramount; Pynchon is the author of two separate texts: the text of Gravity’s Rainbow, and a text of history/the present. In order to gain access both of these texts simultaneously, one must focus on the figures in the text as well as the intertextual connections that these figures create between the two aforementioned texts.2 These figures are not limited to simple or traditional characters—they also exist as corporations and technologies. The forthcoming choice of figures is not absolute; rather, each figure is a point in a constellation. The

united lines that astrology attributes to constellations do not actually exist in the night sky—they are interpretations. Consider this constellation of figures in the same way: IG Farben, Enzian, Tchitcherine, Slothrop, and the Rocket.3 When we concentrate on the density of Gravity’s Rainbow, the relevance of these figures is apparent, as these figures can be accessed by dividing the text into two layers. The first layer is the prose of Pynchon’s text: the narrative, description, word play, etc. The prose found in Gravity’s Rainbow gives way to the novel’s intertexts, which comprise the second layer of the text. This layer not only complicates Pynchon’s text, but also, it provides a series of historical connections that allow us to understand our state of global war. The first figure, IG Farben, is a gateway to our present. The corporation of IG Farben, which exists both in Pynchon’s text and in our own world, illustrates a global order that has been identified by Michal Hardt and Antonio Negri as “Empire.”4 The intertexts in Gravity’s Rainbow are not limited to Empire, and the individual/ human’s positioning in relationship to this global order is presented through three separate figures: Enzian, Tchitcherine, and Slothrop. These figures could be considered “characters” in the text, but what exactly is a character? According to Andrew Bennett and Nicholas Royle in Introduction to Literature, Criticism and Theory, “character means both a letter or sign, a mark of writing, and the

‘essential’ qualities of a ‘person’” (Bennett and Royle 63). Further, “from the Greek word kharatein, to engrave, the word becomes a mark or sign, a person’s title and hence a distinguishing mark—that which distinguishes one person from another” (Bennett and Royle 63). Before his/her appearance or actions, a character’s name distinguishes them from other characters. With the figure of Enzian, who in the text becomes nothing but a name, we can analyze how names exist in both the text and, through its intertexts, in Empire (Pynchon 326). Bennett and Royle also describe a “fundamental dualism of inside (mind, soul or self) and outside (body, face, and other

external features)” that are essential to character, and in the figures of Tchitcherine and Slothrop, the external and internal aspects of this dualism can be explicated. Each of these figures present similar paradoxes, not only as “characters,” but also in and through their intertexts. While the figures vary in their contents/intertexts, they can collectively be united by the figure of the Rocket. 2. WARS 2.1 Hindsights

Before we approach this constellation of figures, we must first define war. War has changed over time—its present is vastly different from its past. War has traditionally been distinguished as armed conflict between nation-states. Examples of this definition are plentiful, the two World Wars of the 20th century among them. During these wars, “only the sovereign authority—that is, the monarch or the state—could wage war and only against another sovereign power” (Multitude 6). Politically, war was “expelled from the internal national social field and reserved only for external conflicts between states” (Multitude 6). In this, a strict internal/external sociopolitical binary was preserved—war was the exception, and peace the norm. War was isolated and controlled, and restricted to external disputes between sovereign entities so that politics internal to society would remain disconnected from it (war). In this way, “war was a limited state of exception” (Multitude 6).5 These states of exception, such as World War I and II, were always between concrete bodies. The idea of the body here is twofold: war was at once waged between sovereign political bodies (Allies/Axis, US/Japan, etc.), as well as between the corporeal bodies of soldiers and civilians. Bodies were an integral part of war. These external states of exception between (sovereign) bodies had to be legitimated, or rather, the violence that came as a result of war had to be legitimated. More specifically, “old international law was based on the recognition of national sovereignty and the

rights of peoples” (Multitude 28). In the past, the legitimacy for war and violence was based on a framework related to moral and ethical rallying points.6 Despite its being external to political and social structures, war had a beginning and an end, and this end was defined by the fulfillment of moral and strategic goals. 2.2 Present’s War

War has grown out of its old definition, and has proliferated in such a way that it is no longer a limited state of external exception between bodies. While war used to be traceable, readable, and understandable, it is now a global phenomenon that is no longer restricted to nation-states. It has penetrated the guarded space once internal to society, and instead of being conducted between concrete bodies, war is now conducted between ghost-like entities—ghost-bodies and ghost-states. There is no “end” to war, for violence is now legitimated based on results. War is now total, and is supported and perpetuated by technology (speed) and biopower. War has proliferated, and now exists on global scale. In its traditional model, war was external to states and governed by international law (Multitude 3). Today, there are numerous conflicts worldwide, but these conflicts are not wars in the traditional sense of the word. Rather, they are civil wars, armed conflicts between “sovereign and/or nonsovereign combatants within a single sovereign territory” (Multitude 3). This comes as a result of globalization, which has slowly been turning the entire globe into a single sovereign territory.7 Since roughly the 1980s, governments and corporations have been turning towards globalization as a means of increasing their fiscal net worth. This has been accomplished through a variety of methods (such as the deregulation of the global market) and ultimately has led to a reestablishment of class divides (Harvey 15). The deregulation of the market has slowly dissolved the power that the nation-state once held, ultimately leaving this power in the hands of corporations, or, from a Marxist perspective, in the hands of those who control the means of production—“the nationstate is no longer the primary instance of the reproduction of global capital” (Readings 12).

What has replaced the conglomerate of nation-states is not, however, a single megacorporation. What, then, is the central authority that generates a world order? The mechanisms of globalization are a “source of juridical definition that [tend] to project a single supranational figure of political power” (Empire 9). Therefore, what we are witnessing on a legal level is the transition from “traditional international law, which was defined by contracts and treaties, to a definition and constitution of a new sovereign, supranational power” (Empire 10). This center, or to follow Hardt and Negri’s terminology, Empire, has conceived of “a new notion of right, or rather, a new inscription of authority and a new design of the production of norms and legal instruments of coercion that guarantee contracts and resolve conflicts” (Empire 9). This new conception of right must present itself as being at the service of justice and peace.8 In this way, Empire “is emerging today as the center that supports the globalization of productive networks and casts its widely inclusive net to try to envelop all power relation within its world order—and yet at the same time it deploys a powerful police function against [all] who threaten its order” (Empire 20). The police action exercised by Empire is a part of global civil war. When war existed between nation-states, each war was a movement towards the end of all war. Within Empire, there is no such thing. “Instead of moving forward to peace…we seem to have been catapulted back in time into the nightmare of a perpetual and indeterminate state of war, suspending the international rule of law, with no clear distinction between the maintenance of peace and acts of war,” and consequently, “the state of exception has become permanent and general” (Multitude 7).

This permanent state of exception, which is perpetuated by global police action, requires weapons. For production to occur, Empire must turn on its own populations “on the one hand to exact the funds necessary for [war], the infinite development of their weaponry, and on the other, to control society” (Pure War 107). The first of these goals can be accomplished through capitalism. The second can be accomplished through what Paul Virilio has considered endocolonization. Populations must be pacified via the lures of

capitalism in order to prove useful instruments of Empire. Endocolonization therefore conceptually and practically combines war and police activity, while at the time allowing for the legitimization of violence against an abstract and unlimited enemy. These enemies are the enemies of Empire, for “commerce comes after the arrival of war in a place, the state of siege” (Pure War 21). War is therefore a constant reality; “the situation is no longer very clear between the civil and the military because of the total involvement of the economy in war—already beginning in peacetime” (Pure War 25). 2.2.1 Means: Technology & Biopower

There are two central tools that Empire uses in order to sustain itself: technology and biopower. In 1977 already, Virilio stated that “history progresses at the speed of its weapons systems” (Speed and Politics 90). This is only half of the story, for “modern warfare and modern industry [have] developed hand in hand” (Multitude 39). Therefore, history has developed and progressed alongside modern military industry. This development/progression has been in the direction of the virtual/cyber/digital; today’s economic landscape is dominated by the virtual, and indeed, “cyber is the new continent” (The Information Bomb 27). In this, globalization has succeeded in bringing about the end of space—physically, there is nowhere left to expand (The Information Bomb 7). Rather, Empire must internally and virtually dominate its populations

(endocolonization). It is no surprise, then, that military control and organization is exercised through communications and information technologies, nor that warfare itself has become digital, with an increasing number of weapons contracts being awarded to corporations for the production of drones.9 Perhaps in the future, no human bodies will exist on the battlefield. With the increasing use of technology to conduct war on the battlefield, how are the masses regulated? For the first time in history, the weapons of the digital age have made mass and global destruction possible. Nevertheless, Empire cannot exist without human beings. Just as “sovereign power lives only by preserving the life of its subject… global war must not only bring death but also produce and regulate life” (Multitude

20). Biopower, “a form of power that regulates social life from its interior, following it, interpreting it, absorbing it, and rearticulating it,” is thereby an “active mechanism that constantly creates and reinforces the present global order” (Empire 24, Multitude 21). “What is directly at stake in [biopower] is the production and reproduction of life itself” (Empire 24). An example of biopower is the notion of security, which requires “rather actively and constantly shaping the environment through military and/or police activity” (Multitude 20). Biopower is therefore the means by which war is turned into a permanent social relation and a universal social condition. War, this constant global state that is sustained through technology and biopower, is the central feature in Gravity’s Rainbow. The figures of IG Farben, Enzian, Tchitcherine, Slothrop and the Rocket illustrate both the transition to and the current state of global war. 3. FIGURES 3.1 Der Verbindungsmann

By charting a constellation of figures within Gravity’s Rainbow, we can unearth the genealogy of our current state of war. IG Farben is the first figure in this formation. This recurring and enigmatic figure exists in Pynchon’s text, but the figure also has unavoidable parallels with history: IG Farben is real. In the text, the figure of IG Farben is complicated, and oddly, it is partially treated as a traditional character. The corporation claims the dualism that Bennett and Royle describe as fundamental to character: the dualism of inside and outside. The metafictional qualities that arise as a result of the characterization of this corporation stress the figure’s (textual) paradoxes.10 However, these paradoxes are not merely textual. There exists an intertextual strand that links Pynchon’s IG Farben to the historical IG Farben, and each IG Farben shares a common paradox. Further, this strand also converts the textual IG Farben into a metaphor, which in turn illustrates the existence of Empire. Before engaging the IG Farben of history, it is first necessary to understand what IG Farben is and represents in Gravity’s Rainbow. Throughout the text, the protagonist,

Slothrop, is haunted by the notion that his past and present are being guided by IG Farben, a corporation that created the plastic/compound Imipolex G.11 This corporation and its product seem to have a connection with Slothrop’s rocket-inducing (or induced) erections, and as the plot moves forward, Slothrop becomes convinced that IG Farben is the chief enigma behind his entire existence. In this way, the figure of IG Farben indeed enigmatic, but is it a character? In 1886, the Supreme Court case Santa Clara County v. Southern Pacific Railroad Company established a precedent in giving protection to corporations under the 14th

Amendment. Other similar cases have also given legal personality to corporations. These cases/acts have collectively given corporations leverage in the global market, but more importantly, the legal standing of corporations (as persons) allows us to understand the corporation as an individual. But can the corporation also be a fictional character? In Gravity’s Rainbow, IG Farben is a character—a “complex but unified whole” (Bennett

& Royle 64). The dualism that is inherent in traditional characters is complicated by the figure of IG Farben—externally, IG Farben is an aggregate of other individuals and corporations. While it may seem externally disparate, as the text progresses IG Farben coheres in a singular/proper noun and a slippery pronoun. These textual instances present a paradox—does the figure/character of IG Farben exist in the text at all? 3.1.1 The Character of IG Farben

When IG Farben appears in the text, a barrage of other names, acronyms and companies (both subsidiaries and affiliates) surrounds it. These other names complicate IG Farben, and even though characters usually serve as markers for singular entities, this addition of names creates a confusion of signs. How, then, can we approach the figure of IG Farben? Let us begin by examining what is textually “external” about IG Farben. In the text, there are elements that give IG Farben recognizable “faces.” Among these faces are individuals such as Generaldirektor Smaragd. Smaragd is not only a Nazi, but also the director of an undisclosed branch of IG Farben (Pynchon 166). Although Smaragd is a minor character

in the text, his presence is noteworthy, for it is completely dependent on IG Farben—he is introduced in the text, first by name, then as being “of IG” (Pynchon 166). For the rest of his time in the text, Smaragd does not speak unless there is a connection between the dialogue and IG Farben (Pynchon 167). In this way, Smaragd is a personality or mode of IG Farben rather than an actual character. Another example of IG Farben’s ability to create and command characters/personas is Wimpe, who serves in many ways as a mouthpiece for the workings of the corporation. A more concrete character than Smaragd, Wimpe is not only a head salesman for a subsidiary of IG Farben, but also, he is a German spy (Pynchon 349). Wimpe embodies a true “Verbindungsmann,” or a liaison/linkman: his charm and classic looks are evidence of mental and physical “terraces of strength”; he is the physical manifestation of IG Farben—stoic, unblemished, and enigmatic (Pynchon 349). We know very little about Wimpe’s character aside from his revealing descriptions of the inner workings of IG Farben and its subsidiaries. Consequently, the only knowledge we have about Wimpe is intimately connected with IG Farben, a relationship that is reminiscent of Smaragd and the corporation. The figure of IG Farben dominates Wimpe in the same way that it does Smaragd, and IG Farben is even able to dispatch the character/figure of Wimpe: “[When] Wimpe was reassigned to the United States (Chemnyco of New York),” the reader’s relationship with him “[ceases] then, forever” (Pynchon 354). Other examples of IG Farben’s dominance in the text abound. IG Farben, for example, also guides the scientist Franz Pökler and the psychologist Laslo Jamf through the text. Both of these characters/figures would not exist without IG Farben. The corporation is not only their employer, but it is also their only means of existence. Like Smaragd and Wimpe, Pökler and Jamf are agents of IG Farben—they are all mere limbs on a central body. In addition to these characters/figures whose existence is dependent on IG Farben, and who are in turn part of its persona, there are also products that provide an external connection to the corporation. These products are inseparable from IG Farben. The first

mention of IG Farben, in fact, is linked to its product “Kryptoplasm” (Pynchon 73). Other important products, such as Imipolex G, enable IG Farben to work its way into the narrative. Slothrop’s connection with Imipolex G establishes IG Farben as an integral part of the narrative, and at the same time illustrates IG Farben’s reliance on its own products for its continued existence in the text. While characters/figures/agents move in and out of the text, the products stay constant. The people of IG Farben are disposable; its production is not. If the collection of names, personalities, modes, and faces of IG Farben are held together by its products, what can be said of IG Farben’s internal structure? Does this figure have a consciousness as a character would have? Consciousness, the state of being awake/ aware of one’s surroundings, is the characteristic of singular entities. In the same way that the human body with all of its organs, muscles and bones is “contained” by the thin membrane of skin, IG Farben is made singular by its production—its products serve as the only stable feature of the figure. IG Farben is the multiple, but it is paradoxically the singular as well. There are two key instances in which IG Farben is seen as a singular entity within the text. These are not narrative events, but techniques used by Pynchon. Pynchon alters his usage of the name “IG Farben” throughout the text. When the name IG Farben first appears in the ad for Kryptoplasm, the name is situated as a proper noun that designates IG Farben’s identity as a corporation. Further on, as names are increasingly associated with IG Farben (Smaragd, Wimpe, Pökler, Jamf), the name changes shape, and at times, the shorthand of simply “IG” is used. During Wimpe’s conversation with Tchitcherine, IG Farben is referred to as “the IG” (Pynchon 353-356). IG Farben is no longer a simple corporation, it is the corporation—it absorbs and stands in for other corporations and subsidiaries (Agfa, OKW, etc.). The IG eventually has no need for a name, and is finally understood as “them” or “they.” This plural, yet singular, pronoun effectively swallows the characters associated with the corporation as well. At first, the pronouns “them” or “they” are blankly ambiguous, but

even as the number of other characters and corporations multiply within IG Farben’s body, the name remains in ambiguity. In this way, IG Farben is seemingly omnipresent—a globalized specter that haunts the paranoid delusions of figures such as Slothrop. This is a paradox, because as the amount of affiliations and agents that IG Farben multiplies, the figure becomes oddly more elusive. The figures associated with IG Farben are unstable within the text—entire exchanges between IG Farben’s agents and other figures might or might not have occurred (Pynchon 350, 354). The multiple components of IG Farben are as shifting as its singularity—the megacorporation that is embodied in the pronouns “them” or “they” is also in flux, and is never confirmed to actually exist in the text (Pynchon 533). Character or corporation, singular or multiple, IG Farben both exists and does not exist in Gravity’s Rainbow. The metafictional techniques that Pynchon uses to (de)construct IG Farben draw unavoidable attention to the text’s fictional qualities, for how can IG exist and not exist at the same time? The figure of IG Farben is elusive in the text—we are unable to read its “lines of flight,” yet the figure’s metafictional qualities situate it as textual. Further, if the past really does exits, but “we can only ‘know’ that past today through its texts,” therein lies the connection between the literary IG Farben and the IG Farben of reality (Hutcheon 10). The text creates a “world” that “has direct links to the world of empirical reality” (Hutcheon 6). These links are available through the historical intertexts that are connected with IG Farben, and additionally, said intertexts enable both worlds, that of the literary IG Farben as well as the “real” IG Farben, to be understood as symptoms of the historical decay brought about by globalization after World War II. It with this figure that we can begin to see the genealogy of the present offered to us by Pynchon. 3.1.2 The Empire of IG Farben

IG Farben is real. To date, IG Farben is the largest chemical corporation in the world, and by World War II, it had operations throughout the world. In 1943, IG Farben had 334

plants and mines across Nazi Germany and Europe alone (Taussig 217). During World War II, the corporation provided death camps (such as the Auschwitz Camp IV) with methanol that was used to burn corpses (Taussig 219). One of IG Farben’s crowning moments came with the invention of the chemical Zyklon B, the inventors of which received Nobel Prize. Horrifyingly, during World War II, this feat in science replaced carbon monoxide as the primary method of killing Jews (Taussig 223). Despite these weighted facts, by the end of World War II IG Farben’s products were in nearly every American home, as they were a primary manufacturer of dyes, plastics and textiles (Taussig 218). Further, the directors/heads of IG Farben directors pardoned by five U.S. judges who were not only fearful of “the Soviet advance,” but also desperate to conserve the limitless products that IG Farben had introduced (Taussig 218). After World War II, if IG Farben had not made a household’s bathroom fixtures, shaving mugs, or razors, their products could surely be found among stockings, make-up, or even Easter hats (Taussig 218). More than its products, what is most interesting about IG Farben is the history of its name. After World War II, the name IG Farben was dissolved, but the company remained intact: Too potent a symbol of the marriage of business and chemistry with the Third Reich, the name was erased after World War II and Farben underwent a clumsy change of outward identity, breaking up into its constituent pieces. Amazingly, the old guard was found largely innocent of running Farben’s slave-labor camps—let us call them by their real name, extermination camps—and were soon reinstalled in management positions in the chemical

industry, as happened with Nazi rocket scientists taken to the U.S. to continue their work there so that the U.S. could continue to defend democracy. (Taussig 218)

Like the character/figure of IG Farben in Pynchon’s text, the real IG Farben also silently proliferated. After World War II, both in the text and in reality, the corporation vanished but was still present, ceased to be while continuing to exist. Are “they” following Slothrop? Did “they” make your toothbrush? IG Farben is not a simple corporation in history or in the text. In the same way that IG Farben proliferated into 20th century life, the figure of IG Farben exists throughout the text of Gravity’s Rainbow. The figure is sustained by its production of Imipolex G, just as the IG Farben of World War II sustained itself through products such as Zyklon B. While the historical IG Farben is elusive, and seemingly undetectable now in our epoch, consider the textual IG Farben. Although it is elusive, it serves as a centralizing figure for the rest of the text. IG Farben is the result of the processes of globalization, and further, “a source of juridical definitions that [project] a single supranational figure of political power” (Empire 9). The textual IG Farben is justified in itself, and as we will see, the more human character/figures in the text push forward “the process of integration and by the same measure call for more central authority” (Empire 14). While the textual IG Farben is difficult to track beyond the points we have considered, there are further traces of it, of Empire, in the conception of “character” in Gravity’s Rainbow. In the figures of Enzian, Tchitcherine, and Slothrop, we will see the textual

and intertextual effects of Empire on the name, as well as on the external and internal features of character/human beings. 3.2 Enzian’s Name

The War, the Empire, will expedite such barriers between our lives. The War needs to divide this way, and to be subdivided, through its propaganda will always stress unity, alliance, pulling together. (Pynchon 133) What becomes of humans during times of war, both in the text and outside of it? Is there a pattern in the convergence between IG Farben (both the textual and the historical

figures), Empire, and actual human beings? Are all human beings mere agents of IG Farben/Empire? In order to approach these questions, we must reconsider the dualism that was explored in the previous section, as well as the role that the name plays in this dualism. What is the function of a name? Indeed, before we have access to the dualism that tends to be available in traditional characters (and in human beings themselves), we first have access to the name. Names come before a figure’s development; in most cultures, names are typically given before a human is even born. Similarly, in texts, names give us the first glimpse into characters/figures, as they are inscribed with meaning before there are transformed by the experiences and actions of their bearers. Throughout Gravity’s Rainbow, Pynchon plays heavily on the names of his figures. Many of the names in the text are puns, jokes, and idiosyncratic in nature. In his companion to Pynchon’s text, Steven Weisenburger traces the sometimes dizzying depth of these names. In fact, for Weisenburger, it would seem that every name in Pynchon’s text is an opportunity for exegesis. It is important to analyze names that are not shaped by IG Farben, for as we have seen, these names/characters/figures are eventually reduced to mere agents. How are other names/figures connected to IG Farben, and what sort of intertextual connections can be extended towards an understanding of Empire? The name of the figure of Enzian is an exceptional starting point in such an analysis, for if one cannot be an “I” without having a proper name, then it is advantageous to choose a figure that is nothing but a name. Enzian is a location in which we can view not only Pynchon’s metafictional treatment of names, but also, one in which we can begin to understand the intertextual dynamic that exists between individuals and Empire. Before turning to the historical intertexts that the name Enzian produces, we must establish his place in the text. While on assignment in South Africa, the German Lieutenant Weissmann met and developed a relationship with Enzian, and during this time, “gave his African boy the name ‘Enzian’, after Rilke’s mountainside gentian” (Pynchon 103). This literary intertext refers to Rilke’s ninth elegy, and if we consider the poem, Enzian can

be understood as a “pure word” that has been “won” by a “wanderer” (Weisenburger 82). Weissmann has brought Enzian, not a “yellow and blue gentian,” but a mere word, from “the mountain slope” to the valley of “untellable earth” (Weisenburger 82). Just as the wanderer does not know the word he returns with, Weissmann’s Enzian is empty— Weissmann has translated Enzian (bringing him from the mountain to the valley), and effaced his former identity as a Herero in favor of a new, colonized one. Enzian realizes the violence that has been committed against him, but when he remarks that the name “Enzian” is strange in relationship to the color of his own skin, Weissmann tells him that even though he is black, in Germany he “would be yellow and blue” (Pynchon 103).12 Ironically, for the majority of the text, Enzian does find himself in Germany. He is the leader of the Schwarzkommando, a group of Hereros who roam the post-war Zone.13 Like Enzian, these “Zone-Hereros” are “Europeanized in language and thought, [and] split off from the old tribal unity” (Pynchon 322). As their leader, Enzian “knows that he is being used for his name” (Pynchon 326). “Everything has flowed away but the name,” and it has become a “sound for chanting,” despite the fact that “he has been so unable to touch, so neutral for so long” (Pynchon 326). The figure leads, but leads and exists without content—he is only a name, a hollow shell.14 Why is it that Enzian is without content? Throughout the text, Enzian has a doppelgänger in the figure of Tchitcherine. The reader is informed that Tchitcherine and Enzian share the same mother, and that Tchitcherine has gone to great lengths to track down and destroy Enzian. In his obsession with carrying out this task, Tchitcherine has assembled a dossier on Enzian. This dossier was “reproduced by some eager apparatchik and stashed in Tchitcherine’s own dossier… and so it transpired, no more than a month or two later, that somebody equally anonymous had cut Tchitcherine’s orders” (Pynchon 356). The confusion of the two figures illustrates Enzian’s inability to stay contained even within his own name—his name is attributed to others like Tchitcherine, and is worn like a mask by their identities. Tchitcherine also thinks of Enzian as “another part of him,” which further blurs the two figures. This blurring

is metafictional, in that it complicates the traditional textualization of character by drawing attention to the fictional construct of “character.” Unable to treat the figure of Enzian as a singular entity, the reader may turn to the actual name, “Enzian.” The Enzian was a surface to air missile utilized by Germany during World War II. The weapon was first launched in August of 1944, and over sixty were produced. All of the rockets models, from the final production model, the E-4, to the test E-1, E-2, and E-3 models, are all discussed using one name —“Enzian.” The rocket’s evolution is contained in its name. The Enzian was unable to take off on its own, and required four assisted take-off units to deliver thrust (Enzian E-4 Surface To Air Missile). The missile would be launched towards “the target vicinity under radio control using German equipment Kogge and either line of sight or radar navigation” (Enzian E-4 Surface To Air Missile). The missile was guided by radio control from the ground. The Enzian, therefore, is a vehicle, an agent of whoever so chooses to launch it, much like the Qlippoth of Kabbalistic myth. It does not have a mind of its own, and requires the direction of others to reach its final destination. In these ways, the intertextual Enzian sheds light on the textual Enzian. Enzian is defined by the figures that he leads, for example, Tchitcherine is following Enzian throughout the text, but is somehow a part of Enzian’s identity. It follows that Enzian is not an individual, or even a character; rather, he is the embodiment of other ideas and pieces of the text—but which ones (or whose)? Pynchon describes the Schwarzkommando as a group of scavengers, who, after the war has ended, travel the Zone and search for scraps of rockets that they use to construct their own. It is clear that Enzian is himself following the figure of the Rocket. The name Enzian has two principal roles in the text. The first is to demonstrate the failure of naming—Enzian’s name is unable to bring him any singularity. Enzian does not have a singular identity, but rather, he is translated into a textual social subject.15 “Characters”

like Enzian are effaced in favor of a unity that “makes of the population a single, [controllable] identity” (Multitude xiv).16 The second role that Enzian’s name has is intertextual—it introduces technology as a trope and key figure, both inside and outside of the text. If this pure name is a gateway to technology, then what can we make of the dualism that follows the name? 3.3 Tchitcherine’s Body

All the animals, the plants, the minerals, even other kinds of men, are being broken and reassembled every day, to preserve an elite few, who are the loudest to theorize on freedom, but the least free of all. (Pynchon 233) If figure of Enzian opens our discussion up to technology, then the figure of Tchitcherine brings to light the relationship between technology and the figure/individual. This connection has an extensive history, and can be charted over the course of the 20th century. How can we engage this history? The genre of historiographic metafiction has two key attributes: self-reflexivity and intertextuality. The genre also denies modernism’s introversion and distancing from the world.17 Its usage of metafiction establishes a “world” in which the text positions itself as the “world” of discourse (a “world” that has “direct links to the world of empirical reality, but it is not itself that empirical reality”) (Hutcheon 6). In a parallel movement, writers who exploit intertextuality similarly connect the text to the world, a movement that denies the total separation of this world and the discourse of the text. Pynchon makes use of parody and irony in tandem with historiographic metafiction to demand that the reader recognize the textualized traces of the literary and historical past, but also, to make him/her aware of what has been done to those traces through parody and irony. In this way, the past is not destroyed, but rather, it both enshrined and questioned. In a sweeping move, Gravity’s Rainbow not only anticipates this new world system, but also cartographically locates humanity’s biological degeneration (devolution) in relationship to the system.

The nature of this devolution, which has been brought about by what the global consumer considers “progress,” can be addressed by analyzing the figure of Tchitcherine. Pynchon frames the figure of Tchitcherine with both metafiction and intertextuality. The metafiction that surrounds the figure of Tchitcherine questions the idea of “character” by drawing attention to the irony of Tchitcherine’s textual instability. This instability is most noticeable in a series of ironic textual ruptures that come from Pynchon’s use of alternating narrative modes—second-person, third-person limited, and third-person omniscient narration. Pynchon also utilizes intertextuality, and does so through parody—Tchitcherine’s physical make-up is a parody of technology’s development and its parallel connection with capitalism/globalization during the course of the 20th century. Pynchon’s use of alternating narrative modes (second-person, third-person limited, thirdperson omniscient) creates a textual paradox that highlights the fictional nature of the figure of Tchitcherine: the combination of second-person and third-person omniscient narration illuminates what seems to be a concrete understanding of Tchitcherine as a character, while the use of third-person limited narration destabilizes this understanding. In this way, the text self-reflexively exposes the illusion of fiction and at the same time paradoxically denies a text’s ability to contain the complexities of literary characters. Pynchon’s use of second-person narration brings the reader into the text, and asks him/ her to understand Tchitcherine through a subjective lens (“If you are Tchitcherine…”) (Pynchon 354). This narrative mode establishes a connection between what Tchitcherine is experiencing and the reader’s (past) experience outside of the text. This intertextual bridge between the reader and the text is buttressed by Pynchon’s use of the third-person omniscient narrative mode in describing Tchitcherine’s horse, Snake. First, we are told that “Tchitcherine’s horse is a version of himself” (Pynchon 347). This link between Tchitcherine and Snake enables Pynchon to describe one by describing the other—their identities become interchangeable. Therefore, when

Pynchon describes Snake as “methodically homicidal” and “unpredictable,” the reader comes into intimate contact with Tchitcherine as well (Pynchon 347). The omniscient narrator also establishes a link between Tchitcherine and Enzian. In a complex move, Pynchon’s usage of pronouns applies to both Tchitcherine and Enzian at the same time. In one instance, Pynchon describes Tchitcherine/Enzian wandering listlessly through the Zone as “History and Geopolitics” move him “surely into confrontation” with Tchitcherine/Enzian (Pynchon 349). The reader is correct in predicting confrontations between Tchitcherine/Enzian, Enzian/Tchitcherine, Tchitcherine/Tchitcherine, and Enzian/Enzian. Pynchon forces the pronouns for these two characters to slip, a move that instead of destabilizing the figures, provides the reader with a better understanding of them both. By contrast, this “understanding” of individuals is actually a complication of multiple figures, and the encompassing descriptions that follow paradoxically serve to de-individualize these figures. These descriptions enable the reader to view the “character” of Tchitcherine through his/her own reality, as well as through the figures of Snake and Enzian.19 However, the understanding of Tchitcherine that is established through Pynchon’s use of second-person and third-person omniscient narration is also destabilized by his use of third-person limited narration. Pynchon uses this narrative mode to label many of Tchitcherine’s past experiences as “extravagant… rumors” (Pynchon 348). The reader consequently cannot attribute a past to Tchitcherine. Similarly, it is impossible to truly claim that Tchitcherine’s voice or body has existed in the text at all (“What did Tchitcherine have to say? Was Tchitcherine there at all?”) (Pynchon 350). The possibility of Tchitcherine’s nonexistence in the text nullifies any description attributed to him by the second-person and third-person omniscient narrative modes. This movement destroys any concrete understanding of Tchitcherine as a textual “character.” In this sense, the text is a machine that paradoxically constructs and unmasks the figure of Tchitcherine. Pynchon provides the reader with a detailed description of this mechanism through an anecdote about Tchitcherine’s experience listening to two

Kazakh singers: “The boy and girl go on battling with their voices—and Tchitcherine understands, abruptly, that soon someone will come out and begin to write down some of these down in the New Turic Alphabet he helped frame… and this is how they will be lost” (Pynchon 362). If taken as a metaphor for writing, this anecdote explains Gravity’s Rainbow’s treatment of the textual construction of “character.” While

“characters” may exist outside of the text (through their intertextual connections with the text of the “world”), they are unable to hold a specific shape inside of it. Pynchon’s collection of narrative modes and the metaphorical “New Turic Alphabet” that exists in Gravity’s Rainbow are two locations of discourse—respectively internal and external

to the text—that are incompatible with one another. The locations represent what JeanFrançois Lyotard has termed the différend, which Gayatri Spivak has paraphrased in the context of post-colonialism as “the inaccessibility of, or untranslatability from, one mode of discourse in a dispute to another” (Spivak 96). In the figure’s argument for a position in the text, the différend is clearly present. The metafictional qualities of Gravity’s Rainbow seem to suggest that the novel is “a closed, self-sufficient, autonomous object deriving its unity from the formal interrelations of its parts” (Hutcheon 6). This is not the case, however, as Pynchon has woven historical intertexts into the novel through a parody of technology and its relationship to the human body. Tchitcherine’s physical make-up serves as the basis for this parody. He is described as a “mad scavenger” who is “more metal than anything else” (Pynchon 342). Further, “under his pompadour is a silver plate,” and a “gold wirework threads in three-dimensional tattoo among the fine wreckage of cartilage and bone inside his right knee joint, the shape of it always felt, pain’s old fashioned seal, and his proudest battle decoration” (Pynchon 342). This “scarred tapestry” is a paradox—Tchitcherine’s body is a pastiche of organic flesh and inorganic technology. His existence relies wholly on this paradox, for technology has not only physically fragmented his body, but it is also holds it together. The description of Tchitcherine allows the reader to visualize his physical features. Tchitcherine is a cyborg, and while there were no actual cyborgs roaming Europe during

World War II, the deliberate exaggeration of Tchitcherine’s body paradox opens the text up to technology’s historical context during the 20th century. What was/is the relationship between humans and technology? From the development of faster, more precise missiles to the creation and abuse of napalm, technology was employed during the 20th century to serve the efforts of the war machine (World War II, Vietnam).21 Also during this period, capitalism began to expand into markets around the globe, a project that would ultimately take on the form and name of globalization. During this time (and in the present as well), the chief aim of progress in consumer products was the enhancement of speed. The consumer demanded a faster product, and capitalism responded with technological advances. However, global consumers failed (and continue to fail) to recognize the accidents that have developed alongside technological “progress.” Virilio has documented these accidents extensively; for example, real-time video has brought about the alteration of the human understanding of time. Our humanity has been breaking down, in the sense that the evolutionary progress that has enabled the human being to dominate the earth has also paradoxically begun to stunt its “growth,” and has arguably even reversed the entire process. Tchitcherine the Cyborg is not only a parody of the soldier during the 20th century— he is also a parody of the global consumer. Pynchon’s paradoxical description of Tchitcherine’s body can be understood as a metaphor for the consumer’s relationship with technology. If applied to our present, a reading Tchitcherine functions as follows: 1. Technology is a tool of war. Speed is the essential attribute of the dominant technological weaponry. 2. Technology is also a commodity. Speed is the essential attribute of the dominant technological commodity. 3. In war, technology tears humans apart and rebuilds them. The result is literally a multitude of Tchitcherines.

4. In the metropolis, technology dehumanizes consumers. At the same time,

it establishes an intercourse between what is human and what is technology.

Metaphorically, Tchitcherine has become a civilian, and in turn, a consumer. 5. Capitalism requires war in order to survive. Economically dominant nations must have the fastest weapons if they are to continue the now current neoliberal project of Empire—the opening up of and deregulation or markets, and the influx of capital into the upper class. Therefore, capitalism’s lifeblood is war and speed.22 6. Therefore, as capitalism perpetuates war and speed, it also supports the

dehumanization of the consumer.

7. Although the transition to speedier products seems like natural “progress,” the global consumer fails to recognize that it is not only being transformed into a technology itself, but that it is also contributing to the perpetuation of the dominant economic system that is subverting entire populations as it reproduces capital. 8. The word “human” is tangled up with technology, despite the fact that technology and humanity are two different discourses. To add technology to the human “body” is by no means to make it more human. Rather, the opposite is true. As the global consumer accepts technology and speed as progress, it by extension accepts war and globalization as progress.23 The paradoxical figure of Tchitcherine functions as a historical intertext to the technological and political climates of not only the 20th century, but of the 21st century as well. In the argument for the increasing role of technology in our day-to-day lives, a différend is and has been present. Through Tchitcherine, Pynchon suggests that despite

our purchased idea of “progress,” the discourse of humanity/technology is incompatible with the discourse of humanity. 3.4 Slothrop’s Mind

Up to this point, the figures of both Enzian and Tchitcherine, despite their distance from IG Farben, are in many ways agents. Names in the text and in Empire seem to vanish, or rather, “all differences are submerged and drowned in the masses”

(Multitude xiv). Further, “these masses are able to move in unison only because they form an indistinct, uniform conglomerate” (Multitude xiv). In an extreme/parodic case, but nevertheless a revealing one, the body/external features of Tchitcherine makes him in many ways an agent, as the technology that sustains war also sustains his life. Further, the intertexts of both of these figures uncover interesting convergences with IG Farben (textually), and by extension, with Empire. Names are being swallowed by the masses, and our bodies are becoming more and more reliant upon technology. But what of our minds? Before continuing, we must revisit the dualism that we have encountered in the figures of IG Farben, Enzian, and Tchitcherine. These figures—the name that precedes “character” and the external side of the binary/dualism—are still textually tied to the figure of IG Farben. Further, the intertexts of these figures seem to point towards a united force external to the text—that of Empire. Names and external features to do not need space in order to be observed; the internal make-up of a human being, however, cannot be summarized with a simple snapshot. For example, we do not necessarily need to summarize the narrative course of either Enzian or Tchitcherine in order to trace their correlations with IG Farben/Empire. Internal composition is an altogether different story. The inside is the “mind, soul, or self,” but more specially, the biological and psychological rhythms that are both causes and effects of the mind, soul, and self (Bennett and Royle 64). But if the figures we have touched upon thus far have proven fickle, unstable, and sometimes mere illusions, what figure could possibly be available for an exposition of this inside? The key protagonist in the text, the “hero,” and the most recurring figure in Gravity’s Rainbow is Tyrone Slothrop. Slothrop, an American, is portrayed as the “common man.” Slothrop, a US Army lieutenant, finds himself working for ACHTUNG at the end of World War II. During this employment with ACHTUNG in London, in every location that Slothrop sleeps with a woman, a V-2 rocket strikes days, hours, and sometimes minutes later. This is due to the fact that when Slothrop was a baby, he was

sold to a subsidiary of IG Farben, and that the psychologist Laszlo Jamf submitted him to Pavlovian conditioning. It is this conditioning is what causes Slothrop’s rocket-inducing erections.24 Even though Slothrop is biologically and psychologically connected to IG Farben, he spends the length of the text trying to escape both IG Farben and its agents, while at the same time attempting to discover the history of this connection himself. If Slothrop is a worthy candidate for our task of seeking out the mind, soul and self of the human in Pynchon’s text, where should we start? The biology or psychology of an individual is not a singular event, and therefore, must be observed over a period of time. Further, as the period of observation increases, so does the observer’s ability to paint a totalizing picture of the subject’s internal workings. Since Slothrop exists in nearly every section of the text, we will consider a relatively arbitrary chronology—his textual beginning, middle and end. This way, we will be able to absorb the life of the figure of Slothrop—his birth, life, and death.25 This chronology may be arbitrary in form, but its content is not. In the course of the text, any internal understanding of Slothrop’s self is paired/develops with an understanding of IG Farben.26 In the beginning of the text, Slothrop, who is entrenched in his day job, has no real understanding of himself, nor does he have any idea of who or what IG Farben is—he is blind to the workings of the text that is moving around him. As the narrative progresses, Slothrop becomes more aware of his connection to IG Farben biologically, psychologically, and in other ways. In this middle section of the text, Slothrop gains knowledge about his internal connection to IG Farben through not only his own experiences, but also, through actual directed research/study. However, as Slothrop’s internal make-up is fatally tied to IG Farben, this knowledge is just as elusive as the figure of IG Farben—it is a paranoia of “Them.” Slothrop attempts to evade the looming figure of IG Farben, and creates a series of aliases in order to avoid becoming an agent, which would mean working for the corporation. He succeeds, insofar as IG Farben’s other agents do not catch him, however, the power/control that They exert over him, both biologically and psychologically, lead to his textual death, and in the end of the text, the figure of Slothrop fragments and

disappears without a trace. In the novel’s final episode, Slothrop is described as anything but an “integral creature,” and we are told that the other characters/figures of the narrative have given up “trying to hold him together, even as a concept” (Pynchon 755). Slothrop seems to come apart. The totality of his character/figure is therefore metafictional, as the undoing/division of a person draws attention to the text as fiction. Slothrop’s metafictional qualities are furthered because of his complete dependence on the figure of IG Farben, which again draws attention to the textuality of the construct of “character.” These metafictional elements of this text give way to a textual biopower. As we have mentioned, “biopower is a form of power that regulates social life from its interior, following it, interpreting it, absorbing it, and rearticulating it,” as “what is directly at stake in [biopower] is the production and reproduction of life itself” (Empire 24). Further, given the already established intertexts of IG Farben, the figure of Slothrop points towards an intertextual biopower as well. Start with the beginning. What does Pynchon tell us about Slothrop’s internal features in the first section of the text (“Beyond The Zero”)? Slothrop is first seen working for ACHTUNG, which is a “poor relative of Allied intelligence” (Pynchon 20). Slothrop’s job is the report to missile sites, where he is supposed to collect information or pieces of the weapons. This occupation is an eternal dead-end, however, as he always shows up too late, and any attempt at actually doing his job becomes tangled in a series of bureaucratic processes; any orders that are given to him have “no explanation” (Pynchon 21). Slothrop does not remain in the dark for long, and is able to uncover an increasing number of pieces of his own history/connection with IG Farben. Although he has very little knowledge about IG Farben, Slothrop begins to suspect that there is a force orchestrating particular events, especially when he arrives at the casino in the second section of the novel (“Un Perm’ au Casino Hermann Goering”). There, he is somehow able to rescues a beautiful woman from an evil octopus in what seems like a scene from a film. After this instance, he asks: “Who’s waiting behind the door, and

what machinery have They brought with Them?” (Pynchon 209). The same elusive “they” that IG Farben moves through is oddly identified with the force that Slothrop knows nothing about, as well as with technology. After his run-in with the octopus, Slothrop is afforded the opportunity (by whom, we do not know) to study the V-2 rocket. In turn, Slothrop uncovers information about himself, such as evidence of his connection with IG Farben as a baby. For example, it is suggested that Slothrop was sold by his father to IG Farben “like a side of beef” and that he has “been under their observation… since he was born” (Pynchon 291). However, as Slothrop learns more about Imipolex G and his connection to IG Farben, confusion, acronyms, and paranoia all increase exponentially, eventually leading to his fragmentation as well as the fragmentation of the narrative. It would appear that because Slothrop’s knowledge of the Rocket and himself is channeled through the figure of IG Farben, it is worthless, useless, and detrimental. In the third section of the text (“In The Zone”), Slothrop does not simply accept this paranoia. Rather, he moves forward in spite of his paranoia’s reproduction. Instead of allowing IG Farben to convert him into a mere agent, like Wimpe for example, Slothrop slips into a series of disguises that aide him as he flees from IG Farben’s agents—among others, “ace reporter” Ian Scuffling, Rocketman, Max Schlepzig (a Russian soldier), and Plechazunga, the pig hero. Interestingly, Slothrop only begins truly running from Them and Their agents (via his aliases) after he has lost his identity completely.27 Further, it is only after he has lost his identity that he is able to begin learning about himself, IG Farben, and the Rocket(s). This acquisition of knowledge continues throughout the text, as Slothrop picks up bits and pieces of information in each successive part of the narrative. His quest seems to echo detective fictions; however, instead of making a golden discovery or finding a key that unlocks and binds the information he already has together, Pynchon dispatches the figure of Slothrop. Beginning in episode six of the text’s final section (“The Counterforce”), the narration itself begins to fragment. This is apparent as Pynchon uses

a variety of discourses, modes, and forms in order to parody “etymological/philological writing, scientific writing, travel handbooks, poetic forms, and letters” (Weisenburger 344). The narrative is still fragmented when the reader comes to the final episode of the text. What has become of Slothrop if the text’s grounding has vanished beneath his feet?28 Instead of enlightenment, “no one Slothrop has listened to is clear who’s trying whom for what” (Pynchon 695). Rather, Slothrop is textually and mentally dispersed— “some believe that fragments of Slothrop have grown into consistent personae of their own. If so, there’s no telling which of the Zone’s present-day population are offshoots of his original scattering” (Pynchon 757). It is possible to read Slothrop’s fragmentation as a simple mental breakdown, but it is more than this. First, the actual narrative breaks apart, and then Slothrop disappears. While other figures in the text have metafictional qualities, the end of Slothrop’s textual life is the text’s most overt example of metafiction, as it not only (again) draws attention to the textuality of the construct of “character,” but also, to the construct of narrative. Internally, Slothrop is bound to IG Farben/Imipolex G, and even though he attempts to comprehend the extent of this relationship, the biopower that IG Farben effectively exerts over him destroys him. IG Farben is able to regulate Slothrop’s social life from his own interior—“following it, interpreting it, absorbing it, and rearticulating it” (Empire 24). Slothrop, like Tchitcherine, is also a cyborg, in that he is a pure (organic) mechanism of IG Farben. Moreover, through its biological control over him, IG Farben psychologically levels Slothrop and eventually disperses him. In a movement that breaks the fourth wall, Pynchon tells us that Slothrop’s fragments are among the general population. While this reestablishes Slothrop as a metaphor for everyman, it also begs the question—if “Slothrop” was governed by the biopower exerted by IG Farben in the text, how are we governed by biopower exercised by Empire? Biopower is intimately connected to our state of global and perpetual war. Alongside technology, it is what enables Empire to reproduce itself and its populations, and effectively regulate the masses. Police activity, such as the United States’ involvement in

Vietnam, Latin America, and Iraq, or the Soviet engagement in Afghanistan, proves war to be an integral element of biopower, “aimed at the construction and reproduction of a global social order” (Multitude 39). In addition to these external conflicts, biopower also exists internally. Transnational corporations, such as the historical IG Farben, “construct the fundamental connective fabric of the biopolitical world in certain important respects,” and in the second half of the twentieth century, multinational and transnational industrial and financial corporations began to structure global territories biopolitically (Empire 31). In doing so, these corporations have tended to “make nation-states merely instruments to record the flows of the commodities, monies, and populations that they set in motion” (Empire 31). This flow streams through a “complex apparatus that selects investments and directs financial and monetary maneuvers [which in effect] determines the new geography of the world market, or really the new biopolitical structuring of the world” (Empire 32).29 This new world is digital, and there, at the “end of geography,” the great industrial and financial powers must produce “not only commodities but also subjectivities. They [must] produce agentic subjectivities within the biopolitical context: they [must] produce needs, social relations, bodies, and minds—which is to say, they [must] produce producers” (Empire 32). Communication technology is key to this endocolonization: The development of communications networks has an organic relationship to the emergence of the new world order—it is, in other worlds, effect and cause, product and producer. Communication not only expresses but also organizes the movement of globalization. It organizes the movement but multiplying and structuring interconnections through networks. (Empire 32) In Empire, communication technology produces language, and “language, as it communicates, produces commodities but moreover creates subjectivities, puts them in relation, and orders them” (Empire 33). Like Slothrop, we are all subjects of biopower,

and we are all dependent on communication technology. The final figure of our constellation, the Rocket, is not only an exposition of communication technology, but also, is a unifier of the figures we have addressed thus far. 4. ROCKETS

The role of the Rocket in Gravity’s Rainbow is twofold. The Rocket, which is unexpectedly positioned as a character/figure, serves as a textual unifier. Pynchon utilizes the figure of the Rocket to contain the other figures within the text, yet paradoxically, this unification effaces the figures and draws attention to the unstable construct of character and narrative. In this way, the Rocket is not only a metafictional catalyst, but becomes the text itself. The text, Gravity’s Rainbow, is (like the Rocket) a technology.

But can knowledge be written into or read out of a text? Pynchon’s text demonstrates to that texts cannot contain or accurately transmit knowledge—they are failed technologies. Furthermore, when juxtaposed with the actual reading speed that the text demands of its readers, Pynchon’s own application of knowledge gives way to significant historical intertexts. 4.1 Unifier

Over the couple of generations, moved by accelerations unknown in the days before the Empire, They have been growing an identity that few can see as ever taking final shape. The Rocket will have a final shape, but not its people. (Pynchon 321) It seems that there is an unlimited supply of rockets in Gravity’s Rainbow. The text opens and closes with references to rockets, and actual plot of the text in between is based around the search for the Rocket. Called “00000,” we are told that the Rocket was launched by Lieutenant Weissmannn. Weissmann is the face of the Rocket—as other figures in the text seek out one, they seek out the other. Independently of Weissmann, the Rocket is also a figure in the text—it does not only have a “rocket trajectory, but also a life… between the two points, in the five minutes, it lives an entire

life” (Pynchon 212). The Rocket, however, does not exist as a “character,” much like the other figures in the text do. The Rocket does not speak, and its one action in the text— its launch and landing—is left incomplete, in that Pynchon never informs reader where the Rocket lands. Instead of analyzing whether or not the Rocket possesses the dualism we have discussed, we will turn to each figure we have dealt with thus far—IG Farben, Enzian, Tchitcherine, and Slothrop—and seek out their relationships with the Rocket. The 00000 rocket is not commissioned by IG Farben in the text—it was the pet project of Lieutenant Weissmann, and as a result, Weissmann is not a simple of agent of IG Farben—he and the Rocket are intertwined. On the other hand, the agents of IG Farben, or the faces of IG Farben, such as Smaragd, Wimpe, Pökler and Jamf all contribute to the construction of the Rocket. For example, Franz Pökler is a rocket scientist, much of whose work is used in constructing the 00000. Further, Jamf’s plastic, Imipolex G, is also used in the 00000. Indeed, the agents of IG Farben are “[extensions] of the Rocket,” for even though the 00000 has no affiliation to a particular state or political purpose, IG Farben and its agents are embodied by it (Pynchon 408). The Rocket also unites the other figures that we have discussed. Enzian, Tchitcherine, and Slothrop are all following the Rocket, as if “somewhere, among the wastes of the World,” there lies “the key that will bring [them] back, restore [them] to [their] Earth and to [their] freedom” (Pynchon 534). For the duration of his time in the narrative, Enzian and his followers are searching the Zone for pieces of rockets, in hopes of building a duplicate of the 00000 and launching it from the same location that Weissmann launched his own—Enzian is a simulacrum of Weissmann. By extension, Tchitcherine is also following the Rocket, as he is seeking to destroy his double, Enzian. Less consciously, Slothrop is following the Rocket as he attempts to unearth knowledge about its connection with his own past. The Rocket is being read by these figures as a “holy Text,” as if by reaching, understanding, or reproducing it, the figures in the text will understand themselves; however, when the text ends, nearly every figure has vanished.30 The only figure that remains when the text ends is the

Rocket. In this way, the textual figure of the Rocket never dies. Throughout the text, the Rocket is a system of communication: it enables figures to exist through it, brings them definition, and carries them through the narrative; the Rocket is a language and a narrative, indeed, the narrative. In Gravity’s Rainbow, the human figures fail to translate the language of the Rocket into their own. Walter Benjamin tells us that “the basic error of the translator is that he preserves the state in which his own language happens to be instead of allowing his language to be powerfully affected by the foreign tongue” (Benjamin 81). When figures enter the text, the language that Pynchon has created (through his research, intertexts, etc.) must be negotiated. Indeed, traditional characters are effaced by the technology of the text. A différend exists between each figure and the text itself. 31 If Gravity’s Rainbow is an application of (Pynchon’s) knowledge, what can it really tell us about anything? It is seemingly impossible to skim the surface of Gravity’s Rainbow for knowledge, as there is simply too much of it to wade through. In addition to the destabilization of the figures in the text, the impossibility of knowledge in the text also complicates the construct of narrative. What, if anything, has actually happened during the course of the novel? 4.2 Unifiers

In the ninth thesis of his “Theses on the Philosophy of History,” Walter Benjamin describes an angel whose “face is turned towards the past. Where we see the appearance of a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe, which unceasingly piles rubble on top of rubble and hurls it before his feet” (Benjamin 257). Humanity has moved too quickly (be it via technology or otherwise), and instead of progressing, has left “one single catastrophe” behind itself. Benjamin continues to describe humanity’s inability to transform their present as follows: ... a storm is blowing from Paradise, it has caught itself up in his wings and is so strong that the Angel can no longer close them. The storm drives him

irresistibly into the future, to which his back is turned, while the rubbleheap before him grows sky-high. That which we call progress, is this storm. (Benjamin 258) Progress and linear time are the enemies of true transformation, and instead of moving humanity forward, these two elements make it impossible to reflect on or change the present. Perhaps, this is why Pynchon has offered us an alternate speed with Gravity’s Rainbow. While the text complicates what knowledge we can claim to derive from it, it is woven together by the figure of the Rocket. The Rocket is not only a textual device—it is a mobile metaphor, and its reapplication links the “figures” in the text to the present and to the text of history. As we have seen, the Rocket not only creates a language, but also serves as a means of communication. The Rocket is at the same time an individual. How can this be? We need look no further than a new Supreme Court case involving the transnational communications corporation, AT&T. The case echoes Santa Clara County v. Southern Pacific Railroad Company, which established the precedent protecting corporations

under the 14th Amendment. AT&T has recently argued that it “may assert personal privacy interests to prevent the government from releasing documents about them” (The Huffington Post). Corporations such as AT&T have also begun to create a new language, in which the global consumer is immersed. For example, the social experience of Facebook and new technologies such as FaceTime has completely reshaped how individuals communicate and experience the present.32 Like warfare, communication is becoming digital. These new technologies, presented by transnational corporations as commodities, claim to enhance communication via speed and frequency, but in fact, they are not completely harmless.

Consider the convergences between surveillance technology and communication tech-nologies such as Facebook and FaceTime. Totalizing surveillance systems, as they operate in real-time, are designed to not only see, but also “foresee in our place” (The Vision Machine 61). This is the effect of real-time video optics (the technology of FaceTime), as they are able to broadcast images in supersession of our actual eyesight. Further, while “faced with this ultimate in automation, the usual categories of energetic reality are no longer much help. If real time prevails over real space, if the image prevails over the object present, to say nothing of the being, if the virtual prevails over the real,” what is more real—the machine’s image or human eyesight? (The Vision Machine 61).33 Reliance upon real-time video optics has further implications beyond the triumph of the virtual image over the object—eventually, even temporality is displaced—as “the three tenses of decisive action, past present and future, [are] surreptitiously replaced by two tenses, real time and delayed time”—real time being a collapsing of the fragments of the present and the immediate future (that is, in light of real-time video optics), and delayed time being a convergence of the past with the real-time present, as “the ‘live’ recording [preserves], like an echo, the real presence of the event” (The Vision Machine 61). This fragmenting of human temporal perception through the proliferation

of the “real-time” image will ultimately decay time, to the extent that we as human beings will be unable to reflect upon historical events long enough to disentangle success from failure, movement from stasis. If we stay aligned with Benjamin’s understanding of history, such reflections are imperative to the existence of humanity. In opposition to this, the technological apparatus of real-time video optics negates the use of the human brain and/in all its reason, and favors both “[a] electronic occipital cortex” and the “production of sightless vision”—“[a] reproduction of an intense blindness that [would] become the latest and last form of industrialization: the industrialization of the non-gaze” (The Vision Machine 61). Perhaps then, long after the human mind has vanished into time’s hemorrhage, communication technologies will live on—the remains of human communication will be the technologies that once claimed to hold it together,

and the remains of war will be the drones we are building to fortify the capital and markets required to reproduce these technologies—“there will be no more man, there will only be weapons” (Pure War 172). Subsequently, the text of Gravity’s Rainbow functions like a communications technology—it distorts and makes impossible the conception of the individual, while at the same time “producing and reproducing all aspects of life” (Multitude 13). Communication technologies are therefore entrenched in the cycle of Empire and serve as a biopolitical tool of global war. What does it matter if our means of communication—a discourse that we are knowingly negotiating/translating—is controlled, or more hauntingly, commoditized? Can we turn to Pynchon’s text to answer these questions? As names disappear into the mass of global consumers, as the human body is digitized and virtually reassembled, and as the biopolitical production of communication technologies reshapes humanity, any exegesis that could be performed on Pynchon’s work would be in vain. We have said that Gravity’s Rainbow is a genealogy of the present, but it is more than that—it is the present. The text succeeds in failing to give us answers, as even its slowed-down speed is unable to shape knowledge into anything that the human mind can manipulate. By the last page of Gravity’s Rainbow, Pynchon has abandoned every figure with the exception of the Rocket—all others have fragmented or been absorbed along the way. All that is left is technology.

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Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009. Print.

Benjamin, Walter. Illuminations. Trans. Harry Zohn. New York: Schocken, 2007. Print. Bennett, Andrew; Royle, Nicholas. Introduction to Literature, Criticism and Theory.

New York: Pearson Longman, 2005. Print.

Chomsky, Noam. Profit Over People. Seven Stories Press, New York. 1999. Print. “Enzian E-4 Surface To Air Missile,” Luftwaffe Resource Center. The Warbirds

Resource Group, Web. 1 Nov. 2010. <http://www.warbirdsresourcegroup.org/LRG/

enzian.html#thumb>. “figure, n.”. OED Online. November 2010. Oxford University Press. 4 December 2010 <http://www.oed.com/viewdictionaryentry/Entry/70079>. Foucault, Michel. Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings,

1972-1977. Trans. Colin Gordon, Leo Marshall, John Mepham, and Kate Soper.

Pantheon,1980. Print.

Hardt, Michael, and Antonio Negri. Empire. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,

2000. Print.

Hardt, Michael, and Antonio Negri. Multitude: War and Democracy in the Age of Empire. New York: Penguin, 2004. Print.

Harvey, David. A Brief History of Neoliberalism, Oxford University Press, Oxford,

2005. Print.

Hutcheon, Linda. “Historiographic Metafiction: Parody and the Intertextuality of History.”

Intertextuality and Contemporary American Fiction. Ed. O’Donnell, P., and

Robert Con Davis. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989. 3-32. Print.

“iPhone 4—One-tap Video Calling with FaceTime on iPhone 4.” Apple. Web. 28 Nov.

2010. <http://www.apple.com/iphone/features/facetime.html>.

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Durham: Duke University Press, 1992. Print.

“MQ-5B Hunter UAV.” Defense Update, May 18, 2009. Wed. 22 Apr. 2010. <http:// defense-update.com/products/h/hunter.htm>. Pynchon, Thomas. Gravity’s Rainbow. New York, NY: Penguin, 2006. Print. Readings, Bill. The University in Ruins. Harvard University Press, Boston. 1996. Print.

“Supreme Court Takes On Corporate Privacy Case With AT&T.” The Huffington Post. Web. 28 Nov. 2010. <http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/09/28/supreme-court-takeso n-co_n_742567.html>. Taussig, Michael T. What Color Is the Sacred? Chicago: University of Chicago Press,

2009. Print.

“technology, n.” OED Online. November 2010. Oxford University Press. 4 December

2010. <http://www.oed.com/view/Entry/198469?redirectedFrom=technology>.

Virilio, Paul, and Sylvère Lotringer. Pure War. Trans. Mark Polizzotti. Los Angeles, CA:

Semiotext(e), 2008. Print.

Virilio, Paul. Speed and Politics. Trans. Mark Polizzotti. Los Angeles, CA: Semiotext(e),

2006. Print.

Virilio, Paul. The Information Bomb. Trans. Chris Turner. London: Verso, 2000. Print. Virilio, Paul. The Vision Machine. Trans. Julie Rose. Bloomington, Indiana: Indiana

University Press, 1994. Print.

Weisenburger, Steven. A Gravity’s Rainbow Companion: Sources and Context for

Pynchon’s Novel. Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2006. Print.

Williams, Patrick, Laura Chrisman, and Gayatri Spivak. “Can the Subaltern Speak?”

Colonial Discourse and Post-Colonial Theory: A Reader. New York: Columbia

University Press, 1994. Print.

ENDNOTES 1

The definition of technology is threefold. Technology is a branch of knowledge dealing with the mechanical arts and applied sciences, as well as the application of such knowledge for practical purposes. Moreover, technology is the product of such application; “technological knowledge or know-how; a technological process, method or technique.” Interestingly, during the 17th century, technology related to the systematic treatment of grammar. (OED Online)

A figure is the proper or distinctive shape or appearance of a person or thing; an embodied (human) form; a person considered with regard to visible form or appearance. Less specifically, it is anything as determined by an outline or external form—it is a persona, an importance, a distinction, or a ‘mark’. It can also be an imaginary form, a phantasm; especially an artificial representation of the human form. Due to the problematic nature of “character” in Gravity’s Rainbow, this collective definition of “figure” will be used. (OED Online)

In geometry, a figure is also a definite form constituted by a given line or continuous series of lines so arranged as to enclose a superficial space—it is a form that exists only because it is part of the line or lines. (OED Online)

Hardt and Negri “contend that the new political order of globalization should be seen in line with our historical understanding of Empire as a universal order that accepts no boundaries or limits.” Further, Empire “is fundamentally different from the imperialism of European dominance and capitalist expansion in previous eras. Rather, today’s global Empire draws on elements of U.S. constitutionalism, with its tradition of hybrid identities and expanding frontiers” (Empire back cover).

Hardt and Negri owe the term “state of exception” to the political theorist Carl Schmitt. This concept was further developed by Giorgio Agamben in his text State Of Exception (University of Chicago Press, 2005).

For an example of this type of legitimization, consider the following excerpt from U.S. President Woodrow Wilson’s declaration of war on Germany at the outset of World War I: “Neutrality is no longer feasible or desirable where the peace of the world is involved and the freedom of its people, and the menace to that peace and freedom lies in the existence of autocratic governments backed by organized force which is controlled wholly by their will, not by the will of their people.”

“Globalization is the result of powerful governments, especially that of the United States, pushing trade deals and other accords down the throats of the world’s people to make it easier for corporations and the wealthy to dominate the economies of nations around the world without having obligations to the peoples of those nations” (Chomsky 13).

Ambiguous words such as “justice” and “peace” are signposts in the new world order of Empire. David Harvey has considered the word “freedom” in a similar manner. “The idea of freedom… degenerates into a mere advocacy of free enterprise, which means the fullness of freedom for those whose income, leisure, and security need no enhancing” (Harvey 37). Further, Harvey claims that “freedom” is merely a catch phrase for corporations and governments to invoke a false sense of moral scale to what is otherwise the reopening of a class divide via corporate power (Harvey 38).

An example of such a contract is one that was awarded by the United States Government in 2008. Totaling $97,000,000, the contract was given to Northrop Grumman to “procure, modify, and deliver 12 Hunter MQ-5B Unmanned Aerial Vehicle (UAV) aircraft,” among other assorted products/technologies (MQ-5B Hunter UAV). This particular UAV has been in use by the U.S. Army

since 1996, and in addition to being the Army’s first fielded UAV, has seen use across the globe (defense-update.com). UAVs are unmanned units that have the ability to launch/drop weaponry while under the control of individuals on the ground. UAVs have been used a great deal in the United States’ “War on Terror” throughout Iraq, Afghanistan, and Pakistan (Carne). The use of UAVs has also been controversial, as it has been seen to lead to the killing of civilians in all of these countries (Carne). 10

In Gravity’s Rainbow, Pynchon self-consciously utilizes the techniques (or technology) of fiction to draw attention to the construction of character, and in doing so, destroys traditional conceptions of character. In the text, there are not only human characters, but also corporations, machines, and plastics that function as “characters.”

Even though Imipolex G is a fictional creation, it is able to stand in as a metaphor for any malleable form of capitalist production.

Yellow (blonde) hair and blue eyes are stereotypical attributes of “Aryans.” Along with this racist connotation, these colors relate to the character/figure of Gottfried, a young German boy (with blonde hair a blue eyes) who is dominated (sexually, mentally, physically, etc.) by Weissmann. In this way, the figures of Enzian and Gottfried are unified.

The Hereros were and are the indigenous population of the former colony of German South-West Africa, which is modern day Nambia. During 1904-1907, the majority of the population was wiped out in what is considered the first genocide of the 20th century. However, like Imipolex G, the Schwarzkommando are a fictional creation of Pynchon’s—there is no historical evidence that any Hereros transported themselves to Germany after World War II. The Schwarzkommando therefore function as a metaphor that folds the colonized back upon themselves.

The idea of the hollow shell is a theme throughout Gravity’s Rainbow. According to Weisenburger: The Kabbalists held that the godhead, initially whole and androgynous, was at Adam’s fall sundered not only into masculine and feminine aspects but also into a spray of “sparks” that mingle with material being, penetrating it and redeeming materiality from an otherwise hollow duration. The “shells” or Qlippoth are these hollow containers; they may assume demonic attributes, and it was thought that only a messiah could banish the Qlippoth and restore being to its whole state. Meanwhile, they are emissaries from the world of the dead who stalk the familiar world. (Weisenburger 119-120)

This “translation” can be seen as colonial mechanism, as its violence destroys the language/ discourse that is being translated (Enzian’s identity as a Herero).

The actual production of this identity is a function of biopower, and will be further addressed in the exposition of Slothrop.

Hutcheon suggests that the literary period of modernism held “the notion of the work of art as a closed, self-sufficient, autonomous object deriving its unity from the formal interrelations of its parts” (Hutcheon 6).

Although metonymy is a common practice in fiction, Pynchon pushes it insofar as it becomes metafictional.

It is my suspicion that there are a large number of additional examples of this. For example, the figure of Slothrop is used as a lens to view Tchitcherine and vice versa (Pynchon 396-397). It seems as though the text’s figures all serve as lenses for one another.

The establishment of the New Turic Alphabet can be seen as an empire-building project on the behalf of the Soviet Union. Like the violent translation of Enzian’s name, the imposition of New Turic Alphabet would completely efface the oral culture/language of the Kazakhs. In this respect, the New Turic Alphabet is representative of a homogenization of languages.

The Vietnam War is especially relevant given Gravity’s Rainbow’s original publication date of 1973.

“On the one hand, the neoliberal state is expected to take a back seat and simply set the stage for market functions, but on the other it is supposed to be activist in creating a good business climate and to behave as a competitive entity in global politics” (Harvey 79).

If Virilio is correct in his assertions about technology’s effect on the human mind, then technology’s “progress” effectively blinds the consumer to the consequences of war/globalization.

IG Farben’s product, Imipolex G, is described as “the first plastic that is actually erectile” and the plastic can be stiffened if presented with suitable stimuli, which “have to be electronic” (Pynchon 713). We are told that one type of stimuli is: …a beam scanning system—or several—analogous to the well-known video electron stream, modulated with grids and deflection plates located as needed on the Surface (or even below the outer layer of Imipolex, down at the interface with What lies just beneath: with What has been inserted or What has actually grown itself a skin of Imipolex G). (Pynchon 713). Interestingly, Slothrop’s erection is described as “an instrument installed, wired by Them into his body as a colonial outpost” (Pynchon 290). Perhaps then, part of Laszlo Jamf’s experimentation on Baby Tyrone (Slothrop) involved the grafting of Imipolex G into the skin of Slothrop’s reproductive organs. Would it be possible then that Slothrop’s own Imipolex G is activated by an electronic stimuli generated by the (V-2) Rocket?

Ironically, the text forces us into a biopolitical (albeit textual) relationship with Slothrop.

If Slothrop is a “product” of IG Farben, his biology is a product as well.

In the second episode of the novel’s second section, the character/figure Katje “makes one American lieutenant disappear,” stealing his clothing and his identification papers (Pynchon 200).

Oddly, it is only at this point that many important characteristics of Imipolex G are revealed to the reader; however, there is no implication that Slothrop has access to this information (Pynchon 713).

An apparatus is “literally anything that has in some way the capacity to capture, orient, determine, intercept, model, control, or secure the gestures, behaviors, opinions, or discourses of living beings” (Agamben 14).

This is with the exception of Gottfried and Weissmann. Goffried is inside of the 00000 and wrapped in an “Imipolex shroud” when it is launched (Pynchon 769). As for Weissmann, we are told to look for him “among the successful academics, the Presidential advisors, the token intellectuals who sit on boards of directors. He is almost surely there. Look high, not low” (Pynchon 764).

The différend relates to the “inaccessibility of, or untranslatability from, one mode of discourse in a dispute to another” (Spivak 96).

FaceTime, a “simple, fast, and fun” feature of Apple’s iPhone 4, “works right out of the box—no need to set up a special account or screen name. And using it is as easy as it gets. Let’s say you want to start a video call with your best friend. Just find her entry in your Contacts and tap the FaceTime button. Or maybe you’re already talking on a voice call with her, iPhone 4 to iPhone 4, and you want to switch to video. Just tap the FaceTime button on the screen. Either way, an invitation pops up on her screen asking if she wants to join you. When she accepts, the [real time] video call begins” (Apple).

Today’s “Tchitcherines” are not cyborgs—they are digital and virtual—products of the communication technologies of Empire.

The Political, Social, and Institutional Causes of the Disparity between Water System Effectiveness in Uruguay and Argentina ZARA LUKENS School of International Relations Professor Gerardo Munck Professor John Odell

ABSTRACT

The politics of water governance is a growing topic of international discussion, and there is tension between those who believe water should be treated as an economic good and those who believe it should be deemed a human right. This study explores the differences between the water policies of two states that share a human-rights-based view of water distribution: Argentina and Uruguay. Whereas Uruguay has an effective water system, Argentina does not. This paper concludes that a combination of a strong central water policy framework, a history of failed water privatization schemes, the presence of an institutionalized means by which civil society can influence policymaking, and (more tentatively) a strong political institutional framework interact to explain Uruguayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s greater water system effectiveness. Acknowledgements

This thesis would not have been possible without the unfaltering support of Professor Odell, the IR Senior Honors Thesis program advisor, and Professor Munck, my thesis mentor. Without their guidance, I would not have been able to develop the skills, the knowledge, and the patience to complete this project. I would also like to thank my honors seminar classmates, who are probably incredibly sick of reading about water policy, for their valuable feedback and support. Finally, I am grateful that my friends and family are still willing to speak to me after months of solitary confinement while working on this thesis.

I. INTRODUCTION

The United Nations estimates that more than 1.1 billion people lack access to safe drinking water today, including 130 million Latin Americans.1 Latin Americaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s water supply is one of the most unequally distributed in the world, which means that the region has been greatly affected by the recent global reconceptualization of water governance. Before 1990, water privatization was a little-discussed topic at the international level and was barely addressed at the 1992 Earth Summit in Rio. At the 2002 Johannesburg Summit, however, privatization was the main focus. In just one decade, the discussion surrounding the issue of water distribution underwent a dramatic transformation, and the rhetoric of water as a human need, rather than a human right, became widespread. Actors such as the World Water Council, the World Business Council for Sustainable Development, WaterAid, and the Global Water Partnership have brought business leaders, who recognize the untapped economic potential of the global water market, into the debate, creating a market-driven framework for viewing water distribution and access to water. The Dublin Principles came out of the 1992 International Conference on Water and Environment Issues in the 21st Century. The fourth principle put in writing the economic view of water resource management: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Water has an economic value in all its competing uses and should be recognized as an economic good.2 As result of this increasingly prominent approach to water issues, coupled with the IMF and World Bankâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stance in favor of privatization, there has been an 800% increase in Asian, African, and Latin American purchasing of water from European-owned companies since the 1990s.3 While nearly all Latin American countries adopted some level of water sector privatization in the last two decades, many, too, have rejected the economic approach to water governance, either regionally or throughout the country as a whole. Individuals, civil society, and some governments have begun to approach water policy from a human rights-based perspective, with the goal of achieving equal and consistent supply for all, not just for those who can afford to pay high tariffs. In exploring the topic of water resource distribution and management, it is necessary to look beyond quantitative and economic assessments of public vs. private ownership. While this

distinction often plays a major role in determining who has access to water and who does not, it cannot be held solely accountable for water management differences between countries. A qualitative analysis of the underlying factors that influence a specific country’s water system is crucial for understanding why a particular system is more effective than another. Water system effectiveness encompasses a range of dimensions and takes on different meanings depending on one’s perspective. For the purpose of this study, the definition of water system effectiveness will reflect a human-rights-oriented approach with the overall goals of efficiency and equality of access and distribution. Effectiveness will be broken down into five main categories: accountability, efficiency, public health, equality, and sustainability. This paper explores the reasons that some states have succeeded in providing universal or nearly universal access to water while others have not. What factors influence the reality that Uruguay has created an effective water policy based on the ideal of water as a human right while Argentina has not? This paper claims three primary explanations for Uruguay’s efficient and universal water system and Argentina’s chronically inefficient system: Uruguay has a stronger central framework designating water authorities and dividing responsibilities between institutions, while Argentina lacks a national framework to guide the provinces in water provision; Uruguay had a privatization experience that represented a clear decline from previous levels of effectiveness and that became a national issue, regardless of provincial or regional divides; and Uruguay possesses and has historically utilized an institutionalized means by which interest groups can influence policymaking, through direct democracy mechanisms, while Argentina’s constitution designates fewer such mechanisms and they have been historically underutilized. A final, more speculative, explanation is that Uruguay has stronger political institutions, which contribute to higher quality policies and better policy implementation and enforcement. Though this final factor is important to consider, present gaps in evidence make a strong causal connection difficult to establish within the scope of this study.

II. METHODOLOGY Method of Difference

This study uses the method of difference to explore the research question and defend the central thesis. The cases chosen, Uruguay and Argentina, differ significantly in their water systems and policies but show similarities in many other, significant areas. This method is powerful because the similarities lend an element of control to the study by eliminating potential causal factors. By controlling for as many variables as possible, the researcher can more confidently presume that any differences found profoundly impact the independent variable. With respect to this study, the political, economic, and cultural similarities between Argentina and Uruguay limit the number of potential explanations for the differences in their water systems and provision. The most relevant similarities include parallel patterns of political transitions from the mid-20th century to present; a similar experience with neoliberal reforms and privatization during the 1990s; a presidential form of government and a bicameral legislature; and comparable access to surface and groundwater resources as well as constitutional mechanisms preserving their citizensâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; right to water. The importance of these controlled factors will be explained in greater detail in the section on case study selection. Primarily qualitative methods will be used to evaluate the evidence and explain the variables. Though qualitative methods are limited in the level of precision they can provide and the certainty with which causal claims can be made, a qualitative study has value in its descriptive power. Additionally, the variables in this study do not lend themselves to quantitative measurement, as, in many cases, differences are not measurable at anything greater than a nominal level (for example, differences power structure and institutional characteristics). Even so, employing the method of difference improves the precision of qualitative methodology by lending greater conclusive power to the causal relationships found.

Dimensions of Effectiveness

Accountability refers to the degree to which the government and government officials respond to the needs and desire of their constituencies. This includes following through with and supporting legislation and policies passed by the electorate and congress, as well as creating policy with the needs of the public in mind. In terms of water policy, tasks are often divided between ministries and provinces. Each body must have specifically designated functions and effectively and reliably carry them out in order to be considered accountable. If the government does not perform the duties specified in its water policy framework, or if the public does not know where to turn when management is unsatisfactory, it cannot be considered accountable, regardless of the written policy. Efficiency encompasses minimizing waste, collection of taxes and payment, infrastructure upkeep, and consistency of water distribution and sanitation services. An efficient system minimizes waste by maintaining leak detection and repair programs and charging users at a rate that is affordable yet realistic with respect to supply and conservation efforts. The body or bodies in charge of water management should charge users based on a rate structure that adequately supplies the costs of maintenance, repair and operation, and taxes and tariffs should be collected regularly and evenly throughout the state or province. Water supply should be consistent and dependable, and all users, both rural and urban, should be connected to water lines and wastewater disposal. The public health dimension of water system effectiveness specifies that the water distributed should be sanitary and free of contamination. Water sanitation should reflect an effort to control disease and reduce infant mortality rates. The 1991 cholera epidemic in Latin America illustrates the importance of careful and consistent water treatment. There were 323,000 cases during the year, and studies in Peru showed high indices of coliform faecal bacterial in municipal drinking water supplies. Sufficient chlorination of public water would have significantly curtailed the diseaseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s spread.4

Equality is perhaps the most important dimension when considering universal water provision. Many different types of systems succeed in providing the urban elite with high quality water coverage, but fail at extending this service into rural and poor areas. The disparity between two water systems sometimes becomes obvious only upon comparing the percentage of rural households connected to the main water lines. Latin America is the most unequal region in the world, with a Gini coefficient of 0.552, making equality an especially important consideration. 5 In a truly equal system, households in rural and urban, rich and poor areas are equally connected to water lines and receive the same quality and consistency of service. Access to sanitation services is also a crucial element of equality. An evaluation of water supply and sanitation in the year 2000 found that approximately 103 million people in the region lack access to sanitation services, while only 77 million lack access to drinking water.6 The final dimension, sustainability, implies a consideration of future water supply and distribution. Users should be charged at a rate that reflects a realistic picture of the long-term supply. Wastewater treatment should occur in a manner that is conscientious of water resource preservation, and the regulation of other sectors, including businesses and factories, should strive to minimize pollution of water resources. By including sustainability in the definition of water system effectiveness, evaluation is not limited to the present situation. A system that functions well with respect to other dimensions of effectiveness cannot be considered entirely effective if the result of present actions will produce a decline in these dimensions in the future. Case Selection

Argentina and Uruguay provide the basis for an effective method of difference case study because of their many similarities. This section will explore these key consistencies and their relationship to the research question. The first point of comparison is a history of democracy in the early part of the 20th century, followed by an oppressive military dictatorship during the 1970s and into the

1980s. Since the fall of the military governments in 1983, Argentina and Uruguay have been characterized by mostly uninterrupted democracy. Though the quality of democracy wavered at times, reflected, for example, in the inability of presidents from outside the Peronist party to serve entire terms, a series of democratically elected officials have governed both countries since 1983. Their parallel transitions to democracy demonstrate that the policy changes following 1983 resulted from democratic proceedings and cannot be traced to authoritarian control. This similarity is key because authoritarian regimes tend to have different approaches to public services and social welfare than do democratic regimes. For a democratic system to function, the basic needs of all citizens should (ideally) be met so that everyone can participate equally in political processes; social equality is, therefore, an essential element of democracy. Meeting the basic needs of a citizenry includes supplying quality water to all. Their similar timeframe of political transition means that the countries were both experiencing upheaval and policy and institutional frame during the mid-1980s. This was a critical time for instability because it coincided with an increased influence of the IMF and World Bank in Latin America. These institutions began promoting strong neoliberal policies after the development of the Washington Consensus in 1989, and public services were a primary target for liberalization and deregulation schemes. This reality produced a second similarity between the countries: the water sectors of both were privatized during the 1990s. The Argentine and Uruguayan populations reacted similarly to the private sector influence: LatinobarĂłmetro public opinion profiles show that, within Latin America, only Argentina has a more negative view of privatization than Uruguay.7 This consistency suggests that factors other than external neoliberal influences must have influenced the policy divergence that occurred after the 1990s. A third similarity lies in the forms of government that characterize the countriesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; political processes and institutions. Both Argentina and Uruguay have a presidential form of government and a bicameral legislature, implying that political processes are carried out comparably, and that power is theoretically divided between similar branches of

government. Despite similar governmental frameworks, their policymaking processes have been quite different. This reality suggests that other factors may shape policy outcomes just as much or more than the system of government. However, there is also an important divergence in the governments of Argentina and Uruguay. Argentina is a federal system in which a significant amount of political power is transferred to the provinces. Though the national government retains some level of regulatory control over the provinces, a large amount of policymaking, water policy included, occurs at the provincial level. This difference gives rise to one of the primary reasons for Uruguay’s greater effectiveness: the presence of a clear national water policy framework. In terms of water resources, both countries have similar access to, and even share, major surface and groundwater resources. Argentina and Uruguay have access to some of the most ample water reserves in the world, and neither has faced challenges relating to extreme water shortages and deprivation. Even so, the countries have experienced distinct water-related problems, which, due to resource similarity, can be cautiously attributed to management differences. Though both are considered water-rich, the difference in their size produces a notable divergence in terms of water distribution challenges. While Uruguay has a total population of 3.3 million in a territory slightly smaller than the U.S. state of Washington (176,220 km2),8 Argentina’s population is 41.3 million in a territory more than fifteen times that size (2,780,400 km2).9 As a result, Argentina has much greater geographical diversity, and though the majority of the country has a temperate climate, the southeast is arid. Arid climates create greater challenges regarding water supply and distribution, and Argentina’s water system must address this problem that Uruguay does not face. However, the disparity between water provision in urban and rural areas, even within the same climate, is so great in Argentina that there are clearly significant non-climate-related causes of the differences in water provision between the countries. An additional similarity between Argentina and Uruguay is that both have constitutional provisions for the protection of citizens’ right to water. Article 41 of the Argentine

constitution, established in 1994, states that “all inhabitants enjoy the right to a healthful, balanced environment fit for human development” and that “the authorities shall provide for the protection of this right, for the rational use of natural resources, for the preservation of the natural and cultural patrimony and of biological diversity.”10 On the regional level, Argentina ratified the Additional Protocol to the American Convention on Human Rights in the Area of Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights, which specifies that “everyone shall have the right to live in a healthy environment and to have access to basic public services.”11 Uruguay, too, recognizes the right to water at both the national and international levels. Since 2004, when the water referendum passed, article 47 of Uruguay’s Constitution has affirmed that “the access to drinkable water and the access to sewerage constitute fundamental human rights.”12 Like Argentina, Uruguay ratified the Additional Protocol to the American Convention on Human Rights. Fifteen countries in the region have ratified the protocol. Finally, Argentina and Uruguay have similarly low levels of poverty. In 2006, 21 percent of Argentina’s and 18.5 percent of Uruguay’s population lived in poverty. The same year, 7.2 percent of Argentines and 3.2 percent of Uruguayans lived in extreme poverty.13 This comparison suggests that the countries have somewhat equal populations without the means to purchase water or to pay high water tariffs. Though controlling for these differences does not provide the freedom to draw definitive conclusions from evidence regarding other variables, it does limit the number of possible illustrative factors. Because key similarities have been identified, the differences explored in this paper provide a more plausible and precise set of explanatory tools. Four Hypotheses Regarding Water System Effectiveness

This paper seeks to address a central question: Why is Uruguay’s system of water provision more effective than Argentina’s? Whereas other studies have focused largely on private vs. public provision, this paper explores more detailed factors that contribute to overall effectiveness. While the public vs. private debate has some explanatory value,

examining this aspect alongside other variables provides a more thorough and precise analysis. This paper argues that there are four primary explanations for Uruguayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s greater water system effectiveness and produces four hypotheses regarding effective water provision. The first hypothesis is that if a country has specific legislation designating a centralized water resource management regulatory framework, its water system will be more effective than that of a country without a strong central water policy framework. Even in a decentralized system, a central framework is necessary for coordination between provinces or municipalities, dispute resolution, and policy enforcement. Strong national policies provide a regulatory mechanism to ensure policy continuity throughout the country. The second hypothesis is that a major crisis of water provision results in a change of the system or method of provision, but only with the caveats that the crisis represented a clear decline in levels of effectiveness, and that it became a widely recognized problem at the national level. Without these conditions, crisis will not necessarily coincide with change. A sharp decline in access to water is necessary to spur a collective public reaction great enough to produce reform, and the reaction must encompass enough of the countryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s population to necessitate a national legislative response. A prominent political economy hypothesis is that crisis situations can spur economic change. Different types of crises lead to different reforms, and there is much room for further studies with regard to this theory.14 Though scholars most often apply the theory to the effect of economic crisis on democratic reform or breakdown and liberalization, this hypothesis can be similarly applied to the case of water sector privatization or nationalization. There are notable cases of Latin American countries rejecting privatization and ousting private companies only after the situation deteriorated to such a low level that water provision became an issue of crisis. A prime example is Cochabamba, Bolivia. In 2000, citizens of Cochabamba responded to massive price hikes associated with the 1999 privatization of water. La Coordinadora, the alliance of organizations that led the protest, demanded

that responsibility for water provision be returned to the public sector. The government eventually agreed, revoking the private companyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s concession contract and reforming the national water law.15 In countries without an historical reluctance to adopt neoliberal policies, a water crisis may provide the impetus for reform. Thirdly, this study hypothesizes that a country with a constitutional guarantee of direct democracy mechanisms, coupled with a high level of transparency and a lack of corruption, is likely to have a more effective water system than a country without the means for direct democracy. Civil society has historically played an important role in water rights activism (as in the case of Bolivia). If a country has an institutionalized means for such groups to affect policy at the national level, they are likely to have a greater impact when representing the needs of the population. Traditional mechanisms of direct democracy are referendum, initiative, and recall, through which the population can influence legislation without the action of elected officials. If a country lacks such a path for direct democracy, civil society may have more difficulty achieving policy victories. However, the constitutional provision of direct democracy mechanisms is not sufficient for civil societyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s successful participation in policymaking; the mechanisms mean little if the government is not transparent or is corrupt and fails to recognize the results. For direct democracy to be regarded a true element of a countryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s policymaking process, there must be an historical precedent for its successful use. The final, more speculative, hypothesis is that strong political institutions, including congress, the judiciary, and the bureaucracy, creates an environment conducive to the development and enforcement of effective water policy legislation. Though previous studies have found a connection between high scores on these variables and overall policy quality, the evidence to support the connection with an effective water policy is less conclusive.16 This hypothesis requires further research, but its connection with other public policies makes it a promising consideration. Congressional strength is critical for legislative development, and a strong and independent judiciary is necessary for guaranteeing the enforcement of policies and contracts, and a weak judiciary contributes

to non-enforcement of public policies.17 Finally, the professionalism and competency of a country’s bureaucracy affects its ability to enforce policies, thereby influencing policy effectiveness.18 Without high scores on policy index measures across the various political institutions, a country’s policies are likely to be of low quality. III. LITERATURE REVIEW

Literature on the water policy is growing, but it focuses largely on quantitative comparisons of water system efficacy before and after privatization. Scholars are concerned with the question of whether or not privatization improves access to water, water system efficiency, water affordability, and environmental sustainability.19 Much of the literature also addresses the assumptions underlying neoliberal reform and the conditions that have led to the current rhetoric surrounding the water distribution discussion.20 Other authors focus on the immediate factors resulting in a change of water system, yet most fail to examine the underlying effects of political culture and civil society, both modern and historical. They fail to provide an analysis of water systems in Latin America that draws upon the relevant, fully developed institutional, social and political cultural context. A major deficiency in the current literature is a lack of an attempt to provide generalizable findings that would have policy implications for countries wishing to implement or bolster a human-rights-based water policy. Additionally, I have not found an example of a comparative case study using the method of difference to demonstrate such findings. There is no published study comparing Argentina and Uruguay’s water policies and systems. “Public Resistance to Privatization in Water and Energy,” by David Hall, Emanuele Lobina, and Robin de la Motte, is an exception to scholars’ tendency to touch on civil society and social factors as only a minor part of the discussion.21 In their article, these authors examine the success of opposition campaigns against private companies. They begin with an overview of the widespread public disenchantment with privatization and then delve further into three specific examples of successful opposition campaigns, in South Africa, Poland, and Paraguay. The authors also scrutinize the types of actors

that commonly comprise the opposition, the connection between political parties and privatization campaigns, and the institutions through which these groups work to achieve their goals. The authors conclude that civil society plays a major role in the antiprivatization agenda and can be successful even when confronting powerful international actors. This article is an excellent source of general information on the implications of civil society action against privatization, but it is limited in that it provides a broad global analysis with little focus on specific Latin American examples. As the format of the research is not case study analysis, this paper is not a vehicle for exploring the impact of social and political history on the development of these opposition movements. My study helps to fill this gap. Another important piece of research on the topic is Michael Goldman’s “How ‘Water for All’ Policy Became Hegemonic: The Power of the World Bank and Its Transnational Policy Networks.” Goldman discusses the factors that led to the institutionalization and implementation of privatization policy. This paper provides the international context that gave rise to the anti-privatization campaigns. The specific actors and institutions involved in the recent policy transformation help to explain the differing reactions of civil society actors in various Latin American countries. Goldman’s article provides an important piece of the historical context necessary for understanding the response to water privatization.22 Reclaiming Public Water is an important work concerning water policy because it

focuses on the human-rights-based side of the debate.23 It is comprised of individual case studies of successful campaigns for public water and the systems that have resulted. The book begins with a discussion of the need for public water and the failure of privatization schemes during the last decade of the 20th century. Uruguay’s campaign for a constitutional water referendum is later discussed as a case study. As one of the few works concerned specifically with public water campaigns and the need for water reform, this book stands out amongst the literature on the topic. The focus on the movements and processes leading up to water reform is similar to the aspect of my study that

considers civil society and the direct involvement of civilians in influencing government policy. However, the nature of this work is to provide a broad overview of the water reform efforts rather than to analyze any particular case in depth. My study further elaborates upon Uruguay’s reform process, considering institutional, cultural, and political factors that did not immediately lead to water reform but that may have paved the way. “Right to Water and Access to Water: An Assessment,” by P.B. Anand, is highly relevant to my study because it discusses the relationship between a legal right to water and water distribution, focusing primarily on the poor.24 Anand explores the impact of water policy and governance on improving access and discusses the obstacles to universal water access. Through comparative case studies, my research seeks to explore the differences between two states, one that has achieved universal water provision, and one that has not. My study also discusses governance and the institutional elements of water policy, but it considers other factors as well. Anand’s study is limited in that it touches on issues like accountability and voice but does not explore them in depth. The author uses specific cases as data points in his analysis, but they are more sketches than illustrations of his points. A more extensive study analyzing these cases in detail across the variables Anand discusses would be useful for determining what led to the outcomes he observes. “Against the Privatization of Water: An Indigenous Model for Improving Existing Laws and Successfully Governing the Commons,” by Paul Trawick, is a unique example of research that focuses on the impact of indigenous customs and identity politics on the water policy debate. The author describes an alternative model of water governance, based on the traditions of indigenous Andean cultures, that still exists in small communities today. The research focuses on the Peruvian example, though Trawick stresses its potential application across Latin America and other parts of the world. The discussion of indigenous laws and customs and the flaws in the present model as applied to parts of Latin America is relevant to my research, but much of Trawick’s article is highly technical in nature.25

Various country case studies will also provide useful in my research. On such text, “‘El Agua es de Todos/Water for All’: Water resources and development in Uruguay,” by Javier Taks, provides a brief analysis of the successful water reform effort in Uruguay, including the influence of social movements.26 It is limited, however, both in scope (it lacks details and does not provide much background information) and in the fact that it does not seek to break down and explain Uruguay’s success or to assess policy implications with regard to other Latin American countries. A final category of literature with important implications for my research discusses policymaking and political institutions in Argentina and Uruguay. These works are case studies that explore the institutions, legislative framework, and power structure that shape policy outcomes. This knowledge directly relates to water policy by outlining the processes through which the current systems came to be and how they are maintained. “Political Institutions, Policymaking Processes, and Policy Outcomes: The Case of Uruguay,” by Mario Bergara, looks at the social, political, institutional, and cultural factors that influence policymaking. The discussion of public policies makes it particularly relevant to my research on water provision, and the author makes direct reference to processes relating to privatization.27 “Argentina: Political Institutions, Policymaking Processes, and Policy Outcomes,” by E. Stein and M. Tomassi, provides a similar framework for Argentina’s political processes.28 Like Bergara’s work, this study emphasizes public policies, focusing on why they have been historically ineffective. This literature, while not specifically relating to water policy issues, is critical for the political and institutional aspect of my research question. Though there are no studies that use the structure and methodology through which I will approach my research question, there are numerous works that touch on specific aspects of my study. My study seeks to synthesize these different angles, producing a work that discusses the interplay between institutional, political, social, historical and cultural factors and how this interaction resulted in the current water system. My analysis will contribute to the present literature a more policy-relevant study. On the ground,

policymaking is a complicated process with an infinite number of contributing variables, and very little can be explained by isolating and examining only one at a time. IV. REPORT OF FINDINGS ON WATER SYSTEM EFFECTIVENESS

Uruguay is a case of greater water system effectiveness than Argentina, performing better in the areas of accountability, efficiency, public health and equality. Neither country performs well in the realm of sustainability, and both will therefore be considered poor in this area. In terms of accountability, Uruguay is not perfect but outperforms Argentina. There is some overlap in the functions carried out by the institutions involved in water and sanitation services in Uruguay, but Argentina represents a much more extreme case. Due to provincial control and regulation of water services, the ministries involved in water provision in Argentina vary widely among regions and provinces and lack adequate cooperation and communication both among and within provinces. Whereas Uruguayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s water and sanitation institutions are national entities with adequate designation of roles and responsibilities, Argentinaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s are fragmented bodies with poorly divided responsibilities and functions. Even at the national level, there are multiple agencies that participate in water provision, including the Undersecretariat of Water Resources, the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the Secretariat of Agriculture, Livestock, Fisheries, and Food, the Secretariat of Energy, the Secretariat of Environment and Sustainable Development, and others.29 Without a clear definition of the responsibilities of each agency involved, both national and provincial, these organizations have communication and coordination problems as well as a general of dilution of responsibilities.30 This general dysfunction leads to problems with policy implementation and enforcement, yet it is difficult to isolate the agencies responsible for the deficiencies. The result is an accountability crisis, as problems cannot be traced to specific actors. In Uruguay, a smaller number of agencies are involved in water provision due to the national control of water resource management, making the identification of roles and

responsibilities throughout the country an easier task. Different bodies (to be enumerated in section V) carry out policy definition, regulation, and operation, and though resource allocation and responsibility designation are not without flaw, the World Bank notes significant improvements since the 2004 reforms.31 However, the World Bank also describes a need for even greater separation of responsibilities between URSEA, the regulator, and DINASA, the agency responsible for policy creation.32 The water provider, OSE (Obras Sanitarias del Estado), adopted an official strategic vision in 2005, designed to designate and implement programs and projects that will improve accountability through increasing the transparency of decision-making and actions.33 In summary, progress is being made in Uruguayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s water sector in terms of accountability and responsibility designation, but there remains work to be done. Even so, the situation in Uruguay is much clearer and more transparent than in Argentina, where there has been little effort to eliminate confusion regarding roles and responsibilities in the water sector. Water system efficiency is superior in Uruguay but is not without room for improvement. OSE generates enough revenue to cover the costs of maintenance and operations, but this is not the case for the sanitation sector. Cross-subsidization is necessary to balance sanitation sector losses, but overall, water services do not create a deficit.34 Though the efficiency of operations has improved over the last decade, the World Bank reports that work remains to be done, especially in the realm of unaccounted for water (UFW), which was still as high as 56 percent in 2006. UFW levels observed in the regionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most efficient companies fall within the range of 20 to 35 percent.35 UFW is the difference between the amount of water produced (or consumed) and the amount of water charged to all customers. This is sometimes referred to as non-revenue water, because the water companies do not profit from its loss. UFW occurs primarily through underground leakage, unauthorized use (or the creation of illegal connections to water lines), unavoidable leakage, and inaccurate water meters.36 More positively, revenue collection rates in Uruguay, or the percentage of billed water for which the water providers are compensated, are very high. Average collection rates were 93% in 2003 and are improving.37 Though efficiency varies widely from region to region in Argentina

and is therefore difficult to measure at a broad level, efficiency is generally poor due to collection rates as low as 57 percent (in the Catamarca province) and levels of UFW higher than 50 percent in many provinces. Unlike OSE in Uruguay, the water providers in many Argentine provinces fail to recover costs of service provision and therefore finance operations with loans and carry heavy debt loads.38 Though water and sanitation services do not pose a public health threat in Uruguay, water quality tests reveal problems in Argentina. A 2005 Inter-American Development Bank report found unsafe levels of arsenic and nitrate contaminants in groundwater resources as well as unacceptable levels of naturally occurring arsenic and fluoride in some provinces, due partially to poor infrastructure maintenance.39 In 2004, the water in seven districts of Greater Buenos Aires was deemed unfit for human consumption due to nitrate levels three times higher than acceptable,40 and a 2009 study published in the Journal of Environmental and Public Health found levels of arsenic exceeding World Health Organization guidelines in 97 percent

of samples taken from the Southern Pampa Plains region.41 Water quality monitoring in Uruguay, however, demonstrates achievement of health and sanitation standards, and the country is free of cholera and other waterborne diseases.42 In terms of equality of services throughout the country, Uruguay is highly successful while Argentina lags. In 2000, more than 98% of the Uruguayan population had access to drinking water services, including 93% of the rural population. In the same year, 79% of Argentina’s population was provided with water services, but this figure drops to just 30% of people living in rural areas.43 Uruguay’s sanitation system is also more efficient than Argentina’s, but both countries experience more problems with sanitation than with drinking water coverage. Approximately 97 percent of Uruguay’s population has access to adequate sanitation, though this figure drops to 56.5 percent when restricted to those with household connections (based on figures from 2007.44 In 2000, 84 percent of Argentina’s population had access to sanitation services, but this includes only 48 percent of the rural population. The same year, only 55 percent of the urban population had household connections.45 Despite the large overall percentage of people with access to sanitation,

the percentage of those receiving adequate service is much lower. According to a 2010 report commissioned by the Office of the UN High Commissioner on Human Rights, only 43 percent of the Argentine population has access to adequate sanitation services.46 Sustainability is a challenge that both countries face and will continue to face as demand grows and resources shrink. In Argentina, contamination from industrial waste affects many major water resources. Pollution is amplified by the lack of sewage treatment, making domestic waste the second major contributor to water resource degradation. Only 10 percent of wastewater is treated in Argentina, representing a major problem throughout the country. This deficiency is especially detrimental in terms of pollution and water resource degradation.47 In the Buenos Aires Metropolitan Area, for example, untreated sewage is dumped into the Rio de la Plata, less than three kilometers from the source of much of the regionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s drinking water. 48 Though Uruguay treats 77 percent of its wastewater,49 it experiences problems with the sustainable disposal of the sludge that results from the potabilization process. The chemical engineering institute at the University of the Republic, Uruguayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s largest university, has been working to solve this problem and to develop sustainable solutions for agrowaste treatment.50 Though measures are being taken to address these problems, current performance in the realm of sustainability represents a challenge that has implications for future ability to supply quality access to drinking water in both countries. V. CASE STUDY: URUGUAY

In contrast to many Latin American countries, Uruguayans have historically maintained widespread access to quality water resources. Obras Sanitarias del Estado (OSE), the central public water company, was created in 1952 and assumed control of drinking water and the sewage system throughout the country (except in Montevideo, which fell under the responsibility of the Intendencia Municipal). Beginning in this period, connections to the public water line reached 97% of the urban population.51 Countries like Bolivia, El Salvador, and Mexico have experienced chronic water distribution problems, and less than 20% of people have access to adequate sanitation throughout the region as a whole.52 As

the most economically unequal region in the world, it is not surprising that Latin America experiences similar inequality with regard to resource distribution. Uruguayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s water allocation likewise follows the trend of its overall inequality, which was represented by a Gini Coefficient of .45 in 2006,53 much lower than the regional average of .552.54 The following case study analysis will demonstrate that Uruguayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s strong central water policy framework, its failed privatization scheme, its experience with direct democracy, and, less conclusively, the strength of and balance between its political institutions, all contributed to the effectiveness of the current water system. Presence of a Strong Central Water Policy Framework

Unlike Argentina, Uruguay has a strong central institutional and legal framework with regard to water policy, providing the basis for an organized and cooperative water system that supplies services uniformly throughout the country. Whereas water policy in Argentina is primarily at the discretion of the provinces, water governance in Uruguay is designated by a series of laws providing for control and oversight by a number of national regulatory bodies and institutions. The Water Code, in Law 14.859, was legislated in December of 1978 and updated in May of 1979. It establishes the executive branch as the authority on water provision, and gives the ministry of the central government the right to supervise, monitor and regulate activities related to water use.55 The next major change with regard to water provision occurred in 2004, with the passing of a constitutional amendment against water privatization. The amendment made significant alterations to water law in Uruguay. First and foremost, it designates water as a fundamental human right and excludes private companies from participation in water service provision. It further states that water management should be based on citizen participation and sustainability.56 The amendment called for a greater coherence within Uruguayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s water policy, designed to uniformly reflect the ideals of universality, citizen participation, and sustainability. The new mandates led to the immediate development of legislation and agencies designed to translate the reforms into action. One such

development was Decree 305, passed in 2004, which defines the roles of the various institutions involved in water resources and their regulation.57 This decree represented an important step towards alleviating the problem of “inconsistent, incoherent, and unsustainable policies” that had plagued Uruguay’s water sector for decades.58 As established by Decree 305, water management in Uruguay is divided between three ministries, two national services, two institutes, and a services regulation unit. The ministries are DINAMA (National Environment Directorate), responsible for water quality regulation; DINASA (National Water and Sanitation Directorate), responsible for water policies; and DNH (National Hydrography Board), which oversees issues relating to water availability.59 DINAMA supervises, evaluates, and designs plans for environmental protection and natural resource preservation. In terms of issues relating to water, it carries out water quality monitoring to determine water safety and has the power to designate bodies of water needing special protection for a variety of reasons, including ecological relevance, recreation, irrigation, or for their use as a source of drinking water. Established in 2005, DINASA’s role is to “formulate and propose policies to the executive branch with respect to the administration and protection of water resources,” including the “management of drinking water and sewage system services, contemplating their extension and goals for universalising them, priority criteria, the level of services and required investment and their financing system, and the efficiency and quality envisioned.” It will additionally “propose a normative mark in order to avoid the involvement of and competitive role by multiple state actors, realising the participation of users and of civil society in all levels of planning, management and control.”60 Though specific roles and responsibilities have not been fully designated, DINASA’s purpose is to ensure that policies are uniform throughout the country and fully reflect the principles of public and universal provision that are central to the recent amendment. The ministry was charged with developing a clearly defined water law, including a legal and regulatory framework for the entire water sector, which will address water supply, sanitation, and resource management.61 DNH is part of DINASA (though it was created in the 1980s),

and manages 103 monitoring stations throughout the country. It primarily measures the surface area of the water basins, the average flow, and the availability of surface waters.62 The national services involved in water management are UTE and OSE. UTE, the National Administration of Power Plants and Electric Transmissions, was created in 1912 as the state provider of electricity to all citizens of Uruguay. Because hydroelectricity is important in Uruguay, UTE is highly connected with water services, and is even regulated by URSEA, the same institute that regulates the water sector.63 OSE, the potable water services company, was established in 1952 to provide water and sewerage services throughout the country, with exception of Montevideo. With the exception of the brief period of privatization in the 1990s and early 2000s, OSE has remained the provider of water services throughout the country. OSE’s water comes from a variety of resources, primarily aquifers (28% of potable water), and surface water resources (72%). As of 2006, OSE was operating 98 potabilization plants throughout Uruguay.64 The existence of a public company that supplies water to users throughout the country is significant because it makes truly uniform access a real possibility. Regardless of province or region, public access depends on the functioning of the same company, and regulators have only to assess and measure the success of one entity. Because data comes primarily from one source, comparison between areas is simpler than if water were managed regionally or provincially, as in Argentina. LATU and INIA are the two national institutes charged with water services. LATU (Technology Laboratory of Uruguay), is working with OSE to enhance the company’s environmental management by creating an information system that fosters more accurate monitoring and response to environmental issues.65 INIA, the National Institute of Agriculture, works with the water sector on water provision for agricultural use. It advises on managing climaterelated challenges; problems resulting from drought and drought management; and the response to extreme climate events that threaten the agricultural sector. 66 The service regulation unit of Uruguay’s water system is URSEA, the Regulator of Energy and Water Services. Before the 1990s, the public utilities had full control over their

respective sectors, and it was not until 1997 that the Uruguayan Parliament created an independent regulator for a service sector (the power sector). In 2002, as part of a continued effort to separate policymaking, regulation, and operation in the public services, Parliament created URSEA, giving it regulatory power over both the energy and the water sectors. URSEA is autonomous and decentralized, reporting directly to the executive. Its functions include: protecting consumer rights and resolving consumer complaints; defining quality and providing safety regulations; examining tariff proposals and presenting them to the president; overseeing OSEâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s compliance with norms and regulations; and promoting competition and transparency by disseminating information and communicating with the public.67 URSEA has, until recently, focused on the energy sector, but its regulatory control over water and sanitation is developing. A final agency involved in water provision and regulation in Uruguay is COASAS, the Advising Commission on Water and Sanitation, created after the 2004 reforms. Its purpose is to assist with the incorporation of water sector policies into the various ministries and institutions involved, as well as inter-institutional cooperation within the water sector.68 This role is particularly important, as the 2004 water reform resulted in a new organizational model for the water system and the creation of new rules and institutions. COASAS and the other recently created agencies and institutions were designed to address the Uruguayan water sectorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s historical weakness in the realm of policy formulation. The weak institutional structure that persisted since the 1950s was not addressed earlier because it did not pose a major threat to water provision. Despite its inefficiencies, 80% of consumers were satisfied with the services provided by OSE.69 The new organization of the water sector has already enhanced operational efficiency by improving the rationale behind resource allocation, and separating the responsibilities for policy definition, regulation, and operation. Public services in Uruguay have historically retained immense political power due to their positions as national monopolies and their control of more than one third of national GDP.70 The fact that the OSE was also able to provide consistently high quality service to nearly the entire population contributed to its

widespread public support. However, the recent reform efforts spurred changes designed to streamline the sector and strengthen its ability to weather economic crises and periods of government deficit. The fact that responsibility for water and sanitation services is designated by a central policy framework makes this process easier and the results more uniform throughout the country. History of Failed Privatization Schemes

The poor performance of the private water companies given concessions by the government in the 1990s catalyzed the 2004 constitutional amendment and water reforms. Whereas in Argentina complaints regarding private provision remained localized to the various provinces and private provision did not always represent a clear decline in services, the companies’ poor performance became a national issue in Uruguay, with citizens responding to a severe decline in service quality. This crisis of water provision spurred the development of the CNDAV, the organization responsible for the passing of the 2004 referendum. The privatization crisis was, therefore, one of the immediate factors that catalyzed water reform and institutionalized the principle of universal access in Uruguay. In the 1990s, Uruguay, like many other Latin American countries, including Argentina, began to offer concession contracts to private companies for the provision of public services. Consistent with the theory that crisis spurs economic change, the decision to overhaul the public water system that had been in place since 1952 followed a period of economic downturn. Uruguay’s economy, reliant upon a small number of exports and therefore vulnerable to fluctuations in international prices and trade partner buying, was ill-prepared for Argentina’s 2001 crisis.71 The resulting shift in regional trade caused Uruguay’s economy to shrink by 10 percent, and “unemployment soared to a record high of nearly 20 percent, exports plunged to levels last seen during the 1973-1985 military dictatorship, wages plummeted and the country’s foreign reserves virtually dried up.”72 Like many Latin American leaders during the last quarter of the 20th century, Uruguay’s president, Jorge Luis Batlle, was committed to the principles of market liberalization and

the Washington Consensus, which the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund supported and encouraged. The Uruguayan government awarded the first concession contract in the water sector in 1998 to the company Aguas de la Costa, a subsidiary of Aguas de Barcelona and the French company Suez Lyonnaise, in the small Manantiales neighborhood of the Maldonado province. In 2000, the Spanish company Aguas de Bilbao received a concession under the name URAGUA for water provision throughout the rest of the province. The move toward privatization was spurred by a combination of the government’s perception that neither it nor OSE could afford to meet increasing demand while maintaining high quality services, and encouragement from the World Bank and the IMF. The World Bank provided Uruguay with a loan in 1999 to facilitate the entry of private companies into the water sector, and in 2002, the IMF signed a letter of intent with the government that specified a timeline for further privatizing the water and sanitation sector. 73 On June 18, 2002, Batlle’s administration wrote a Letter of Intent to the IMF, in which the government committed to opening “to private initiative activities previously reserved for the public sector” and “bringing forward the introduction of new regulatory frameworks in several areas including for electricity, telecommunications, water and sewage, railroad, transportation, etc.,” while also “speeding up the granting of concessions to the private sector.” In terms of water and sanitation, the document proposed “new quality standards and controls to facilitate private sector investment.”74 The following year, Uruguay received a $151.52 million structural adjustment loan from the World Bank, with water privatization as a key condition. The report issued with the loan described the problems with Uruguay’s water sector, paying special attention to OSE’s failings, and calling it “one of the most inefficient major water and sewerage companies in the region.”75 At the time of these loans, the government had already signed a concession contract with URAGUA, a subsidiary of three Spanish water companies, for the Maldonado province. The

World Bank approved of the company’s performance regarding the 48,000 connections served, and wanted to facilitate a similar model of private management throughout the country. Other organizations, however, saw the situation less favorably, noting the 700 percent rate hikes in comparison to the rest of the country. Both Public Services International (PSI) and Friends of the Earth International reported on the situation in Maldonado province, citing limited access for those sectors of the population that could not afford the costs, a failure to meet basic quality standards, and a failure to comply with the contractual agreements as major failings of the private company.76 Even the Global Water Partnership (GWP), a pro-privatization organization, concluded that “criticisms over inadequate tariffs, inefficient service, and more recently problems with the quality of water supplied, make this a very bad example of privatized concession.”77 The public noticed increasing rates, denial of services to the poorest families, the drying of reservoirs, decreasing water quality, and the private company’s failure to fulfill the requirements of its concession contract. 78 In response, the National Commission in Defense of Water and Life (CNDAV) formed in 2002. Four preexisting organizations came together to create the CNDAV: a citizen committee from Canelones, a target for further privatization initiatives; the trade union of OSE, the public water company; a grassroots organization from the territory whose water provision had been turned over to Aguas de la Costa; and an environmental NGO linked with Friends of the Earth International. Its base of supporters gradually expanded to include students and intellectuals as well as more than 50 small and medium-sized organizations. The CNDAV’s primary goal was to collect the 300,000 signatures needed to put on the ballot a constitutional referendum against privatization, which it hoped to accomplish by the 2004 election. It succeeded, and on October 31, 2004, the public approved the referendum with 64.6 percent voting in favor.79 The text of the referendum asserts that “access to drinkable water and access to sewerage, constitute fundamental human rights,” and that “the public service of sewerage and the public service of water [supply] for human consumption, will be served exclusively and directly by state legal persons.”80

In contrast to the case of Argentina, the privatization scheme in Uruguay brought about obvious declines in water system effectiveness, a condition necessary to spur reform. The previously functioning system suddenly failed to meet the needs of the population as a whole, and consumers noticed. The poor, who were once provided water by the government, were denied service when they could not afford the increasingly high tariffs. Furthermore, the poor quality of the water itself became a national health risk for all citizens. Quality control institutions issued warnings advising citizens to avoid drinking tap water because it no longer met basic health standards.81 Another key factor that helped make the privatization crisis a catalyst for reform was that citizens throughout Uruguay became aware of the problem. Awareness was not limited to Maldonado province, where the primary problems were concentrated. More than 50 organizations comprised the CNDAV by the time of the 2004 election, and the group successfully collected the more than 300,000 signatures, representing about 10 percent of the population, required to put the referendum on the ballot. Maldonado has only about 148,000 residents, less than five percent of the total population, meaning the majority of the signatures came from outside the province.82 In Uruguay, the failed privatization scheme directly influenced the development of Uruguayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s current water system and legal framework. The CNDAV formed in response to privatization, and the actions of the CNDAV institutionalized the basic principles of universal access and ensured the long-term establishment of a human-rights-based water policy framework. The changes described in the preceding section that have led to improvements in water policy, including the reorganization of the sector and the development of new agencies charged with carrying out policy reforms, directly resulted from the CNDAVâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s response to public dissatisfaction with private control of water and sanitation services; however, these changes would not have taken place without the influence of Uruguayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s political institutions, and the institutional mechanisms that allowed the CNDAV to make the impact it did.

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The Presence or Absence of an Institutionalized Means for Civil Society to Influence Society

Whereas direct democracy is rarely a feature of Argentine policymaking, Uruguay uses direct democracy mechanisms more than any other country in Latin America, providing an institutionalized means for civil society to influence policy.83 These mechanisms provided the means through which the CNDAV achieved water reform success in 2004. Without the constitutional provision of referendum, water reform would not necessarily have appeared on the 2004 ballot. Direct democracy mechanisms provide citizens with the opportunity to influence policy and the policymaking process directly, rather than through elections and elected officials. These mechanisms can be top-down, initiated by political agents, or bottom-up, initiated by the citizens themselves. The former include binding and non-binding plebiscites, and the latter include binding and non-binding initiatives, referenda, and petitions.84 The use of direct democracy can be used as an indicator of a stateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s respect for democratic principles, as these mechanisms wrest control from the government and allow the public to voice its opinion in a manner (theoretically) not dominated by electoral politics. However, a counterargument voiced by some political scholars is that economic players or powerful social groups could potentially manipulate direct democracy for their benefit, producing results not indicative of the public interest and thereby posing a threat to representative democracy.85 In Uruguay, however, historical referenda and plebiscites passed have generally reflected the results of public opinion polls. The 2004 water referendum against privatization, for example, occurred in the context of a constituency with the secondmost-negative view of privatization in Latin America, and the lowest endorsement of the free-market economy.86 The one instance in which a military government attempted to use a constitutional referendum to extend its power and limit the roles of the General Assembly and political parties resulted in public rejection of the measure in 1980.87

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The first sign of direct democracy in Uruguay occurred in 1917 as a result of reforms initiated by President Batlle. Influenced by European political thought, Batlle pushed for the use of plebiscite to guard against state corruption. He writes, â&#x20AC;&#x153;I remembered that by our Constitution of 1830, we were constantly exposed to the bad luck of having a president of dubious intentions and with the sum of the really extraordinary faculties that our Constitution grants to him. That this person was free to take everything, to devastate the institutions and to sink the country in the most dark of the dictatorships.88 The changes initiated by Battle were incorporated into various constitutional reforms between 1917 and 1967, but the Constitution of 1967 spelled out the direct democracy mechanisms that apply in Uruguayan politics today. It categorized mechanisms by referendum, initiative, or revocation of laws and specified that 10 percent of the electorate must support a constitutional reform while 25 percent of the electorate must sign in order to pass a referendum. Uruguay is the most frequent user of direct democracy mechanisms in Latin America, and one of the most prominent in the world.89 As of 2003, there were thirty-four instances in Uruguayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s history of a vote initiated through top-down, bottom-up, or constitutionally required plebiscites, referenda, or initiatives.90 This stands in stark contrast to the vast majority of Latin American countries, which either lack direct democracy mechanisms, have yet to utilize them, or have employed only top-down mechanisms. Of the sixteen Latin American countries with constitutional provision for direct democracy mechanisms, only eleven have applied them. Argentina legally recognizes the existence of some direct democracy mechanisms, but their use has been very limited compared to the case of Uruguay. Both countries legally recognize top-down plebiscites, but this procedure is not in use in Argentina. However, Argentina and not Uruguay has top-down non-binding plebiscites, though this method has been used only once since 1978. In terms of bottomup procedures, Argentina has binding and non-binding initiatives, though neither has been put to use. Uruguay has binding initiatives, which have been used five times since 1978. It lacks non-binding initiatives, but has the use of referenda, a process utilized 6 times between 1978 and 2002.91

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The direct democracy mechanisms recognized in Uruguay are national and sub-national referenda, the popular initiative, and the constitutional referendum (plebiscito). The process of referendum is used to repeal or abrogate laws at or below the national level, and must be initiated within one year of the lawâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s passing. It can similarly be used against a decree passed by a sub-national assembly. However, this mechanism is not valid against initiatives restricted to the executive or against tax laws. Popular initiative is the right of the people to put forward new constitutional, legal, or municipal regulations or to oppose a decree passed by the Junta Departamental. The constitutional referendum is the last stage of constitutional reform, following the popular initiative, in which the electorate votes to approve or reject a constitutional reform. The reform must pass with greater than fifty percent approval and there must be a voter turnout of at least thirty-five percent of those eligible to represent a valid change to the Constitution.92 To initiate the process of referendum, twenty-five percent of the electorate must sign a petition, but only ten percent must support a popular initiative in order to call for a constitutional referendum (the CNDAV used the latter).93 The executive branch, the legislative branch, or the electorate may initiate referenda and plebiscitos. Uruguay is the only country in Latin America in which citizens have used a popular initiative to begin the process of constitutional reform, a precedent that undoubtedly paved the way for the 2004 water referendum. However, civil society has not always played a major role in direct democracy mechanisms, which in the past were primarily used by political parties as a tool to promote a specific agenda. For example the 1992 referendum to overturn a law privatizing the state telephone company was dominated by a coalition of left-wing parties working with the labor unions representing telephone workers. The 2003 referendum to repeal the same law received similar support from political parties.94 The water referendum is an example of one of only a few instances in which civil society actors drove the reform process. In Uruguay, political institutions make it possible for civil society to shape policy outcomes, and the results show greater success than in other Latin American countries. Even so, party agendas can dominate the mechanisms of direct democracy, and the 2004 referendum

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is nevertheless a unique achievement. The success of the CNDAV and the reform effort cannot be attributed solely to the opportunity for direct civil society involvement in the political process, but it certainly played an important role in the achievement of constitutional reform. Strength of Political Institutions

Uruguay has stronger political institutions than Argentina, which contributes to a more effective legislative framework with regards to water policy and greater policy enforcement. According to a World Bank conference report on developing economics, “legislatures that have sound policymaking capabilities, judiciaries that are independent, and bureaucracies that are strong” facilitate good policymaking.95 The relationship between these elements and overall policy quality and the fact that Uruguay scores far better on these measures than does Argentina suggests a promising connection with water policy. However, evidence directly linking institutional strength and water policy quality is limited, and further research is necessary to firmly establish this connection. As a result, the political institutional factor is more speculative than the previous three explanations, but it is important to consider. The policy index reflects a country’s scores on key components of quality public policies, including stability, adaptability, coordination and coherence, quality of implementation and enforcement, public regard and efficiency.96 Uruguay outscores Argentina in terms of policy index measures by a wide margin: 2.34 to 1.85 out of a possible four points.97 These policy features apply broadly to a country’s public policies, but are also relevant to water policy specifically. Uruguay’s water policy demonstrates stability, or predicted stability due to OSE’s almost fifty years of nearly universal coverage before the privatization scheme; adaptability, reflected in the legislative and institutional changes that followed the 2004 referendum; an acceptable level of coordination and coherence, which has been improving recently with a greater effort to define and divide the responsibilities of the various water policy agencies and institutions; a high quality of implementation and enforcement,

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evidenced by the consistently high levels of service coverage throughout the country; high public regard the key feature of a system that prioritizes universal access; and reasonable levels of efficiency (see section IV for a full evaluation of water system effectiveness in Uruguay). The strength of Uruguay’s political institutions may contribute to Uruguay’s higher quality water policy. Uruguay consistently outscores Argentina on individual measures of political institutional strength, in terms of the congressional index, judicial independence, and the quality of the bureaucracy. Evaluations of a country’s national congress have particularly significant implications for policy quality, as the legislature is the sphere of policy negotiation and institutionalization. In Uruguay, the national congress plays an important role in water policy implementation and formulation. It carries out political decisions, for example, the adoption of the 2004 water referendum, and establishes committees to address new laws and regulations, as well as those needing to be modernized.98 The new institutions created in the wake of the water reform are clear examples of Uruguay’s congressional responsiveness and capability. Within less than two years, Congress passed Decree 305, to facilitate improved institutional regulation of water resources, and created DINASA, the ministry currently in the process of formulating a national water law that reflects the values of the constitutional referendum. The immediate implementation at the legislative level of the constitutional changes demonstrates the coordination and coherence of Uruguay’s political institutions, and their ability to respond efficiently and effectively to public demand. Uruguay’s congress aids in the production of quality public policies across the board, not exclusively in the water sector. On measures of congressional capability, Uruguay scores 2.5 out of 3, the second highest in Latin America. The strength of its committees is ranked high, and the effectiveness of law-making bodies is third highest in the region and significantly higher than Argentina’s.99 Ernesto Stein and Mariano Tomassi found a statistically significant positive correlation between a country’s congressional capability index and its policy index, even after controlling for per capita income and other institutional variables (i.e. judicial independence, incentives of the president, etc.).100

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Uruguay also scores high on measures of judicial independence, which is critical for the stability and enforcement of public policies. In terms of the water sector, the Ministry of the Environment guarantees that issues involving natural resources have expedited access to due process.101 The courts uphold water and environmental legislation. The role of the Supreme Court is to ensure that the Executive does not exercise unilateral power without consulting congress, and that neither congress nor the executive violates the constitution. Stein and Tomassi also find a strong positive correlation between judicial independence and policy quality.102 The judiciary in Uruguay is highly respected and has a history of professionalism and independence from other political actors. This is partially attributable to the fact that Supreme Court appointments require a vote of two-thirds of the Senate, which guards against manipulation by competing political parties. On measures of judicial independence, Uruguay scores 4.8 out of a possible 7, the highest in the region and three points higher than Argentina.104 The quality of a country’s bureaucracy is another important institutional predictor of the quality of public policies. Despite the lingering effects of Uruguay’s clientelistic political past, bureaucratic professionalism is much higher within public enterprises than within central government agencies. State enterprises, OSE included, have traditionally enjoyed high levels of autonomy. OSE’s consumer satisfaction rating of 80 percent, in addition to the achievement of universal access throughout the country, confirms that the bureaucracy implements policy that reflects the needs of the public.105 The bureaucracy’s role is to participate in the process of implementing policies with the public in mind, resisting political opportunism and other interests. While Uruguay scores higher than Argentina on the Weberian scale, a measure of bureaucratic professionalism, its score is still quite low, even within the region. Uruguay scores 4.5 on the “Weberianness Scale,” higher than Argentina’s score of 3.8, but lower than Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Costa Rica, and Mexico.106 Bureaucratic weakness in Uruguay developed largely because Uruguay’s political parties emerged before the presence of a strong state, and the bureaucracy was created in the context of political patronage and clientelism.107 Even so, the unique situation within public enterprises protects the water sector from suffering the full effects of a weak bureaucracy.

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The World Bank recently evaluated Uruguay’s water system and policy structure and found that there have been improvements since the 2004 reforms. The referendum changed the nature of water provision in Uruguay, and the government responded with legislation consistent with these changes. Less than a year after the reform passed, Congress had approved the creation of multiple new water policy institutions with clear regulatory and policy responsibilities. These institutions have been created and are making progress in the realm of water policy, reflecting a legislative responsiveness and enforcement capacity in Uruguay than Argentina lacks. The role of the judiciary in this process is a potential realm of future research, as is a full evaluation of the water sector’s bureaucratic capabilities. VI. CASE STUDY: ARGENTINA

Like Uruguay, Argentina is rich with water resources. More than 85 percent of the country’s resources, however, are concentrated in the La Plata River basin, and 76 percent of Argentina’s territory has an arid and semi-arid climate. Though the majority of economic activity and most of the population is centered in the provinces located within the La Plata River basin, the 10 percent of the populace living in rural areas faces a water distribution problem. Water consumption within the country is highly unequal, with people in the Buenos Aires Metropolitan Area consuming an average of 383 liters per person per day in 2005 while those in some provinces consume less than the annual minimum water stress value of 1000 m3 per person. Consumption varies widely even within the Metropolitan Area.108 While overall coverage in Buenos Aires is estimated at 99.8 percent, some districts, like Merlo, have less than 40 percent water coverage and only 20 percent sewerage coverage.109 The size and varying geography and population density of the country, coupled with a decentralized and heterogeneous water sector, create a pattern of unequal and disorganized water and sanitation service provision in Argentina. The sector is wrought with inefficiencies and ineffective regulatory mechanisms, which impede progress in terms of service expansion and policy advancement.

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During Argentina’s colonial period, water and sanitation services (WSS) fell under private control. In 1912, the government nationalized the service, creating the stateowned company OSN (Obras Sanitarias de la Nación). OSN remained the national provider of WSS until the 1980s, when the military government under Videla transferred responsibility to provincial governments, except in Buenos Aires, which continued to be served by OSN. Provincial institutions and government-run companies were largely responsible for service provision, although some cases saw further decentralization to municipalities or users’ cooperatives.110 This gave the provinces and local governments the freedom to choose their own models of service provision, and is the basis for the decentralized system that remains in place today. Presence of a Strong Central Water Policy Framework

Whereas Uruguay has a strong centralized water policy framework, Argentina does not. As a result, the different ministries and institutions in charge of water resources overlap, lack distinct responsibilities, and have little interagency cooperation. Water management in Uruguay occurs primarily at the national level, but provincial authorities are heavily involved in water resources and services in Argentina. Political, fiscal, and policy decentralization are key features of the government, and this characteristic is powerfully illustrated by the fact that sub-national spending comprises 49 percent of total government spending in Argentina.111 The primary theory behind decentralization as a positive influence in a democratic society is that local governments are more accountable to the needs and demands of their citizens. While there are numerous examples of success on these grounds, decentralization does not automatically equate to effective policymaking, but rather depends upon the institutional design of policy.112 Even decentralized systems require a central framework to guarantee coordination, legislative systematization, and the mechanisms of conflict resolution.113 Analyses of Argentina’s institutional framework surrounding water management share the common finding that fragmentation and a lack of coordination and cooperation between agencies plagues the sector and causes, according to a World Bank report, “an inevitable

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overlapping of missions and functions involving more than two agencies answerable to different Ministries or Secretariats, with consequent uncertainty in the processing of concrete issues.â&#x20AC;?114 A large part of the lack of coordination in the water sector can be explained by the absence of a national water law. The various provinces have chosen different models for water resource management, involving a diverse range of institutions. This framework is described in Article 121 of the Constitution, which states that â&#x20AC;&#x153;provinces hold all power not delegated to the Federal Government by this Constitution.â&#x20AC;?115 Legislators and the executive have submitted various proposals for a national law since the adoption of Article 41 of the Constitution in 1994, but were never met with sufficient support for their implementation. Article 41, adopted in 1994, provides for the national government to set regulations regarding minimum requirements on issues relating to resource management; however, this article has not been put to use, and water policy continues to be legislated independently by each province with little regulation by national and federal level laws. The current national legislative water framework is comprised of rules and laws in the Civil, Commerce, Mining and Penal Codes as well as federal laws that directly and indirectly relate to water governance, but there is no clear piece of national legislation. 117 The provinces set their own criteria for resource allocation, conditions of use, water concessions, dispute resolution, and water rates.118 As is true of the national water policy structure, provincial legislation is not systematized, and myriad agencies and authorities operate within an uncertain and ill-defined legal framework. The institutions involved in water management lack clear responsibilities, resulting in frequent overlap in function on one hand, and gaps and a lack of initiative in particular areas on the other. The sector is wrought with inefficiency, yet resources are simultaneously underutilized in some areas due to a lack of communication among agencies. Disputes among regulatory bodies over jurisdiction are common, but the legal system is not conducive to a well-regulated and cooperative provincial water sector.119 The absence of clear national jurisdiction over the provinces exacerbates the organizational incapacity. COFEMA, the Federal Council on the

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Environment, designates the power of the national authority to convene provinces. However, not all provinces adhere to the Federal Environmental Pact and commit themselves to COFEMAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s regulation, and others do not participate actively due to a lack of incentive.120 Though decentralization does not preclude the possibility of an efficient public sector, Argentinaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s institutional framework lacks the critical element of central regulation. Without a clearly defined national water law, provincial coordination is impossible, with the result that uniform water provision throughout the country cannot occur. The overlap between provincial authorities involved in water management hinders efficiency at the provincial and local levels, preventing effective assessment and measurement within, let alone between, provinces. While evaluation by agencies including the World Bank have pointed out weakness within Uruguayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s water sector, these problems are more difficult to pinpoint and address in Argentina because of the lack of a legal framework defining the actors and their roles within the sector. Argentina has an obvious need for water management reform, but legislative and institutional reform must precede any specific policy considerations. History of Failed Privatization Schemes

Water sector privatization in Argentina produced similar economic and coverage problems as it did in Uruguay, but pre-existing sector inefficiencies and decentralized provision prevented the results from becoming a national issue, as occurred in Uruguay. While the citizens of Maldonado province experienced an obvious decline in services and access to water, a major problem with private control in Argentina was a lack of service expansion, rather than a marked deterioration in service quality. Densely populated areas generally maintained high levels of water coverage, but rural regions did not experience the promised increase in connections and expansion of infrastructure.121 Consumers balked at the problems they faced as a result of the private concessions, and in some cases protested, but the variation in coverage among regions and provinces meant that complaints were often recognized locally, rather than nationally. As a result, the failed privatization schemes did not produce the same widespread call for action that influenced the Uruguayan campaign for water reform. Rather than a national response

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developing against privatization, individual provinces gradually renegotiated or sole their contracts with private companies. 122 Carlos Menem, president of Argentina from 1989 to 1999, is widely seen as one of the primary neoliberal reformers in Latin America. After assuming office in the context of an economic crisis, Menem implemented the Convertibility Plan, pegging the peso to the U.S. dollar in an effort to curb hyperinflation and stimulate growth and foreign investment. These measures coincided with widespread privatization of public utilities, including the water sector. The government granted concessions contracts to private companies for periods of up to 30 years. The contracts included service provision and infrastructure maintenance, and most provinces opted for privatization. Water privatization was driven by Argentinaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lack of public resources and investment, the poor performance of the water sector, and less-than-ideal levels of access to water and sanitation. Corrientes was the first province to undergo privatization in 1991, and the Greater Buenos Aires area followed in 1992. By 1999, twenty-two private water companies served 70 percent of the population.123 Privatization coincided with the development of government regulatory agencies, giving the state a continued regulatory function in water services. Private companies, subsidiaries of European multinationals (and dominated by Suez Lyonnaise), entered with little awareness of the variation in geography and population density throughout Argentina. Most of the companies used the same general contract models regardless of the population, infrastructure, and resources of the area in which they operated. They made promises to expand infrastructure in low socioeconomic areas, where cost of connections and incidence of non-payment is high. The result was that the private companiesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; profits grew due to rate increases, but most failed to meet the terms of their contracts. Though wages suffered due to the ban on price indexing under the Convertibility Plan and the privatization of public enterprises left many Argentines jobless, Menem allowed private firms to index prices to the U.S. consumer price index (CPI). While Argentinaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s CPI dropped 1.1 percent between 1995 and 2001, the U.S. CPI increased by 18.4 percent.125

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In addition to these gains, private companies negotiated rate increases while simultaneously reducing their contractual obligations, creating a situation in which consumer fees skyrocketed but saw no gains in service quality. Aguas Argentinas, for example, failed to fulfill its commitment to building a sewage treatment plant in Buenos Aires, with the result that 95 percent of sewage was dumped, and continues to be dumped, into the Rio de la Plata. Even so, household water rates increased 88.2 percent between 1993 and 2002, though Argentina’s CPI rose on 7.3 percent in the same period.126 Aguas Argentinas S.A., the Suez subsidiary that provided water in the Buenos Aires Metropolitan Area, reaped a profit rate of 19 percent of its net worth between the beginning of the contract in 1993 and 2001.127 Despite hope that privatization would expand coverage and quality and reduce prices, these problems remained, especially in low-income and rural communities. The 2001 financial crisis created further problems between the companies and government when the peso was devalued by 70 percent. Contract prices had been indexed to the U.S. dollar to guard against currency devaluation, but the scope of the crisis made it impossible for consumers to pay.128 After attempted negotiations regarding the reduction of tariffs, shareholders terminated many concession contracts over the following years. Complaints, for example regarding Aguas Argentinas’ (a subsidiary of Suez Lyonnaise) contract in the Buenos Aires metropolitan area, included a failure to provide adequate levels of investment and to meet water quality targets.129 In 2006, President Nestor Kirchner cancelled Suez’s contract in Buenos Aires, creating in its place Aguas y Sanamiento Argentinos (Argentina Water and Sanitation), a state company owned 90 percent by the state and 10 percent by workers. The governments of other provinces, including Santa Fe and Córdoba, cancelled their contracts with Suez during the same year due to public backlash against rate increases and failure to fulfill contractual obligations. 130 Between 1998 and 2009, the Argentine government terminated (or sold, in the case of Córdoba) contracts with private water companies in the provinces of Buenos Aires, Córdoba, Mendoza, Santa Fe, and Tucumán. 131

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The Argentine government made significant errors in the privatization process that effectively doomed the scheme to failure. One such mistake was the absence of a clearly defined regulatory framework and independent regulatory agencies. Without these essential institutions, the private companies were free to engage in rent-seeking activities and invest little capital in infrastructure expansion and other contractual commitments. With the majority of water sector power vested in the hands of private corporations, profit gains did not translate to improved service.132 The financial crisis of 2001 catalyzed a series of events that eventually led to state intervention in the water sector. The private company in Buenos Aires, affected by the currency devaluation and burdened by loans taken out in U.S. dollars, cancelled plans to expand infrastructure. Most of the contracts established under Menem have been terminated, and others have been renegotiated, sold, or both.133 Though the poor performance of private companies in Argentina did lead to government intervention in many cases, it did not produce the same large-scale reforms that took place in Uruguay. Argentina’s decentralized water system caused results to vary from province to province, and a unified call for sweeping reform did not materialize. The Presence or Absence of an Institutionalized Means for Civil Society to Influence Policy

As is the case with many Latin American countries, Argentina’s government has some direct democracy provisions, but they have been historically underutilized. Civil society is limited in its ability to participate in policymaking, and has, historically, had less of an incentive to be a voice for the public, as the government is unresponsive. The absence of a clear path for civil society to participate in the policymaking process helps explain why Uruguay’s privatization crisis produced a social movement while Argentina’s did not. Argentina is one of the fourteen Latin American countries that recognizes the topdown plebiscite (plebiscite initiated by a government agency), and it is one of the eight in which this mechanism has never been put to use. It similarly recognizes the

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top-down non-binding plebiscite, which was utilized once between 1978 and 2002. In terms of bottom-up mechanisms of direct democracy, Argentina recognizes only the binding initiative, but, like all but one Latin American country, this mechanism has never been employed. In comparison to Uruguay, a frequent user of direct democracy, Argentina effectively lacks an institutionally strong means for the citizenry to directly influence policy.134 A lack of government accountability and responsiveness to the needs of its citizens is a chronic problem in Argentina. Multiple crises, including the human rights abuses by the military junta and the 2001 financial crisis, brought the severity of the deficit to the forefront of the national consciousness, and some steps have been taken to correct this aspect of institutional weakness in the Argentine government. The dominance of populism in 20th century politics and democratization movements led to the development of an “authorization,” rather than an “accountability” model of representation.135 For decades, the populace voted for an individual (for example Juan Perón) or a party (the Peronist Party) with the understanding that its direct influence over political decision-making began and ended on election day. This model of democracy provided the opportunity for corrupt officials to ignore the needs of its citizens, and sometimes even engage in illegal actions without repercussion. The human rights movement that emerged in Argentina following the end of the military dictatorship in 1983 brought about an increase in public awareness of the state’s abuse of not only human rights, but also of civil rights and the rule of law. Throughout the 1990s, a series of protests and media exposés of corrupt government officials furthered the push for government accountability, eventually leading to a renewed respect for constitutional mechanisms and guarantees.136 The result has been a profound change in Argentine political culture. Voters are increasingly disinclined to support candidates solely on the basis of party affiliation, and they are more demanding than ever of strong institutions that check and balance political control and accountability.137

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Though these changes are taking place in Argentina, they are recent and have yet to produce significant institutional change. Civil society, however, which lacked a diverse presence in Argentina during the majority of the 20th century, is evolving and playing a more active role in politics. NGOs, advocacy organizations, and social movements have all contributed to the public voice for accountability through various initiatives. Additionally, journalism has evolved in the past two decades, taking on an increasingly critical position towards the government and working to expose wrongdoing and inform the public.138 The increased participation of individuals and independent organizations in politics has spurred a respect for democratic principles that were ignored for much of the 20th century, even during periods of democracy. While Uruguay has a clearly defined and historically developed institutional structure through which civil society can interact with and influence policy, Argentina is still consolidating its democracy. The recent wave of civil society mobilization has demonstrated a primary concern for enforcing the countryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s basic legal and constitutional framework, which provides for a strong representative democracy with few participatory elements. The revival of social movements and organizations is a step in the right direction for Argentina that may eventually lead to the adoption of a stronger participatory framework. The emergence of a civil society that monitors government action and legality will lead to the strengthening of institutions that promote accountability and transparency. Strength of Political Institutions

In contrast to the case of Uruguay, Argentina has weak political institutions, including congress, the judiciary, and the bureaucracy. The result is an ineffective and often archaic legislative framework with regard to water policy, which fails both to produce quality policies and to carry out the policies implemented by previous legislative efforts. As with the case of Uruguay, this factor is still somewhat speculative with regard to the connection with water policy, as clear evidence is sparse and requires further research.

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Argentina’s score on an index of overall policies is 1.85, in contrast to Uruguay’s score of 2.34 out of four.139 As described in the Uruguay case study, quality policies reflect stability, adaptability, coordination and coherence, quality implementation and enforcement, public regard and efficiency. Argentina’s water policies are lacking in many of these areas. They have been relatively unstable in recent years, as the last two decades have witnessed constant renegotiation, selling, and termination of private contracts, affecting policy with every change. Argentine water policy demonstrates a persistent inability to adapt, evidenced by the reality that most water institutions must respond to the irrigation sector because it was granted authority by the National Irrigation Law in 1909. While circumstances have changed, authorities in charge of social and economic water use continue to report first to agencies in charge of irrigation.140 This structure has not led to problems obtaining sufficient water for social use, but it has resulted in overlap, communication problems, and disputes within the water sector. Anachronistic and outdated policies due to a lack of policy adaptability contribute to Argentina’s water sector inefficiency. A lack of coordination and coherence is another problem plaguing the water sector. As was explored in the section on the Presence of a Strong Central Water Policy Framework, coordination problems result in noncooperation

between provinces, with frequent conflict as a consequence. Furthermore, policies tend to be poorly implemented and enforced. A clear example is the failure to implement Article 41 of the Constitution (added in 1994), which provides for the establishment of a national regulatory framework on environmental issues, including water resource management.141 Finally, Argentina’s water policy is somewhat lacking in public regard and efficiency. Certain sectors of the population are excluded from access to adequate water, sanitation, or both, and efficiency is poor (see section IV). Argentina scores lower than Uruguay on most individual measures of political institutional strength, including congressional capability, judicial independence, and the quality of the bureaucracy. Argentina’s congressional index score is 1.37 out of 3, one of the lowest in Latin America.142 These low marks are partially due to the fact the provinces have so much power, providing little incentive to develop a strong

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national congress, and partially because executive powers in Argentina are quite high, which transfers policymaking power away from legislature.143 Congress participates minimally in the policymaking process when compared with other countries that have a presidential form of government. As a result, Congress displays low reactivity and does little to facilitate policy development. The fact that Article 41 has yet to result in policy advancement after sixteen years is a clear example of the country’s lack of legislative capacity. Under this article, Congress is empowered to develop legislation regulating the provinces, without the need for provincial ratification.144 Exercising this power would address the problem of Argentina’s weak legislative water policy framework, which hinders the provinces in their effective management of water resources. Provincial legislation is not systematized, a main cause of poor division of institutional responsibility and the overall lack of coordination within the water sector. Congress cannot accept full blame for legislative failure, however, because the Argentine Constitution grants the executive wide influence over policy. National policies are often produced through executive order rather than congressional legislation, and the executive has the power to regulate laws passed by congress, meaning even congressional legislation is subject to change with the whims of the administration in office. The UNDP ranks executive powers in Argentina as medium-high, in contrast to the medium-low executive powers in Uruguay.145 One would expect to see the executive fill the void created by congressional weakness, but executive powers have not been exercised toward the development of a more systematized water policy framework. Judicial independence is another political institutional arena in which Argentina struggles, compounding the problem of legislative weakness by preventing policy enforcement. Argentina’s score on a measure of judicial independence is 1.80 out of 7, one of the lowest in the region, in contrast to Uruguay’s score of 4.80, the highest in the region. The tenure of Supreme Court justices in Argentina is one of the lowest in the world, with the result that the Court generally represents the political will of the administration in power.

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The judicial system in Argentina, therefore, is not a strong enforcer of constitutional and legislative agreements, including those relating to public policies.146 As in Uruguay, the Argentine bureaucracy is generally weak and unprofessional; in Argentina, however, the bureaucracies of state-run enterprises are not exceptions. This bureaucratic ineptitude greatly reduces the state’s ability to delegate the technical implementation of public policies. Policies in Argentina are generally either volatile or very rigid, unchanging even when circumstances change. Rigidity and low adaptability are key features of Argentina’s water policy, evidenced by the continued existence of anachronistic laws, like the National Irrigation Law of 1909, that force authorities to abide by regulations and report to other agencies in ways that are no longer reasonable or necessary. Policies are also poorly coordinated, poorly enforced, and of low quality, leading to chronic problems in the water sector. Bureaucratic inefficiency is partially to blame for the lack of coordination between water authorities and between provinces, resulting in frequent interprovincial conflicts. Argentina’s bureaucracy scores a 3.8 on the Weberianness scale, very poor in comparison to other developing countries.147 VII. CONCLUSIONS Summary of Findings

The results show that Uruguay’s position with regard to each of the four explanatory factors represents the situation hypothesized to equate with effective water provision. Uruguay has a strong central water policy framework, ensuring effective coordination and cooperation between the different ministries and institutions involved in water resource management; Uruguay experienced a failed privatization scheme that gained national attention and spurred widespread mobilization; Uruguay is the country in the region with the greatest historical use of direct democracy mechanisms, which provide the means for civil society to directly impact policy; and Uruguay’s political institutions are strong compared to most countries in the region.

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Argentina’s situation in terms of the four explanatory factors does not represent the same ideal environment for a highly effective water system. Argentina’s water system is controlled in a decentralized manner by the provincial authorities. Whereas Uruguay’s water system is managed by a set of national ministries and agencies with an increasing degree of responsibility division and definition, the absence of a national water law gives each province in Argentina the power to define and appoint its own water authorities. The bodies involved in water provision reflect a large degree of overlap in terms of responsibilities and functions, which produces chronic inefficiency. This reality likely played a role in preventing the failed privatization schemes from producing a major public outcry, as public service provision is historically variable, whether under public or private control. Though Argentina experienced widespread failure of private companies in various provinces, the influence of other factors prevented the unified reaction and mobilization seen in Uruguay. Argentina lacks an institutionalized means for civil society to influence policy. It does not have the experience with direct democracy seen in Uruguay, and civil society organizations are still primarily invested in fighting for the respect of basic democratic principles. Finally, in contrast to Uruguay, Argentina’s political institutions are weak. Congress has limited legislative power, the executive does little to fill the void created by an unresponsive Congress, the judiciary is not independent enough to enforce policies, and the bureaucracy is unprofessional, which limits its ability to effectively implement policy. Interpretation of Results

The four factors explored in this paper are all highly relevant to water system effectiveness, but they must be considered in concert rather than independently. Any major policy is the product of many variables interacting, and the same is true of water policy. The fact that Argentina experienced failed privatization but did not develop a more effective water system, as well as the fact that Uruguay scores well but is not perfect on any of the factors, illustrates this point. The failure of private water companies can be viewed as a catalyst for water system reform, but it alone will not lead to increased effectiveness. In the case of Uruguay,

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the crisis in Maldonado province spurred action on the part of civil society, but the constitutional reform might not have occurred, and certainly would not have occurred as rapidly, without the mechanisms of direct democracy. Similarly, Uruguayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s treatment of water provision as a national, rather than provincial, service contributed to the national reaction because the issue had to be addressed by the national government. The problem in one province, therefore, entered into the national conscious and catalyzed a widespread reform effort. Uruguayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s strong political institutions indirectly interacted with these other factors by making effective reform a real possibility. In the case of Argentina, failed privatization schemes did not produce the same results as occurred in Uruguay due to the influence of the other three factors. The issue did not become a unified, national-level crisis due partially to the fact that the scenario varied dramatically between provinces, and concerned citizens tended to target their efforts at the provincial governments, who control water provision. An additional obstacle to reform was the absence of a strong civil society influence over policy in Argentina. Even if people had mobilized at the national level, they would not have had the direct path to constitutional reform that the CNDAV utilized in Uruguay. Furthermore, the weakness of Argentine political institutions impedes the creation of new legislation as well as its enforcement and implementation. Limitations and Future Study

Though these factors work together to create the conditions for an effective water system, they are by no means the only influences on water policy, or even the most relevant in all cases. However, a country, like Uruguay, that receives a positive evaluation on all four factors likely provides an environment conducive to achieving a system that meets the water and sanitation needs of its population. Two of the factors, the stability of social policies and public services and the presence of mechanisms by which civil society can influence policy, are directly related to the components of a functioning democracy. A developed, democratic state meets more than the basic, procedural requirements of democracy and takes steps to fulfill the social rights of its

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populace. It would be interesting for further studies to break down the various elements of democracy and compare countriesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; scores on these variables to the type and effectiveness of their water systems. Further studies could likewise focus on the element of crisis and its relation to water system reform. Many Latin American countries, including Uruguay, Bolivia, and Ecuador, experienced privatization crises that spurred reform efforts. It is necessary to investigate other regions of the world, as well as a large grouping of countries with universal water coverage, to determine if crises are generally necessary for water system reform, effectiveness, or both. The fact that Argentina, a federal system with a very high degree of policy decentralization to provinces, suffers from uncoordinated policy calls into question the effectiveness of decentralized control of water provision. Decentralization can achieve remarkably positive results in the context of a well organized institutional and policy framework. Latin America, however, is a developing region, and many countries continue to struggle in this area. It is necessary to further examine the relevance of this factor in a broader context of developing and developed nations. Finally, as stated before, the connection between political institutional strength and an effective water policy requires further study. It is necessary to establish direct links, especially between the judicial system and policy enforcement and implementation. Records of court rulings in Argentina and Uruguay should be examined for their connection to water policy strength or weakness. Similarly, the interaction between the bureaucracy and policy enforcement needs further examination. VIII. POLICY IMPLICATIONS

The results of this study do not provide a set of guidelines for those striving to influence water policy at either the domestic or international levels. Rather, they demonstrate some of the conditions that are conducive to implementing effective policy. Overall, it

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is clear that a continued focus on democratization is necessary for achieving universal water coverage throughout the world. Democracy should be assessed not only in terms of procedural elements, like electoral procedures, but also with regard to substantive components. Regular, free and fair elections are necessary but not sufficient to establish a democracy that meets the needs of the people. Social policies, particularly those necessary for the promotion of basic social and civil rights, are essential. Uruguay is one of the longest-enduring democracies in Latin America, and it is not coincidental that it also has one of the most universal water systems in the region. While the drive to call water a human right rather than an economic good is crucial for deterring detrimental policies that allow private companies to take advantage of this dwindling resource, providing assistance to countries working to consolidate democracy is equally important. A developed democracy encompasses strong institutions, mechanisms for civil society and the populace to influence policy, and a transparent and accountable government that is responsive to the needs of its electorate. Whether or not water is defined at the international level as a human right or a human need, strong democracies will strive to fulfill basic needs, one of which is universal access to water.

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102

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103

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104

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130

Valente, Marcela, “Another War over Water,” IPS, June 7, 2006, <http://ipsnews.net/news. asp?idnews=33526>.

131

Corral, Violeta, Hall, David, and Lobina, Emanuele, “Replacing Failed Private Water Companies,” Public Services International. January 2010, p. 6 .

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Rodríguez-Boetsch, p. 313.

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Corral, Hall, and Lobina, p. 5.

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134 Democracy in Latin America: Towards a Citizens’ Democracy, p. 99. 135

Levitsky and Murillo, p. 231.

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Levitsky and Murillo, p. 234.

137 Op. cit., p. 233. 138 Op. cit., p. 237. 139

Bourguignon and Pleskovic, p. 220.

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“Argentina Water Resources Management Policy Issues and Notes Thematic Annexes Volume III,” p. 22.

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“Argentina Water Resources Management Policy Issues and Notes Thematic Annexes Volume III.” p. 35.

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Bourguignon and Pleskovic, p. 220.

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Spiller, Pablo. T. and Tomassi, Mariano, “Argentina,” forthcoming in Political Institutions, Policymaking Processes, and Policy Outcomes (Stanford University Press) <http://www.udesa.edu. ar/files/institucional/eventos/ipes/argentina.pdf>, p. 11.

144 Op. cit., p. 40. 145 Democracy in Latin America: Towards a Citizens’ Democracy, p. 92. 146 Op. cit., p. 23. 147

Bergara, p. 33.

Teens, Toddlers, and Totoro VICTOR LUO Department of English Associate Professor James Brecher

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In both its historical and contemporary manifestations, fantasy as a narrative element has operated predominantly within the domain of childhood. Whether we discuss Alice in Wonderland, The Chronicles of Narnia, or Harry Potter, fantasy stories typically

feature child protagonists in order to target a child audience. Fantasy narratives can vary considerably: they can create entirely alternate worlds like the aforementioned stories or they can take place in the real world with various fantasy inflections, as when teenagers run around solving mysteries in Scooby-Doo or five-year-olds explore jungles in Dora the Explorer. The subtle unreality of this latter kind of fantasy renders the question of

whether the featured children are realistic irrelevant because the narratives are familiar and benign. American cartoons featuring children do not and cannot involve gratuitous violence, horrific deaths, destructive apocalypses or any direct mention of sex. Japanese anime programs like Blood+, Death Note, and Akira, on the other hand, have prominently featured mature content in concert with child characters by contextualizing these representations within a fantasy environment. However, in traveling to the States, these anime have often been denigrated by parents who argue that the grotesqueness of the representations present a distorted view of childhood. A dismissive attitude towards fantasy’s depiction of children neglects to analyze how the genre acts as both a contextual space for children and as an arena within which the image of the child is continually negotiated. In the United States, Japanese anime tends to fall prey to this dismissive attitude mainly because American attitudes view animation as being “just for kids” while Japanese culture views animation as a medium that can appeal to all ages. American audiences did not really notice that early anime imports such as Speed Racer and Astro Boy were Japanese (Patten 2004, p. 44), but did when anime distinguished itself from American cartoons with complex narratives like the epic space saga Space Battleship Yamato and the psychological tragedy Akira. Narratives in which children acted out bloody, apocalyptic violence stunned American audiences—mature thematics were and continue to be incompatible with mainstream American animation. These kinds of complex narratives in anime fantasy free our conceptions of childhood from a normalized framework,

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inviting audiences to imagine children in unfamiliar contextual spaces and roles that defy their traditional image in the American mass media. Juxtaposed amidst acts like murder or world saving, childhood in anime often tackles more challenging concepts, and therefore tends to attract a more diverse audience. While typical American cartoons are tailored specifically for elementary or middle school children, audiences for anime are often divided according to genre, ranging from shonen and shojo for children and teenagers to seinen and josei for adults. While

American media often construct childhood by drawing on universalized sentiments about innocence, happiness, and other familiar notions, the way anime fantasy presents wholly unfamiliar depictions of childhood provokes profound hypothetical questions that reflect real world desires and the never-ending negotiation of the definition of childhood. Anime fantasy not only invites alternative conceptions of childhood, but also creates a space departing from reality and adults that allow depicted children to organically develop themselves with self-sufficient agency and creativity. Both soft fantasies like My Neighbor Totoro and psychological science fiction like The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya create these kinds of spaces by positing the children as characters who have

powerful effects in their fantasy worlds. An analysis of how children act with agency outside their normal conceptual framework in these anime illuminates how these contexts of unrepressed empowerment explore childhood at moments of self-definition, praising the contemporary moment of youth agency rather than returning to familiar, but restrictive sentimentalizations. The defamiliarized contexts of childhood in anime fantasy are a contemporary backlash against the traditional ways in which Western cultures have sentimentalized and commodified children, reversing traditionally passive archetypes by placing children in empowered, often adult-like roles. Historically, culture has perpetuated â&#x20AC;&#x153;childhood [as] a condition defined by powerlessness and dependence on the adult communityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s directives and guidanceâ&#x20AC;? (Kline 1998, p. 95). From Victorian times on, when the rapidly changing social structures and the ideas of Blake and Dickens pushed forth the image of the child as an innocent figure requiring protection, institutions of public policy and educational systems began subjecting those same children to careful

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regulation. The market, having lost the use of child labor, quickly adapted as “advertising repeatedly articulated the need for parents to become aware of the unique needs [and] vulnerabilities of their child” (Kline 1998, p. 103) and began selling products like soap and toys tailored directly towards families with children. In this historical shift, the means by which to raise children were commodified, reduced to consumer habits and materialistic measures in gauging normal child development. Popular culture scholar Jack Zipes, lamenting this way that children are presented in the media, argues, “Everything we do to, with, and for our children is influenced by hegemonic interests of ruling corporate elites. In simple terms, we calculate what is best for our children by regarding them as investments and turning them into commodities” (Zipes 2001, p. xi). Thus, as Zipes begins to point out, the market directly profits from this image and economy of caring for children: by perpetuating the notion of childhood as synonymous with vulnerability, it creates a hegemonic structure of values that profits from and yet ultimately restricts a child’s social mobility. However, the contemporary child defies traditional sentimentalized definitions because of a cultural shift marked by individualism and self-definition, where children recognize “how [adults] are indoctrinating them and caring for them… feel and sense what value [they] place on their lives [that affect] their development of values and difference” (Zipes 2001, p. 22). Children today have the space and power to respond critically to their environments and social construction. Recent work done by contemporary cultural studies scholars have found that children today “are active participants in that process of defining their identities” (Jenkins 1998, p. 4) and “create their own meanings from the stories and symbols of consumer culture” (Seiter 1995, p. 10)—especially with the emergence of consumer-grade, digital tools for production and distribution. Youth culture thrives online as children spend hours a day on MySpace, Facebook and YouTube exchanging messages and media. These new cultural spaces grant children more power in defining themselves and affecting their environments. Major industries, realizing youth influence over $180 billion in discretionary spending (Lagario 2007), have acknowledged these shifts and are increasingly marketing and creating cultures targeting

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youth. While the hegemony of regulation through education and public policy still exists, the top-down hierarchal relationship where what children can think about is filtered through a protective, market-influenced adult lens is not as powerful as it once was. The contemporary child is not a passive figure waiting to be told what to do and think; he is quick to notice when external forces try to sell him commodified culture and quick to respond with his own self-formed perspectives and responses. This contemporary moment of youth agency and resistance coexists with the rising popularity of Japanese anime as part of an anti-conformity global culture, as nations like Japan resist the hegemony of American culture and children resist the hegemony of adult regulation. Politically, the U.S. grows more unpopular on the world stage while culturally, “Hollywood is stuck making movies that, while technologically impressive, project ‘counterfeit worlds’ that spectacularize fantasies out of sync with the lived emotions of people in the twenty-first century” (Allison 2006, p. 17). Anime comes to the U.S. as a means of challenging its traditional dominance. Japanese culture scholar Anne Allison argues, “Japan’s role in the current J-craze among American youth is mythic: a place whose meaning fluctuates between the phantasmal and real, the foreign and familiar, the strange and everyday” (Allison 2006, p. 16-17). To Allison, fantasy is at the core of anime’s appeal, creating a nonthreatening space where international politics and culture can be negotiated in departures from unpleasant realities. Anime fantasy is specifically a place that offers comfort to the child as it brings forth the imagination of a “profusion of polymorphous attachments: [fantasies] of nomadic humans finding new kinds of transhuman attachments… that [have] sustained and nourished [children] through what are often tough and lonely times” (Allison 2006, p. 20). Fantasy, as a departure from realities that patronize children, presents the child ideas and musings of many possibilities of empowerment. What fantasy offers to children is not real empowerment, but the hope of empowerment, encouraging revisionist perspectives on unpleasant realities and praising their innate capacity to bring about the change they desire in difficult times.

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Anime fantasy is distinct from the fantasies of American cartoons in the way it is more likely to combine childhood and mature experiences. However, that is not to say that children are fundamentally different in anime than they are in different media; rather, these combinations give contexts with which children can be imagined beyond traditional notions. American cartoons commonly contextualize children in isolated environments like the schoolyard and the family home, where conflicts end and repeat benignly because of the prevalent episodic form. Most anime digress from the circular episodic form, developing more complex child characters as they navigate through drawn-out narratives that often take those children beyond the classroom or the home. My Neighbor Totoro and The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya exemplify anime’s

use of fantasy as a creation of spaces of comforting empowerment where children’s development seem more complex and more similar to the contemporary child, the former for younger children and the latter for adolescents. My Neighbor Totoro’s fantasy elements contextualize younger children with emphases of their capabilities over their deficiencies, illustrating and praising their agency to navigate through conflict. My Neighbor Totoro tells the story of two sisters, Satsuki and Mei, as they move into a

rural village, cope with their mother’s hospitalization and befriend furry creatures called totoros, keepers of the forest. Fantasy abounds in the narrative when the sisters bond with the totoro by flying through the air, growing a tree overnight and riding a living, cat-shaped bus. The film reflects Miyazaki’s style favoring idealist visions of a softer, less industrialized world, where children stand in for morals arguing for simpler lifestyles. My Neighbor Totoro’s success in tying these morals with childhood is that its fantasy is not

escapist; rather the fantasy is paired with reality in a relationship of ambivalence that does not criticize it, instead acting as Susan Napier calls an “enchanting enhancement” (Napier 2005, p.132) of the world. The bordering of fantasy and reality in My Neighbor Totoro idealizes the innocence of childhood as a form of agency rather than inability by highlighting the child protagonists in moments of self-definition and self-sufficiency rather than helplessness.

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The world of My Neighbor Totoro is a fantasy framed by a logical schema, exemplifying anime fantasy’s common trend in drawing upon recognizable logic and familiar narratives emphasizing the child’s ability to perceive, understand and act with sound logic. On many levels, My Neighbor Totoro is a childhood fantasy similar to Alice in Wonderland where a child protagonist finds herself ensconced in a strange land with strange creatures. However, Totoro is distinct from Alice in that the logic behind Totoro’s fantasy is wholly reasonable while Alice’s is not (Napier 2005). Alice explores Wonderland with considerable struggle because the world is absurdist, with nonsensical laws and the tyrannical Queen of Hearts. Alice is helpless in the logic-less Wonderland because the skills she possesses as an ordinary girl are virtually useless. On the contrary, the sisters in Totoro are empowered by their own virtues in navigating the fantasy world because its logic is tied to the logic of reality. As the girls’ father explains, the idea of the totoro is rooted in rural folklore that mythologizes nature. Though it is a lofty, dream-like creature, the connection to folklore is a metaphorical conceit that connects the totoros to a reality that defends an environmentalist viewpoint on nature. This fantasy does not detract from the girls’ sense of reality, but rather enhances their worldviews and abilities to live everyday life. At one point, the girls, believing in the healing power of fresh vegetables, rely on the totoros’ help to take a fresh ear of corn to their ill mother, which the film suggests speeds her recovery. The logic of the fantasy world in Totoro is not centered around an adult perspective, but rather on the larger scope of nature and spiritual belief. This anime fantasy draws upon familiar logic and depicts children as understanding and deftly using that logic. With strong sense of logic, children’s reasoning and imagination is praised in the film as strength, with the fantasy world as a domain for their creative self-sufficiency. Satsuki and Mei are considerably independent girls, as they cook, clean and tend to the house as their mother is ill and their father works out of town, demonstrating their strength to cope with loneliness and to act with maturity in the face of troubling family circumstances. However, this strength is realistically at odds with their limitations as children, as Satsuki worries about having to take on a motherly role with her younger sister and Mei cries as she considers the death of her mother as a serious possibility.

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It is through the girls’ abilities to access the story’s fantasy, that the totoros act as helper figures—teachers which help to actualize the girls’ innate self-sufficiency. Susan Napier argues that in My Neighbor Totoro, “The character’s ability to connect with the [fantastic] Other, be it the unconscious or the supernatural, is clearly coded as a sign of inner strength and mental health” (Napier 2005, p. 127). When Mei first encounters the giant totoro, it roars so loudly in her face that she has to grip onto its fur to hold on. Mei’s demonstrates strength in childlike playfulness and bravery by roaring straight back at the totoro. Childhood traits like curiosity, innocence, bravery and kindness are coded as strength because the fantasy world’s structure allows the child protagonists to explore and use it as they wish. When a desperate Satsuki cannot find Mei anywhere she looks, she turns to the totoro to help her, who grins in the face of the situation as it summons the catbus to bring Satsuki to Mei. As Satsuki has exhausted all her options, her access to the fantasy world becomes her resourcefulness in dealing with conflict. Because the fantasy world in My Neighbor Totoro is structured in a way that the children can approach and utilize it, it praises the ordinary child by coding its typical traits as strength. A strong ambivalence between fantasy and reality is maintained throughout the film as it is never articulated whether the girl’s adventures are real or a product of their imagination. This ambivalence creates a fluid departure from reality that becomes a means of being in conversation with reality, with children as the medium of that discourse. Napier calls My Neighbor Totoro “a classic fantasy of compensation… one that is more or less controlled by the girls themselves, since the fantasy stems from their own imaginations” (Napier 2005, p. 130). Compensation occurs through the girls’ ability to navigate between real and fantasy, taking part in a continual exchange between the real and that fantastic to deal with troubling family life and play with the totoros. Ambivalence in this exchange does what Zipes calls “genuine storytelling,”

which he argues “is not only subversive but magical in that it transforms the ordinary into the extraordinary and makes us appreciate and take notice of little things in life that we would normally overlook” (Zipes 2001, pp. 134-135). Zipes’ argument puts in perspective storytelling’s power to call attention to certain issues, which is what the

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fantasy in the anime does. The film’s fantasy emphasizes how children have different perspectives from adults that allow them their unique observations that they process through their own liminal spaces of imagination. The ownership of unique perspectives is coded as a valuable trait that enables the protagonists to care for themselves. Fantasy’s departure from reality, while maintaining an ambivalent relationship with it, creates the discussion encouraging the fluidity in which childhood can be defined and praises children’s unique abilities to make meaning. What My Neighbor Totoro does for younger children, The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya does for adolescents by using fantasy to spur a meta-narrative about

adolescence that emphasizes the period as a profound time for navigating identities and realizing power. Haruhi Suzumiya holds many things in common with contemporary popular anime: teenagers in school, slapstick humor, playful and dramatic conflicts, budding romances and fantastical adventures. Haruhi Suzumiya is a fantasy of fantasies, with magical characters descending upon the plot with multiple mythologies. The series revolves around Haruhi Suzumiya’s adamantly declared disinterest in ordinary people and her accompanying wish to meet more interesting beings like aliens, time travelers, and espers. She creates the SOS Brigade, a club dedicated to finding such supernatural beings, and forcibly enlists three random students who ironically happen to be the alien, time traveler and esper she wished for. These extraordinary beings follow Haruhi in order to monitor her god-like powers to change reality on a whim, though she is never aware of this ability or of the three being’s true identities. The series follows the ways in which the SOS Brigade’s adventures often beget reality-changing effects, with everyone at the beck and call of Haruhi lest she destroy the universe out of dissatisfaction. The anime contextualizes the fantasy in terms of the adolescent instead of vice-versa, placing the teen in the role of a mega agent in which the fate of the world rests in their hands. The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya is a meta-narrative fully conscious of its own spectacle, creating a self-critical environment that adolescent characters navigate through to define themselves, with the suspensions of reality acting as an encouragement to interpret adolescence in diversified ways.

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The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya’s meta-fictive fantasy casts perspectives on

adolescence that are at times familiar and at others mockingly critical, exaggerating traditional psychology to the point where the adolescent protagonists are highly selfaware and are able to critically engage with their own identities. Concepts like the invincibility fable, which refers to adolescents’ tendency to believe they cannot be victims to dangerous behavior, and the personal fable, which refers to the ways in which adolescents often egocentrically believe they are inexplicably special or heroic, are heavily parodied throughout the series. The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya exaggerates these concepts through fantasy, where situations place teenagers in God-like positions in a way that raises the dramatic need for the adolescent characters to be self- conscious and self-critical. Haruhi epitomizes stereotypical invincibility and ego-centralism, doing whatever she pleases like abusing Mikuru to the point of sexual harassment and blackmailing a club for a free computer, all the while possessing the magical power to get away with it. However, Haruhi’s consistently silly egocentric attitude serves as a profound contrast to her existential vulnerability, exemplifying a three-dimensional complexity beyond the superficial archetype of the self-absorbed adolescent. After a disappointing adventure, Haruhi reveals to Kyon a life-changing moment where she felt her life was utterly insignificant, reminiscing about calculating the vast number of people at a sold-out baseball game and realizing that the stadium capacity is a tiny fraction of the Japanese population, which is also a tiny fraction of the world’s population. With this realization, Haruhi grows melancholic, thinking about the mundane nature of her existence as a mere drop in a large ocean—and yet, in the face of such thoughts, she becomes convinced that there are a small number of people who are indeed “special.” Pursuing the extraordinary becomes an obsession for Haruhi in order to escape the lonely normalcy of everyday life. While Haruhi’s actions are clearly in the realm of fantasy, her motives have real emotional depth. The idea of adolescent ego-centralism portrayed in the anime is defamiliarized through exaggeration, emphasizing not its exasperating typicality but its careful and unique thought and emotional processes. Haruhi is not just the self-absorbed girl given god-like powers who uses them to abuse others; her emotional investment is guided by a desire to be someone special, a desire that

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resonates across a universal scale. “Every fantasy is based on desires, and so is Japanese anime fantasy. Desires are conceived here as multiple, since every historical text speaks of not just one but multiple, often conflicting, desires” (Mizuno, p. 105). The multiple desires of the adolescent drive the fun of the fantasy in Haruhi Suzumiya, creating an environment that adds a realistic three-dimensional quality to adolescence by depicting egocentricism as a byproduct of human vulnerabilities. As a representation of the three-dimensional depth of adolescent identity, diverse fantasy mythologies in The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya act as allegorical representations of the adolescent’s negotiation of individual identities and behavior. Various explanations arise regarding the source of Haruhi’s power—she is alternately describe as a source of unprecedented auto-evolution, an anomaly in the time-space continuum, and an unknowing deity with the power to freely create and destroy the universe. This web lays out the multiple fantasies in Haruhi Suzumiya with no concrete sense of “truth” as Yuki tells Kyon that “no matter what truths [she] tell[s] [him], [he] will be unable to confirm them” (Haruhi, ep. 24). No two characters agree in a universal conception of reality; instead, what the fantasy of the anime gives is a balanced negotiation of magical beliefs and personal identities. Kyon, as the protagonist defined by his ordinariness, wavers between beliefs, choosing just to do the best he can to keep the SOS Brigade out of trouble and Haruhi’s powers in check. The complexity behind the characters’ beliefs mirrors the complexity of adolescent development, reflecting the way they try out different identities. The seemingly pointless adventures the SOS Brigade undertakes are negotiations of these beliefs, where each adolescent character’s identity is self-formed in a way emphasizing their power to choose what they believe. Having a plethora of beliefs to choose from, the fantasy remains ambiguous about the correctness of any thought, allowing the adolescents to organically navigate the possibilities as they might in real life. The protagonists are self-critical within a constant negotiation between reality and fantasy in The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya, which spurs a discourse between the individual experience of adolescence and the universal experience of being as a human

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being. The proportions to which the fantasy departs from reality, yet remains ultimately tied to reality, creating a kind of logical distance that presents the multiplicity of desires in a universal scope. “A spatial distance can connect people by separating them; they share the distance that separates. Such spatial continuity affirms the fact that they live in one large world, instead of separate ones” (Kuge 2007, p. 253). Kuge’s arguments begin to point to the ideological background of fantasy anime in which characters of differing beliefs begin to realize the vast world of diversity and possibility. While every member (except Haruhi) has differing beliefs about the structure of the world around them, these supernatural characters are comfortable with the absence of absolute assurance, as can be seen in their desire that the ambivalent situation of submitting to Haruhi’s whims to keep her powers in check remain unchanged. This logical distance that prevents any confirmation on the validity of beliefs enhances the sense that the adolescent experience is a journey to find one’s self. “Distance evokes a desire for physical closeness, and this in turn inspires movement, but… the distance [must be sustained] rather than [shrunk] because sustaining the movement toward closeness is crucial for… relationships to be vast and generous” (Kuge 2007, p. 256). The lack of a point closing the ideological distance emphasizes the pursuit, rather than the attainment, of identity. During the school’s cultural festival, Haruhi flawlessly performs two songs she learned within an hour to assist a band with injured members. When the band expresses their heartfelt gratitude, Haruhi, not used to being thanked, is taken aback. Watching the band get closer to their dream leads Haruhi to, for the first time in any of her endeavors, wonder how she could have performed better and ponder her life’s direction. This questioning of purpose illustrates the fallibility of Haruhi’s power where, despite having confidence and unconscious ability to change reality, she is still unsure of what she wants to do or be. Haruhi’s constant pursuit to “have fun with extraordinary beings” is the continual driver of the anime’s action because of this sustained ideological difference that denies confirmation of the correct beliefs. Haruhi has ideas for adventures, but she is never sure of exactly what they are or what their purpose is, and is usually disappointed with how she never finds supernatural beings (despite them surrounding her). Thus, the fantasy offers no answers about adolescence, but connects it to a universal search for identity,

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navigating the complexities of reality in a way that sympathizes with adolescence as a profoundly connected experience rather than an isolated or trivial one. Both My Neighbor Totoro and The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya use fantasy to create contextual spaces of empowerment where children are portrayed with complexity and profound capability and adolescents are portrayed as self-critical and invested in a universalized sense of identity formation. These two texts are indicative of a larger trend in anime, which treats children as powerful agents in the formation of their own identities, and the larger world. My arguments here have not been aimed at declaring that children in anime are somehow more “realistic” than those depictions in American media; rather, the analysis of fantasy’s mechanics is aimed at showing how these contexts defamiliarize the traditional child in order to expose the capabilities of the contemporary child. Thus, the world of My Neighbor Totoro allows its child protagonists to freely navigate logically structured realms, praising their reasoning and imaginative ability and uses an ambivalence of fantasy-reality borders to emphasize the value of their unique perspectives that see things adults do not. Likewise, the world of The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya exaggerates typical aspects of adolescence to

call attention to the adolescent protagonist’s self-critical engagement with their own identities, applauding how they negotiate beliefs in ways that relates adolescence to a universalized journey of self-discovery. These contexts of self-sufficient agency created by fantasy function as tools for thinking about the child as products of their own making, perpetuating narratives that are always multiple and diverse. As he hopes “genuine storytelling” will do, Zipes argues that, “If our young are to have any chance to ground their lives in any kind of tradition, then they must learn hopeful skepticism, how to play creatively with the forces dictating how to shape their lives, and how to use storytelling to reshape those conditions that foster sham and hypocrisy” (Zipes 2001, p. 145). Anime fantasy structures contextual parameters in which children can negotiate meanings in order to be skeptical, to be creative, and to shape their own identities, disseminating a message encouraging a revisionist kind of thinking and expanding the valid possibilities with which to interpret childhood.

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REFERENCES Allison, Anne. “The Japan Fad in Global Youth Culture and Millennial Capitalism.”

Mechademia Vol. 1: Emerging Worlds of Anime and Manga. Ed. Frenchy

Lunning. St. Paul: University of Minnesota Press 2006. 11-21. Print.

Jenkins, Henry. “Introduction: Childhood Innocence and Other Modern Myths.” The

Children’s Culture Reader. Ed. Henry Jenkins. New York: New York University.

1998. 1-37. Print.

Kline, Stephen. “The Making of Children’s Culture.” The Children’s Culture Reader.

Ed. Henry Jenkins. New York: New York University, 1998. 95-109. Print.

Kuge, Shu. “In the World That Is Infinitely Inclusive: Four Theses on Voices of

a Distant Star and The Wings of Honnesamise.” Mechademia Vol 2:

Networks of Desire. Ed. Frenchy Lunning. St. Paul: University of Minnesota

Press, 2007. 251-256. Print

Lagorio, Christine. “Resources: Marketing to Kids.” CBS News. 17 May 2007.

Accessed 11 November 2009. <http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2007/05/14/fyi/

main2798401.shtml> The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya, Dir. Tatsuya Ishihara. Kyoto Animation, 2006.

Animated Series.

Mizuno, Hiromi. “When Pacifist Japan Fights: Historicizing Desires in Anime.”

Mechademia Vol 2: Networks of Desire. Ed. Frenchy Lunning. St. Paul:

University of Minnesota Press, 2007. 104-123. Print

My Neighbor Totoro. Dir. Hayao Miyazaki. Studio Ghibli and Disney, 2006.

Animated Film.

Napier, Susan. Anime from Akira to Princess Mononoke: Experiencing

Contemporary Japanese Animation. New York: Palgrave, 2005. Print.

Patten, Fred. Watching Anime, Reading Manga. Berkeley: Stone Bridge Press,

2004. Print.

Seiter, Ellen. Sold Separately: Parents and Children in Consumer Culture. New

Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1995. Print.

Zipes, Jack. Sticks and Stones: The Troublesome Success of Children’s Literature

from Slovenly Peter to Harry Potter. New York: Routledge, 2001. Print.

Effectiveness in Peacekeeping: A Case Study Analysis Comparing the United Nations and the European Union ANDREW MATSON School of International Relations Professor John Odell Assistant Professor Maiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;a Cross

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CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION

A growing area of study in the realm of international relations academia today is the rise of international organizations, and ideas about how they will affect the traditional state-based analysis of IR scholars are as diverse as the United Nations itself. In regard to this new area of analysis, however, there seems to be a glaring deficiency: a comparison of regional and global international actors’ peacekeeping operations has yet to be conducted. This paper is meant to remedy that situation by looking specifically at the United Nations (UN) and the European Union (EU) and comparing the two to see which is more effective at implementing peacekeeping operations. The original hypothesis of this paper was that regional organizations would be more effective in their implementation efforts for three reasons: first, their peacekeeping missions would have more legitimacy in the areas where they are launched than global organizations’ missions; second, their geographic limitations would help them to move troops into crisis areas more easily than global actors could; and, third, their member states’ geographic and political similarities would make finding an internal political consensus easier than in a body such as the UN Security Council. In the end, however, the data in this paper led to the conclusion that, though there are differences between the two organizational types, it is not these differences that lead to effective or ineffective missions. Rather, there are three factors, which will be discussed in the “Thesis Statement” portion of this chapter, in every peacekeeping operation that account for determining mission effectiveness. This research question is not meant to be isolated to this paper alone, as the findings of this research are intended to help answer larger questions about whether regional or global international institutions are better equipped to handle future international security issues. A more detailed analysis of these broad implications will come at the end of this paper, but it is important to keep in mind as one reads this paper that there are implications for actors outside of just the UN and the EU that become apparent in the comparison of those two organizations.

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In order to conduct this paper’s analysis, it was first necessary to select two cases that would best exemplify “effectiveness.” After looking at numerous cases, I have selected the UN mission in Cyprus (UNFICYP) from 1964-1974 and the EU’s Operation Concordia in the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia (FYROM) from 2003 for comparison. Analysis of effectiveness does not rely merely on the cases, however, but also on the definition of the word “effectiveness.” The word “effective” is admittedly vague, especially when it comes to issues as nuanced as the outcomes of a peacekeeping operation. However, previous literature on the subject has guided me to select the definition that effectiveness encompasses the promotion of peace in the target area during the mission as well as the creation of an environment in that area that will foster a lasting peace after the peacekeeping force has left. If a peacekeeping operation can accomplish both of those requirements, it will be judged an “effective” mission; if the operation fails to accomplish both, however, it will be deemed “ineffective.” Thesis Statement

After conducting the research for this paper, I found that the EU mission in FYROM was effective while the UN mission in Cyprus was ineffective. However, the analysis also shows that it was not the type of organization launching the mission that was the determining factor in that mission’s effectiveness or ineffectiveness. Because of this, at least in the two cases studied in this paper, the research supports the idea that regional and global actors do not have inherent advantages or disadvantages when it comes to launching peacekeeping missions that help a regional organization’s mission to be effective or a global organization’s mission to be ineffective. Instead, the research shows there are three primary factors that are most important for determining effectiveness: first, the levels of animosity between the warring groups involved in the cases; second, the initial conditions that the peacekeeping forces faced in the different missions; and, third, the diplomatic and external political factors that were involved in the peacekeeping efforts.1 The “level of animosity” between the warring groups is difficult to quantify, so it is necessary to look at it qualitatively. To determine whether there was a relatively high or

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low level of animosity, one must look at the history of conflict between the groups and the level of violence that the groups were engaging in when the peacekeepers entered the fight. In the two cases within this paper, the warring groups were ethno-national groups, with Greeks and Turks fighting bitterly in Cyprus and Albanians and Slavs fighting in a much more subdued way in FYROM. The “initial conditions” faced by peacekeeping forces are defined as not just the violence that was present in the nation when the force arrived, but the economic and social conditions, as well. Problems with infrastructure, resource availability, and the level of violence are all issues that could be considered a part of the “initial conditions” faced by the peacekeeping forces. Finally, the diplomatic and external political factors that affect the missions are just as influential as either of the other two factors. Though some people may think exclusively about the fighting on the ground when peacekeeping forces are mentioned, political battles are also being waged that can positively or adversely affect the forces. Diplomatic failures, for example, can devastate a peacekeeping operation, as happened in Cyprus, and newlysigned treaties can increase the efficiency with which an organization can put together forces to actually launch peacekeeping missions, as happened in the case of the EU. Relation to Current Events

The growth of regional organizations such as the EU poses interesting questions for IR scholars, the biggest of which being how much power these organizations will possess in the international system. ASEAN, the Shanghai Cooperation Organization, the African Union, and the EU are all examples of actors that are being watched very closely by scholars, but there seems to be a lack of research regarding these organizations in comparison to global actors such as the UN, especially when it comes to security issues. The rise of civil conflicts in the 21st century may demand that regional actors take a greater role in resolving conflicts, but are they better suited to meet those challenges than global international organizations? That is just one of the questions that this paper looks to answer.

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Beyond the meta-political questions regarding power in the international system, this paper also looks to deal with questions that will have human consequences. As mentioned above, civil conflicts have been growing while interstate conflicts have been declining in the 21st century, and these civil conflicts can be especially devastating for the citizens of those countries embroiled in these battles. So far, however, older security regimes have seemed inept at stopping these civil conflicts, leading to the hope that new actors may be able to keep the peace more effectively than past organizations, thus preventing further death and injury as a result of these conflicts. Will regional actors be able to live up to this hope? Are global actors still capable of dealing with these modern problems? There are many questions in the field of IR, both political and humanitarian, that need to be answered and this paper will try to provide new information to scholars in order to help them devise those necessary answers. CHAPTER 2: LITERATURE REVIEW

There have been numerous books and articles written about both the UN and the EU that explain and critique their security policies; however, none of these books or articles has compared the two organizations directly when it comes to how they implement those security policies. This paper will look to these previous works and draw information from them, as many of these papers contain facts and arguments that will be helpful in the comparison of the EU and the UN; this does not mean that these works are perfect, however, and this literature review will show how these pieces of literature are inadequate for answering the questions that are being researched for this paper. Although not every paper and book that analyzes EU and UN missions has been read in researching for this paper, from the works that were read, it is possible to make claims about the existing literature. The first observation is that authors are generally more negative in their reviews of the UN than in their reviews of the EU. Granted, the UN has a much longer history of peacekeeping missionsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and a longer history of failures, as wellâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;but it was surprising that authors such as Terrence Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill 2 would take such a negative stance against the UN. There are positive voices, such

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as Lise Morjé Howard,3 but it seems that there are far more critical voices than constructive ones when it comes to the UN. The EU, while it has its detractors,4 has generally received more praise, but again, that may be because it has not had as many unsuccessful missions as the UN due to the fact that it has only launched a handful of military missions in total. The second general observation is that authors do not seem to want to compare the EU or the UN to other institutions. The works researched for this paper have either exclusively studied the UN or exclusively studied the EU, but there has not been a work that directly compares the two of them. There are works that compare regional organizations as a whole 5 and works that look at how the EU and the UN can cooperate,6,7 but it has not been possible to find anything that directly compares the two organizations’ implementation policies. It is surprising that no academic has researched this subject yet, as it is a subject rich with comparisons that could produce significant new information for the field of international relations. To decide which factors should be analyzed to judge the effectiveness of peacekeeping operations, numerous pieces of literature were consulted and the book that did the best job of providing a framework for evaluating peacekeeping missions was Doyle and Sambanis’ Making War and Building Peace.8 The authors of the book go into painstaking detail to create a quantitative method of analyzing the success or failure of UN peacekeeping efforts. To qualify as a success, which the authors define as the creation of “sustainable peace,” there are three factors that must be measured: “the degree of hostility of the factions,” “the extent of local capacities remaining after the war,” and “the amount of international assistance.”9 Doyle and Sambanis’ book, though informative, does not answer the questions that are being raised by this thesis. The authors look at the quantitative factors that go into an effective peacekeeping mission, but there is nothing in the book that looks at more qualitative factors, such as the political process that leads to a peace agreement. Because

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the politics and diplomatic factors are some of the most important parts of judging an effective peacekeeping mission in this paper, it is clear that their book did not address the same questions that this paper is looking to answer. Another book that was intriguing was Katharina Colemanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s International Organisations and Peace Enforcement: The Politics of International Legitimacy.10 This was one

of the only books that researched the roles played by both global and regional actors in peace-promoting missions and made a direct comparison between them; however, the author does not compare the missions launched by the two types of organizations in terms of any of the three factors used for comparison in this paper. Rather, Coleman looks at states that wished to launch the peace-enforcement missions and how they used the international organizations to legitimize their military actions. Colemanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s book represents a radically different type of research than is present in this paper, but it deserved to be in this literature review to show the type of works that make up the academic literature that compares global and regional actors. International Organisations, in fact, presents two of the major differences between the academic work that is presently available and the type of research that this paper sets out to accomplish: first, the book focuses on the actions of individual states rather than the actions of the international organizations, and second, it analyzes peace-enforcement missions rather than peacekeeping missions. First, by concentrating on the desires and actions of individual states, Coleman relegates international organizations to the role of figurehead. It is unwise, however, not to consider the power held by international organizations and to analyze how they use that power. Undoubtedly, states play an important role in these organizations because without states, an international organization could not exist; however, as the world becomes more globalized, the institutions that pull states together to work as a collective unit are becoming more powerful, and analysis and comparisons of those institutions are necessary.

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Second, Coleman focuses on peace-enforcement missions, which are defined as “forcible military interventions by one or more states into a third country with the express objective of maintaining or restoring… peace and security by ending a violent conflict within that country,”11 rather than concentrating on peacekeeping operations. This means that Coleman looks at situations that are completely different than the cases analyzed in this study. The two cases compared in this paper are both peacekeeping missions rather than peace-enforcement missions, which distinguishes this paper it in yet another way from Coleman’s book. The book that was referenced most heavily for research into the UN’s missions was Lise Howard’s UN Peacekeeping in Civil Wars. Howard’s goal in writing this book was to tell about the “numerous, unwritten stories of success” that have come from UN peacekeeping missions, as opposed to the constant stream of failures that many people hear about.12 Specifically, Howard concentrates on the peacekeeping missions that the UN has conducted in areas that are experiencing civil wars because she believes that they represent some of the largest problems that the international system currently faces. This thesis came about because of research into the area of the increasing rate of civil conflicts in the 20th and 21st centuries, so it shares many of the same viewpoints as Howard’s book, though it analyzes the peacekeeping process in a different way than Howard does. Howard’s book, like Doyle and Sambanis’, is not adequate for answering the questions that this paper poses about the UN or other international organizations because, though she does a thorough job in investigating the cases in the book, she puts too much emphasis on the operational aspects of the missions rather than focusing on historical points or politics. This paper looks to give a holistic view of judging peacekeeping operations, by looking at the peace agreements that were upheld and the failed diplomatic efforts involved, as well as by looking at the history of the conflict to understand the roots of the violence. Though Howard definitely touches upon both of these factors in her book, they are not taken into consideration when she is making

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judgments on the effectiveness or ineffectiveness of a mission, thus making her book inadequate for answering the questions raised in this paper. For the EU, the book selection has been somewhat limited because of the timeframes involved. While the UN has been conducting peacekeeping operations for decades, the first military peacekeeping mission that the EU launched was in 2003. Fortunately, the EU is extremely concerned with self-evaluation and thus asks for reports about their operations from think tanks and from within the organization itself. Reports such as the “First 10 Years”13 study by the Institute for Security Studies have been invaluable as they provide an objective look at the missions that the EU has launched, including analysis about the missions’ strengths and weaknesses. Books such as Evaluating the EU’s Crisis Missions in the Balkans14 were also consulted because they spoke about

Operation Concordia, which is operation analyzed for the EU case study in this paper. In Evaluating the EU’s Crisis Missions, the editors put together a series of essays about the EU’s security missions in the Balkans, some of the first security missions that the EU launched under the European Security and Defense Policy (ESDP). The chapter that is most interesting for this paper, however, is Chapter 5, which goes in-depth into Operation Concordia and the EU missions in the western Balkans.15 The author, Eva Gross, had an analysis of the case that was very even, pointing out the mission’s flaws as well as its successes. That does not mean, however, that it is a more appropriate source of information for my research than primary documents. Although Gross looks at problems and prescribes solutions for them, she does not look at the same issues that are being examined for this paper. She, like Howard, concentrates primarily on the operational aspects of the mission rather than looking at the political and diplomatic efforts surrounding the mission or the history of the conflict, and when she makes a judgment about the effectiveness of the mission, she simply states that “Concordia had a positive impact on local conditions… and raised the EU’s profile as a security actor.”16 This paper, on the other hand, looks to make judgments about the conditions that make a mission effective, not just looking at the overall effectiveness of the mission itself.

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In order to compare the EU and the UN fairly, it is necessary to apply the same standards for both organizations, and the studies researched so far each use their own independent measurements, making their analyses incompatible. In this paper, data found in different books, papers, and primary documents will be synthesized and analyzed in order to establish a fair standard on which to grade UN and EU missions. CHAPTER 3: METHODOLOGY AND CASE SELECTION

This paper will use a comparative case-study model that utilizes qualitative analysis to evaluate two case studies, the UN peacekeeping mission in Cyprus and the EU peacekeeping mission in FYROM. This method is the best to use for this paper because time constraints prevent the use of a “large n” analysis and also because the nature of the research and analysis being done makes a single-case analysis impossible. A comparative case-study will work well in this paper because it will help to highlight differences between the cases and therefore provide the clear distinctions necessary to evaluate the conditions that lead to effective peacekeeping operations. Though some may have reservations about the results generated from qualitative casestudy analysis, in order to analyze the situations that are being discussed in this paper, this method is not only appropriate, but necessary. In comparing two case studies, this paper will have the “analytical leverage that comes from comparison”17 to add to the fact that “qualitative studies are equal or superior for generating valid theory”18 in comparison to other research methods. Beyond the fact that comparative case studies are a valid way to generate new ideas, in order to do the analysis that is necessary for this paper, comparing two case studies was the best choice available and will result in valuable conclusions. Presented in this paper is a qualitative analysis of the two case studies. Though there are quantitative aspects to the research, such as comparing population sizes and troop deployment levels, the vast majority of the research done for this paper would be impossible to describe in quantitative terms. To evaluate how and why some peacekeeping operations are effective while others are not, one must understand the

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underlying structures from which these operations are launched, the operational details of these missions, and the politics and diplomatic efforts that go into peace accords, none of which can be presented quantitatively. In fact, limiting this paper to quantitative analysis would prevent any ability to “see [a case] as a whole… [or] analyze it in its wholeness,”19 which would have defeated the point of conducting a case study analysis. Primarily, the data analyzed in this paper will revolve around operational reports, EU and UN resolutions, debates within each organization about the missions, and evaluative reports about the aftereffects of each mission on the region in which it was launched. Taken together, these primary documents, along with support from secondary sources, will allow for thorough analysis to be conducted. Case Study Selection

At first glance, the Cyprus and FYROM cases may not seem comparable, especially given the time difference between the two, with UNFICYP in Cyprus beginning in 1964 and Operation Concordia in FYROM beginning in 2003. However, the two case studies contain many similarities, which make them appropriate for comparison in this paper. First, the fact that both cases involve civil conflicts as opposed to interstate conflicts helps to increase the comparability of the two; this point requires some qualification, however, as UNFICYP eventually devolved into an interstate conflict, with Turkey invading Cyprus. Turkey’s invasion, in this paper, marks the failure of UNFICYP, but the bulk of the analysis will be focused on the peacekeeping operation that was launched in Cyprus between 1964 and 1974 that dealt strictly with civil strife. Next, both conflicts involved ethno-national conflicts with irredentist undertones. In Cyprus, the battle was between the Greeks and the Turks, and in FYROM, it was between the Albanians and the Slavs. This point is important because the methods used by peacekeeping forces can change radically depending on the type of conflict they are moderating, so comparing cases with the same root cause of the violence is important.

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Third, both cases took place in similar geographic locations and involved very small countries. Both countries are European, adding another level of similarity to the peacekeeping mission, and while FYROM is three times larger, they are both very small countries, with FYROM being 9779 square miles and Cyprus being 3571 square miles. Both countries also share similarly small population sizes, one of the most important considerations for an organization when launching a peacekeeping force. The estimated population of Cyprus between 1960 and 1970 was 573,566 and 633,000,20 and the 2002 census for FYROM showed a population of 2,022,547.21 Another similarity is that both missions are representative of early operations launched by each organization. Operation Concordia was the first military peacekeeping operation launched by the EU and UNFICYP was the UN’s sixth such mission. Though there are problems with comparing earlier rather than later cases for organizations, which I will address in an upcoming section, in this case it is a useful comparison because it shows the similarities and differences between how the two organizations approached early missions. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, is the fact that both cases represent examples of peacekeeping missions, not peace-making or peace-enforcement missions. These two types of missions are extremely different and comparing one to the other in a comparative case study analysis would completely throw off the final analysis. The organizations that look to launch both of these missions must take much different precautions and plan differently for the two types of operations. The fact that these two cases are both peacekeeping operations helps tremendously in the comparison, making it an extremely important point of similarity. Alternative Explanations and Objections

Despite these cases’ similarities, however, there are differences as well. No matter how hard one might try, it is impossible to find two perfectly aligned cases because “the historical record never provides a set of actual cases that are perfectly matched on all…

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relevant variables.”22 In these two cases, however, the biggest differences between them end up having a negligible effect on the analysis and comparison of both. The first objection that arises is the fact that UNFICYP took place during the height of the Cold War where Concordia happened in a post-Cold War world. This would, in many cases, be a completely legitimate argument because so much of world politics has changed thanks to the end of the Cold War. However, in this case, the Cold War did not have an effect on the peacekeeping operation and therefore had no influence on the case. The United States’ tensions with the Soviet Union in the Security Council did not interrupt the UN from passing the mandate for UNFICYP unanimously. Furthermore, even if the USSR had objected and vetoed the peacekeeping operation, that same situation could still arise today, with China, Russia or any member of the Security Council. It is undeniable that the Cold War affected politics, but just because the Cold War is now over does not mean that anything has changed dramatically in terms of the way the Security Council votes or operates. The final point about the Cold War is the fact that the EU had not established the European Security and Defense Policy (ESDP), the policy on which EU peacekeeping missions are based, until decades after the fall of the USSR; because their military program has never been involved in a Cold War situation, it is completely legitimate to compare one of its operations to an operation that was in no way affected by the Cold War. The second major objection is that the time difference between the cases is too large to reconcile in order to attempt to generalize the findings of the research to apply to the EU and the UN today. This objection relies heavily on the notion of “institutional learning” and the assumption that the EU and the UN learned from the mistakes of their pasts. However, if one takes this argument to its logical conclusion, then one would see that there will never be two case studies that are comparable for analysis, because no organization remains static; they are always changing, learning and adapting to new environments. An organization may radically change its tactics within a year after an operation, for example—does this mean that a case study analysis of its previous actions is no longer appropriate? The answer to that question is a resounding “no.”

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This objection also ignores the fact that there are some universal problems that these international organizations must overcome in order to launch effective peacekeeping missions. Creating a clear chain of command, responding to political issues, and managing resources properly are just a few of the myriad problems that can arise before, during and after a peacekeeping operation has been launched, and learning lessons from the past cannot completely prepare an organizations to respond to these problems. For these reasons, the time gap represents a negligible difference in terms of how it affects the overall outcomes of the case studies. Finally, a third objection arises in the critique that this paper concentrates too heavily on the international organizations and does not pay enough attention to the individual states and national interests involved. Statesmen such as Tony Blair, for example, have said that a state should only engage in humanitarian intervention if there is a national interest involved. Though it is impossible to say that individual states do not have roles in peacekeeping operations, this paper will show that, while there is still work to be done, the international organizations are relatively effective at launching and sustaining peacekeeping operations. I will not leave out all analysis of individual state actors, as they are occasionally very important, such as the UK’s role in the Cyprus case; however, a strictly state-centric examination of the issue of peacekeeping is inadequate for the purposes of this paper, and also inadequate given the current state of world affairs. CHAPTER 4: THE CYPRUS PROBLEM

Cyprus remains one of the most intractable problems of the international system today. The issues in that country involve nationalism, ethnic pride, and elements of irredentism on each side, both Greek and Turk, thus making any peacekeeping operation there a tough task. However, in 1964, the UN decided to launch a mission on the island with a mandate to “prevent a recurrence of fighting and… to contribute to the maintenance and restoration of law and order and a return to normal conditions”; these goals, though not outside what is normally assigned to a peacekeeping force, proved difficult to achieve and, ultimately,

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the UN force failed. The reasons for this failure primarily lie in the initial conditions on the ground, in the level of animosity between the two competing ethno-nationalist groups and their governments, and in the diplomatic, rather than military, failures in the case. No part of the failure of UNFICYP stemmed from the fact that it was launched by the UN, a global international organization, as opposed to a regional organization. Part One: Level of Animosity

The level of animosity between warring groups is essential to understand for any peacekeeping mission. Animosity can take many forms, whether it is constant physical violence or an unwillingness to engage in diplomatic relations or sometimes both. Understanding how much animosity exists between two warring groups is vital for any organization looking to launch an effective mission because it can tell them whether it will be necessary to have a strong military presence in an area or whether it will need to engage in extensive diplomatic efforts to come to a peace agreement. Unfortunately, in the case of Cyprus, both of those were needed, as the level of animosity between the Greeks and the Turks on the island encompassed both violence against one another and the inability to share power. History of the Conflict. Political control of the island of Cyprus has changed hands

numerous times in the history of the island, and the contentious politics on the island date back to wars between ancient Greece and Persia; there is even a mention of the inhabitant of Cyprus in Homerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s The Iliad. The most important information to glean from the islandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s history, however, lies in the fact that both Greece and Turkey have had control of the island at some point in its history, fueling historical claims to legitimacy of government. The Greeks, for example, ruled the island from 330 AD-1191 AD; then, after a period of shifting control between the English, French and Venetians during the Crusades, the Ottoman Empire controlled the island from 1571 until 1878, when Great Britain regained occupational control due to a defense treaty it signed with Turkey. Britain took complete and official control of Cyprus in 1914 after the Ottoman Empire aligned itself with Germany in the First World War.

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Quest for Decolonization. During the wave of decolonization that occurred during the

1950s, the Cypriots decided that they no longer wanted to be subject to British rule, but the question of who was to take control from Britain is the question that eventually leads to the seemingly intractable situation that Cyprus finds itself in today. Greece originally appealed to the UN to take control of the island, with the Greek Council of Ministers stating that the “overwhelming majority of the people of Cyprus… regard [Greece] as their mother-country,”25 and that the people of Cyprus have the right to selfdetermination. However, Britain refused to negotiate on the policy of control of Cyprus, largely because they did not want to give up control of the island. Turkey, though it did not originally appeal to take control of the island, found the specter of Greek control of Cyprus to be frightening. Fearing the “domino effect” of the spread of Communism, the Turks felt that if Greece were to take over Cyprus and then fall into the hands of the Communists, the geographical proximity of the island to the Turkish mainland would give Communism a way into Turkey. Greek and Turkish representatives met in the UK in the summer of 1955 to try to search for diplomatic resolutions to their problems, but the talks, foreshadowing the future of Greek and Turkish diplomatic relations, ended fruitlessly. Further exacerbating this situation were the irredentist ideals that both ethnic groups held, enosis for the Greeks and taksim for the Turks. Beginning in 1878, the Greek idea of enosis began to take hold of some of the Greek Cypriot population. The idea of enosis is that Cyprus should be politically joined with Greece and under Greek rule. This

political ideal faded until the end of World War I, when a resurgence of Greek patriotism swept the island. However, to fully understand the roots of enosis, it is necessary to look at the years of Ottoman occupation of Cyprus, when Greek Orthodox Christians were discriminated against and persecuted. This persecution came to a head on July 9, 1821 when almost 500 Greek Cypriots, as well as the Archbishop of the Greek Orthodox Church in Cyprus, were killed during an uprising against the Muslim Ottoman government; the man behind the massacre was the Ottoman Governor of the island,

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Küçük Mehmed. This day helped to spark the flame of Greek nationalism on the island, and it is still a day of mourning recognized every year on the island. Taksim, the belief of Turkish Cypriots that the island should be partitioned between the

Greeks and Turks, was the Turkish response to enosis, tracing back to 1957 when Fazil Küçük, the leader of the Turkish Cypriots, used the term in Ankara, saying that the Turks would retain the northern half of the island. However, Küçük’s nationalist rhetoric had begun even before that time, stating in a newspaper article in 1954 that: if Great Britain is going to consider this enosis question at all or is going to quit the island she has a legal as well as a moral duty to call Turkey and hand Cyprus back to Turkey, and ask the Turkish government to deal with the enosis problem which the tolerant and ill-advised British administration has fostered in the island. From a legal as well as moral point of view, Turkey, as the initial owner of the island just before the British occupation, has a first option to Cyprus . . . It must be clear to all concerned that Turkey cannot tolerate seeing one of her former islands, lying as it does only forty miles from her shores, handed over to a weak neighbour thousands of

miles away, which is politically as well as financially on the verge of bankruptcy.28 (emphasis added) Though taksim was only asking for partition, rather than representing an entire irredentist movement, its presence as an ideal in the populace of the Turkish Cypriots drove the wedge further between the Greeks and the Turks. Eruption of Violence. The modern reign of violence on the island began, surprisingly,

not between the Turks and Greeks but rather between the Greeks and the British. The Greek resistance group, EOKA—Ethniki Organosis Kyprion Agoniston, or the National Organization of the Struggle for the Freedom of Cyprus—was led by General Georgios Grivas, a man who will play a large role in the escalation of violence throughout the

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island. EOKA, possibly taking lessons from the Israeli terrorist campaign against the British in the 1940s, launched a guerilla terrorist campaign of its own against the British, beginning in April 1955.29 On April 1, Grivas—under the pseudonym “Dighenis”— signed a document that essentially declared war on the British, calling on Greek Cypriots to remember their heritage and fight: all Hellenism is looking to us, and following us anxiously, but with national pride… we showed the world that international diplomacy is UNJUST and in many ways COWARDLY… if our rulers [the British] refuse to give us back our freedom, we shall claim it with our own HANDS and with our own BLOOD… we have the heart, and we have RIGHT on our side and that is why we WILL WIN.30 Despite Grivas’ call against international diplomacy, in that same document, Grivas later says that “it is shameful that, in the twentieth century, people should have to shed blood for freedom, that divine gift for which we too fought at your [the international diplomatic community’s] side… against Nazism.”31 On the day that document was released, four explosions took place on the island, all of which targeted British officials but ended up killing many more Greek Cypriots. After that, EOKA began using tactics such as assassination to fight the British. “These right-wing Greek Cypriot militants had… declared that anyone associating with the British authorities would be guilty of treason,” recalls Harry Anastasiou, a man who, when he was only a child, witnessed one of these EOKA assassinations at his father’s cinema.32 EOKA eventually moved from British targets to Turkish Cypriots, thus escalating the violence from being directed towards “the outsider” to the level of civil war. The Turks did not abstain from violence, however, as Turkish Cypriots formed ethnonational groups of their own, such as Volkan,33 Turkish for “volcano,” and later the Türk Mukavemet Teskilatı (TMT), Turkish for the “Turkish Resistance Organization.” After riots broke out in major cities throughout Turkey that harmed Greeks and their property,34 in Cyprus, the TMT staged attacks of its own. The TMT was particularly vicious, threatening

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“any Turks who came forward to cooperate with the British in plans for a change of regime [to Greek rule]” with “exterminat[ion] and property [destruction].” The TMT also played a large role in driving up Turkish nationalism on the island, distributing pamphlets on May 7, 1958, that urged Turkish youth to the nationalistic cause under the proclamation of “Partition or Death!”36 Leadership and Nationalism. The “level of animosity” between the Greeks and the

Turks on Cyprus was one of the three major factors that led to the failure of the UNFICYP mission because the level of animosity in Cyprus was so high that, unlike the case to be seen in FYROM, it was simply not a situation that could be defused. The leaders of the groups, General Grivas and Archbishop Makarios III for the Greeks and Rauf Denktaş (Denktash) for the Turks, were charismatic and, unfortunately, used their popularity to encourage violence rather than peace. General Grivas obsessed over the creation of EOKA, the Greek terrorist organization, and went so far as to write a book outlining his strategies for guerilla warfare,37 including detailed outlines of the organization’s leadership structures, its goals, and the tactics that were acceptable to use both against the British and the Greeks. This level of dedication to warfare had a large impact on the Greek civilians of Cyprus; though most desired nothing but peace, the dangerous information and nationalist rhetoric38 contained within Grivas military tactics manual drove ethno-nationalist passions within the Greek population to new heights, making the job of the UN peacekeepers, both on the ground and in New York, extremely difficult. Archbishop Makarios III proved to be just as much of a thorn as General Grivas, and as a result he was banished from the island for a period of time by the British, only to return with more support than ever. Makarios would serve as the first President of the Republic of Cyprus, but his political ascent was filled with controversy. He has been accused of helping to found EOKA, a claim that Makarios denies, though he was undoubtedly acquainted with General Grivas at the time of EOKA’s founding. Makarios

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was also one of the primary advocates for enosis; in fact, his devotion to enosis was so strong that he took an oath in 1954 stating that he would “serve only for the achievement of Enosis and… campaign [for it] until it was attained.”39 Makarios, besides being an influential political figure, was also the head of the Greek Orthodox Church in Cyprus, the primary religion of the Greek Cypriots. This role helped him to spread the message of enosis to the Greek Cypriots in an even more convincing way, using the power of the church to back his claims. Because of the level of respect that many Greek Cypriots held for Makarios, his cries for enosis were taken to heart, and when added with Grivas’ militant nationalism, the combination created a potent force for Greek nationalism that made finding a middle ground between the Greeks and Turks extremely difficult. On the other side of the island, Rauf Denktash was a major leader for the Turkish Cypriots. Denktash was a founding member of the TMT and was a strong proponent of taksim. Denktash would become the first President of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus after the Turkish Cypriots declared independence, but before that, he was the President of the Turkish Communal Chamber of Cyprus, and his power in that position gave him more influence, according to some accounts,40 than the Turkish Vice President of Cyprus, Fazil Küçük. Denktash had a deep distrust of the Greeks, which showed in his writings, such as in a letter to the Security Council in which he claims that Greek Cypriot insistence on recognition of the integrity and sovereignty of Cyprus… is a trick for finding the untenable excuse to argue that the Treaty of Guarantee is non-effective with the intention of getting a free license to continue the massacre of the Turks… any wording of your resolution

which can in any way and by any stretch of the imagination be interpreted as a side-stepping or abrogation of the Treaty… will be used by the Greek Cypriots and they will thus be encouraged to attack the Turkish Community… under the authority of the Security Council.41 (emphasis added)

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Denktash and the TMT would be some of the primary antagonists of the Greeks from the Turkish side, though they eventually accomplished what they set out to do, which was to accomplish taksim, by partitioning Cyprus in 1983 when Turkey officially recognized the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. Non-Cypriot Forces. The animosity on the island did not just manifest itself through

domestic ethno-national groups, however, as Turkish and Greek forces were both present on the island from the beginning of UNFICYP. In late 1964, both Turkey and Greece had national forces on Cyprus, and even though the national forces were on the island under the supervision of UNFICYP, they would eventually play the largest roles in disturbing the peace that the UN force was trying to create. In fact, the national forces on the island were there as part of the treaty signed by Cyprus, Turkey and Greece, agreeing that “Greece and Turkey shall participate in the Tripartite Headquarters so established with the military contingents laid down in Additional Protocol No. 1 annexed to the present Treaty. The said contingents shall provide for the training of the army of the Republic of Cyprus.”42 Though the military contingents, which consisted of 950 Greek noncommissioned officers and 650 Turkish non-commissioned officers,43 were present for the purpose of training the Cypriots, in reality many of the forces were there to protect their ethnic groups on the island. The presence of the Greek and Turkish national troops put a further strain on the ethnonationalist tensions that were already building thanks to the rhetoric of the leaders that was mentioned earlier. In fact, it was because of these outside military forces that the peacekeeping mission eventually broke down. In July 1974, the Greek military staged a coup d’état against Makarios’ government, taking control of the island; in response,

the Turkish military invaded the island, thus creating the partitioned Cyprus that still exists today. Analysis of Animosity. It is clear that the level of animosity on Cyprus was extremely

high by the time that the UNFICYP forces arrived in 1964. The ethno-national terrorist

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organizations of EOKA and TMT were responsible for the deaths of dozens of Cypriots and British nationals on the island and the chances for a peaceful resolution to the conflict were seen as almost nil. When the forces arrived on the island, they were faced with not only these competing groups, but also leaders such as Makarios, Grivas, and Denktash who had the support of their respective citizens and who were using that support to drum up ethno-nationalist hatred between the Greeks and the Turks, leading not only to the violence on the island during the UNFICYP presence, but also to the multiple political failures that were meant to try to create peace. Denktash called increased Greek control of the island “a change of colonial masters for the worse,”44 for example, and the Greek leaders saw Turks as a minority who should not have a say over what country controls the island; the Greek leaders were “determined to have this principle [self-determination] applied only to the Greek Cypriots, ignoring altogether the existence… of the Turkish Cypriot Community which comprised one-fifth of the total population of the island.”45 Because of the number of problems that were faced by the UN force as a result of this high level of animosity—not only the actual violence on the ground but also the toxic political environment that made peace talks nearly impossible—the task of creating both a temporary and a permanent peace on the island became exponentially more difficult. As will be discussed later, when a peacekeeping force encounters a supportive government and populace, it is much easier to accomplish the mandated tasks; in FYROM, for example, the government invited the peacekeeping force into the country and the majority of the population supported it during its stay, making it easy to accomplish goals. Cyprus, however, was facing multiple problems caused by the high level of animosity between the Greek and Turkish Cypriots, including a divided island government that neither the Turks nor the Greeks were satisfied with, high levels of ethno-nationalist tensions driven by respected leaders on both sides of the ethnic divide, and violence driven by terrorists, guerilla organizations and Greek and Turkish national forces. This made the task of UNFICYP to bring peace to Cyprus impossible to achieve, and it still remains so to this day. Because of these factors, it can be determined that the high level

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of animosity on the island was one of the primary reasons why the UNFICYP mission proved to be ineffective. Additionally, there is nothing that the UN could have done to diminish this level of animosity, showing the limits of its power even as a global actor. Part Two: Initial Conditions

The previous discussion, about the level of animosity between the two ethno-national groups, leads this paper now to the actual deployment of the UN force and the initial conditions faced by UNFICYP forces on Cyprus. “Initial conditions” in this paper refer not just to the initial levels of violence faced by a peacekeeping force, but also to the logistical and domestic political issues that must be overcome. Analyzing these initial conditions is essential to understanding the effectiveness or ineffectiveness of a force because initial conditions can, in some cases, be so hard to overcome that a force either does not have a chance to succeed after it has been inserted into a conflict area, or those initial conditions can cause an organization to not launch a mission at all. In the case of Cyprus, the initial conditions that the UNFICYP force had to face included a divided government that barely had control of the island, ethno-national terrorist groups, and logistical problems that disrupted the force’s ability to act. The Cypriot Government. In 1960, after years of failed peace agreements, the island

of Cyprus officially declared itself an independent republic with a stable government. The level of independence and the relative stability of the government, however, were questionable at best. The Constitution of the Republic of Cyprus was established in the Zürich and London Agreements that were signed on February 19, 1959 and implemented on August 16, 1960. In those agreements, the heads of state of the UK, Greece, and Turkey came together to determine the future of Cyprus, and what they came up with was a dividedgovernment style of Constitution that would give a disproportionate amount of power to the Turkish Cypriots, in terms of their relative size as a minority on the island, frustrating the Greeks and almost ensuring that governmental paralysis would ensue. Despite

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making up only 20% of the population of Cyprus, the Turks would control a large portion of the executive branch in the new Cypriot republic, holding the position of vice president—a Greek Cypriot would hold the presidency—and three of the ten executive ministerial positions.46 Furthermore, the president and vice president, either “separately or conjointly [had] the right of final veto on any law or decision,”47 meaning that at any point, either the Greek president or Turkish vice president could veto a law. This division of government led to multiple political and legal disagreements and a general ineffectiveness of government that eventually necessitated radical revisions to the Constitution. Makarios, who had been elected as the first president of the Republic of Cyprus in 1959, famously proposed 13 amendments to the Constitution on November 30, 1963, including removing the right of the president and vice president to veto and requiring simple majority voting in the legislature on some issues, rather than separate voting for Turks and Greeks.48 These proposed amendments were rejected by the Turkish vice president, Fazıl Küçük, thus continuing the general ineptitude of the Cypriot government. The divided nature of the Cypriot government did nothing to help the situation of a divided population, and may in fact have damaged efforts at reconciliation; this is shown by the fact that between December 21, 1963 and August 10, 1964, the most intense phase of violence of the Cyprus conflict struck the island.49 Implementing UNFICYP. After the UN established the United Nations Peacekeeping

Force in Cyprus, a process that will be detailed in the next section, it took an unprecedented amount of time to actually field the force, as over three weeks passed between the authorization of the force and its actual deployment. In contrast, the two other peacekeeping operations that the UN had undertaken before UNFICYP, UNEF in Egypt and ONUC in the Congo, took eight days and one day, respectively, to deploy their forces.50 This delay was caused by problems gathering the finances necessary for the operation as well as by problems stemming from troop-contributing nations needing guarantees that other nations would actually be contributing forces.51

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When the forces were finally deployed, UNFICYP was composed of ten soldiers from Austria, 1,087 Canadian troops, 1,000 troops from Finland, 636 Irish soldiers, 889 Swedes, and 2,719 soldiers from the UK, for a total of 6,341 troops,52 well below the goal of 7,000 troops.53 The force, as internationally diverse as it was, had to deal with a number of issues outside of the scope of the mission at hand, namely tensions between the Irish and British forces and countries trying to differentiate themselves from the British, who were not well-liked by the local populations. The Greek Cypriots were unhappy with having British troops on the island because the UK refused to recognize Turkish Cypriots as “rebels,” and the Greek Cypriots still held animosity towards the British for the years of colonization.54 The Turkish Cypriots were also unhappy with the British because they believed that President Makarios was planning a “genocide” of the Turks and they felt that the British were doing nothing to stop him.55 This distrust of the British by the citizens of Cyprus caused the Cypriot Minister of the Interior, Polycarpos Georgadjis, to say that “the British can no longer form a constructive element in the role of the international peace-keeping Force in Cyprus,”56 apparently echoing some of the thoughts of other nations in UNFICYP. Other nations’ forces in UNFICYP did their best to keep their distance from the British troops, either because of long-standing rivalries, such as the Irish, or because of the disdain that the local civilians held for the British troops. In The Times of London, a correspondent stated that “the Irish arrived… greatly troubled at the thought of supporting the British in some sinister plot to impose partition on yet another newly independent island,” that the Canadians “displayed hundreds of maple-leaf emblems” in order to differentiate themselves and their equipment from the British, and that the troops from Finland “brought out their own bicycles and cycled 50 miles to Nicosia rather than use the British lorries.”57 The British soldiers were also uneasy being in Cyprus due to the heightened risk of attack that British forces faced as opposed to other nations’ forces, and by August 14, 1964 their troop commitment had dropped from 2,719 to only 1,034.58

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Violence on the Ground. As was mentioned previously, the worst of the violence on

the island occurred between 1963 and 1964, before the UNFICYP forces landed on the island. However, that does not mean that the violence ended once they arrived; instead, there was simply a lull. UN Secretary General U Thant’s report on the military conditions in Cyprus between December 1964 and March 1965 describes this lull in the violence by saying that: enclaves [exist]… ringed by fortified positions manned by Turkish Cypriot fighters who enforce their exclusive control by force of arms against any attempted encroachment by the Government; facing them are similar government positions. UNFICYP is present or interposed in most places where this state of affairs prevails. Even though there is no shooting, the situation is essentially one of hostile military confrontation.59 Despite this state of affairs in 1965, however, as UNFICYP continued to stay on the island, they began to encounter more combatants on both the Greek and Turkish sides, inevitably leading to violence. According to U Thant, there were, thanks to a Cypriot government conscription extension,60 14,000 soldiers in the Cyprus National Guard, loyal to the Cypriot government, with an unknown number of militiamen in rural areas.61 On the Turkish side, there were an estimated 12,000 members of TMT ready to fight, though the report itself says that this estimate may be conservative, and U Thant also states that “every able-bodied Turkish Cypriot is a potential fighter.”62 The violence that eventually came to pass, though not extreme, was enough to put UNFICYP soldiers in danger. One battle was described by Lieutenant Colonel Neville Robinson: Some five battalions of Greek nationals and Greek Cypriot National Guard were observed moving… towards the mountains… the Turkish fighters manned their defenses on the ridge… with about 50 fighters and a Bren [light machine gun]… the Turks opened fire, hitting one of the Greek [vehicles], the Greeks…

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returned fire… McKeown [the UN Lieutenant in charge of the forces during the battle] ran down the Greek line while [Corporal] Bakker ran along the Turkish positions. The Greeks promptly jammed a gun-barrel into McKeown’s stomach and threatened to shoot him. Bakker was similarly treated on the hill-side.63 The small-arms fire that persisted throughout the 1960s was dangerous, but never truly threatened the peacekeeping force. The truly dangerous aspect of the mission in Cyprus was when forces from Greece- and Turkey-proper began joining in the fights, which is important to take into account because that was not a problem that the force faced in the initial portion of the mission. This means that violence on the ground did not add much of a hardship to the UN force in terms of “initial conditions,” but that it still had an impact on UNFICYP. Logistical Problems. Being only the third peacekeeping mission that the UN launched,

UNFICYP was doomed to encounter at least some logistical problems. The fact that the island had a “lack of support services… [without] oil, a sizeable pool of highly educated, intelligent people or a substantial, established elite” and that the government was “minimal considering the responsibilities that hostilities create above and beyond the normal day-to-day management of civilian life,”64 made normally simple tasks for UNFICYP forces unusually difficult. Along with the conditions of the island, the logistics of the force also posed a few problems. The original goal of 7,000 troops was never met for a number of reasons, and the fact that the force was continually understaffed made it so that some of the outposts were not as heavily fortified as they were supposed to be. The factors that led to this understaffing included “the reluctance of some states to heed the SecretaryGeneral’s pleas [for more troops]” as well as the fact that “Makarios exerted pressure to keep the force below 7,000.”65 Makarios pressed for a force of around 4,000 to 5,000, apparently, in order to make sure that “his own security forces will… be strong enough to keep everyone in order.”66 The primary reason that the force never reached its goal, however, was that the UK never reached its maximum troop levels; though they could

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have given up to 3,500, their forces were always in the 2,000s or fewer. 67 As described before, this may not have been a bad thing because of the difficulty that British troops had cooperating with troops from other nations and the local populations, but at the same time the extra forces would undoubtedly have helped. Analysis of Initial Conditions. The initial conditions faced by the UNFICYP soldiers

put them immediately at a disadvantage: there was a broken and bitterly divided government, pre-existing biases against UK forces, armed enclaves of ethno-nationalists, and logistical problems that had to be overcome. None of these factors individually led to the overall ineffectiveness of UNFICYP, but when taken together, these initial conditions contributed to the mission’s failure. The government that was divided between the Greeks and Turks may have been the most apparent problem that the UNFICYP forces would have to overcome, but it was hardly the only problem. Initial problems with logistics made guarding different areas with enough troops difficult, as the troop numbers were not at their recommended levels, and the animosity that the British troops faced made the force’s largest contingent uneasy. With so many problems that had to be overcome initially, it was difficult for the forces to gain traction on the island, and even though eventually they did get a handle on the situation, the inability to broker a successful peace agreement ultimately led to the failure of the mission. Part Three: External Politics and Diplomacy

Domestic politics are not the only political factor that played a role in the Cyprus case. Other nations’ domestic politics regarding Cyprus, in this paper called the “external politics” of the situation, as well as the diplomatic efforts that were undertaken both in the UN and through other multilateral channels all made major impacts, often for the worse, on Cyprus. In any peacekeeping mission, there must be positive intervention through external politics and diplomatic methods for that mission to be successful. The lack of a popular peace agreement or excessive meddling in the conflict area by outside governments can both lead to the failure of a peacekeeping mission because an effective mission must create not only a temporary peace, but a permanent one. External

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politics that negatively impact the politics of a conflict area can cause domestic political problems, something obvious in the Cyprus case, and a lack of a peace agreement means that a permanent peace is impossible. That is why external politics and diplomacy are essential to analyze when making judgments about the effectiveness or ineffectiveness of any peacekeeping mission. The effects of political actions outside of the Republic of Cyprus and breakdowns of international diplomatic efforts had a tremendous impact on the effectiveness of the UNFICYP force. A peacekeeping force cannot be ultimately successful—achieving a permanent rather than temporary peace—without the help of political and diplomatic efforts, and in the case of Cyprus, politics and diplomacy were dysfunctional in most cases, if not completely absent, thus leaving the force with nearly no chance for success. Ultimately, these political and diplomatic failures were a primary factor in the overall ineffectiveness of UNFICYP. What was not a factor in the ineffectiveness of UNFICYP, especially in regards to politics and diplomacy, was the UN’s identity as a global international organization, which did nothing to harm the diplomatic efforts involved with the Cyprus issue. Greek Politics. Though much has been made of the idea of enosis up to this point,

the political orientation of Greece itself, as opposed to Greek Cypriots, has been left unexplored. In the 1950s, Greece took an extremely pro-enosis stance, bringing the case for unification all the way to the UN General Assembly,68 where before World War II, Greece had been ambivalent at best when it came to enosis, spawning the saying “Cypriots are Greeks, but Greeks are not Cypriots.”69 Though there was strong support for enosis in Greece and in Greek politics, with even the Hellenic King—the Greek monarch—saying “I wish our Cypriot brothers a speedy union with the mother county,”70 the Greek government eventually supported the London-Zürich Agreements, which made Cyprus an independent republic. This did not mean that Greece completely abandoned Cyprus, however. Popular support within Greece for enosis and in favor of supporting the Greek Cypriots led Greek Prime

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Minister Papandreou to come to an agreement with President Makarios on four points: that the Cyprus issue was to be handled by the UN rather than NATO; that enosis was the ultimate aim of all Greek policies towards the island; that Greece make no decisions that might incite the Turkish military to invade the island; and finally, perhaps most importantly, that Greece would aid Cyprus in the case of a Turkish attack.71 10,000 Greek troops were sent to Cyprus to show how serious the Greeks were about honoring the last part of the agreement. In 1967, a military junta overthrew the Greek government in Athens in a coup d’état and took power, bringing with it a nationalist, pro-enosis stance. Then, in 1973, a second coup brought a junta that was even more dedicated to promoting Greek nationalism in

Cyprus for the cause of enosis, helping to bring General Grivas back to the island to help start EOKA B, a reincarnation of the terrorist organization that had attacked the British and Turks on Cyprus in the late 50s and early 60s.72 EOKA B, along with the Greek national troops on the island, who were mentioned in Part Two of this chapter, were able to overthrow Makarios on July 15, 1974, ultimately leading to the Turkish invasion of Cyprus on July 20, 1974 that doomed UNFICYP to failure. Turkish Politics. In the early days of the Cyprus problem, Turkey seemed to have

no vested interest in the island; in fact, it was not until 1955 when Turkey agreed to be a part of the London tripartite conference that it officially accepted a role in the issue. When Turkey arrived at the conference, however, its foreign minister began using anti-enosis rhetoric, sparking some of the anti-Greek riots in Istanbul that further damaged Greek/Turkish relations.73 Turkish involvement in Cyprus only grew after that, with the Turkish government supplying the TMT in order to counter the Athens-supported EOKA and the rise of taksim-supporting rhetoric. However, because of Turkey’s membership in NATO, any aggression towards Cyprus or the Cypriot government could have been countered by the USSR. The threat of USSR intervention caused Turkey to become more conciliatory in its rhetoric, but only for a short time.74

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Accounts of the Turkish invasion of Cyprus vary by speaker. Some Turkish sympathizers call the invasion an “intervention,” with Necati Münir Ertekün, a Turkish Cypriot legal advisor during the Intercommunal Talks on Cyprus, saying that: Turkey, who had exhibited remarkable restraint and patience… during the preceding eleven years, had no alternative but to intervene following the coup of 15 July 1974… The Turkish intervention which took place on 20 July 1974 was carried out in accordance with the rights and obligations of Turkey under the Treaty of Guarantee. The Turkish Peace Force was sent to the Island, not as an invasion or occupation force, but to safeguard the independence of the Republic of Cyprus… [and] to save the Turkish Cypriot Community which was in grave and imminent danger of being annihilated by the Greek and Greek Cypriot armed elements.75

(emphasis added) This stance, however, seems to be undermined by the UN Security Council, which adopted a resolution the very day of the invasion that stated: The Security Council… deeply deploring the outbreak of violence and continuing bloodshed, gravely concerned about the situation which led to a serious threat to international peace and security… equally concerned about the necessity to restore the constitutional structure of the Republic of Cyprus… 1: Calls upon all States to respect the sovereignty, independence and territorial integrity of Cyprus… 3: Demands an immediate end to foreign military intervention in the Republic of Cyprus… 4: Requests the withdrawal without delay from the Republic of Cyprus of foreign military personnel present otherwise than under the authority of international agreements.76 Despite the rhetoric, however, what is undeniable is that Turkey sent its national troops into Cyprus on July 20, 1974 and established the partition of Northern Cyprus, the land that

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would eventually become known, unofficially, as the Turkish Republic of North Cyprus. This military invasion by Turkey into Cyprus, along with the already-existing tension that had formed because of the coup against Makarios, made the peacekeepers’ jobs almost impossible to fulfill. At the point when Turkey invaded and fulfilled the promise of taksim, the job of creating a lasting peace fell apart. Though UNFICYP would continue

to reach for its goal even to this day, 1974 proved to be a turning point from which UNFICYP could not recover. UN Politics. The politics of the UN are surprisingly uncomplicated in this matter. Where

there was great animosity between Greece and Turkey, there seemed to be a lack of will to join in the fight by any side of the Cold War, save the UK, which was initially heavily invested in Cyprus but weaned itself from the conflict as the years passed. The biggest political interest that the UN had in Cyprus was its ability to establish and implement a peacekeeping force, which it had done only twice before UNFICYP. Because neither side of the Cold War had much interest in Cyprus, the Security Council was able to take measured, rather than political, stances regarding the issue of peacekeeping; in fact, the UN was referred to by at least one author as “the only competent institution to deal with the Cyprus dispute”77 because of its relatively disinterested stance, as opposed to NATO, Turkey, Greece, or the Republic of Cyprus itself, all of whom had some self-interest at stake in the conflict. On March 4, 1964, the UN Security Council unanimously passed Resolution 186, recommending “the creation, with the consent of the Government of Cyprus, of a [UN] Peace-Keeping Force in Cyprus,” and calling for the force to work “in the interest of preserving international peace and security, [and] to use its best efforts to prevent a recurrence of fighting and… to contribute to the… restoration of law and order and a return to normal conditions.”78 Though it would take a few weeks to put together, this resolution was carried out within the same month. This separation of partisan Cold War politics in favor of supporting an international peacekeeping force to try to stop a civil conflict is one of the most positive

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parts of this entire case, showing that even in one of the most bitter ideological battles of the modern era, it was still possible to derive a unanimous decision in an organization where both sides of that battle have veto power. Diplomacy. Diplomatic efforts undertaken in order to secure a political peace agreement,

unfortunately, did not meet the same level of success as the political efforts within the UN Security Council. Though the London-Zürich Agreements, which set the framework for an independent Cyprus, were agreed upon by Greece, Turkey, and Cyprus, further talks to maintain the peace and create a more effective Republic of Cyprus were met with hostility and inaction. The first of these attempts at diplomacy was discussed briefly before: Makarios’ “13 Points.” The thirteen changes to the Cypriot constitution that were raised by President Makarios in 1963 were not tremendously radical or partisan, but the response that met the proposal certainly was. Not only did the Turkish government and Turkish Cypriots oppose it, but some Greeks opposed the points, as well, as strengthening the Republic of Cyprus would make enosis more difficult to achieve. The proposal as it was given was not well prepared politically, and it therefore suffered in terms of its diplomatic appeal.79 The poor timing and preparation of this proposal revitalized both sides of the bitter Cypriot divide and made the chances for future diplomatic successes bleak. The second effort at a diplomatic solution was the UN mediator, Galo Plaza, who attempted to come to a mediated agreement between Cyprus, Turkey and Greece in 1965. The mediator, although ultimately concluding that “every endeavour must continue to be made to bring about a peaceful solution… of the Cyprus problem,”80 admits that in the situation that Cyprus was in at the time, having a divided government and a bitter ethno-national divide, “there is no apparent willingness—and indeed in practical terms little ability—on the part of the leaders of either community to offer any substantial concession to an agreed political settlement.”81 Both sides utilized stall-tactics in order to avoid a mediated settlement, as both sides set preconditions for talks at impossible levels: the Greek Cypriots would only discuss plans with the Turks if it was in the context of a unified state, and the Turks would only talk to the Greeks if it was in the context of re-establishing the 1960 Constitution.

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Analysis of External Politics and Diplomacy. The fact that there was not an

acceptable political solution to the conflict between the Turks and the Greeks, added to the fact that there was a nearly complete breakdown in diplomacy between those two countries, made implementing a peacekeeping mission in Cyprus essentially impossible. Without the backing of a strong political solution that can gain the support of both sides of a conflict, solving that conflict with a peacekeeping force simply will not be able to happen. As will be shown in the case of FYROM, a political solution can have the effect of lowering the level of animosity between the two groups and make it much easier to insert troops and allow them to accomplish their objectives. In the case of Cyprus, the lack of a political solution embittered the two sides even further, thus preventing them from making peace with one another, and led to the breakdown of diplomacy that enabled an invasion of the island by both Greece and Turkey, leading to a tense partition that UNFICYP could not alleviate. The failure to establish meaningful diplomatic relations and produce a political solution like in Cyprus was a major factor in UNFICYPâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ultimate failure as a peacekeeping operation. The high level of animosity and violence can be traced at least partially, if not in some cases fully, to this factor, meaning that a breakdown in this area can lead to devastating effects for the effectiveness of any peacekeeping mission. Signing the Ohrid Agreement, as will be shown in the next chapter, was a huge step to alleviating tensions between the Albanians and the Slavs in FYROM; had such an agreement been found in Cyprus, the conflict between the Turks and Greeks might have been alleviated, allowing UNFICYP to be more effective. This was not the case, however, and in the end, UNFICYP ended up as an almost completely ineffective mission for the UN. Part Four: The UN as a Global Actor

The UNâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s global-actor status did not affect its ability to implement a peacekeeping mission in Cyprus. There certainly was no advantage given to the UN, as the mission ended up failing, but at the same time, there was no distinct disadvantage that came

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with being a global actor that caused UNFICYP to fail. As a global actor, there are certain factors that could have potentially posed disadvantages, just as being a regional actor could potentially have aided the EU in FYROM, but after analyzing the data, it turns out that no disadvantage existed for the UN; rather, the conditions in Cyprus simply provided too many challenges that the UN could not overcome. First of all, there was no political disadvantage for the UN in terms of its internal discussions that eventually led to the launching of UNFICYP. Unlike in FYROM, as will be discussed in the next chapter, there was no veto in the Security Council that prevented the UNFICYP force from continuing its mission or obtaining necessary equipment. Though the potential for that disadvantage exists, it is the same disadvantage that the EU possesses, as they face the same problem of needing unanimity. This shows that there was not an internal dynamic that somehow disadvantaged the UN enough that it caused the mission to fail. Second, a global actor should, theoretically, have access to more than enough resources to complete a mission. In UNFICYP, however, the UN was not able to field a force as large as its projected necessary size. This failure was not a consequence of the UN being a global actor, as other organizationsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;both national and internationalâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;have faced this exact same problem. Clearly, then, neither a regional nor global international organization has an advantage when it comes to procuring necessary equipment and troop levels, as both have problems in that area. Finally, the UN did not face any problems when it came to the local population objecting to a peacekeeping organization being in their territory. One possible objection to global organizations taking charge of peacekeeping missions is that residents of the receiving country might object to having a vast international force in their country where they would be friendlier to an organization whose forces are made up of people from countries proximal to the receiving country. However, what ended up happening in Cyprus was that the citizens did not have a problem with the force being under

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the banner of the United Nations; rather, the citizens had a problem with the British forces alone, as they were seen as a colonizing force rather than troops dedicated to peacekeeping. Any international organization could face this exact same problem, and the way to sidestep it is not to change control of the force from a regional to a global actor or vice versa, but it is rather to study the factors measured in this study and find out if the citizens will object to having troops from any one nation in their country. CHAPTER 5: FYROM, THE EU’S FIRST MISSION

The dissolution of Yugoslavia brought about ethnic strife and conflict, the most famous of which being the 1991-1995 Balkan Wars. However, when studying those conflicts, Serbia, Croatia, and Bosnia and Herzegovina dominate the discussion, while little attention is paid to the smaller Balkan nations, especially the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia (FYROM). FYROM, however, played a major role in an oft-overlooked military mission launched by the European Union (EU) called Operation Concordia, the first military peacekeeping mission launched by that organization. In comparison to UNFICYP, Concordia was extremely successful, and in this chapter, the three factors that contributed to UNFICYP’s failure—level of animosity, external politics and diplomacy, and initial conditions—will be examined in the context of how they contributed to Concordia’s success. Further analysis of the data will also show how the EU being a regional international organization posed no advantages that led to the effectiveness of Operation Concordia. Part One: Level of Animosity

The level of animosity in FYROM when Operation Concordia was launched was relatively low, especially when compared to the levels in Cyprus. This low level of animosity manifested itself in the Macedonian population’s acceptance of the EU force and the fact that it was FYROM’s government that invited the EU to the country in the first place. Because the animosity was low, the EU forces did not have to worry about raging battles and were instead able to concentrate on their assigned tasks, thus allowing for an effective mission. The fact that the low level of animosity helped the mission had nothing

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to do with the EU being a regional actor, however, as any international organization facing similarly low levels of animosity would have been found those levels helpful. History of FYROM. Though the history of FYROM begins in 1991 when it declared itself

independent from Yugoslavia, the history of society in the area of Macedonia traces back to ancient times. In the 7th century BC, Macedonia was inhabited by a Greek tribe called the Macedons, the tribe that would eventually produce Alexander the Great. However, the Greek area called “Macedonia” and the nation that would eventually be called the Republic of Macedonia share a very small amount of land, bringing about a naming conflict that has forced the UN to adopt the name FYROM. FYROM currently has a population with an ethnic majority comprised of Macedonian Slavs, though their history in the region is relatively short when compared with the Albanians and Greek Macedonians. Coming to the Macedonian region primarily from Bulgaria, the Slavs entered the scene in the 5th century AD, as opposed to the Albanians and Greeks, who had inhabited the land for a far longer amount of time.82 Historically speaking, therefore, the Albanians have a historical conflict with the Slavs, which helps to explain the Albanian separatist ideals that drove the 2001 insurgency that eventually leads to the implementation of Operation Concordia. In FYROM around the time of the insurgency, the ethnic breakdown of the country was about 64.2% Macedonian Slav and 25.2% Albanian,83 making the Albanian presence in FYROM greater than the Turkish presence in Cyprus. Despite being larger, however, the level of violence and overall sense of animosity between the Slavs and Albanians was far lower than between the Greeks and Turks. UN Intervention. Before the outbreak of violence between the Albanians and FYROM’s

national forces, there was a UN force put in place in FYROM to monitor the country’s move to independence after the breakup of Yugoslavia. In February 1992, the Former Yugoslavia UN Protection Force (FY-UNPROFOR) was launched by the UN Security

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Council84 in order to help bring stability to the Balkan region. Though the force was much more heavily concentrated in the countries of Croatia, Serbia, and Bosnia and Herzegovina, there was still a UN force that was attached to FYROM. Though the rest of the region quickly became an ethnically-driven war zone, FYROM remained relatively peaceful, and the UN Protection Force was able to change into a UN Preventive Deployment Force (UNPREDEP). UNPREDEP was only a slight shift from UNPROFOR, and in fact the resolution creating UNPREDEP gives it the same mandate as UNPROFOR had.85 One thing that the Security Council recommended in its resolution to convert UNPROFOR to UNPREDEP was that the force continues to work with a regional security institution, the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE).86 This marks the beginning of the shift of responsibility for FYROM from the UN to regional actors such as NATO and the EU. As early as 1995, despite the apparent calm in FYROM, the UN was noticing a problem growing between the Albanians and the Slavs, with the Secretary General noting incidents such as: [Albanian leaders’] demands for improvements in their political, economic, social, cultural and educational status, including recognition of Albanian as the Republic’s second official language… [and] a confrontation between some ethnic Albanians and the Government over action by the former to establish an Albanian-language university in Tetovo.87 The Secretary General also noted that, during the confrontation over the university, “police… intervened on several occasions to halt the project, culminating in an incident on 17 February in which… one ethnic Albanian was shot dead, and a number of policemen [were] injured.”88 Along with this ethnic tension, the Secretary General was also worried about border disputes that could arise between FYROM and Serbia and Montenegro, then known as the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY). Though the

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UNPROFOR had established a military border between the two nations, neither side recognized its legitimacy, prompting the Secretary General to say that “the potential for confrontation still exists in the absence of a mutually recognized international border and it remains of primary importance that… work [begins] to resolve this long-outstanding issue.”89 Despite these warnings and evidence of rising tensions, when the resolution came in 1999 to extend UNPREDEP for another six months, China vetoed the resolution, making the final vote thirteen for, one against, and one abstention. Officially, China claimed that: the situation in the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia had apparently stabilized in the past few years and its relations with neighbouring countries had improved. Peace and stability in that country had also not been adversely affected by regional developments… [therefore] there was no need to further extend the mandate of the Mission.90 However, there is a possible alternative explanation for China’s action, described by Canada’s representative to the Security Council as “seemingly compelled by bilateral concerns unrelated to UNPREDEP.” The bilateral concern that is being referenced is FYROM’s diplomatic recognition of Taiwan as an independent state from China, which occurred on January 27, 1999;92 China’s veto of UNPREDEP occurred only one month after this, with other countries arguing vehemently against the veto. Regardless of the reason for the veto, however, the fact remains that UNPREDEP ended in 1999, leaving FYROM as a vulnerable state. Outbreak of Violence. After UNPREDEP left FYROM in 1999, there was a security gap

in the country that ethnic Albanians, many coming from the border-region near Kosovo, took advantage of to start violent uprisings. Beginning in late 2000, groups of Albanian militants began to take over towns in northern FYROM, pushing a belief in Albanian selfgovernance and partition. The danger behind these sentiments was summarized by Carl Bildt, the UN special envoy to the Balkans, when he said that “what is at stake here is not only Macedonia… [but] really everything that we have been trying to do in the Balkans:

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democracy, people living together, inter-ethnic cooperation,”93 showing how seriously the international community was taking the threats encountered by tiny FYROM. In early 2001, the Albanian militants began targeting government forces, abandoning their previous strategy of relatively peaceful village takeovers. After the slaying of a police officer by the Albanian force called the National Liberation Army (NLA), the battle between the Macedonians and Albanians began. FYROM tried to treat the situation with just police action at first, but the Albanians had little respect and trust for FYROM’s police force, which had “the reputation of [favoring]… Macedonian Slavs [over]… the Albanians.”94 After the insurgency gained strength and fighting escalated, FYROM’s police and security personnel began to attack the “liberated zones” that had come under the control of the NLA or other Albanian groups. By the time that the fighting had ended, over 200 people had been killed, including 60 members of FYROM’s security forces. In addition, about 100,000 people were internally displaced within FYROM, with allegations from human rights organizations that the FYROM police were responsible for targeting people because of their ethnicity.95 Analysis of Animosity. The level of animosity between the Slavs and the Albanians was

not nearly as high as it was in the case of Cyprus. Though there were leaders drumming up support for ethno-nationalist policies, especially on the side of the Albanians, the NLA and FYROM’s security forces were not nearly as hate-fueled as EOKA and the TMT. The violence eventually subsided with the signing of the Ohrid agreement, which will be discussed in the next section, because of a willingness from both sides to work together to get a peace agreement done. Had the level of animosity between the Slavs and Albanians been high enough, a peace agreement may have been impossible, as was the case in Cyprus. Furthermore, the fact that it was FYROM’s security forces doing most of the fighting against the NLA and other Albanian groups made it much easier to control the fighting, where in Cyprus the fighting between ethno-national groups unrelated to the government caused numerous bouts of violence and worked to increase the amount of antipathy between the Greeks and Turks.

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Because of these factors, the level of animosity between the Slavs and Albanians has been found to be low. The high level of animosity found in the Cyprus case made it difficult to implement a peacekeeping force, and in this case, as will be seen shortly, the low level of animosity and the willingness of the two sides to cooperate made the EU’s implementation smooth and relatively easy. Though the transition from the UN to NATO was marked by the worst violence of the entire conflict, the transfer from NATO to the EU was notable for its absence of violence. The reasons for the smooth transition and easy implementation surely have to do with the fact that the UN mission ended unexpectedly and prematurely, but the low level of animosity that prevailed during the EU’s takeover also had a major role to play in the explanation. Part Two: External Politics and Diplomacy

As mentioned above, the violence in FYROM dropped dramatically after 2001 when the Ohrid agreement was signed. This diplomatic success story poses a sharp contrast to the drawn-out and ultimately fruitless diplomatic efforts that were undertaken in the Cyprus case. Ohrid was not the only political success story in FYROM, however, as the Berlin Plus agreement also had a major role to play in the effectiveness of the EU’s implementation of Operation Concordia. Berlin Plus allowed the EU and NATO to share equipment and intelligence, helping the EU immensely, as they were unprepared to take on a major military operation like Concordia independently. The Ohrid Framework Agreement. The Ohrid Framework Agreement, signed on August

13, 2001, was a turning point towards peace in the Albanian uprising in FYROM. The agreement mandated sacrifices and promises from both sides, including the “complete voluntary disarmament of the ethnic Albanian armed groups and their complete voluntary disbandment,”96 as well as a guarantee from the Slavic government that “state funding will be provided for university level education in languages spoken by at least 20 percent of the population of Macedonia.”97 There are numerous other portions of the Ohrid agreement, all of which deal in some way or another with guaranteeing Albanian rights or Macedonian security. In this way, the drafters of Ohrid made sure

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that the issues that the insurgents cared about were addressed, therefore making the likelihood of disarmament greater. Though there were some doubts that an agreement could be reached due to violence during the drafting negotiations,98 those concerns were fleeting and Ohrid ended up accomplishing its purpose—bringing peace to FYROM. To set up Ohrid, the major political parties on both sides of the ethnic divide came together under the supervision of the EU and the US to negotiate. The parties involved included two Slavic Macedonian political parties, including the party of the prime minister of FYROM—the Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organisation–Democratic Party of National Unity—as well as two Albanian political parties, including the Democratic Party of the Albanians.99 Both sides have been somewhat critical of the tone of the negotiations, with Ljubco Georgievski, FYROM’s Prime Minister at the time, saying that the EU and US acted “brutally” and in a “cowboy style”100 and some within the Albanian community believing that the Agreement “[did] not resolve the Albanian issue in Macedonia,” it should also be noted that there were other Slavic and Albanian groups that strongly supported Ohrid. Getting on the road to Ohrid was difficult and did not come without its costs; despite the two cease-fires that were negotiated by the EU’s representative, Javier Solana, 35 people still lost their lives while the deal was being negotiated.101 NATO in FYROM. Once Ohrid had been put in place, an enforcement mechanism was

needed to ensure that the Albanian militants turned over their weapons as specified in the Agreement. NATO took this challenge by launching Operation Essential Harvest on August 22, 2001, sending 3500 troops with logistical support to the nation. This was not a completely peaceful mission, however, as there were still bands of militant Albanians in FYROM not willing to give up their weapons; at least one NATO soldier was killed while serving Operation Essential Harvest, during a “vicious attack… on the vehicle he was driving” in an act of violence that the Secretary General of NATO called “absurd considering that NATO troops are in the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia to assist the people and the government of that country in achieving a peaceful and lasting

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solution to the current crisis.103 Essential Harvest, overall, was extremely successful and eventually was replaced by Operation Amber Fox, which was meant to be more of a peacekeeping and protection mission than Essential Harvest, which was a mission dedicated to the task of disarming the Albanians. Operation Amber Fox was also extremely successful, running from September 27, 2001 until December 15, 2002, clearing the path for the next NATO mission, Operation Allied Harmony, the final NATO mission in FYROM before Concordia would take over. Operation Allied Harmony had a much more limited mandate than either Amber Fox or Essential Harvest; the NATO force was in FYROM only to “provide support for the international monitors [and] assist the [FYROM] government in taking ownership of security throughout the country.”104 Allied Harmony was a success and NATO was already preparing to hand control of the FYROM mission to the EU, but before Concordia could be launched, the EU needed to acquire proper military equipment, and for that, they looked to NATO to help them out. Berlin Plus. The “Berlin Plus” agreement came out of necessity for the EU and

convenience for NATO. The European Council, which is the collection of the heads of state and government of all EU member states, began making plans for an EU mission in FYROM as early as March 2002.105 After being blocked earlier by a dispute between Greece and Turkey over the EU’s use of NATO assets in this proposed mission,106 the EU and NATO decided that an equipment-sharing deal would need to be reached. The framework for this agreement had been laid in the 1990s, but it wasn’t until the early 2000s, after the European Security and Defense Policy (ESDP) had been established, that talks really got underway.107 Though there were problems with Turkey and Greece that delayed the negotiations,108 there was also a question of capability, and it was not until the ESDP was revealed that NATO started working directly with the EU on a possible equipment-sharing deal. In December 2002, the two sides finally came to an agreement that was acceptable to all members of both the EU and NATO and on March 17, 2003, the Berlin Plus Agreement was signed. This agreement provides three vitally important keys to Concordia’s success: a “NATO-EU Security Agreement”; “Assured

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Access to NATO planning capabilities for EU-led Crisis Management Operations (CMO)”; and “[Available]… NATO assets and capabilities for EU-led CMO.”109 In FYROM, the EU took advantage primarily of the wealth of military knowledge that was present in NATO by relying on NATO, via the Berlin Plus Agreement, to take care of most of the mission designs and logistical support.110 NATO was a vital part of the EU’s success in FYROM because of their knowledge of the area, based on years of experience thanks to Essential Harvest, Amber Fox and Allied Harmony, and it is only because of Berlin Plus that the EU was able to tap into this knowledge. By assuring the EU that they would have the full backing of NATO in their military excursion into FYROM, it gave the EU confidence to launch its first military peacekeeping mission, though they arguably did not need the help according to some authors.111 Berlin Plus was not perfect, however, as the EU encountered several problems when it came to intelligence sharing. Before launching the mission, there was no official intelligence-sharing plan in place between the EU and NATO, which caused problems that could potentially have been devastating. For example, “while NATO was eventually given full access to Concordia mission reports, the EU in turn never gained access to NATO reports on Kosovo,” despite the fact that “villages close to the Kosovo border were involved in trafficking of arms and potentially vulnerable to general unrest.”112 Despite these problems, however, Berlin Plus was an overall positive for the EU and allowed the ESDP to expand into military operations, thus expanding its power and, potentially, influence in the region. For FYROM, it meant a stable peacekeeping force that was able to do its job well, thus helping the country to rebuild itself without the fear of a separatist movement tearing it apart. Analysis of External Politics and Diplomacy. The external politics involving the Berlin

Plus agreement between the EU and NATO and the diplomatic efforts that resulted in the Ohrid Agreement helped the EU force to be highly effective throughout Operation Concordia. The fact that there was a peace agreement already signed before the EU came into FYROM was a blessing, especially when compared to the chaos that marked

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the diplomatic negotiations in Cyprus. As was shown through Cyprus, a hostile situation where diplomacy is failing and political solutions are not being accepted is a situation that can ruin a peacekeeping effort. Fortunately for the EU, the Ohrid Agreement meant that many of the major Albanian militants were disarmed before the time that the EU force arrived in FYROM; to use a counterfactual, had EOKA and the TMT been disarmed by the time that the UN forces arrived, it is not hard to imagine that the peacekeeping effort would have had a much higher chance of success. Add to that the fact that a peace agreement helped to solve some of the ethnic tensions in FYROM, by recognizing the rights of the ethnic Albanians while still allowing the Slavs to hold power, and it shows how important diplomacy can be in a conflict situation. In terms of the external politics, the partnership between NATO and the EU turned out to be invaluable. Gaining the support of NATO meant that the EU had both the military capability and the political legitimacy to launch their first military mission. Using FYROM as a launching point, the EUâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s use of military forces in peacekeeping operations has grown in recent years, with the Union even operating missions in Africa. Had the external politics of NATO-EU relations broken down and made the Berlin Plus agreement impossible to pass, the EU might still be unable to launch military missions in peacekeeping roles. Discarding the possibilities of what might have been, however, it is clear that the Berlin Plus agreement helped the EU by providing equipment and, more importantly, leadership and logistical help that was badly needed in the EUâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first attempt at a military mission. Thanks in large part to Berlin Plus, an agreement that could have been made between any two types of international organizations, the mission was a success and the operation was implemented extremely effectively. Part Three: Initial Conditions

As discussed above, the external politics, diplomatic efforts, and level of animosity found in FYROM all helped to make Operation Concordia an effective mission, especially when compared to UNFICYP. There is still one more factor to discuss in terms of the success of the FYROM mission, and that is the initial conditions that the EU troops faced when

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they arrived in the country. As was mentioned before, the largest groups of Albanians had been disarmed, a peace agreement had been signed, and the EU was coming into the country on the coattails of the NATO force, which had done a terrific job of keeping the peace. There were still some initial conditions that the EU forces had to overcome, specifically the poor economy of FYROM and the small amount of violence that remained in some Albanian areas, but these problems were so minimal that they ultimately did not prevent Operation Concordia from being an effective mission; furthermore, there were other initial conditions that helped the EU forces, such as the fact that FYROM had a population that was ready for peace as well as the fact that FYROM was geographically and strategically easier to insert troops into. Operation Concordia’s Mandate. Before going more into more depth on the domestic

issues that were affecting FYROM during the time that Operation Concordia was in effect, it will be essential to go over exactly what Concordia’s mandate was, thus making it easier to judge how domestic issues could have affected the operation, even though it turned out that they had no effect. Concordia was established in the EU’s Joint Council Action 2003/92/CFSP, which stated that: The Union’s contribution is based upon a broad approach with activities to address the whole range of rule of law aspects, including institution building programmes and police activities which should be mutually supportive and reinforcing. The activities of the Union… will contribute to the overall peace implementation in the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia.113 Though this is a rather broad mandate, it is clear that the military force was not meant to interfere in a major way in the economy, but rather to help stabilize the government and, in general, keep the peace throughout the country. This will be important to remember, as FYROM’s economy was one of the more worrying aspects about the

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country when the force was originally inserted. As it turns out, though, FYROM’s economic problems, though severe, did not interfere with the EU’s ability to effectively implement Operation Concordia. FYROM’s Economy. FYROM’s economy in 2003 was, and continues to be today, very poor.

Despite having favorable conditions when it broke off from Yugoslavia, when the entire country of Yugoslavia collapsed, it devastated the FYROM economy. Losing the support that it had been receiving from Yugoslavia, combined with a 1994 blockade against the country imposed by Greece, created a desperate economic system in FYROM throughout the 1990s. In 1993, for example, FYROM’s GDP took a tremendous fall as their economy shrank by 7.5%.115 Since then, the economy has been erratic, increasing by 4.5% in 2000 and then shrinking by 4.5% the very next year; inflation in 1993 hit almost 350%; and the unemployment rate has been floating in the 30% range since 1994.116 Perhaps unsurprisingly, “unemployment is disproportionately high among the ethnic Albanian community,”117 and about 20% of the population lives below the poverty line, with “net monthly wages [averaging] about $170 in 1998 and 1999.”118 Despite these trying economic times, however, there did not seem to be any form of violent action due to economic hardship. In fact, voting patterns in the early 2000s show that FYROM’s electorate was much more concerned with creating national unity and fighting corruption within the government than fighting economic hardships, as “political instability and inter-ethnic issues… dominated much of the government’s agenda in the immediate post-Ohrid years.”119 Having a population that was not acting out because of the poor economy helped Concordia to be effective because rather than concentrating on potentially violent actions based on economic problems, the force was able to concentrate on the violence caused by ethnic problems. Also, even though the mandate called for the Concordia force to help with institution building, the fact that the force was not bogged down with missions designed to help the FYROM economy also freed forces up to do patrols and other missions directly tied to security.

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Residual Violence. As mentioned before, the NATO missions and the Ohrid agreement

left very little violence in FYROM for the Concordia force to deal with. The NLA, which had been the largest group supporting the violence in 2001, had given up their arms after Ohrid and many former NLA members went on to start pro-Albanian political parties such as the Democratic Union for Integration. When the EU force took over for the NATO forces, it maintained NATO’s effectiveness, as “[Albanian] extremists… largely avoided tangling with it [the EU force].”120 The relative lack of violence helped the EU to gain legitimacy in the country, but despite this, there were still some groups that resisted peace and maintained a militant stance on Albanian independence. The pro-Albanian group that gave the EU the most trouble was the Albanian National Army (ANA, also called AKSh). The ANA was started by a former NLA commander, Avdil Jakupi, and fought as a part of a radical irredentist movement, hoping “for the creation of a greater Albania through the union of ethnic-Albanian inhabited territories—Kosovo, northern and western Macedonia, the Presevo valley of southern Serbia and parts of eastern Montenegro—with the mother country, Albania.”121 Even though the ANA did not cause as much violence as the NLA during the worst parts of the 2001 crisis, they still caused some trouble for the EU and FYROM’s police forces, with speculation that their actions might have been intended to draw an overwhelming response from military and police forces in order to turn Albanians against the FYROM government once again.122 The ANA had far less power than the NLA, both in terms of membership and force of arms, but even with such a small group—some estimates put their size at 50-70 members123—they were still able to cause problems for the EU and especially the FYROM police force, who were drawn into a confrontation with the ANA on September 7 in the towns of Brest and Malina Mala, gunfights that resulted in the deaths of multiple ANA members.124 There were multiple other incidents that the EU had to deal with, as well, but the largest systemic threat that they faced was certainly the ANA. Though during the EU’s time in FYROM there were multiple bombings kidnappings of Slavic targets

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and attacks on Albanians, as well, including one that killed a six-year-old girl,125 overall, the EUâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s presence in FYROM was successful in deterring violence and useful for training the FYROM security personnel. The mission was efficient at dealing with residual violence left over from the NATO force, helping it to be qualified as an effectively implemented mission. Positive Initial Conditions. The initial conditions that the EU force encountered were,

for the most part, extremely helpful. Though there were certainly negative conditions, which have just been described, there were also numerous positive conditions that helped Concordia to be effective, such as FYROM having a population that was ready for peace and a political geography that was conducive to helping to launch a peacekeeping mission. This idea draws from the discussions of both the level of animosity as well as the political solutions that had been put in place that were discussed earlier, and also from data that show the publicâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s opinion about the issue of Ohrid and greater national unity. The primary piece of data that shows that the public wanted peace during the time that the EU was there was that the FYROM public voted in a coalition government that was formed, in part, by a political party started by former members of the NLA. Ali Ahmeti, one of the primary leaders of the NLA, started the Democratic Union for Integration (DUI) party after the signing of the Ohrid Agreement; the DUI stood against radical irredentist ideas within the Albanian population and supported strongly pro-Ohrid policies. On the Slavic side, the political battle was between the right-wing Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Party-Democratic Party for National Unity (VMRO-DPMNE) and the SocialDemocrats (SDSM). In the 2002 parliamentary elections, the FYROM electorate chose to give power to a coalition government consisting of both DUI and SDSM elements,126 sending a clear statement that the path forward for FYROM should be determined by Slavs and Albanians working together rather than through one dominating the other. The fact that the nation had survived breaking away from Yugoslavia in relative peace, unlike the other separations that led to the Balkan wars, and the fact that it established

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a working democracy shows that, at its core, FYROM is a country looking for consensus and peace, and that is exactly what the elections of 2002 proved. Aside from the population’s desire for peace, another factor that positively influenced the mission’s effectiveness was FYROM’s geography. Unlike Cyprus, an island, FYROM is a landlocked country relatively close to the main hub of operations for the EU, Brussels; this made inserting the troops relatively easy and cost efficient. The physical geography is not the only factor that made FYROM an ideal place to launch a peacekeeping mission, however, as the fact that EU forces were already in the area thanks to the NATO forces that preceded Operation Concordia meant that large numbers of troops did not have to be transported across large areas of land. Moving from a force of about 700 in Operation Allied Harmony to a force of 357 troops, most of who were drawn from the same nations that participated in Allied Harmony,127 meant that troop movements were not a big problem for Operation Concordia. When this peaceful population and easy troop movement is added to the fact that the infrastructure of FYROM was far more advanced in terms of both civilian and military infrastructure than the infrastructure of Cyprus during UNFICYP, it provides for an almost ideal situation on the ground for troops to be inserted into, helping to make Concordia an extremely effective mission. Analysis of Initial Conditions. The initial conditions in FYROM helped to make

Operation Concordia an effective mission. The negative initial conditions, unlike those found by the UNFICYP troops, were not so bad as to affect the ability of the troops to do their jobs. Though the ANA and other Albanian militant groups kept fighting, the violence was not nearly as intense as the fighting in Cyprus, which did not just involve the ethnonational groups on the island, but also troops from Greece and Turkey proper, as well. In this case, the EU’s mandate was broad enough to allow them the freedom to handle these threats efficiently while also training the FYROM security forces to take over once Concordia was over; in UNFICYP, on the other hand, one could argue that the mandate was too broad with little political support helping it.

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Also, the fact that FYROM’s economy, though poor, did not affect the actions of the civilians helped the EU force to do its job. Had the EU force been forced to deal with rioting citizens due to poor economic conditions, they might not have had enough of a force to then deal with the irredentist Albanians who were stirring up violence, as well. Of course, it is impossible to prove a counterfactual, but it is not unreasonable to think that a force of fewer than 400 would not have been able to handle civilian uprisings on two fronts in completely different parts of the country. Finally, the fact that there were a number of positive initial conditions, such as the citizens’ desire for peace through democratic means and the political geography of FYROM itself, made implementing Concordia easy, therefore making the mission itself extremely effective. Part Four: The EU as a Regional Actor

In FYROM, even more than in Cyprus, it was easy to see why the EU’s regional-actor status was not a factor in determining how effective it would be. The UN, a global actor, NATO, a regional actor with transcontinental membership, and the EU, a purely regional actor, all had missions in FYROM in a time frame of less than 10 years, and all of those missions were successful. The UN’s mission in FYROM was working and would have continued into the future if not for a single vote in the Security Council, cast by China for potentially-political reasons; NATO’s missions in FYROM were similarly successful, helping to put down the 2001 uprising that shook the country; and the EU’s Operation Concordia was effective at keeping the peace in FYROM when that peace was threatened by new and more extreme groups than NATO faced. The EU’s identity as a regional actor helped it in one way, which was its ability to transfer troops to FYROM quickly and easily because of FYROM’s proximity to the EU. The UN, however, which is headquartered in New York City, had no problem inserting troops and effectively launching a peacekeeping mission, so clearly geographical proximity did not give the EU an advantage over a global actor. And other than geography, there are not many more advantages that the EU had over the UN: there was no additional

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legitimacy granted to the EU because of its regional-actor status and there was no political advantage gained, either. One could point to the fact that China was able to single-handedly veto the UN’s decision to continue its force in FYROM as an example of a political disadvantage that the UN had, but when this claim is examined more closely, it begins to fall apart because of the fact that the EU potentially could have had only one country veto its decision. The way that the EU is structured requires a vote without dissent on ESDP issues,128 just like the UN requires an absence of dissent from any permanent member of the Security Council before an action is taken. When all of that data is analyzed, it becomes clear that the EU’s regional-actor status did not advantage it in any way during Operation Concordia, just as the UN’s global-actor status did not help it in Cyprus. What did help the EU in FYROM over the UN in Cyprus, though, were favorable conditions in each of the three measured factors: a relatively low level of animosity between the Albanians and the Slavs when compared to the Turks and Greeks; initial conditions that favored rather than impaired mission implementation; and popular political solutions already in place before the peacekeeping mission, with strong diplomatic ties between all parties, two things that were conspicuously absent in Cyprus. All of these factors help to support the thesis of this paper, that regional and global international organizations are not essentially different when it comes to how well they will implement peacekeeping missions. If international organizations study the three factors analyzed in this paper to determine how to implement a peacekeeping mission, they will find that those factors help to predict the chances of a mission’s success or failure much better than relying on superficial determining factors such as what type of organization is launching the mission. CHAPTER 6: FYROM, CONCLUSIONS Part One: Summary

The research presented in this paper supports the finding that it is not the type of international organization, whether it is regional or global, that is the determining factor in the effectiveness or ineffectiveness of a peacekeeping mission, but rather it is factors

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inherent to the mission itself that are critical. In the two case studies presented, on the UN mission in Cyprus and the EU mission in FYROM, the research showed that three factors— the level or animosity between the warring groups, the initial conditions on the ground, and the external political factors and diplomatic efforts surrounding the mission—were crucial in both cases in terms of determining the effectiveness of the missions. With UNFICYP, there was a high level of animosity, initial conditions were unfavorable for the UN and the political situation regarding Cyprus in Turkey and Greece was toxic, thus shutting down all potential diplomatic efforts. The conflict in Cyprus had increased in intensity throughout the 1950s and 60s, leading to the UN’s insertion of a peacekeeping force in 1964, which was successful in on-the-ground performance but unsuccessful in the political arena. Though there was a high level of animosity and unfavorable initial conditions, the ground forces were able to do their job with relatively little trouble, with the exception of the British troops, who the Cypriots saw as a colonial force due to the island’s decades as a member of the British Empire. The external politics and diplomatic efforts were failures, however, and in 1974, in response to the Greek-led coup on Cyprus, Turkey invaded the northern part of the island, thus sealing UNFICYP’s history as a failed and ineffective mission. The EU’s mission in FYROM was completely different, as they faced a relatively low level of animosity, very favorable initial conditions, and successful diplomatic efforts that had resulted in a popular peace agreement. Taking over in a country that had just seen missions by both the UN and NATO, the EU’s forces were welcomed by the FYROM government and faced very little violence from the Albanians, whose resistance movement had shrunk from being a large-scale social movement down to a cause being fought for by only the most extreme groups. The EU was also helped in large part by the Berlin Plus agreement with NATO, which allowed for resource-sharing, and by the Ohrid agreement, the popular peace accord that brought the fighting between the Albanians and Slavs to a close. Operation Concordia only lasted a few months, but overall, it accomplished its goals and was an extremely effective mission.

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The original hypothesis of this paper was that the regional organization would have an advantage in terms of launching effective missions because of factors such as increased legitimacy in the areas where peacekeeping missions were launched and easier implementation methods stemming from not having to send troops very far in order to insert them into conflict areas. However, the results of the research showed that, at least in the two cases studied here, the type of organization launching the mission did not have an impact on its outcome. Despite the differences between the two types of organizations, when launching peacekeeping missions, the research shows that they are essentially the same. What matters in terms of launching an effective mission is analyzing the three factors researched in this paper before the mission is launched in order to take a holistic view of the situation and decide what kind of force will be needed to succeed in the mission, or if the mission is even worth starting at all. If an organization does that, its chance of launching an effective mission increases. Part Two: Generalizing the Thesis

Whenever a research project is limited to only two subjects, there are legitimate concerns about whether or not the findings are generalizable. A brief look at some other cases, however, supports the theory that this thesis is generalizable, though of course more research will need to be done to show anything conclusively. In order to measure the generalizability of the two cases, it is helpful to take a brief look at some other cases to see if the findings hold: in analyzing the cases of ONUSAL in El Salvador and Operation Artemis in the Democratic Republic of Congo, the thesis is shown to hold true. The UN mission ONUSAL in El Salvador, lasting from July 1991 until April 1995, has been called one of â&#x20AC;&#x153;the most unambiguously successfulâ&#x20AC;?129 missions launched by the UN. When the UN entered the country, the level of animosity was at a medium intensity; though there were still attacks being launched by the communist rebels, called the FMLN (Farabundo MartĂ National Liberation Front), against the El Salvadorian government, both parties were open to peace negotiations, denoting a waning of hostilities. The initial conditions for the UN troops, on the other hand, were unfavorable

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because of a number of factors, such as the that much of the El Salvadorian economy had been negatively affected by tumbling coffee prices throughout the 1980s and that the country’s infrastructure was still in shambles from a major 1986 earthquake.130 One of the bright spots for the UN, however, was the fact that both the El Salvadorian government and the FMLN invited the UN into the country to foster a peace agreement, meaning that diplomacy was still possible between the two groups. What that also meant, however, was that there had not been a peace agreement signed when the UN peacekeeping force was inserted into El Salvador, a situation that the UN was not used to handling. This was not a problem for long, though, as the signing of the Chapultepec Accord in January 1992 officially sealed the peace between the FMLN and the government. UN forces stayed in the country in order to monitor the situation until it finally stabilized in 1995. After analyzing the three factors here, it was clear that the El Salvador case was murkier in its results than either the FYROM or Cyprus cases were: El Salvador was a mission positioned with a seemingly equal chance of success and failure. With proper planning and management based on an analysis of the three factors, though, the UN was able to implement their peacekeeping mission effectively. The most important factor in this case seemed to be the willingness on both sides of the conflict to enter into good-faith diplomatic efforts to bring about a peace agreement, and then to stick to that agreement after it was signed. Had the UN not recognized that the political and diplomatic area of the case was favorable and only looked at the level of animosity and/or the initial conditions, they might not have launched the case. The UN’s careful analysis of all three factors, however, helped them to launch an extremely effective mission that brought about the end of a civil conflict. The success of ONUSAL, therefore, shows that an organization’s dedication to a mission resulting from its careful analysis of the three factors studied in this paper can lead to the launching of a highly effective mission, and that this analysis could be put into practice by all types of organizations in order to become more effective in their future peacekeeping missions.

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EU’s Operation Artemis also shows that the thesis is generalizable, but in a different way. Artemis shows that the labels of “regional” and “global” actors are losing their distinctions in the area of international security, especially within peacekeeping missions, as this mission represents the EU’s first independent military operation outside of Europe. Operation Artemis occurred between June and September 2003 and consisted of an EU force taking over for the UN mission MONUC in the Democratic Republic of Congo after a number of soldiers from Uganda pulled out of MONUC. The UN asked for aid as they reconstituted the MONUC force, and the EU stepped in to protect vital areas such as an airport and a refugee camp in the town called Bunia.131 The EU forces were successful in their mission and protected their assigned areas until MONUC had regained a force level sufficient to complete the mission. Being labeled a “regional actor” implies that the organization in question takes on missions that fall within its sphere of influence, and the EU’s natural sphere of influence is limited to Europe. However, by moving outside of Europe and launching a successful mission, the EU has shown that there is a shrinking distinction between regional and global actors in the realm of peacekeeping missions. Though there are certainly differences between regional and global actors, as regional actors like the EU begin launching missions outside of their traditional spheres of influence, the question arises asking where the line of demarcation is between the role of a regional and global actor in the field of international security. Part Three: Impacts on International Relations

The research conducted for this paper has major implications for the study of international relations, specifically when it comes to the study of the similarities and differences between regional and global international institutions. International relations scholars have been researching this difference for years, especially in regards to the organizations’ respective abilities to carry out their security policies, and this thesis attempts to illuminate some facets of this debate.

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First, the finding in this project that regional and global organizations have nearly identical ways of planning and implementing peacekeeping missions is potentially a large step for this area of study. If this finding is true, it would force a shift in the substance of the academic debate about these different organization types, away from how they are different to how they can each improve their peacekeeping abilities. Though similarities between the EU and the UN may not be too surprising given the fact that the EU worked closely with the UN on military missions in the past, thus ensuring some form of operational similarities, a shift in the debate could be meaningful, as it would force scholars to search for ways to improve peacekeeping missions rather than concentrate on the differences between regional and global actors. Another way that this research impacts the study of international relations is by forcing a rethinking of traditional ideas of sovereignty. Opinions on the topic of sovereignty range from thinking that it should be nearly absolute to ideas about the abolition of sovereignty completely. By analyzing peacekeeping missions, this paper inherently discusses the idea of limited sovereignty, as peacekeeping missions could not exist without limited sovereignty. However, this paper also touches on a new area of discussion, which is the debate around the question of how sovereignty is defined in a regionalized world. Though, ultimately, this paper endorses the idea that regional and global actors implement peacekeeping missions in very similar ways, it is impossible to deny that there are substantive differences between the two types of organizations. Where the UN has some form of jurisdiction in just about every country in the world, an organization like the EU only has the slightest connection to places like Africa and the Middle East, both places where the EU is now launching military and civilian operations. Should a regional actor be intervening in states that are not only non-members of that organization, but also not part of their natural region of influence? Though some might claim that EU member statesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; histories of colonization in both areas gives them a legitimate claim to act there, this paper does not venture to provide an answer to that question. Hopefully, the raising of this question will spur further research and debate.

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More studies on the topic of similarities and differences of regional and global actors need to be conducted, of course, as it is unclear whether or not the thesis holds up to scrutiny in cases other than the ones presented in this paper. However, if further research supports the thesis that regional and global international organizations have more similarities in implementing peacekeeping missions than they do differences and that the three factors researched here are the primary determining factors in the effectiveness or ineffectiveness of a peacekeeping mission, then this thesis could have a major influence on future academic studies of crisis management. Part Four: Policy Recommendations

The research conducted for this paper is not toothless in the policy world, as analyzing the findings can support policy recommendations to make peacekeeping missions more effective in the future. The primary policy conclusion that can be drawn from this research is that, when debating the launch of a peacekeeping force, different organizations need to, first, decide whether the mission is worth launching and, second, determine what kind of a force will be needed. That is not the only recommendation that can be drawn from the research, however, as there are also implications involving the cooperation between regional and global actors. Peacekeeping versus Peace-Enforcement. If an organization finds that a crisis situation

is severe enough to warrant the launching of a military mission, then that organization must dedicate itself to the mission completely and make sure that it is launching an appropriate mission for the situation. Applying the term “appropriate mission” can be difficult, however, as there are different types of missions that an organization can launch, such as a peace-enforcement mission rather than peacekeeping. As discussed in chapter two, peace-enforcement is the “forcible military interven[tion] by one or more states into a third country with the express objective of maintaining or restoring… peace and security by ending a violent conflict within that country,”132 clearly differentiated from peacekeeping, which is “designed to preserve the peace…

202

where fighting has been halted, and to assist in implementing agreements achieved by the peacemakers.”133 When analyzing the three factors from this thesis, keeping the differences between these types of missions in mind will be important for decisionmakers, because determining whether to launch a peacekeeping or peace-enforcement mission could be the difference between launching a successful and a failed mission. For example, if a peacekeeping mission is launched in an area where a peace-enforcement mission is needed, then the peacekeeping force may be overwhelmed and doomed to a failed mission, if not a larger tragedy; on the other hand, if a peace-enforcement mission is launched in an area where only peacekeeping is required, the overwhelming show of force could destabilize the peace process and lead to a more drawn-out conflict than was necessary. If the type of organization that launches the mission is irrelevant, as this study supports, then the discussion would come down to which organization is best prepared to launch the appropriate type of mission. This limits the debate, thus making it easier for leaders to make decisions and increasing the likelihood of an effective mission. International Organizations’ Cooperation. As the data in this paper show, the EU

would not have been nearly as successful as it was without political arrangements with organizations like NATO, which leads to the policy recommendation that regional actors should continue to look for partnerships with larger regional or even global actors to increase the influence and effectiveness of both organizations. The more broad that these connections are, the more powerful the international community’s peacekeeping structures will be. For the EU, the example of this partnership is Berlin Plus, the political arrangement that allowed it to be successful in Concordia and to continue launching peacekeeping missions since 2003. Berlin Plus boosted the EU’s capabilities at times when it could not launch its own missions effectively, and though the EU is proud of its independent military capabilities, Berlin Plus enabled the EU to begin launching peacekeeping operations. NATO benefitted from this agreement, as well, because it was able to share the burden of peacekeeping with other, reliable partners, thus leaving it free to concentrate on certain missions rather than being spread too thinly. Global organizations, were they to begin entering into similar agreements with regional actors,

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would find the same benefits, given the condition that those regional actors are prepared to take on the responsibility of peacekeeping missions, which not all of them are. Regardless, the fact remains that Berlin Plus shows how successful a political arrangement between regional actors can be, and as the EU grows and begins working with the UN on more cases, such as in the case of Operation Artemis, it will show that a peacekeeping agreement between a regional and a global organization can have similar benefits. Part Five: Human Consequences

Ultimately, international relations theorists do their work to help improve the lives of people around the globe, whether that is to better understand world economics to help prevent poverty, to better understand international law so that human rights might be extended to everyone on Earth, or to better understand wars so that they might be stopped from happening in the future. This paper was written with the intention of helping to accomplish that goal by presenting a new way to view peacekeeping missions and the circumstances that surround them. Though some may validly view the findings in this paper to support a policy of non-intervention in cases where conditions are not ideal, such as in the case of Cyprus, an equally valid reading of the data could support a rethinking of the ways in which peacekeeping missions are launched and a reemphasis of the importance of political and diplomatic factors in peacekeeping missions. There are certainly examples of missions where peacekeeping and peace-enforcement missions have failed, sometimes tragically as in the cases of Rwanda and Somalia, but to let faith in the ability of peacekeeping missions to accomplish their goals diminish would also be tragic. This study, along with the research that will hopefully follow, can help the organizations that launch peacekeeping missions to become more tuned to the needs of these missions, thereby helping to make these missions run more effectively; if this happens, the new, increasingly effective missions have the potential to save countless lives.

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ENDNOTES 1

Two of these factors, the “level of animosity” and “initial conditions,” were adapted from variables used by Doyle and Sambanis in Making War & Building Peace (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006).

O’Neill, Terence, “UN Peacekeeping: Expectations and Reality,” in Irish Studies in International Affairs 13 (2002): 201-214.

Howard, Lise Morjé, UN Peacekeeping in Civil Wars (Washington D.C.: Cambridge University Press, 2007).

Hill, Christopher, “The Capabilities-Expectations Gap, or Conceptualizing Europe’s International Role,” in Journal of Common Market Studies 31.3 (Sept. 1993): 305-328.

Tavares, Rodrigo, Regional Security: The Capacity of International Organizations (London: Routledge, 2010).

Creed, Fiona, “The EU at the UN: Two-Part Harmony?” in Radharc 3 (2002): 149-157.

Hoffmeister, Frank, The United Nations and the European Union: An Even Stronger Partnership (The Hague: T.M.C. Asser Press, 2006).

Doyle, Michael W. and Nicholas Sambanis, Making War & Building Peace (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006).

9 Ibid., p. 4. 10

Coleman, Katharina P., International Organisations and Peace Enforcement: The Politics of International Legitimacy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007).

11 Ibid., p. 4. 12

Howard, Lise, p. xi.

Grevi, Giovanni, Damien Helly, and Daniel Keohane, “European Security and Defense Policy: The First 10 Years,” in European Union Institute for Security Studies (2009).

Emerson, Michael and Eva Gross. Evaluating the EU’s Crisis Missions in the Balkans(Brussels: Centre for European Policy Studies, 2007).

Gross, Eva, “Civilian Military Missions in the Western Balkans,” in Evaluating the EU’s Crisis Missions in the Balkans, ed. Michael Emerson and Eva Gross (Brussels: Centre for European Policy Studies, 2007).

16 Ibid., p. 135. 17

Odell, John S., “Case Study Methods in International Political Economy,” in International Studies Perspectives 2(2001): 161-176.

18 Ibid. 19 Ibid.

210

Patrick, Richard A., Political Geography and the Cyprus Conflict: 1963-1971 (Waterloo: University of Waterloo Department of Geography, 1976), p. 8.

“Basic Facts,” in Republic of Macedonia Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 25 September 2010. <http:// www.mfa.gov.mk/default1.aspx?ItemID=288>.

Odell, John S., “Case Study Methods in International Political Economy,” in International Studies

Perspectives 2(2001): 161-176. 23

Reynolds, Paul, “Blair’s ‘International Community’ Doctrine,” BBC News, 6 March 2004 <http://news. bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/politics/3539125.stm>.

U.N. Security Council, “The Cyprus Question: Resolution of 4 March 1964” (S/5575), 4 March 1964.

Xydis, Stephen G. Cyprus (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1967), p. 567.

Ertekün, Necati Münir, In Search of a Negotiated Cyprus Settlement (Nicosia: ULUS Matbaacilik Ltd., 1981), p. 1.

Kyle, Keith. Cyprus (London : Minority Rights Group, 1984).

Küçük, Fazil, “The Motherland,” in Halkin Sesi, 17 August 1594.

Stegenga, James A., The United Nations Force in Cyprus (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1968), p. 19.

Grivas, Georgios, The Memoirs of General Grivas, ed. Charles Foley (New York: Frederick A. Praeger, 1964), p. 208.

31 Ibid. 32

Anastasiou, Harry, The Broken Olive Branch: Nationalism, Ethnic Conflict, and the Quest for Peace in Cyprus, vol. 1 (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2008), p. 3.

Bartlett, Margaret W., Cyprus, the United Nations, and the Quest for Unity (Cambridgeshire: Melrose Books, 2007), p. 14.

Royal Institute of International Affairs, Cyprus: The Background (Oxford University Press, Jan. 1959), p. 19.

Crashaw, Nancy, The Cyprus Revolt: An Account of the Struggle for Union with Greece (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1978), p. 274.

Anastasiou, Harry, The Broken Olive Branch: Nationalism, Ethnic Conflict, and the Quest for Peace in Cyprus, vol. 1 (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2008), p. 91.

Grivas, Georgios, General Grivas on Guerilla Warfare. Trans. A. A. Pallis (New York: Frederick A. Praeger, 1962).

38 Ibid. Guerilla Warfare had information about how to construct home-made bombs (pp. 101-103)

and contained information regarding “special anti-Turkish groups” (p. 97) and information on the most effective way to fight the Turks (pp. 97-99).

211

Mirbagheri, Farid, Cyprus and International Peacemaking (New York: Routledge, 1998), p. 13.

Stegenga, James A., The United Nations Force in Cyprus (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1968), p. 56.

UN Document S/5561, 25 February 1964.

“Cyprus Treaty of Alliance,” Nicosia: 16 August 1960. Article 4.

43 Ibid., Additional Protocol no. 1(I). 44

Kyle, Keith, “Cyprus,” in Minority Rights Group, report no. 30, 1984, p. 9.

Ertekün, Necati Münir, In Search of a Negotiated Cyprus Settlement (Lefkosa: ULUS Matbaacihk Ltd., 1981), p. 2.

The Zürich and London Agreements, adopted 19 February 1959, Article (a) section 5.

47 Ibid., Article (a) section 8. 48

Makarios III, “Suggested Measures for Facilitating the Smooth Functioning of the State and for the Removal of Certain Causes of Inter-communal Friction.”

Patrick, Richard A. Political Geography and the Cyprus Conflict: 1963-1971 (Waterloo: University of Waterloo Department of Geography, 1976), p. 46.

Stegenga, James A., The United Nations Force in Cyprus (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1968), p. 72.

51 Ibid., pp. 72-78. 52

UN Document S/5679. 2 May 1964. p. 1.

53 Ibid., p. 2. 54

Stegenga, p. 84.

55 Ibid., p. 84. 56 Ibid., p. 85. Via Cyprus Mail (newspaper), 28 May 1964. p. 1. 57 Ibid., p. 85. Via The Times (London), 5 February 1966. 58

UN Document S/5910. 21 August 1964. Annex A.

UN Document S/6228. 11 March 1965. p. 15, paragraph 50.

UN Document S/6102. 12 December 1964. p. paragraph 132.

UN Document S/6228. 11 March 1965. pp. 11-12, paragraphs 30-32.

62 Ibid., pp. 13-14, paragraph 43.

212

Allan, James H., Peacekeeping: Outspoken Observations by a Field Officer (Westport: Praeger, 1996), pp. 24-25.

Bartlett, Margaret W., Cyprus, the United Nations, and the Quest for Unity (Cambridgeshire: Melrose Books, 2007), pp. 40-41.

Stegenga, James A., The United Nations Force in Cyprus (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1968), p. 83.

66 Ibid., p. 83. 67 Ibid., p. 82. 68 Ibid., p. 19. 69

Tremayne, Penelope, Below the Tide (London: Hutchinson, 1958), p. 10.

Mirbagheri, Farid, Cyprus and International Peacemaking (New York: Routledge, 1998) p. 28.

71 Ibid., p. 28. 72

Anastasiou, Harry, The Broken Olive Branch: Nationalism, Ethnic Conflict, and the Quest for Peace in Cyprus, vol. 1 (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2008), p. 99.

Mirbagheri, p. 29.

74 Ibid., p. 31. 75

Ertekün, Necati Münir, In Search of a Negotiated Cyprus Settlement (Nicosia: ULUS Matbaacihk Ltd., 1981) pp. 30-31.

UN Security Council Resolution 353, adopted unanimously, 20 July 1974.

Mirbagheri, p. 37.

UN Security Council Resolution 186, adopted unanimously, 4 March 1964.

Kyrris, Costas P., History of Cyprus (Nicosia: Nicocles Publishing House, 1985), p. 314.

United Nations Commentary on the Bi-Communal Problems: Report of the UN Mediator Galo Plaza to the Secretary-General, 1965. paragraph 173.

81 Ibid., paragraph 118. 82

Templar, Marcus Alexander, “Appendix: A History of FYROM (or Balkan) Slavs Compared to the History of Greek Macedonians and Albanians,” in Claiming Macedonia, ed. George C. Papavizas (Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co., 2006), p. 243.

2002 FYROM Census, via: CIA. CIA World Fact Book 2010 (New York: Skyhorse, 2009), p. 416.

UN Security Council Resolution 743, 21 February 1992.

213

UN Security Council Resolution 983, 31 March 1995.

86 Ibid. 87

UN Document S/1995/222. pp. 13, paragraph 42.

88 Ibid. 89 Ibid., pp. 14, paragraph 44. 90

UN Document SC/6648, “Security Council Fails to Extend Mandate of United Nations Preventive Deployment Force in Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia,” 25 February 1999, pp. 9-10.

91 Ibid., pp. 10. 92

Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Republic of China (Taiwan), Press Room: Statements. <http://www.mofa. gov.tw/webapp/ct.asp?xItem=2284&ctNode=1902&mp=6>.

Johansen, Karina, “West should step up Macedonia support,” in Institute for War and Peace Reporting, Balkan Crisis Report No. 228, Part 1, 21 March 2001.

Peake, Gordon, “Power Sharing in a Police Car: The Intractable Difficulty of Police Reform in Kosovo and Macedonia,” in From Power Sharing to Democracy: Post-Conflict Institutions in Ethnically Divided Societies, ed. Sid Noel (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2005), p. 131.

95 Ibid., p. 132. 96

Ohrid Framework Agreement, Article 2, Section 1.

97 Ibid., Article 6, Section 2. 98

Brunnbauer, Ulf, “The Implementation of the Ohrid Agreement: Ethnic Macedonian Resentments,” in

Journal on Ethnopolitics and Minority Issues in Europe Issue 1 (2002): 1-24, pp. 2-4. 99 Ibid., p. 2. 100

Skaric, Svetomir, “Ohrid Agreement and Minority Communities in Macedonia,” in Prospects of Multiculturality in Western Balkan States, ed. Bašic, Goran and Vojislav Stanovcic, (Ethnicity Research

Center, 2004), p. 95. 101 Ibid., p. 95. 102

Gallagher, Tom, The Balkans in the New Millennium: In the Shadow of War and Peace (London: Routledge, 2005), pp.106-108.

103

“Statement by the Secretary General of NATO, Lord Robertson, Deploring the Death of a British Soldier,” NATO Press Release (2001) 118, 27 August 2001 <http://www.nato.int/docu/pr/2001/p01118e.htm>.

104

“NATO to Continue Supporting the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia,” NATO Press Release (2002) 131, 29 November 2002 <http://www.nato.int/docu/pr/2002/p02-131e.htm>.

214

105

Gross, Eva, “Civilian and Military Missions in the Western Balkans,” in Evaluating the EU’s Crisis Missions in the Balkans, ed. Michael Emerson and Eva Gross (Brussels: Centre for European Policy

Studies, 2007), p. 133. 106 Ibid., p. 133. 107

Missiroli, Antonio, “EU–NATO Cooperation in Crisis Management: No Turkish Delight for ESDP,” in

Security Dialogue 33.1 (2002): 9-26. p. 14 108

Cameron, Fraser, An Introduction to European Foreign Policy, (London: Routledge, 2007), p. 87.

109

“Berlin Plus Agreement,” European Parliament. 10 November 2010, <http://www.europarl.europa. eu/meetdocs/2004_2009/documents/dv/berlinplus_/berlinplus_en.pdf>.

110

Gross, Eva, “Operation Concordia (fYROM),” in European Security and Defense Policy: The First 10 Years (1999-2009), ed. Giovanni Grevi, Damien Helly and Daniel Keohane (Paris: The European Union Institute for Security Studies, 2009), p. 176.

111

Howorth, Jolyon, Security and Defence Policy in the European Union (Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), p. 232.

112

Gross, Eva, “Operation Concordia (fYROM),” pp. 177-178.

113

“Council Joint Action 2003/92/CFSP of 27 January 2003 on the European Union military operation in the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia,” 2003 O.J. (L34/26), paragraph 2.

114

Kekic, Laza, “Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia (FYROM),” in Balkan Reconstruction, ed. Daniel Daianu and Thanos Veremis (London: Frank Cass, 2001), p. 189.

115

“Basic Economic Data,” National Bank of the Republic of Macedonia, updated 4 November 2010, <http://www.nbrm.gov.mk/default-EN.asp?ItemID=89A26FA4B8AA8F4CA6CF243F984FF307>.

116 Ibid. 117

Kekic, Laza, p. 195

118 Ibid. 119

Kim, Julie, “Macedonia (FYROM): Post-Conflict Situation and U.S. Policy,” in CRS Report for

Congress, 17 June 2005. p. 7. 120

“Macedonia: No Room for Complacency,” in International Crisis Group, Europe Report No. 149, 23 October 2003. p. 8.

121

Partos, Gabriel, “Q & A: Macedonia violence,” BBC News, 8 September 2003, <http://news.bbc. co.uk/2/hi/europe/3091300.stm>.

122 Ibid. 123

Grillot, Suzette R., Wolf-Christian Paes, Hans Risser, and Shelly O. Stoneman, “A Fragile Peace: Guns and Security in Post-conflict Macedonia,” in United Nations Development Programme, June 2004, p. 25.

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124

Wood, Nicholas, “Macedonian Forces Clash with Militants,” BBC News, 7 September 2003, <news. bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/europe/3088520.stm>.

125 International Crisis Group, pp. 32-35. 126

Grillot, Suzette R., Wolf-Christian Paes, Hans Risser, and Shelly O. Stoneman, pp. 7-10.

127

Missiroli, Antonio, “Euros for ESDP: Financing EU Operations,” European Union Institute for Security Studies. Occasional Paper No. 45, June 2003, pp. 13-14.

128

Cameron, Fraser, p. 36.

129

Howard, Lise Morjé, p. 88.

130 Ibid., 92. 131

UN Security Council Resolution 1484, 30 May 2003.

132

Coleman, Katharina P., International Organisations and Peace Enforcement: The Politics of International Legitimacy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), p. 4.

133

“United Nations Peacekeeping Operations: Principles and Guidelines,” in United Nations Department

of Peacekeeping Operations (2008), p. 16.

Dead Letters, Dead Authors, Live Readers SARAH THERMOND Department of Comparative Literature Associate Professor Michael Du Plessis

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In her essay “The Book as One of Its Own Characters,” Hélène Cixous declares, “There is always a letter in the Book, the Book writes a letter… The Book is written in the place of the letter that one will ever write” (Cixous 420). The writer of both the letter and the book are separated from the recipient of their text by several possible barriers: language, location, or time. Cixous is especially concerned with what the written word means in relation to presence and absence. A letter—or a book—is a medium that speaks an individual’s words and thoughts in spite of the author’s absence and possible ceasing-tobe through death. Words of the past are brought back to life through the act of reading. The idea of the past reopening through writing closely relates to Giorgio Agamben’s work on the relationship between text and potentiality. As he explains, “The science of letters marks the transition from the inexpressible to the expressible… from potentiality to actuality” (Agamben 247). Writing can be a tool of actualizing, whether that means reenacting something from the past or creating something that had only ever been a possibility before; it is, in a way, a kind of necromancy. For theorist Roland Barthes, however, reading is the act with the greater power of recreation. For him, the separation Cixous identifies—and that is explored in stories like Herman Melville’s “Bartleby the Scrivener” and E.T.A. Hoffmann’s “The Sandman”—estranges the author so much from his work that literature itself becomes the author’s death, and the reader’s birth. Cixous claims that letters render us “divided, disordered, displaced in place, passed by in the very moment” (Cixous 420). Already, the tension between presence and absence is clear. How is it possible to be at the same time in one’s proper place and to be displaced from it? This aspect of the letter reminds us of the “formula” that Bartleby frequently invokes throughout Melville’s story: “I prefer not to” (Melville 10). This mantra of Bartleby’s—used to avoid being assigned any distasteful tasks by the story’s narrator—is comparable to the equivocal formula “no more than,” which Agamben calls “the technical term with which the Skeptics denoted their most characteristic experience: epokhe, suspension” (Agamben 256). Bartleby creates a suspension between pure

acceptance and rejection of his employer’s requests: by not giving a definitive answer, Bartleby creates for himself a possibility other than yes or no. In the same way, letters

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create a new space between past and present. Cixous elaborates, “At the moment I write I have passed. I am past, you are future thus past, neither the one nor the other is ever present at the same instant. Deconstruction of the illusion of communion” (Cixous 421). Even as Cixous claims to show the deconstruction of communication by exposing the dichotomy between past and present inherent in letter-writing, a new, shared space is created. Even though she identifies the reader as being of the “future,” Cixous addresses the reader in the present tense: “you are future.” Clichéd expressions about inventions being “the future” of a field aside, the future is precisely that which is not yet in existence, and cannot be described in terms other than “will be.” A new time-space—being the future while in the present—is created and suspended between those already in existence. In spite of this new time-space that exists in the reading of the letter, the facts of separation between the writer and the reader—the sender and recipient—remain, and prompt Cixous to declare, “[Letters] are always virtually posthumous. Between departure and arrival how much time, how many years, and even death” (Cixous 420). While the letter itself occupies a new time-space, the time that passed between the acts of writing and reading remains. This is an especially relevant point to the story of Bartleby, who—the narrator tells us—is rumored to have worked in the “Dead Letter Office at Washington” (Melville 34). For the narrator, this seems to explain Bartleby’s eccentric personality, which the narrator describes as an aspect of “pallid hopelessness” (Melville 34). The only letters Bartleby would have encountered at this job would be ones with the ultimate barrier between sender and recipient: death. Melville’s narrator imagines the impact of being immersed in such letters, “Sometimes from out of the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring—the finger it was meant for molders in the grave… pardon for those who died despairing; hope for those who died unhoping… On errands of life, these letters speed to death” (Melville 34). The narrator believes that Bartleby’s psychological condition could be due entirely to the trauma of realizing this separation, this death of possibility, the impossibility of actualization.

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As Agamben points out in his essay “Bartleby, or On Contingency,” however, this diagnosis does not explain entirely why Bartleby’s psychosis manifests itself in the suspended act of “I would prefer not to.” For Agamben, the explanation of how these dead letters affected Bartleby is rooted in the concepts of suspension and potentiality themselves. Agamben sees the figure of Bartleby as a sort of prophet of potentiality, but in an untraditional way. He describes potentiality in terms of Aristotle’s image of the blank writing tablet, and then claims that there is an opposite to this image of “pure potentiality” (Agamben 245). He explains, “The ‘potential not to’ is the cardinal secret of the Aristotelian doctrine of potentiality, which transforms every potentiality in itself into an impotentiality” (Agamben 245). Bartleby’s formula, which opens the possibility of not doing anything the narrator asks, is then a manifestation of the potential not to, the dark side of Aristotle’s blank slate. Bartleby does not represent the division between past and present, but instead the possibility of something not to happen, impotentiality itself. Agamben relates this to Bartleby’s employment at the Dead Letters Office: Undelivered letters are the ciphers of joyous events that could have been, but never took place. What took place, instead, was the opposite possibility. On the writing tablet of the celestial scribe, the letter, the act of writing marks the passage from potentiality to actuality… but for precisely this reason, every letter marks the nonoccurrence of something: every letter is always in this sense a ‘dead letter.. This is the intolerable truth that Bartleby learned. (Agamben 269) Every time an event—or even a word—is actualized, its potential to occur in another way and its potential not to occur at all are eliminated. Bartleby, as the patron saint of impotentiality recognizes that actualization is the death of the potential not to, of the preference not to. For Agamben, this means that any letter—a medium that by its nature actualizes and creates its meaning and space for communication—would be equally detrimental to the scribe’s psyche.

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Roland Barthes’ examination of the role of the author seems to support Agamben’s conclusion that there is a death inherent in all writing, indeed in the system of writing itself. In his essay “The Death of the Author,” Barthes asserts that “writing is the destruction of every voice, of every point of origin” (Barthes 142). He takes the notion of writing as destruction a step further than Cixous; Cixous claims that writing serves as a medium through which the dead voice can be manifested in new form. Barthes instead claims that the author and his voice die automatically in the creation of text. He elaborates that in “the very practice of the symbol itself, this disconnection occurs, the voice loses its origin, the author enters into his own death, writing begins” (Barthes 142). As Cixous points out, the linguistic symbols that make up letters have a life in and of themselves and are not dependent on their author’s living body and voice to convey meaning. The symbol, then, is something separate from the voice. For Barthes, this means that when a symbol is used, the voice is necessarily set aside and unused. If the author’s own voice is not the one speaking, what control do they retain over their work? Barthes’ conclusion is that without the author’s own voice being invoked, the author’s total control over a text is broken. Just as linguistic symbols have a meaning apart from the author’s person, the literary work itself takes on a life. Barthes explains his view of the author’s relationship to text in terms of history. According to him, ethnographic studies indicate that most storytellers of past cultures were credited as mediators, not creators; this can be seen in figures such as the shaman, or even the divinely-inspired epic poets of Ancient Greece (Barthes, 142). Barthes sees our focus on the author as a modern side-effect of the Reformation and Western culture’s—particularly Anglo culture’s—increased valuation of the individual. The work of art—formerly an entity beyond human grasping—is centered on this figure, as evidenced by Barthes’ observation, “The explanation of a work is always sought in the man or woman who produced it” (Barthes 143). The story of Bartleby is one of many that falls into this trap of intentional fallacy, of striving for an interpretation of a literary work rooted in Melville himself. One of the popular interpretations of the short story is that Bartleby the scribe is a figure for the modern American writer, stripped of his creative

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powers and reduced to a listless life of copying others. Gilles Deleuze is quick to refute this theory and opens his essay on the story, “‘Bartleby’ is neither a metaphor for the writer nor the symbol of anything whatsoever” (Deleuze 68). Here, the fact that the story and main character share a name is especially useful. Bartleby the character cannot be seen as a pure stand-in for Melville and his real-life concerns, and by extension, Melville’s short story should not automatically be interpreted as a reflection of such concerns. While the interpretation of Bartleby as a metaphor for writing is a valid one, it should not be the only one accepted merely because it incorporates authorial relevance: Bartleby—like “Bartleby”—is his own man. It is surprising that Bartleby is so universally singled out as the character that could serve as Melville’s mouthpiece, given that the short story makes use of another device that frequently leads to intentional fallacies: the I-voice. After all, at some point in life, most people are asked to write something in their own words, and when they put pen to paper and write the word “I,” they mean themselves. Barthes believes that the modern emphasis on the author as creator has led readers to apply the I-voice liberally, and assume that the I-voice ruling the literary work is same as in the kinds of works that Barthes describes: The author still reigns in histories of literature, biographies of writers, interviews, magazines, as in the very consciousness of men of letters anxious to write their person and their work through diaries and memoirs. The image of literature to be found in ordinary culture is tyrannically centered on the author. (Barthes 143) As enumerated above, the author’s voice is imagined to exist equally in their works and in their actual I-voice artifacts such as personal records and journals. The symbol, as the grave of the voice, prevents the clear difference between voices that we recognize in speech. It is much easier to tell apart the voices of two speakers in real life than two speakers in text, because—while there is still a possibility of variation of “voice” in writing—the human voice is capable of greater nuance of tone and identifying features

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than ink on a page. As Barthes points out, “Language knows a ‘subject,’ not a ‘person’” (Barthes 145), and that subject could be anyone as far as language is concerned. This complication of the I-voice in Melville’s story might actually serve as the greatest proof that Bartleby is not a mere stand-in for Melville; after all, all of the conclusions that Agamben and other critics use to analyze the figure of Bartleby are based on observations made by the nameless narrator of Melville’s story. We cannot take for granted that the I-voice speaking of Bartleby reflects the author’s intention in crafting Bartleby because—as we have explored—the I-voice is another such character of Melville’s conscious invention. Sometimes, the author deliberately plays off of the reader’s inherent relation to and trust in the I-voice. In E.T.A. Hoffmann’s “The Sandman,” for example, the reader is misled several times as to who the story is being told by. The short story opens with a letter labeled, “Nathanael to Lothar” (Hoffmann 85), and we are promptly thrown into the story following Nathanael’s I-voice. We are then told a deeply personal tale of Nathanael’s childhood and how a lawyer named Coppelius came to be associated with the nightmarish figure of the Sandman, a tale that relies heavily on Nathanael’s own childish confusion and literalizing of his parents’ words for its coherency. While Nathanael’s claim that Coppelius has returned to torment him disguised as a barometerseller might seem a mere hypothesis to the reader at this point, the logic of the claim in Nathanael’s mind is clear to us, and we are willing to entertain further evidence that Coppelius is, indeed, such a terrifying figure. Our first confusion arises when the next letter is shown, from Clara to Nathanael. Clara writes, “Intending to send off your last letter to my brother Lothar, you addressed it to me instead of to him. I opened the letter joyfully and realized your mistake” (Hoffmann 93). The shift to Clara’s voice is already somewhat jolting, especially when she begins denouncing Nathanael’s conclusions and calling into question the reader’s only information (Hoffmann 93-95). More striking, however, is the fact that the letter miscarried and was read by the wrong person. Cixous claims that all books are letters—

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or substitutes for letters that will never be written and read—and therefore all readers are interlopers of someone else’s mail; this is even more true when the book itself is in epistolary form. In this instance, however, Clara also becomes guilty of this voyeurism. Nathanael-as-author has already proven himself an untrustworthy source, for even though the heading that opens the story claims Nathanael is writing to Lothar, the letter never makes it to its intended party. Even if Nathanael-the-author performed the act of writing a letter to Lothar, the separation built into the medium of the letter opens up a space for mistakes, and for a letter written with the intention of being read by Lothar to in fact go to someone discussed in the letter. The first distance created in Hoffmann’s narrative is that of error: the I-voice’s mistake gives us doubts and forces us to reevaluate Nathanael as a source of information. The second confusion is an even greater shift in voice. The story continues to with another attempt by Nathanael to contact Lothar. Again, communication fails, for Clara never receives a direct answer to her insistent letter. After these three letters, a new voice announces, “No invention could be stranger or more extraordinary than the events which befell my poor friend, the young student Nathanael, and which I have undertaken to recount to you, dear reader” (Hoffmann 97). Suddenly, the letter of the text seems explicit: this friend of Nathanael’s is writing to us, the reader. Because the voice classifies itself as someone within the story, we are less likely to fall into the trap of assuming the I-voice is Hoffmann himself. Instead, we look inside the story for answers, and perhaps theorize that the voice belongs to Lothar, and that this text is in some way a response to Nathanael’s last letter to him. Nathanael’s communication is again foiled when the voice announces itself to be a friend of Lothar’s, rather than Lothar himself (Hoffmann 98). Furthermore, the new narrative voice claims to have collected the three letters included in the text and organized them because he was unable to choose how to begin the story and thus “decided not to begin at all” (Hoffmann 98). Cixous’ view of the book as a letter is even further complicated: what we are left with as readers is Hoffmann giving voice to a nameless narrator giving voice to a story as well as supplementing the story by giving voice to others through letters. These narrative layers ensure that no voices ever speak to

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each other; no piece of writing in the story ever gets a direct response, and we as readers are—by the nature of writing as a sender-recipient barrier—likewise rendered mute. This patchwork of voices is revealing of writing as a system in two ways that Cixous and Agamben would be fascinated with. First, as we find out at the end of the story, the layers of narrative voice allow Nathanael to temporarily come back from the death he meets at the story’s conclusion, when he jumps from a tower (Hoffmann 118). He is brought back to life metaphorically through the telling of his tale, of course, but the device of opening the story with his letters without revealing that another I-voice is mediating between the letters and reader gives him the illusion of life; for a time, we believe that Nathanael is our living, guiding voice. When we hear him spoken of by the official narrator in past tense, Nathanael becomes like Bartleby: suspended in time and possibility. The variety of voices is also interesting in its own right. According to Barthes, all texts are such mixes, not the pure voice of an Author-God figure (Barthes 147). He goes further to claim, “A text is made of multiple writings… but there is one place where this multiplicity is focused and that place is the reader, not, as was hitherto said, the author” (Barthes 148). Instead of digging through the layers of narrative voice and examining how the author deployed his structure to create meaning, the search for meaning should be left to the reader, who is—after all—the only place where all of these voices register with equal force. The author can never entirely escape his own voice; when he creates a new voice through writing, his own becomes buried in the language of symbols. The reader, instead, as he relates to literature, is “simply that someone who holds together in a single field all the traces by which the written text is constituted” (Barthes 148). The reader doesn’t have their own voice in relation to a work, and is therefore the perfect recipient of all of the dead voices, of all of the dead letters.

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Barthes ends his essay by urging us to work towards a new focus of literary theory. “The Author,” he writes, “is always conceived of as the past of his own book” (Barthes 145), a sentiment that seems to echo Cixous’ claim that she is past the moment she begins writing. Literary criticism in the present, then, should focus not on the already-past sender, but on the present-recipient. He concludes, “We know that to give writing its future, it is necessary to overthrow the myth: the birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author” (Barthes 148). Like Bartleby and Nathanael, interpretation is an act always performed in suspension, and always inconclusive; it should not be forcibly anchored to only one meaning by the weight of the dead voice.

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REFERENCES Agamben, Giorgio. “Bartleby, or On Contingency.” Potentialities: Collected Essays

in Philosophy. Ed. and trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen. Stanford: Stanford University

Press, 1999. 243-271.

Barthes, Roland. “The Death of the Author.” Image, Music, Text. Ed. and trans. Stephen

Heath. New York: Hill and Wang, 1977. 142-148.

Cixous, Hélène. “The Book as One of Its Own Characters.” Trans. Catherine Porter. New

Literary History 3.33 (Summer 2002): 403-34.

Deleuze, Gilles. “Bartleby; or, The Formula.” Essays Critical and Clinical. Trans. Daniel

W. Smith and Michael A. Greco. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997.

68-90. Hoffmann, E.T.A. “The Sandman.” The Golden Pot and Other Tales. Trans. Ritchie

Robertson. New York: Oxford University Press, 1992. 85-118.

Melville, Herman. “Bartleby the Scrivener,” Melville’s Short Novels. Ed. Dan McCall. New York: W.W. Norton, 2002. 3-34.

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Reimagining the Figueroa Corridor, 1960-2005: Growth Politics, Policy, and Displacement DANIEL WU Department of Sociology Associate Professor Leland Saito

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INTRODUCTION AND METHODOLOGY: A TOUR OF THE FIGUEROA CORRIDOR

The first time I heard “gentrification,” I was shocked at the emotional turmoil it caused in a local public hearing. Working-class residents organized and testified against the threat of being displaced from their homes and businesses. Developers and planners framed the issue in terms of trendy restaurants and a revitalized city. There wasn’t a better example of gentrification than less than fifteen blocks north of campus, in the heart of the Figueroa Corridor. Just south of downtown L.A., the Convention Center, the Staples Center, and the newly constructed, $2.5 billion L.A. Live project glow colorfully at night with people, expensive restaurants and bars, congestion, and, of course, L.A. Lakers fans. Supported by over half a billion dollars of city subsidies and aid, the entire complex was predicted to create jobs, stimulate tourism and businesses, and transform L.A.’s downtown into a vibrant entertainment metropolis, a west coast Times Square, with glitz, glamour, and profits. Chicago School urban ecology would explain this development through free markets, which create urban organizations that benefit all. In contrast, this paper takes an urban historical and political economic view of the three developments, uncovering a growth coalition transforming in a 40-year period, amidst shifting demographics, neoliberal political-economic shifts, and inter-urban competition. A historical theme is the displacement of local community residents (often working class people of color) to make space for an exclusive reimagination of the city. This displacement occurs by both the demolition of the existing housing to build new developments and indirect displacement as the attractiveness of the neighborhood draws more expensive housing and stores in. By utilizing over 40 years of newspaper (The Los Angeles Times and The Sentinel) and city archives from the Community Redevelopment Agency and the Los Angeles Public Library, this research historically periodizes urban transformation in the Figueroa Corridor, while integrating an in-depth theoretical review of urban political economy.

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Additionally, this research analyzes a unique data set (Ethington et al. 2000) that tracks census characteristics in select tracts in Los Angeles from 1960-2000. The benefit of this dataset is that it makes census categories and tracts consistent across time, using a proportional mapping tool. By spatially creating two areas of consideration (Area 1 and Area 2), the analysis compares and contrasts demographic and land characteristics across time. The two areas have been constructed through proximity to the three developments. Area 1 includes the Convention Center, Staples Center, and L.A. Live, as well as several tracts in a one-tract radius, excluding those past the 110 freeway. Those tracts were taken out due to the historical significance of segregation created by these freeways and in order to create similar demographic areas in 1960. Area 2 includes tracts two tracts away from the 3 developments, which serve as a proxy to what the development areas have looked like without the benefit of investment. Using this spatial contrast technique, the analysis utilizes descriptive statistics, bivariate correlations (to analyze relationships between variables), and logistic regressions (to find the statistical significance of the tract characteristics and the amount of variance explained through the variables selected). The analysis concludes that there has historically been not only a spatial bias in investment, but also a bias toward prominently white non-Hispanic (WNH), educated, and white-collar workers in the selected areas, while excluding Hispanic and black non-Hispanics and blue-collar workers. To analyze the changes, the data has been broken up into three main historical periods. 1960 to 1980 medians track the first couple of decades before major neoliberalization of the economy and this period also tracks, very roughly, the Convention Center and its expansion. 1980 to 2000 medians look at the period after major neoliberalization and encompasses the two more recent developments: the Staples Center and L.A. Live. Finally, 1960 to 2000 medians track the entire four-decade period in order to gain a broader general understanding of the major trends in the two areas. There are a few important limitations of the data, however. First, since this study takes a longitudinal look, the variable categories have changed across time. It is for this reason â&#x20AC;&#x153;Other Non-Hispanicâ&#x20AC;? has not been included. Ethington and colleagues say that though

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the category often includes Asian, it may get mixed up with â&#x20AC;&#x153;Hispanicâ&#x20AC;? throughout time. Specific data for Asian Pacific Islanders do not exist in this dataset. In terms of race, I also compile black non-Hispanic and Hispanic together for the purposes of comparison around race in the analysis in 1960-1980 and 1980-2000. However, I separate the two in the 1960-2000 bivariate correlation discussion to reveal important differences across class in the area. Additionally, some of the class data is incomplete. There is no consistent data that tracks non-high school educated residents or the unemployed. These limitations are addressed in earnest throughout the discussion. No previous longitudinal case study has been conducted on the Figueroa Corridor, specifically examining these three developments with a mixed methods analysis. This research has implications for urban development, commenting on widespread efforts to transform downtowns into tourist entertainment districts, amidst larger political economic shifts and policies, and ultimately urges for a more inclusive urban agenda for all urban citizens.

Map of Area 1 and Area 2, with respective census tracts. Building 1 is the Convention Center; Building 2 is the Staples Center, and Building 3 is L.A. Live.

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A THEORETICAL REPRISE OF POLITICAL ECONOMY, THE TOURIST CITY, AND GENTRIFICATION

The political economic framework illustrates the way the Convention Center, the Staples Center, and L.A. Live have come to fruition through the agency of place-based actors. Political economists saw the way places and actors had life and agency. Actors did not simply seek to maximize their individual efficiencies and did not simply consist of exploitative corporate capitalists. Space was not only a material, but also a social process. Entrepreneurs, developers, business owners, residents, and other diverse actors often organized to create their ideas of how and where production and consumption should occur (Logan and Molotch 1989). But the theory is also one of conflict. Various social groups push against the organizations of the growth coalition, related to human desires for identity, community, and physical survival (1989). Thus, political economy’s emphasis on social and political processes as a way to interpret the physical and spatial organization of the city provided an expansive view away from market determinism. Indeed, the agency of local residents, through researching, organizing, coalition building, and lobbying, is directly demonstrated by the successes of the Community Benefits Movement all across the country. The political economic framework is distinct from urban ecology made pervasive by the Chicago School and Marxist approaches to the city. Chicago School’s urban ecology emphasized a “biotic” urban form, naturally determined by the equilibrium of a free market, bias-free supply and demand, technological advance, and its price system. The urban ecology framework assumed that inequalities between places were simply the result of differentiation and that the natural urban organization that formed ultimately created the greatest good for the greatest number of individuals as a result of individual efficiencies (Park 1921; Peterson 1981). Marxist approaches also saw technical and economic processes, with the logic of capitalism, tied to economic restructuring. Tied to investment patterns, some places win and others lose, resulting in uneven patterns of development and inequality. Michael Peter Smith points out the theoretical similarities between structural Marxism and urban ecology: both rely too much on structure and

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technical and economic processes—the material forces of production. Both theories do not acknowledge how these processes are instead embedded and constructed through specific histories and institutions (Smith 1988). Political economy, in contrast, pointed to the way both of these theories overlooked political and social structures, such as political coalitions, and policies that facilitated dominance of certain actors and places over others. Utilizing the social constructionist perspective in sociology, political economists argued that markets themselves are the result of cultures; markets are bound up with human interests in wealth, power, and affection. Markets work through such interests and the institutions that are derived from and sustain them. These human forces organize how markets will work, what prices will be, as well as the behavioral response to prices (Logan and Molotch 1989). Indeed, price and places themselves were socially constructed, through differences in wealth, power, and identity. Markets were not value-neutral, but instead wrapped up in dramatic expression of values and priorities. Through this framework one could understand the physical and social shape of cities. Urban Growth Machine Thesis

Building from this political economic perspective, Molotch advances his growth machine thesis, which sought to describe the city and tie urban outcomes with local structures and agents. Building on previous studies, the growth machine thesis incorporated questions of power, social class hierarchy, as well as the actions of urban elites to describe land use patterns and the distribution of resources within and between localities (Jonas and Wilson 1999, p. 5). Central to his thesis is the way that “coalitions of landbased elites, tied to the economic possibilities of place, drive urban politics in their quest to expand the local economy and accumulate wealth” (Jonas and Wilson 1999). The main agenda for these urban elites is to secure the preconditions of growth. Strategies include discursive ones that promote urban boosterism and influence citizens to buy into a “value free” growth ideology that growth benefits all. Additionally, growth machine

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coalitions persuade local governments to enact policies to attract capital to favor growth in the context of intense inter-urban competition (Molotch 1976). But by promoting growth at all costs, local growth coalitions generate conflict between the use of land and its exchange (Logan and Molotch 1987). Use values are related to the psychological, social, and community benefits—quality of life issues—created by land use as a lived place. Indeed, use value is often sacrificed by the growth coalition, sometimes with neighborhood protest, in favor of the land’s exchange value in growth possibilities. Legally, the term “highest and best use” of land is employed for developmental purposes. For better or for worse, neighborhood residents have also pushed back through suburban incorporation, restrictive zoning, and growth control to promote use values, while growth coalition elites lobby for more resources for urban redevelopment and growth. The state intervenes, but, in the context of given class, racial, and gender hierarchies, often give rise to inequalities within region and between cities, implicitly favoring some over others (Jonas and Wilson 1999, p. 6). The consequence of these dynamics is inequality both between and within cities, affecting life chances, such as employment and education opportunities, and quality of life, such as access to urban services and amenities (Molotch 1976). The New Urban Politics

Recognizing the limitations of simply focusing on the local scale, Logan and Molotch describe broader organizations of power and wealth in which cities are a part (Logan and Molotch 1987, p. 248), in effect, linking up. This up-linkage resonates with the New Urban Politics in which urban political economies must be analyzed in the context of larger economic restructuring and redevelopment that has become part of the late modern/postmodern condition (Jonas and Wilson 1999, p. 11). The central organizing logic the New Urban Politics analyzes is neoliberalism. In a global market economy, neoliberalism is expressed by hyper-mobile capital and the withdrawal of the state to regulate and provide social services. This withdrawal often entails the devolution of responsibility to subnational scales, including cities, for-profit,

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and non-profit non-state actors. The immediate impact of neoliberalism, Logan and Molotch point out, is zero-sum inter-urban competition. Tied to localities, cities can only competitively attract hyper-mobile capital by creating favorable business climates, through policies that increase financial incentives and reduce workers’ compensation, taxes, and environmental regulations (Cox 1999; Logan and Molotch 1989). In this competition to compete for capital, a global race to the bottom is created (Cox 1999; Logan and Molotch 1989). The long-term redistributional impact is the “unhinging of the locus of wealth production from the locus of wealth distribution, creat[ing] the possibility of completely new systems of uneven development” (Logan and Molotch 1989). Gini coefficients have risen dramatically with the expansion of neoliberal economic policies, pointing to the dramatic polarization of wealth both within and between cities and regions (Harvey 2007). Gentrification as Middle Range Theory

Gentrification is an example of middle range theory because it connects these larger global processes described in the New Urban Politics to local processes, people, and places. Gentrification, in other words, happens on a local scale, but interacts with actors and processes on multiple scales, such as the global and the regional. Gentrification specifically deals with change, particularly around neighborhood and class change, by individuals with higher socio-economic status, with an associated change in the character of urban development with increased capital investment (Clark 2005). Serving as a focal point for a crucial “down-link,” studies of gentrification can start from the bottom up. Such studies can investigate “the construction of identities in particular localities” (Butler 2005) and “the politics of representation” that is contested and created around urban developments (Smith 2001). Indeed, local social relations and institutions can mediate the way gentrification manifests in a community (Butler 2005). Furthermore, these local identities and politics can not only be connected to larger global processes, such as neoliberalism and post-Fordism, but also be explored “trans-locally” to other localities between regions and nations, skipping over traditional jurisdictional

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boundaries. The implication is a richer study of gentrification that can push forward Lee, Slater, and Wyly’s call for a social justice agenda for gentrification research, following a mixed-methods approach in focusing on ‘the displaced’, which this paper aims to do. THE HISTORICAL CONTEXT OF L.A.’S URBAN POLITICAL ECONOMY Suburbanization and White Privilege: Late 1940s-Present

One of the key drivers of this inequitable landscape of opportunity has been an exclusive and material version of our American dream of suburban sprawl. The post-World War II public policies that promoted housing and transit opportunities hinged on suburban sprawl. Marked by large lots and single-family housing, sprawl is a form of development biased toward the outer edges of the city and makes the automobile the most convenient mode of travel. In the decades following World War II, the Federal Housing Administration (FHA) and Veteran’s Administration (VA) refused to underwrite mortgages to urban developments and encouraged growth in the urban periphery on “a scale virtually unknown in U.S. history” (Hanchett 2000), with subsidies totaling $53 billion annually by 1984—five times more than all direct federal expenditures for housing. A massive growth in suburbanization ensued, with more low-density, single-family homes ordered about a normative vision of the ideal American society centered on privacy and ownership. These housing policies also interacted with transit policies. With the passage of the Highway Act of 1956, $27 billion for 42,500 miles of expressways were allocated on the premise of linking central cities with sprawling suburbs via automobile transit and removing slums that threatened the “public health, safety, morals, and welfare of the nation” (Mohl 2000). Investments in these new expressways subsidized further suburban development, and facilitated dramatic demographic out-migration (especially “white flight”) from the city. Though it may be hard to hear, the history of housing and transit policy is also a history of discrimination. Access to these opportunities was limited on the basis of race, gender, and class. For example, the FHA Underwriting Manual denied mortgage loans to female-headed households for many years. The FHA also prevented integration of both lower-income residents and minorities through redlining practices, and even

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encouraged developers to write restrictive covenants into all deeds, legally blocking the sale and purchase of homes to specific groups (Hanchett 2000). As late as the 1960s, one suburb—Levittown, Long Island—did not have a single resident of color in a town of 82,000, more than a decade after the Supreme Court ruled restrictive covenants unconstitutional. Transit policies also institutionalized inequalities. In the early 1960s, highway construction dislocated an average of 32,400 families each year—most of whom were low-income and of color. With suburban housing policies, freeways facilitated urban disinvestment and the flight of middle- and high-income white residents from the city. With these demographic transitions, central city tax bases fell and social service burdens increased as low-income populations became increasingly segregated in the city. Economic restructuring, de-industrialization, and unprecedented corporate mobility shed many accessible well-paying manufacturing job opportunities. A dramatic race to the bottom ensued (Pastor, Benner, Matsuoka 2009; Pulido 2000; Rusk 1995). Stark urban competition for capital between fragmented localities forced continual concessions to businesses and intensified central city decline. All of these transitions further reinforced a cycle of segregation, poverty, and spatial inequality. With institutionalized exclusion in a time of such unprecedented growth, it should then come as no surprise that lower-income working-class communities are highly concentrated in certain geographic spaces across a region and, further, that they are often of color. For example, L.A. in 1990 had a nearly a 38% Latino, 10% African American, and a 41% white population. Pastor’s analysis finds that the poor, however, were overrepresented by Latinos (57% of the poor) and blacks (15% of the poor), while whites were underrepresented (18% of the poor). Segregation is also stark. In 2000, 73% of blacks in L.A. would have to move in order to achieve integration with whites (Haaga and Farley 2005). The spatiality of racism, intensified through suburban housing and transportation patterns Post-World War II, informs a broader and historical perspective of racism. Often described as Whiteness and White Privilege, it “refers to the hegemonic structures, practices, and

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ideologies that reproduce whites’ privileged status” (Pulido 2000). Whiteness is often the invisible category against which difference is drawn, often in ways in which whites benefit from maintaining a stake in the existing social order (Lipsitz, 1998; Delgado 1995; Quadagno 1994; Edsall and Edsall 1991). As Pulido demonstrates, this view of racism goes far deeper than individual acts of racism. In the case of suburbanization and existing patterns of unequal development, whites were subsidized to live in cheap and clean homes; this was a privilege denied to people of color. Unfortunately, as scholars have systematically documented, the benefits of suburbanization came at the expense of those who lived in the city. Though many racist laws have been repealed post-1960s, and people of color have begun moving into the suburbs, as scholars such as Haaga and Farley document, high levels of racial segregation remain. Neoconservative policies of the Reagan and Bush administrations rolled back affirmative action policies and desegregation efforts in education and communities, and institutions that created barriers to opportunity remained. The Federal Reserve Bank of Boston, for example, found that minority applicants had a 60% greater chance of being denied home loans than white applicants with the same credit-worthiness (Campen 1991). Unequal patterns of opportunity are informed by generations of sociospatial inequality, which Oliver and Shapiro (1995) term the sedimentation of inequality. Some scholars and writers argue that race-neutral policies—not recognizing race—are crucial to promoting equality. But as history and this analysis demonstrates, doing just that ignores fundamental patterns and institutions that have driven inequality and “have actually increased the possessive investment in whiteness among European Americans over the past half century” (Lipsitz 1995). Indeed, ignoring race will debilitate any movement to alleviating it. Urban Renewal: Late 1940s-1970s

In an effort to revitalize economically suffering urban neighborhoods, urban renewal policies, such as the Housing Act of 1949, included slum clearance, massive demolition,

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and rehabilitation (Von Hoffman 2000). Often utilizing a cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s infamous eminent domain, which allowed the state to seize property for public purposes, and based on top-down utilitarian calculations, urban renewal projects continue to spark widespread controversy and debate to this day (Teaford 2000). Importantly, urban renewal also interplayed with race and class. As mentioned already, renewal projects, which included major highway construction, destroyed a disproportionate number of housing units occupied by blacks, nearly 20%, as opposed to 10% of housing units occupied by whites (Lipsitz 1995). Urban renewal also redefined white. The policies not only destroyed many ethnically specific EuropeanAmerican neighborhoods but also demolished more housing than the policies actually created (90% of housing was never replaced). With a declining number of affordable housing units, increasing numbers of European-American ethnics moved out, which helped turn these Americans into â&#x20AC;&#x153;whitesâ&#x20AC;? buttressed by racial segregation laws and shared access to communities and life opportunities excluded to communities of color (Lipsitz 1995). Renewal projects also played an important role in restructuring the urban economy, tied to the economic recession in the late 1970s and 1980s. With 80% of the land cleared going to commercial, industrial, and municipal projects (while only 20% going to replacement housing), renewal projects, along with broader economic and political policies and trends such as the Washington Consensus, shifted the U.S. urban economy away from factor production, spurred deindustrialization, and toward producer services (Lipsitz 1995). In order to attract affluent commuters and make the city more appealing for wealthier residents, luxury housing units and cultural centers took priority over affordable housing for workers, while tax write-offs for these development projects intensified urban fiscal crises, and regressively increased taxes for existing businesses and residents. The impacts of economic restructuring further segmented labor markets. While the impact of the 1964 Civil Rights Act reduced employment discrimination, workers of color were the first to go in the economic recession (with 60-70% laid off minorities in 1974).

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The Emergence of the Global Tourist and Entertainment City: 1980s-Present

Building upon urban renewal projects and struggling with economic restructuring and recession in the late 1970s, a new generation of entrepreneurial mayors took the lead in the 1980s by forging alliances between public and private interests and harnessing the forces of the market and technology to revitalize the city. Their strategy was to revitalize downtowns and restructure urban economies toward a “new economy” based on industries such as global and regional tourism, entertainment, and culture (Judd and Simpson 2003; Lash and Urry 1994; Scott 2000; Healy 2002). The power players that led these renewed industries began to exert increasing influence on local urban regimes, thus influencing local policy-making and institutions (Krebs 2002). Timothy Krebs, for example, has documented the campaign contributions of those associated with the “new economy,” such as finance, real estate development, entertainment and tourism, and media, into the 2001 municipal election, accounting for 68% of itemized contributions, compared to only 17% for “old economy” sectors, such as low-end services, manufacturing, and retail (Krebs 2002). This newest cultural and economic strategy cannot be ignored and is tied to the restructuring in the late 1970s and the 1980s. The resources allocated nationally to this new economy totaled more than $2 billion annually in the early 1990s on both sports facilities and convention centers (Eisinger 2000). Judd explains that the “race to build facilities shows no sign of slowing down; convention centers keep expanding, stadiums become larger and more expensive, and the variety and complexity of entertainment facilities keeps proliferating” (Judd 2003). The scale of the very real physical investments into the city has approached that of urban renewal projects in the 1950s and 1960s (Judd 1999). The Convention Center, the Staples Center, and L.A. Live are thus situated in this historical context of urban economic restructuring. Beginning with the 1960s, we can trace these developments—and the policy discourses that justified them—and illuminate the shifting strategies growth coalitions pursued and how these ideas gained

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strength, in light of the changing make-up of the city council, intensifying neoliberal policy agendas, and inter-urban competition. A consistent theme is the politics of resistance, representation, and displacement of both “use value” agendas and local community residents (often working class people of color) to make space for a specific vision of a revitalized (and commodified) downtown as an entertainment, cultural, finance, and technology capital. ENTER THE WHITE ELEPHANT: THE CONVENTION CENTER AND EXPANSION, 1960-1992

As Soja (1983) describes, Los Angeles began as a monopoly capitalist city, with a select few growth leaders shaping social and spatial relations into a trading center in the 18th century, then a critical railroad juncture post-Civil War, and a dominant regional city by 1940. It sustained rapid population growth, became the U.S.’ second largest city, and became the third largest city for manufacturing. It gained tremendous subsidies nearing $30 billion in defense and aerospace, especially during World War II, and grew with discriminatory suburban housing and highway construction, gaining a diversified economy. From the very beginning, Los Angeles “never experienced the intensive geographical centralization of production that characterized the nineteenth century Industrial Capitalist City” (Soja 1983). Los Angeles developed fragmented jurisdictions early on, and experienced tremendous discriminatory suburban sprawl, creating a highly racially and economically segregated urban demographic. This historical, spatial context fueled spatial theories about Los Angeles’ heavily decentralized, almost dystopic, postmodern, multi-center urban structure, from San Fernando Valley, Downtown, to South Los Angeles (Dear 1998). In 1965, growth coalition leaders Mayor Yorty and business leader John Petree, who chaired a special committee in the Chamber of Commerce on the Convention Center and was also the president of the Los Angeles Auditorium Center Lease Co., planned to build a convention center in Elysian Park (Reich 1967). Talks about creating a convention center had been around since the 1950s (The Los Angeles Times 1950).

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Greater Los Angeles Plans, Inc., for example, was a non-profit association of civic leaders that sought to build traditional downtown amenities, like a civic auditorium, trade fair, sports center, and music center in Los Angeles. Voters did not reach a 2/3 majority to approve bond financing for most of these plans, like the civic auditorium, and so discussions stalled. In the throes of urban disinvestment in 1962, Councilman Callicot failed to win support for a bed tax to generate financing for a new convention center (The Los Angeles Times 1962, July 2). Growth Discourse

Proponents utilized “value-neutral” and place-boosting economic discourse as a unifying narrative for the growth coalition, of which The Los Angeles Times was a part, to promote both the original convention center and its expansion. From its birth, city elites supported the Convention Center with “value-neutral” economic discourse (Logan and Molotch 1987). These economic benefits were assumed to equally reach all residents of Los Angeles. The convention was seen as an economic development “silver bullet” to attract consumption, and thus increased tax revenue in the city. Expanding the Convention Center, for example, would address the Convention Center’s financial woes, improve the city’s image, create thousands of jobs, and bring in millions of dollars in taxes to revitalize the city (The Los Angeles Times May 8, 1988). Additionally, newspapers like The Los Angeles Times were quick to point out L.A.’s weakening position against neighboring cities like Anaheim, Pasadena, and San Diego, most of whom were building convention centers. These comparisons continued with convention center expansions across the nation. Commentators were quick to urge similar expansion in L.A. in order to sufficiently attract the convention center market. A devastating race-to-the-bottom was at play, with intense inter-city competition, even amongst cities within the same region, like Anaheim and San Diego, to attract convention dollars. The newspapers, however, did not mention the role public policies played in shaping rapid suburbanization, jurisdictional fragmentation, and urban disinvestment from the city.

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The creation of a large and “real” convention center was also symbolically linked to the creation of a vital metropolis. Growth leaders have made arguments by pointing out the disparity between Los Angeles’ importance and the existence of symbolically and functionally important structures like a convention center. In the 1950s, Harold Lloyd, Imperial Potentate of the Shrine, supported the Convention Center proposal, telling LeRoy Edwards, the chairman for the committee for the new Los Angeles memorial auditorium, “It’s good to know that Los Angeles is finally to achieve a convention headquarters, comparable in size, attractiveness, and importance to your great city” (The Los Angeles Times June 22, 1950). Even in the 1950s, major civic leaders made reference to New York’s symbolically important structures to push Los Angeles citizens to invest in growth. Trippet, a past president of the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce and then-current president of Greater Los Angeles Plans Inc., pointed out that the proposed Convention Center “will become as great a tourist attraction as Rockefeller Center” (The Los Angeles Times November 11, 1952). Resistance

Importantly, the growth coalition faced several challenges. Yorty and Petree especially favored the Elysian Park site, after considering sites on Bunker Hill and Figueroa-Pico. In 1965, this decision sparked the Committee to Save Elysian Park and its intense activism and legal challenge to prevent the development of 77 acres of park land, calling the Convention Center “an act of vandalism” for using public land for private uses (The Los Angeles Times 1965). To the Committee, this act of vandalism was, as Lipchitz

(1989) points out, a central economic strategy of urban America, in which “the role of government in capital accumulation manifested itself in federal aid, but as well in local pro-growth coalitions seeking to use public funds as a stimulus for economic expansion.” The Convention Center and its expansion was heavily tied to Keynesian economic policies that emphasized heavy state borrowing and financing to stimulate demand, increase economic activity, and reduce unemployment. Importantly, this structural economic framework, tied to Soja’s (1983) periodization of the state-managed capitalist urbanization, strengthened growth coalition efforts to intensify land uses through big-ticket developments like the Convention Center.

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This conflict highlights the archetypal conflict between use value, which refers to nonmonetary value such as neighborhood identity and recreational use, and exchange value, which refers to direct monetary, market value (Logan and Molotch 1989). Grace Simons, the chairman of the Committee to Save Elysian Park, critiqued the developmental “priorities” of the growth coalition. When Simons asked for more irrigation to water dying plants in the park, the Parks Commission would continually respond that it had a lack of funds. At the same time, she noticed a plethora of proposals to build polo, tennis, and golf clubs that sought to draw on public subsidy. She doubt[ed] if anybody who lives on the eastside or in the ghetto areas has a polo pony. Such expenditures are not geared to supply recreation for people who are poor. We are not opposed to polo, tennis, golf, or the administration building either, but if you don’t have the money for everything then you must choose those things that are essential… It seems the Parks Department is oriented toward the middle class white population, just as the school system seems to be… All the advantage seems to be on the part of the promoter who wants to take over. (Lilliston 1969) She thus charged the proposed construction of the Convention Center on Elysian Park was symbolic of larger inequalities. Interestingly, her critique was not just one against the destruction of Elysian Park. Simons pointed out how the Growth Coalition’s priorities reflected class and racial biases in the very spatial investment, construction, and imagination of the city. The class and racial biases that informed the developmental priorities of the growth coalition, in effect, displaced use value agendas in the city that could serve working class people of color. Additionally, frustrated by years of delay and confident in its state-granted bond financing, the city’s own Coliseum Commission moved to build an underground convention center near Exposition Park’s Sports Arena (Hebert 1965). Interestingly, the Sports Arena in Exposition Park, which also served as a convention space, faced dwindling trade show returns: from 31.5% of total profits in 1961 to 10.3% in 1965.

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Smith, a commission member, also pointed out a study of “17 cities revealed none of their convention centers were solvent. All require a subsidy” (Hebert 1965). Petree and Yorty brushed aside these financial issues, believing a larger convention center in Elysian Park with free land that would be handed over from the park would solve these woes and uplift Los Angeles toward greater material and symbolic status. Both of these issues, however, caused deadlock amongst city council members, some of who actually had previously supported the Exposition Park project (Hebert 1965). Led by councilman Gilbert Lindsay and the Los Angeles Auditorium Center Lease Co., a new proposal was drafted to build a $23 million convention center on Figueroa-Pico, which was accepted only a month later by City Council. This new site ostensibly satisfied the demands of the Coliseum Commission: that the new arena gains final approval and can be built without cost to the taxpayers (The Los Angeles Times 1965). The Convention Center finally opened in 1971, but with estimated total costs of $90 million gained through leasebacks and bond financing, with immediate payback within 5 years (Herbert October 17, 1971). Labor activism contested the value-neutral policies of the growth coalition, particularly along lines of race and space. In 1971, local activists, led by Al Bailey, founder of the Community Council for Justice in Construction campaign, fought for and won an inclusive hiring plan that would train and hire local minorities in the construction industry, specifically to gain jobs building the Convention Center (The Los Angeles Sentinel July 9, 1970). The campaign challenge not only challenged the value-neutral growth discourse that the development would benefit all citizens equally, but it also recognized the connection between race and place, “urging an equitable number of black workers… in a predominantly black community” (Robertson 1969). The campaign used the term “Black Monday” to connect their demonstration with coordinated Black Monday efforts across different cities also protesting discrimination in the construction industry. Led by Al Bailey, the group initiated persistent picketing tactics, one even in the opening ceremony of the West Adams Community Hospital (Robertson 1969), committed unorthodox protest tactics—Al Bailey once laid down in front of a driveway and was eventually arrested

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(The Los Angeles Sentinel 1970)—won the support of city councilpersons such as Billy Mills, who also chaired the Special Committee on Equal Opportunities, connected to civil rights leaders such as Reverend Abernathy and union leaders like the AFL-CIO Los Angeles Building Construction Trades Council. Through these actions, the campaign was able to complicate growth discourse and win their demands. The campaign advocated for local hiring agreements that could promote opportunities for the disinvested community existing around the Convention Center. Rather than fighting against the development head on, these activists sought to ensure that some of the economic benefits of the Convention Center would be redistributed to local minority groups. This is a strategy that would be mirrored over two decades later with the Community Benefits Agreement. Displacement and Critique of Growth Discourse

One of the contradictions of the Convention Center’s “value-neutral” discourse has been the displacement of untold numbers of families and businesses (number unspecified). Growth coalitions represented local neighborhoods as “slums,” “blighted” or “depressed” areas ( The Los Angeles Times 1967). This negative depiction of neighborhoods in consideration of development was a common and effective strategy, used in a variety of urban redevelopment projects such as Dodger Stadium in Chavez Ravine, and Boston’s West End (Gans 1962). The growth coalition, led heavily by city leaders such as Yorty and Petree, removed the unwanted in the name of economic development and the removal of these slums that were hurting the economic and social “body” of the city. As Beauregard (1993) has shown, discourse is important in representing urban decline and its political implications. This discourse intersects with race as well. The use of the world “blight, “slum” and its related spatial signifier “inner city” indirectly draw on race. As illustrated by Jackson’s (1987), Wilson’s (1987), and Pulido’s (2000) connection between racial discrimination and urban disinvestment, public policies created racialized spaces—the way spaces are organized, especially through growth politics, is a key component in the social production of urban space (Levebre 1996; Soja 1980; Purcell 2000). And through these

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spaces, these policies created racial hierarchies that by law afforded whites opportunities while they denied people of color those same opportunities. Through this process—and L.A. is no exception—the largely black and Latino population was left behind in the “inner-city” and were the overwhelming targets of potential dislocation. Representing a local community as a “slum” is an important discursive strategy of the growth coalition. Indeed, as Gans (1962) analyzes in the redevelopment of the West End, “dirty” slums offended the “purity” of the middle class. Representation is directly related to power, and those with greater access to power could categorize the local community as a slum to legitimate its removal (Pardo 1998). Injured: Fragmentation and Finances

City Planning Director Calvin Hamilton’s saw the Convention Center as a piece of an expansive vision of a renewed downtown. Planners and city officials of the downtowncentered growth machine envisioned a world-class trade center, surrounded by a lake and park, with an urban design similar to Manhattan (Herbert July 9, 1973). In 1972, the city submitted a request for development proposals for the planned trade center. Unfortunately, much of this vision never materialized. Months after its request for proposal to develop a trade center, the city council did not receive a single application, blaming an oversupply of downtown office space and high vacancy rates. L.A.’s growth machine, despite its ability to construct a multimillion convention center, still suffered from the throes of sprawl and urban disinvestment. Additionally, city council members on the planning commission, mostly from the San Fernando Valley, complained and halted this developmental vision as unfair to the valley, unrealistic, and un-implementable (Herbert July 9, 1973). Indeed, one valley council member complained that he could not get a “single bus,” while the downtown was spending millions to revitalize the area (Herbert July 9, 1973). The geographic fragmentation of L.A.’s growth machine may be traced from the very beginning (Purcell 2003). In 1975, four years after it opened, The Los Angeles Times publicly questioned the financial wisdom of building the Convention Center. In January, The Los Angeles

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Times headlined “L.A. Convention Center shows everything but a profit,” blaming poor public management and costing taxpayers $3 million a year (Harvey January 27, 1975). Later, a story compared L.A.’s convention center to Anaheim’s, which was praised for its operations, during a period when many other convention centers across the country failed to perform (Boetiner October 19, 1975). Similar stories years later also blamed the lack of hotel development beside the Convention Center (The Los Angeles Times July 26, 1981). This would not be the last time The Los Angeles Times would expose the faults of the growth machine by using economic discourse

to shame the Convention Center’s public managers. Though The Los Angeles Times would expose its faults and urge correction, often with comparison to L.A.’s

neighbors, it did not challenge the original developmental strategy to build the Convention Center. Convention Center Expansion: 1985-1992

In light of financial concerns, a coalition of hotel operators, restaurateurs, and other business firms as well as an official blue ribbon committee, chaired by the vice president of Bank of America, pushed for expansion (The Los Angeles Times November 13, 1985). As Purcell illustrates, the Bradley regime that was in power during this time built an archetypal growth machine with the regional, especially downtown, business elite to support growth. His electoral coalition consisted of an alliance between African Americans and liberal Jewish groups. Significantly Bradley was able to gather funds from the federal government, which gave him considerable autonomy to pursue investment in the downtown and in social services, despite the decentralized structure of L.A. city government (Purcell 2000). In 1988, Mayor Bradley helped pass bond financing and only Councilman Joel Wachs dissented, who pointed out the Convention Center expansion was “one where the handwriting was on the wall” (The Los Angeles Times November 13, 1985). Wachs uses a biblical reference to illustrate the way the growth coalition was able to fully support this expansion and how, in many ways, the decision was already made by

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the city’s elite to finance a multi-million-dollar development project. Additionally, the growth coalition’s decision to finance the Convention Center’s expansion simply expands the already-existing developmental strategy of the Convention Center and capturing trade shows. Expansion completion in 1989 generated enormous civic pride. Bradley commented, “When you see this tremendous facility in the heart of downtown L.A. you will stick your chest out with pride” (Chavez October 18, 1989). The expansion promised to generate $500 million in profits annually by 1994 and bring 3000 additional jobs (1989). Bradley’s quote signifies an important way that place is related to identity. While the Bradley’s growth coalition sought to increase its profits and attract capital, the very material, social, and economic production of space is also tied to issues of pride and identity for the city’s elite. Many saw the Convention Center as an important developmental strategy that could elevate the city to world city status. A Los Angeles Times story illuminated the questionable practices of city council members’ granting of contracts (The Los Angeles Times May 8, 1988). Prominently featured in the headlines was Councilman Gilbert Lindsay’s boisterous expression: All things being equal, and I’ve had a hundred million dollars of the city’s money, the state’s money, everybody’s money to dispose of. All things being equal, without juggling or anything else, I’m going to take care of my friends first. Write it in the headlines (Merino 1988). Indeed, the story traced bond contracts for other major public projects, such as the $310 million bond for the Convention Center expansion and $275 million for South Central’s LANCER trash-to-energy facility. Gilbert, who also represented the district in which the Convention Center was located and who also chairs the city’s public works committee, received the most political donations from bond lawyers and investment bankers (Merino 1988). The Los Angeles Times, though a part of the growth machine, began to shine a light on the workings of the growth machine.

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Displacement

In the several hundred articles examined, profoundly absent was a consistent discussion on the displacement of local community residents, who were mostly working-class residents of color. With the help of the Community Redevelopment Agency (CRA) and eminent domain, the Convention Center gained 35 acres, and displaced 1500 mostly Latino residents and 68 businesses (Harris December 6, 1988). City officials, like City Administrative Officer Keith Comrie, noted the importance of the Convention Center and luxury housing to overcome the perception that “south downtown is a dangerous, gritty, and desolate place” (Harris December 6, 1988). The representation of the local neighborhood as a “dirty” and “dangerous” place again racializes, criminalizes, and devalues the neighborhood without direct reference to race. Discourse such as this, and the narrative that it creates, as Atkinson notes, makes no note of larger socioeconomic patterns in place and thereby attributes blame to the neighborhood itself (Atkinson 2000). Indeed, the physical displacement of local residents of color, whether by replacement via new construction or exclusion via investment value multiplier effects, is a reoccurring theme of urban redevelopment. Nearby, the Pep Boys headquarters expansion, under the Pico Union Renewal plan to create construction jobs, ended up displacing over 35 families in 1979. Business interests allied with local public officials pushed the project despite resistance against the displacement (Weinstein July 26, 1979). But it’s not only physical displacement. In December 1988, Harris, for example, pointed out the inequitable distribution of financial resources in South Park. He noted that three times more public money (about $24.1 million) helped finance expensive homes and condos, than those for low-income residents. This is not an isolated case. As Grace, the chairwoman of Committee to Save Elysian Park, described nearly 19 years ago, developmental priorities reflect class and racial biases of the growth coalition. These biases reflect a larger investment, construction, and imagination of an appropriate city, displacing use value agendas that could improve the productive capacity of working class people of color.

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Despite the lack of organized community activism against the displacement, advocacy groups, like the Legal Aid Foundation, however, did pressure the CRA to build 600 units to house displaced people outside South Park. The Convention Center expansion exacerbated existing affordable housing shortages in the area, Harris notes, by destroying existing affordable housing to make way for the expansion (Harris 1988, Dec 6). Demographic Data 1960-1980: Racial Bias

Demographic data utilized from Ethington et al. illustrates a bias toward white nonHispanics (WNH), which feeds an argument that investment is not only spatially but also racially biased. As seen in the table below that documents the median population of Whites and Hispanics and black non-Hispanics (BNH) from 1960 to 1980, Area 1, which contains the Convention Center and its expansion, has been on average more White: about 63% of the population, compared to 46% of the population in Area 2. In contrast, Area 1 has been on average less Hispanic/BNH: about 32% compared to 39% in Area 2. Both of these areas do not have a significant other non-Hispanic (ONH) population, which includes Asian Pacific Islanders (APIs) and Native Americans, nor are the differences very great (less than 2%). Of a total population of approximately 75,000 residents, utilizing a logistic regression, both of these differences are highly statistically significant (p<0.01). It is no mistake that the spatial investment of the Convention Center and its expansion has been focused in specific sections of Area 1 within the boundaries of the downtown. Racial segregation patterns caused by freeway investments have been widely documented and, as seen here, have also spatially carved out certain racially dominated neighborhoods (early versions of both the 110 and the 10 Freeway have existed since the 1930s).

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1960-1980 MEDIAN POPULATION

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

Total Population

2144

2723

-579

WNH

63.63%

46.25%

17.38%

Hispanic/BNH

32.84%

39.39%

-6.55%

ONH

4.87%

6.34%

-1.46%

Race comparisons between Area 1 and Area 2 between 1960-1980, on average.

Building 1 (Convention Center), Building 2 (Staples Center), Building 3 (L.A. Live).

This bias is also demonstrated in the WNH percent of the total population from 19601980. When the Convention Center was being debated and constructed in 1960, the WNH population reached 80% of the population against 13% of Hispanic/BNH in Area 1. The WNH percentage in Area 2 was about 13% less, while the Hispanic/BNH was nearly the same. As blight and slums associated with communities of color grew in size and proportion in the 1970s and 1980s, the expansion of the Convention Center appeared imperative for policymakers concerned about attracting investment into the city and purifying the city.

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Despite these efforts to fuel investment into the area and displace non-whites, WNHs have left the area to pursue other opportunities and escape the moral impurities associated with the inner city (Fogelson 2003). Facilitated by the forces of national urban disinvestment and subsidies toward exclusively white suburbanization, both Area 1 and Area 2 have seen dramatic decreases in the WNH population. Area 1 has seen nearly a 55% decrease in WNHs, while Hispanics/BNHs have risen nearly 31% overall.

WNHs

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

1960

80.48%

68.55%

11.93%

1970

63.63%

43.05%

20.58%

1980

35.06%

14.42%

20.64%

HISPANICS/BNHs

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

1960

13.74%

14.75%

-1.01%

1970

29.16%

35.38%

-6.55%

1980

44.59%

74.75%

-19.24%

Comparison over time, 1960-1980, of WNHs and Hispanics/BNHs between Area 1 and Area 2.

ONHs

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

1960

4.87%

6.72%

-1.85%

1970

3.53%

6.50%

-2.97%

1980

7.30%

6.34%

0.97%

Comparison over time, 1960-1980, of ONHs between Area 1 and Area 2.

Between 1960 and 1980, the potential class bias, on average, was not as extreme as race. Area 1 and Area 2 only differed by a few percentage points and so a decadeby-decade breakdown was not emphasized. As seen below, high school and college educated individuals differed by about 4% to 1% respectively. There were also fewer blue collar workers in Area 1 (22%) versus Area 2 (25%). An important limitation of this data is the inability of the data set to account for non-high school or college-educated individuals, which the Hispanic and BNH communities may fall into.

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1960-1980 MEDIANS

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

HIgh School

22.12%

18.30%

3.82%

College

5.43%

3.95%

1.48%

Blue Collar

22.30%

24.86%

-2.56%

White Collar

15.30%

14.91%

0.39%

Income

$22,489.64

$19,286.67

$3,202.96

Median socioeconomic variables between 1960-1980, on average, between Area 1 and Area 2.

From 1960 to 1980, the local growth coalition was successful, however, in raising property values. A proxy for these property values is the median housing land value in the area. Not only was more housing built on average in Area 1, the average percent increase in property values was 2008% from 1960 to 1980, a difference of more than 1950% compared to Area 2. Additionally, differences in income were seen early on, with about a $3,200 difference between Area 1 and Area 2.

1960-1980 MEDIANS

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

Percent ChangeTotal Housing Units

1,550.75%

1,339.37%

211.31%

Percent Change Household Land Value

2,008.56%

57.96%

1,950.59%

Income

$22,489.64

$19,286.67

$3,202.96

Median household land values between 1960-1980, on average, between Area 1 and Area 2.

These data show that the spatial bias in real estate investment through the construction of the Convention Center and its expansion actually serves to benefit more WNHs than Hispanics/BNHs on average. These developments were pushed to revitalize neighborhoods, while displacing and protecting against unwanted populations, in the context of urban renewal. Despite these intentions, local efforts could not prevent broader patterns of investment in suburbs, which facilitated urban disinvestment and white flight. In many senses, federal urban policy was spatially uncoordinated. Billions

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invested in the suburbs and in urban redevelopment was a contradictory policy that further fragmented metropolitan regions. In any case, the winners of these developments were the white middle and upper class, which gained access to suburbs and gentrifying neighborhoods, and property owners, often growth coalition leaders, who saw their property values rise nearly 2000% from 1960-1980. Injured: Finances and Governance

Despite the initial hurrah of the expansion center, in less than 3 years, the Convention Center was again spotlighted with financial and management woes. By 1992, the Convention Center needed an additional $27 million to cover inflation-related costs (Soble April 12, 1990) and, by 1997, the Convention Center required $20 million annually to sustain it (Wilgoren July 18, 1997). In 2003, the city auditor found that the Convention Center miscounted up to $6 million annually (The Los Angeles Times September 27, 2001), and in January 2005, independent studies found that the

convention industry itself faced permanent decline, with a dwindling number of trade shows nationally. Indeed, L.A.’s trade shows dwindled from 35 annual conventions to only 16 by 2003 (Vrana January 17, 2005). As Purcell notes, several structural factors began to cripple the Bradley growth regime by 1985. The “tax revolt” of Proposition 13 in 1978, which reduced the increase in local property taxes by a third, debilitated city finances. Proposition 13, importantly, was championed by slow growth homeowners’ associations in the San Fernando Valley (Davis 1990, Lo 1990). Despite intense opposition from business and government groups, Proposition 13 won by a large margin in the elections. In 1982, urban areas all across the country lost support from the federal government. Reagan announced his plans for New Federalism, less government, and business enterprise zones to revitalize cities across the nation by encouraging private market forces (Skelton November 30, 1982) and public-private partnerships. The Bradley regime lost much of its revenue, and clout, to pursue its redevelopment and social programs. By 1987, the pro-growth coalition began to falter in the face of opposition against a powerful coalition of homeowners’

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associations and federal representatives headed by Congressmen Waxman, Berman, and Levine (Davis 1990). In many ways, these policies indirectly questioned the growth coalition’s development strategy, which required significant state intervention and funds to push for big-ticket projects, and value-neutral discourse that growth was good for all. By 1993, pro-business millionaire Republican Mayor Richard Riordan gained power, espousing textbook value-neutral growth ideology: that growth is unabashedly good for all. Without federal funds, however, Riordan was strapped in by traditional structural mayor-council member tensions because of the emerging importance of ethnic constituencies and the way power was decentralized in the structure of L.A. city government (Purcell 2000). The fragmentation of the traditional “wardstructure” of L.A. city government intensified as slow growth council members gained power. A notable victory is environmental activist Ruth Galanter’s election over Council President and pro-growth champion Pat Russell in 1987. With intensifying immigration patterns in the city, minority council members, such as Gloria Molina and Michael Woo, began to gain power on the city council. Because growth had often affected minority groups in negative ways, like displacement, these new politicians had a complicated relationship with growth, which thus further weakened the strength of the growth coalition (Purcell 2000). TOWARDS A GLOBAL, TOURIST CITY: THE STAPLES CENTER AND L.A. LIVE, 1996-2005 Neoliberalism

Beginning in the early 1980s, advances in communications and transportation technologies intensified the links between nations in a more global economy. A set of policies, often referred to as the Washington Consensus and neoliberalism, gained hegemonic status after the stagflation of the 1970s, conservative investment in neoliberal think tanks and idea promotion, and the decline of Keynesian macroeconomic policies (Harvey 2005). Beginning with Reagan, policies such as devolution, financial liberalization, privatization of state utilities, deregulation, and cuts in social spending characterized political economy and the state’s approach to the market (Harvey 2005).

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Additionally, with these political economic shifts, urban economies began to restructure in the face of deindustrialization and reorganize themselves toward a “new economy” based on service, finance, technology, culture, and tourism (Bluestone & Harrison 1982; Castells 1989; Harvey 1989; Sassen 1991; Sassen 1994). Los Angeles specifically “emerged as a control and managerial center for international capital, the ‘New York of the Pacific Rim,’ a global capitalist city of major proportions” (Soja 1983). Deeply affecting the “entire rationalization and restructuring process of Los Angeles [and] affecting virtually all sectors of the regional economy” (Soja 1983) has been the expansion of undocumented immigrant labor and unemployed, low-skill labor that grew out of deindustrialization. This cheap and controlled labor pool, with “a still tractable land market filled with speculative bargains (not the least of which was the underdeveloped downtown) provid[ed] a particularly attractive and manipulative context for the transformation of the quintessential State Capitalist City into an internationalized focus for global capital, an emerging Global Capitalist City” (Soja 1983). Urban restructuring brought with it a dramatic spatial and economic transformation of the downtown and the Wilshire Corridor, becoming “a major focus for transnational capital headquarters, financial, accounting, and insurance firms and a full range of supportive business, entertainment, hotel, and restaurant services” (Soja 1983). Despite the intensifying strength of the downtown as a global growth pole, Los Angeles’ decentralized urban structure facilitated the growth of edge cities and “New Towns” that served new suburban shopping and leisure complexes supported by conglomerations of technologically advanced industry and services (Soja 1983). Repeatedly mentioned in the growth discourse, the inter-urban competition with these cities intensified efforts to reimagine and restructure Los Angeles’ spatial economy to maximize exchange value. These structural contexts drastically shaped the growth coalition, growth discourse, and forms of resistance, as illustrated by the Staples Center and L.A. Live.

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The New Growth Coalition

This shift in development strategy in entertainment and service-based industries also represents a shift in the growth coalition. Major actors represent a inter-scalar coalition building between not only local elites, such as Ed Roski Jr., who has made a fortune on local real estate development, and Rupert Murdoch and Philip Anschutz, both of whom own multi-billion national and global scale entertainment and communications “empires.” Anschutz and Murdoch, in 2009, tied at 37th on the list of wealthiest Americans with a net worth of $6 billion each (Forbes 2009). Anschutz, for example, not only owns railroad and petroleum businesses, but has diversified with the advent of media communications technology, to own major soccer and sports teams, film and media, such as Regal Entertainment Group, newspapers in several major metropolitan areas, and an investment company. Interestingly, as a right-wing Christian activist, Anschutz believes he has a higher calling to counter “corrosive popular culture,” funding the Discovery Institute that promotes intelligent design and criticizes evolution (Clark 2006), and owning the Examiner, which has a “general pro-big business, conservative ideology” (Shafer 2005). Individuals like Anschutz and Murdoch are in contrast to typical land-based elites that are mostly tied to the growth of one particular city. As global capital flows expanded, and with the dot-com collapse of the early 1990s, the largest firms thrived and began to agglomerate productive assets to achieve greater economies of scale, gain competitive advantages, and utilize technological advances (Logan and Molotch 1987; Sassen 1991). There are several implications of this change in the growth coalition’s organization. As extra-local firms increasingly make business decisions, the tie to a particular city diminishes, and, thus, the social ties that bind economic elites to form strong growth coalitions also weaken (Purcell 2000). These large, extra-local firms also have fewer multiplier effects because, for example, employment is increasingly outsourced and materials are increasingly purchased in other places. With fewer economic benefits to a particular place, economic benefits trickle down less and the growth consensus that growth benefits all is more difficult to justify (Purcell 2000; Hardin 1995; Hunter 1953).

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Additionally, as Purcell notes, as capital becomes more mobile with more places to invest, cities are increasingly forced to offer additional incentives, such as subsidies, labor and environmental deregulation, to maintain a positive business climate (Purcell 2000). Despite the force of these incentives to bring in investment into a city, in Los Angeles the politics around these incentives was complicated by the slow growth movement and the new minority leadership in Los Angeles. General Growth Discourse

Writers linked the L.A. Sports Arena, later called the Staples Center, to the Convention Center from the moment the arena was proposed. Much like the arguments used for the Convention Center, the Staples Center, Edward Roski Jr., owner of Majestic Realty and the Kings hockey team co-owner claimed in 1996, would remove “a blighted downtown bringing in lower tax revenues, [which] mean fewer resources for development of communities throughout the region” (Flanigan 1996). Additionally, the Staples Center would bring jobs, help fill the Convention Center, and become a catalyst for development in light of urban and suburban competition for businesses and conventions (Merl 1996). Representatives of the new and more global growth coalition, such as Roski and Philip Anschutz, recognized the financial burden of the Convention Center pursued by the past growth coalition. By addressing the need to “fill the Convention Center,” Roski legitimizes the new developmental discourse as a break from the past, yet utilized standard value-neutral economic arguments to support the development. With the construction of L.A. Live, the larger tourist entertainment complex drew on broader discourse that tied the project with a larger global imagination linked to hyper-consumption and cities as places of play. Many hailed the project as the “Times Square West” that could bring in tourists from the region and the nation to bolster the economy. The use of discourse such as Times Square West is significant because Times Square is associated with bright lights, tall buildings, consumption, and the prototypical world city. Indeed, the discursive comparison to New York City is a historic one, one also used to legitimize the Convention Center by comparing it to the Rockefeller Center.

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This comparison thus seeks to utilize the cultural imagination of New York City to also symbolize L.A.’s status as a world city. In contrast to the Convention Center, L.A. Live is linked directly with global trends of the market and its influence on packaging and marketing cities across the world, which have restructured urban economies toward a “new economy” based on industries such as global and regional tourism, entertainment, and culture (Judd and Simpson 2003; Lash and Urry 1994; Scott 2000a; Healy 2002). As the actual shops located in the complex and its architecture signifies, the diverse cultural history of the largely African-American and Latino community displaced by and surrounding the development projects is excluded and, thus, also symbolically displaced from the reimagination and capital accumulation of the city. Anti-Growth Resistance

But these attempts fell flat to Councilman Joel Wachs and Nate Holden, both of whom saw the new development representing business-as-usual growth politics. Neither could forget the fact that the Convention Center was still reeling from deficits of $19 million in 1996 (Merl 1996). Although Roski and Anschutz could waive the fact that the Great Western Forum in Inglewood was offering a sweet deal to keep the Lakers and the Kings (Flanigan 1996), Wachs stood adamant. He gained dramatic press attention against the Staples Center proposal, proclaiming the defense of the everyday taxpayer’s money. He opened up hotlines against the arena, flagged a private poll that found a lack of support for the downtown arena (55% against, and 32% for), advocated for another, more comprehensive poll to gauge public opinion, and even proposed a ballot measure that would require voter approval of publicly subsidized sports stadiums (Shuster 1997, October). Despite his opposition, the developers continued to negotiate for the Staples Center because of the tremendous sums of money that could be gained through signage rights with over 1 million passersby daily (Flanigan 1996). Significantly, his opposition helped push developers to accept decreased subsidies and stronger protections for taxpayers and the city’s budget (Merl December 4, 1996). Proposals in these negotiations included a fee levied on tickets to shoulder the cost

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of construction, a cap on city costs at $63 million if the developers failed to complete construction, and a clawback option on the property if arena the owners failed to operate as promised. Ultimately, the conceptual plan for the arena passed 11-1 in September 1996, with Holden the lone dissenter. The irony could not be lost on Wachs, however, in the entire development. Wachs pushed for these developments because he recognized the mobility of capital and the way capital, in this instance, could influence the location of sports teams, profits, and development within a region. In this case, Inglewoodâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Great Western Forum lost two of its major teams to the $300 million Staples Center in downtown Los Angeles. On a typically pro-growth city council, Wachs and Holden gained courage through the history of slow-growth movements across the region (Purcell 2000). Responding to growth in general, anti-growth coalitions such as the Federation of Hillside and Canyon Associations and the Coalition Against the Pipeline filed a lawsuit in L.A.â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Superior Court against the city in 1998, claiming the city had inadequate water, sewage, and transportation infrastructure to accommodate cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s projected growth. As a result the city was forced to rework its general plan to address transportation issues (2000). Commentators suggested the lawsuit could affect new developments such as L.A. Live. The city, in response, simply adopted a finding that the benefits of growth could outweigh environmental problems if the city cannot afford improvements to accommodate future growth (McGreevy September 11, 2001). Proposition 13 in 1978, Proposition U in 1986, which down-zoned by half most commercial land in the city (Connell 1986), and various growth control initiatives that capped development in Pasadena and Monterey Park in the early 1990s demonstrated the increasing strength of the anti- and slow-growth movements in Los Angeles (Pincetl 1992; Fong 1994; Horton 1989; Purcell 2000). Pincetl as well as Warner and Molotch, however, ultimately argue that growth resistance is fragmented and parochial and does not fundamentally challenge growth interests (Pincetl 1994; Warner & Molotch 1995).

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By October, the final deal passed, and by March 21 1998, the deal’s final financial agreements, such as a personal guarantee that loans will be repaid, were approved (The Los Angeles Times March 1998) In total, the Staples Center would cost $350 million

and be the most expensive arena ever built, nearly $100 million more expensive than the original estimate (Elliot 1998). Additionally, the city agreed to give $70.5 million to help fund the project, and though promises were made to pay back the city, the development and its profits would be privately owned (Merl January 1997). Displacement and Growth Discourse

The Staples Center displaced 200 families, 250 residents, and 35 businesses, mostly of Latino descent, with the new construction. Emblematic of the third wave of gentrification, the Staples Center was pushed by larger developers who survived the 1990s recession (such as Ed Roski Jr. and Anschutz), was further integrated into global economic and cultural processes, such as global finance, and was shaped by federal devolution strategies that intensified the city’s dependence on local tax revenue, public-private partnerships, and the competition for capital (Wyly and Hammel 2001). Importantly, this historical periodization is not so exact. As mentioned previously, the Convention Center was still heavily state-led in a period of time in the late 1970s and 1980s Wyly and Hammel describe as secondwave gentrification. The Staples Center has begun to take on several of these characteristics, such as the creation of spectacle and public-private partnerships (through deals the CRA gave to private business owners) missing from the Convention Center (Wyly and Hammel 2001). With the globalization of capital and urban development, gentrification served as a global urban strategy. Indeed through global real estate markets and capital, such

as that possessed by Anschutz and Rupert Murdoch, gentrification has become “a central motive force of urban economic expansion, a pivotal sector in the new urban economies” (Smith 2002). What connects the rise of productive manufacturing centers and the emergence of gentrification as a global urban strategy through

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global capital is “the shift from an urban scale defined according to the conditions of social reproduction to one in which the investment of productive capital holds definitive precedence” (Smith 2002). In contrast to the CRA’s negligence of displaced residents in the Convention Center expansion, the CRA agreed to set aside a $4.5 million replacement housing plan that would create 500 units. Additionally, some community needs were considered too. The CRA passed an ordinance to ensure workers receive a “living wage” and developers repay the city’s $70.5-million investment in the project (The Los Angeles Times June 20, 1997). Despite this money, many residents expressed fear of moving into more expensive housing and, when the rental subsidies would run out, that their quality of life would suffer (Rivera October 9, 1999). Additionally, assistance to undocumented residents was even lower due to rental assistance calculations based on work receipts (Rivera October 9, 1999). Additionally, this act may signify the growth coalition’s adaptation to more minority leaders and community resistance in the city. As Purcell notes, growth’s history of displacement and exclusion of people of color has complicated the growth coalition’s relationship with minority leaders, who represent an increasingly diverse and enfranchised demographic. Much like the way the growth coalition in Atlanta had to consider the interests of African Americans in its urban regime (Stone 1989) and the way preservation strategies helped unify pro-growth coalitions in New York City (Reichl 1997), the growth coalition in Los Angeles had to consider local community interests, who were often people of color, to push through growth. Additional challengers like Wachs, who represented slow growth interests in the San Fernando Valley, pushed the already fragmented L.A. growth coalition to consider ways to expand its influence. Growth coalitions and developers utilize community benefits, such as this housing plan and the landmark Community Benefits Agreement with L.A. Live, as a discursive resource to help legitimate the development for receiving public subsidies in the eyes of the public.

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Whether or not these concessions to community groups actually make meaningful change remains invisible. The shops and architecture within both the Staples Center and L.A. Live illustrate the exclusion and displacement of the local cultural urban history of the largely Latino, African American, and Asian American population from the reimagination of the city. This is exclusion is not new, as Saito (1998) illustrates in a Los Angeles suburban development. As seen in the global tourist entertainment development, global actors and capital (in this case global and local coalitions between Murdoch and Roski, for example) shape the shops and design, homogenizing and commodifying culture and development (Zukin 1995; Hannigan 1998; Scott 2000; Ivy 1988; Nicoll 1989; Yoshimoto 1989), though it may be “indigenized” somewhat depending on the specific cultural context (Appadurai 1990). Until local residents also have a part in shaping the design, retail, space, and even the process of capital accumulation of the development, most are relegated into a segmented, service-oriented labor force largely invisible from view. This must be taken into account when the discourse of community benefits is utilized by growth coalitions to legitimate the very reimagination of the city itself. L.A. Live

In 2001, heavy hitters Philip Anschutz, Rupert Murdoch, and Ed Roski Jr. began to float the idea of a $2.5 billion new retail-dining-residential-entertainment center (later called L.A. Live), adjacent to the Staples Center. The complex would feature two hotels that would require large city subsidies to be realized, a policy, which would have political costs after the Staples Center. The influence of downtown business interests is also seen in the L.A. Live development. Carol Schatz, of the Central City Association that represents the downtown’s business interests, “expressed misgivings” about the design because the project originally cut itself off from the Figueroa Corridor and the rest of the downtown (Newton May 4, 2000). Although the project was in large part funded by extra-local actors, such as Murdoch and Anschutz, downtown elites mediated

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the project’s design, particularly in the way L.A. Live could contribute to the overall vitality of the downtown. Despite the changing organization of the growth coalition, elites still used traditional lobbying and contribution efforts to influence public policy. In 2002 alone, for example, lobbyists spent a total of $3.5 million, representing clients such as cell phone providers who sought to build cell phone towers, Washington Mutual Bank and Ahmanson Land Company, which sought to develop tract developments in L.A. county, and Anschutz Entertainment Group (AEG), which sought to develop the Staples Center and L.A. Live, spending nearly $51,000 (Mehta 2002). Developer election contributions also played a role. In 2005, the employees of Related Company, which was selected to lead a $1.2 billion project to redevelop Grand Avenue, donated $9,000 to then-mayoral candidate Hahn and $1,000 to Villaraigosa (Rabin and McGreevy 2005). Similarly, Richard Meruelo, who owns property throughout downtown near Staples Center and the Transamerica Center tower, spent $82,711 to support Villaraigosa’s campaign and urged Republicans to vote for Villaraigosa (Rabin September 20, 2006). Contributions up-link as well, fitting into Logan and Molotch’s observations to develop coalitions and support above the scale at which development is sought (Logan and Molotch 1987). AEG and state lawmakers, such as then-Senator Mark Ridley-Thomas successfully lobbied to pass a bill that allows affordable housing money from Proposition 1C to subsidize downtown infrastructure development, like that for the Staples Center and L.A. Live (McGreevy and Hymon 2008). As a result, L.A. Live was able to obtain $30 million in state subsidies to fund streetscape revitalizations (McGreevy June 14, 2008). Maria Cabildo, president of the East Los Angeles Community Corporation criticized the accumulation of capital to the already heavily funded project, “disappoint[ed] that underserved areas don’t seem to be able to compete, while really well-financed entities are able to get these public subsidies. These dollars should go where the need is, and that area doesn’t seem to have the same need” (McGreevy June 14, 2008).

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The growth coalition has influenced these developments through statewide donations. Reporters point out firms affiliated with Philip Anschutz have donated $927,000 to political causes since 2005, including $100,000 to Rebuilding California, which campaigned for infrastructure bond measures, $50,000 to the campaign for a ballot measure that would extend term limits, and $8,000 to Senator Mark Ridley-Thomas, who presented the bill to the Senate floor (McGreevy and Hymon 2008). Community Resistance: Building on Past Struggle

In the city approval process, Ted Tanner, senior vice president of the Staples Center and Area Land Company, expressed an interest in gaining community support to prevent delays (Romney May 31, 2001). Community support was important politically in light of the mayoral race, the politics of the contenders, and the past experience with the Staples Center, through which Tim Leiweke, President and CEO of Anschutz Entertainment Group (AEG), felt “humbled” (Romney May 31, 2001). Saito also adds that the dramatic rise in immigrant recruitment in unionizing service occupations, the rise of immigrant, labor unions, and community organizational coalitions, and the policy legacy of local hiring, union jobs, and living wages helped shaped the L.A. Live Community Benefits Agreement in 2001 (Saito 2007). Though Leiweke canceled the first meeting with the Figueroa Corridor Coalition for Economic Justice (FCCEJ), a coalition of 28 organizations advocating for community quality of life, over “100 hours of labor-style negotiations” produced an agreement for affordable housing, job training, living wages, parking benefits, and other community-serving benefits (Romney June 2, 2001). The Los Angeles Times touted the benefits package as a model of urban partnerships in the

nation (The Los Angeles Times 2001). Additionally, in contrast to previous models of resistance in the area, FCCEJ united with major labor groups (such as the AFL-CIO) in order to gain further leverage against AEG (Saito 2007). Through a labor and community coalition, the coalition was able to garner more comprehensive benefits for both community (such as an affordable housing trust) and labor (living wages). FCCEJ’s campaign, with the decline of astutely pro-growth council

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members and the historical damage slow growth forces have cost developers since the late 1980s, provide an important political backdrop on the leverage of new developments. These factors forced Leiweke, for example, to see that negotiating with community groups like FCCEJ has become the “cost of doing business,” especially in high-growth areas like Los Angeles (The Los Angeles Times 2001). To communicate community resistance, FCCEJ challenged traditional growth discourse in a variety of ways, which reflected historical patterns of engaging the growth machine. The first, as seen in the Justice in the Construction Industry Campaign, Grace Simons of the Save Elysian Park Committee, and the Legal Aid Foundation, is that growth is not value-neutral. In fact, growth can destroy use-values, such as valuable park space and residents’ communities, and disproportionately harm and exclude people of color who live in dense urban areas. Utilizing these historical strands of discourse, FCCEJ forcefully argued for local hiring and training agreements that could provide economic opportunity in the new developments for local community residents. Despite these efforts, in reality, some, especially undocumented immigrants, are continually excluded from these opportunities. The second is the challenge to the use of public subsidies to help generate profit for private investments. This was another discursive challenge historically used by community groups to criticize the growth coalition’s developments. Grace Simons, for example, cried vandalism when the city sought to hand over already-scarce public parkland for the quasi-commercial use of the Convention Center. Similarly, Gilda Haas, then-executive director of Strategic Actions for a Just Economy, a coalition member of FCCEJ, asked, “Why should billionaires get public money?” (Ramos August 21, 2000). This tactic challenges one of the fundamental links between the private and public leaders of the growth coalition. Public leaders have historically provided subsidies and other incentives to draw private investors and capital to develop in their city, in light of inter-urban competition and the maintenance of a proper business climate. This competition has only intensified with neoliberal policies in an era of increasing global integration, in which capital flows are nearly instantaneous, while places are locked in physical spaces.

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Last is the discursive representation of a locality in terms of its use value, rather than solely its exchange value. FCCEJ and the Figueroa Corridor Partnership (FCP), a business improvement district, illustrate this contrast. The FCP chairman Darryl Holter yearns for Figueroa Corridor to “be an inviting place that will bring more people to downtown” (Ramos August 21, 2000). In contrast, Gilda Haas emphasizes the fact that “People live here too. We want safe streets too… [the construction of new schools] is something that will make the corridor a better place to live” (Ramos August 21, 2000). The two statements emphasize different aspects of the corridor. Holter wants to reimagine and redevelop a new place that will bring people from other areas, excluding the value of current residents and highlighting the economic profitability and, thus, the exchange value of the reimagination and restructuring of the Figueroa Corridor. Importantly, this discourse is superficially value- and race-neutral. Holter’s imagination of the area is full of working class African Americans and Latinos who do not productively figure into his reimagination of the area. Those he seeks to bring are wealthier “whitened” residents who can consume and tour the entertainment and also bring profits. In contrast, Haas emphasizes the residents and families that currently live in the community and efforts to improve their quality of life through development. In this way, current efforts, such as Staples Center and L.A. Live, can be channeled to benefit local community residents and, inevitably, include local working class communities of color. On September 6, the city council approved the 27-acre L.A. Live development, approving up to $270 million in tax breaks and city support (Zahniser July 20, 2008). The city, however, delayed voting on whether it would provide hundreds of millions of dollars to help subsidize the 45-story hotel (Daunt September 6, 2001). Commentators soon pointed out the development’s potential to revive the struggling Convention Center, which suffers from a dearth of hotels in walking distance. Indeed, by 2003, the city paid a general subsidy of $15 million a year to cover Convention Center expansion debt, with an annual debt payment of about $41.5 million (McGreevy May 20, 2002). In 2005, the city voted 14-0 to subsidize the L.A. Live Hotel with $177 million in aid (McGreevy February 12, 2005). Again, reference to the Convention Center was made. The subsidy would indirectly revive convention trade.

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Demographic Data 1980-2000: Racial and Class Bias

The demographic trends from 1980 to 2000 show a picture of race and class stratification. From 1980 to 2000, there were 18% more WNHs on average in Area 1 than Area 2, while 23% less Hispanics/BNHs in Area 1 than Area 2. While the differences in WNHs between Area 1 and Area 2 have not increased substantially since 1960-1980 averages (from 1960 to1980, the difference in the median number of WNHs in Area 1 and 2 was about 17%, compared to 18% from 1980 to 2000), there is a larger exclusionary effect of Hispanics/ BNHs. The difference in 1980 to 2000 grew to 23.5% between Area 1 and Area 2 compared to a 6.5% difference in the previous period. The stratification based on race has grown dramatically, perhaps especially due to increased Latino immigration patterns into the city and the exclusionary effect of more expensive real estate in Area 1. What complicates this picture of stratification, however, is the dramatic growth of the other non-Hispanic (ONH) category. Though the data does not precisely show it, the dramatic growth in ONHs may be related to a growth in Asian Pacific Islanders in the area, especially professional APIs who immigrated and moved to the downtown area after the 1965 Immigration Act.

Building 1 (Convention Center and expansion), 2 (Staples Center), 3 (L.A. Live).

270

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

White Non-Hispanic

23.14%

4.92%

18.22%

Hispanic/BNH

61.71%

85.18%

-23.47%

ONH

12.43%

5.68%

6.75%

Race comparisons between Area 1 and Area 2 between 1980-2000, on average.

Examining the differences across time shows an intensification of trends seen between 1960 and 1980. Specifically, the trend of white flight from the area has continued, with WNHs stabilizing around 22% in Area 1. Hispanics/BNHs have tended to increase up until the 1990s, when they began to fall back to levels seen between the 1970s and the 1980s. Critically, the ONH population in 2000 jumped to 38% of the population, becoming the fastest growing demographic in the area, up to a 30% difference between Area 1 and Area 2.

WNHs

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

1980

35.06%

14.42%

20.64%

1990

26.36%

4.65%

21.71%

2000

21.61%

4.35%

17.26%

HISPANIC/BNHs

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

1980

57.63%

76.87%

-19.24%

1990

62.28%

87.59%

-25.31%

2000

47.70%

87.04%

-39.35%

Changes in WNHs and Hispanic/BNHs across time between Area 1 and Area 2.

ONHs

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

1980

7.30%

6.34%

0.97%

1990

12.43%

5.21%

7.22%

2000

37.89%

7.19%

30.70%

Changes in ONHs across time between Area 1 and Area 2.

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If ONHs are increasing the most rapidly, is it exclusion simply favoring ONHs, most likely APIâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s? The answer is more complicated; we must also look at socioeconomic variables. Indeed, a bivariate correlation of certain variables between 1980-2000 show a highly significant relationship between ONHs, increases in land value, decreases in blue collar workers, slight increases in white collar workers, college-, and high-school-educated populations. Indeed, the rise of ONHs, especially in 2000, is directly related to the economic restructuring of the downtown and the influx of professional and educated APIs into the U.S. Indeed, as the downtown becomes increasingly stratified based on race and class, the picture of racial segregation becomes more complex.

ONH

INCOME

LAND VALUE

BLUE COLLAR

WHITE COLLAR

COLLEGE

HIGH SCHOOL

TOTAL HOUSING

0.107*

0.262*

-0.345*

0.164*

0.143*

0.263*

0.248*

ONH relationship with selected socioeconomic variables [P<.01 significance denoted by *]

The decrease in Hispanics/BNHs in Area 1, and overall the exclusionary effect, coincide with the effects of the Staples Center and policies like adaptive reuse in 1999. This policy, pushed by one of the biggest downtown boosters, the Central City Association, streamlined the conversion of older commercial and industrial structures into housing. In 1990, the value of property rose to nearly $500,000 per home, exceeding Area 2â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s median values by over $300,000. Unfortunately, the inflation in property values did not last. Property values dropped to $166,000 in 2000, actually making property cheaper by $50,000 compared to Area 2. MEDIAN HOUSEHOLD LAND VALUES

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

1980

$159,050.50

$130,434.31

$28,616.19

1990

$504,168.71

$191,927.92

$312,240.79

2000

$166,824.00

$213,948.00

$-47,124.00

Changes in median household land values between Area 1 and Area 2 from 1980 to 2000.

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If property values decreased overall, why is there still an exclusionary effect against Hispanics/BNHs? There are several potential explanations for the prevalence of this exclusionary effect. The first explanation is the early 2000 recession caused by a boom in the 1990s with low inflation and low unemployment. The second explanation is the methodological complications created by new construction and conversion. As a result of the Convention Center expansion, the Staples Center, and the adaptive reuse policy, new developments, such as loft, apartment, and condo construction, as well as conversions, some of the development values may have been put in limbo. Second, and not necessarily mutually exclusively either, is that the areas simply displaced existing residents through new construction, especially Hispanics/BNHs who could not afford rising rents.

1980

TRACT 2077.10

TRACT 2079

TRACT 2075

TRACT 2073

$100,988.23

$217,112.75

$234,235.70

$18,281.75

1990

$882,528.80

$257,128.59

$439,979.27

$56,835.82

2000

$15,750.00

$286,146.00

$208,530.00

$125,118.00

Individual tract changes from 1980 to 2000.

In addition to this race bias, the data show a class bias as manifested through educational and occupational status. On average, from 1980 to 2000, Area 1 not only had more high-school- and college-educated individuals (9.6% and 13.2% respectively), but also more white collar workers compared to Area 2 (14.48%). In this analysis, blue collar workers faced the largest disparity, almost a 14.5% difference between Areas 1 and 2. This period also saw the greatest divergence in income between Area 1 and Area 2, approximately a $9,800 difference.

1980-2000 MEDIANS

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

HIgh School

20.02%

10.35%

9.66%

College

16.73%

3.58%

13.15%

Blue Collar

18.77%

33.21%

-14.44%

White Collar

23.33%

8.85%

14.48%

Income

$26,743.02

$16,937.33

$9,805.69

Socioeconomic indicators from 1980 to 2000 between Area 1 and Area 2, on average.

273

Across time, the trends have intensified since the 1960s-1980s. Much like it has been for race, an important break is 1990-2000, when the high school-educated population decreased about 10%. Already up from between 1980 and 1990, college-educated individuals increased 6% respectively between 1990 and 2000. Interestingly, the divergence in occupational status arrived much earlier. White collar workers in Area 1 increased between 1980 and 1990—a 10% jump—while blue collar workers dropped from 1980 to 1990 by 14%. These trends point to greater exclusion of high school-educated and blue collar workers from Area 1. This exclusion, as well as labor stratification, is related to economic restructuring and deindustrialization that has favored white collar professionals in the service, technology, and science industries. The Staples Center and L.A. Live are investments linked to the reimagination not only of a city of entertainment and tourism developments, but also of a city full of a creative, professional class of “knowledge workers.”

HIGH SCHOOL

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

1980

22.12%

15.42%

6.70%

1990

21.90%

11.74%

10.17%

2000

11.67%

8.74%

2.93%

COLLEGE

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

1980

5.05%

3.88%

1.16%

1990

16.73%

2.89%

13.84%

2000

22.92%

5.35%

17.57%

WHITE COLLAR

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

1980

13.38%

10.50%

2.88%

1990

23.49%

8.17%

15.32%

2000

22.53%

9.50%

13.04%

BLUE COLLAR

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

1980

32.43%

33.93%

-1.50%

1990

18.77%

33.27%

-14.50%

2000

9.74%

23.11%

-13.37%

White collar/blue collar indicators across time between 1980 and 2000.

274

The investment in the Convention Center expansion, the Staples Center, and L.A. Live is ultimately a spatial bias in investment that favors certain areas over others. Importantly, these demographic changes demonstrate that growth does not benefit everyone equally, challenging value neutral growth discourse. These changes may have actually intensified the inequitable effects of spatial exclusion from certain neighborhoods. The effect is thus a more stratified and segregated urban space. Specifically, WNHs, white collar, and college-educated workers benefit from these developments. The precipitous drops in blue collar workers and high-school-educated populations as well as the increased exclusion of Hispanics/BNHs point to this exclusionary effect, what some call “exclusionary displacement” (Newman and Wyly 2006). The larger implication of these demographic changes is that the reimagination of the city, hundreds of millions of dollars of urban development, and larger trends in global economic restructuring toward the “knowledge economy” all play an important part in shaping our cities. While the impacts are hotly debated, what cannot be denied is the segregating effect of these trends, much of which is decided by growth politics and city policy, which apportion the benefits of economic growth to some groups, which can access and live in certain privileged spaces, and not to others. A LARGER DOWNTOWN VISION: TOWARD AN ENTERTAINMENT AND TOURIST CITY

The Staples Center and L.A. Live project is part of a larger downtown revitalization plan orchestrated by major downtown and city interests. Much of this revitalization seeks to invest in an urban economy focused on cultural, entertainment, and retail, as illustrated by Judd’s discussion of the Tourist City (Judd and Fainstein 1999). The L.A. Conservancy leads the efforts on Broadway, northeast of the Staples Center, pushing the Broadway Initiative to revitalize the street through cultural programming, and utilizing the street’s historical theaters and entertainment attractions (Philips September 30, 2001). Civic and business leaders also sought to revitalize Grand Avenue with the New York developer Related Companies, which built the twin-tower Time Warner Center in Manhattan.

275

Planners and civic leaders see the avenue with pedestrian malls, quirky retail, a boutique hotel, and a mix of housing to create a “vibrant” street, building on cultural institutions such as Walt Disney Concert Hall and the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels (Levey and Roug August 10, 2004). With its success with the Staples Center and L.A. Live, Anschutz, Leiweke, and Roski also teamed up with Wasserman (owner of the L.A. Avengers football team) and Ron Burkle (a supermarket billionaire) to bring a downtown football stadium to South Park, just east of the Staples Center. However, the plan for the stadium ultimately failed and the four sought to relocate it to the City of Industry, a neighboring city east of Los Angeles (2004). More recently, Governor Schwarzenegger signed a bill allowing the stadium to move forward, with construction initiating as soon as an NFL team moves to Los Angeles (Hunt 2009). The city also sought to bring in tax revenue through its $2.4 billion City Center Redevelopment Plan in 2002. The city voted 12-3 to create a special district that set aside 80% of property taxes in the area into the CRA and a housing trust fund, aiming to bring nearly 13,000 new housing units downtown and up to 6.7 million square feet of commercial and industrial development (Mehta, Daunt, and McGreevy May 9, 2002). The plan would also fund adult education, mental health centers, and homeless research. Resistance

However, various interests have pushed back on many of these downtown-centered growth projects, especially by bringing in equity concerns. For example, in May 2002, the L.A. Board of Supervisors filed a lawsuit against the city, calling the council’s appropriation of nearly $278 million in property tax money from 879 acres through the City Center Plan illegal and unjust. Supervisor Yaroslavsky claimed that “demanding that the county pony up to subsidize profit-making ventures by cutting services to the most dependent among us is unconscionable” (Yaroslavksy May 15, 2002). This tension harkens back to the same tension downtown interests faced in their understanding of spatial harmony. In Fogelson’s history, downtown interests believed that what was good for downtown was good for the rest of the city. As Yaroslavsky’s opposition shows, not everyone agreed on this strategy to accumulate capital and growth to privilege certain spaces over other. The suit did not bode well for

276

city council. The judge pointed to a similar lawsuit in 1977 filed by then-councilman Ernarni Bernardi against a similar downtown redevelopment zone that limited the Community Redevelopment Agency from receiving any more than $750 million in property tax revenue to cover costs. The judge deemed the cap reached in 2000 and sought to file an order that would invalidate the city ordinance that created the redevelopment project (McGreevy and Briscoe June 26, 2003). Similar concerns about downtown growth have been echoed recently against the 2008 phone tax (Proposition S) ballot measure. Neighborhood councils across the city opposed the tax not so much because of the tax itself, but what it represented: City Hall’s subsidization of dense downtown developments, while ignoring everyday neighborhood needs and the overall L.A. economy (Kotkin February 3, 2008). Daymond Johnson, a secretary of the South Central Neighborhood Council, echoes Yaroslavsky’s concern, pointing to the way that development has offered few opportunities to poorer minority residents, with most investment “going downtown, but nothing is happening south of the 10 Freeway. All we get is more liquor stores” (Kotkin February 3, 2008). Indeed, the spatial bias in investment, particularly real estate development, serves to benefit and attract a specific group concentrated in the downtown. Demographic Overview: 1960-2000

One of the main arguments made in this paper, however, is that growth is not targeted to and does not benefit everyone equally. As seen through the spatial biases in urban development in Area 1 versus Area 2 and the demographic shifts that have occurred, specific communities have more access to certain economic benefits than others, specifically a WNH, college-educated, white collar workforce. The idea is that the reimagination of the Figueroa corridor, and more broadly downtown Los Angeles—one directly imagined out of contentious growth politics and actual city policies and subsidies—has been historically linked to a certain vision of a city. It is an urban vision that is not only global in status, following the latest trends in urban development such as convention centers and entertainment districts, but also

277

cosmopolitan, populated by a creative and professional class of highly educated and â&#x20AC;&#x153;productiveâ&#x20AC;? workers and taxpayers. No doubt the class indicators in the Ethington data set are somewhat limited: it does not account for the full range of class groups (for example, it lacks those with an educational status below high school and unemployed individuals). But, it is one of the few datasets that comprehensively tracks the changes over the last four decades. And, as the table shows below, the very huge disparities in both race and class from 1960 to 2000, among a large population of over 70,000 individuals, demonstrate highly statistically significant differences between the two areas (p<0.01). Race and class differences intensify between 1980 and 2000. Areas 1 and 2 saw differences of up to 40% in the composition of Hispanics/BNHs and 15% for college-educated and white collar workers. Area 1 also saw drops in the Hispanic/ BNH populations, 15% drops from 1990 to 2000, and 10% drops in blue collar populations in the same period. Interestingly, housing stock is negatively related to the percentage of Hispanic/BNHs from 1960 to 2000. Income differences, though only $3,200, are mostly attributed to two tracts: 2077.1, which contains L.A. Live and the Staples Center; and 2075, which is closer to downtown. Indeed, Ethington et al. (2001) found higher rates of resegregation after the 1960s, with whites retreating to certain spaces, such as suburbs. This research builds on these findings. Patterns of segregation are both higher in downtown areas, and, post-1980s, patterns of socioeconomic segregation have dramatically risen. In other words, looking at the differences, there is something important going on here.

1960-2000

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

WNH

35.06%

13.53%

21.53%

Hispanic/BNH

46.38%

76.87%

-30.49%

High School

21.89%

15.42%

6.47%

College

5.74%

3.80%

1.94%

Blue Collar

19.05%

31.07%

-12.02%

White Collar

22.97%

12.16%

10.82%

Income

$22,489.64

$19,286.67

$3,202.96

Percentage Change Median Land Value

4617.51%

173.63%

4,443.88%

Changes in selected groups from 1960 to 2000, on average, between Area 1 and Area 2.

278

1980-2000

AREA 1

AREA 2

DIFFERENCE

HIgh School

20.02%

10.34%

9.67%

College

16.73%

3.55%

13.18%

Blue Collar

14.26%

27.85%

-13.59%

White Collar

23.01%

9.49%

13.52%

Changes in selected groups from 1980 to 2000, on average, between Area 1 and Area 2.

A logistic regression model also provides a method of explaining the variances within the data due to the areas. In other words, the model allows one to test how much of a group is explained by the area variable. A mild or high explanation could help show that, indeed, certain spaces privilege certain groups over others. Applying Area 1 or Area 2 to this model, two different R-squared values are obtained: the Nagelkerke and the Cox and Snell, a more conservative estimate. The data below show that the percentage of WNHs (between about 40-65%), college-educated from 1980-2000 (43-71%), and blue collar workers from 1980-2000 (40-66%) are highly related to Area 1 or 2. All of this supports the thesis of exclusion or inclusion of certain groups in certain spaces, most significantly WNHs, college-educated, and blue collar workersâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;by directly linking areas to explain how much the data varies. The other variables are more mildly related to the Area 1 or Area 2 variable, many of which reach up to 40% explanatory power on the higher end.

IN AREA 1 OR 2

COX & SNELL R SQUARE

NAGELKERKE R SQUARE

WNH

.393

.656

Hispanic/BNH

.207

.346

Total Housing Units

.205

.342

College

.245

.409

White Collar

.267

.446

White Collar 1980-2000

.272

.454

College 1980-2000

.425

.709

Blue Collar

.278

.464

Blue Collar 1980-2000

.394

.657

R-square values for selected variables, which point to how much designated areas in this study determine the variance, or variability, of the specified group.

279

The data here challenge the idea that growth is good for all and show that neighborhoods are becoming increasingly exclusive and stratified. Importantly, as the table below documents, the ups and downs among different groups are related in an interesting fashion with the variables of other indicators. WNHs, for example, are mildly related to increase in housing (.36), while Hispanics/BNHs are related to a decrease (-.336). As might be expected, WNHs are also better educated and typically hold white collar jobs. Hispanics/BNHs are related to decreases both in education groups and white collar jobs, but strongly correlated to blue collar jobs (.809). Total housing units is positively related to both education groups and white collar jobs, but is negatively related to blue collar jobs, which is expected as the relationship between Hispanics/BNHs are strongly tied to those jobs. Income is slightly negatively correlated with WNHs and Hispanics/BNHs, perhaps due to the dramatic fluctuations in income.

WNH

HISPANIC/ BNH

TOTAL HOUSING UNITS

HIGH SCHOOL

COLLEGE

WHITE COLLAR

BLUE COLLAR

% CHANGE

Hispanic/ BNHs

-0.42

-0.336

-0.532

-0.495

-0.498

0.809

-0.148

Total Housing Units

0.36

-0.336

0.361

0.472

0.363

-0.332

-0.121

High School

0.791

-0.532

0.361

0.469

0.392

-0.684

0.473

College

0.702

-0.495

0.472

0.469

0.894

-0.624

-0.016

White Collar

0.656

-0.498

0.363

0.392

0.894

-0.615

.005*

Blue Collar

-0.624

0.809

-0.332

-0.684

-0.624

0.615

-0.201

% Change in MLV

0.167

-0.148

0.121

0.473

-0.016

0.005

-0.201

Income

-0.108

-0.106

0.653

-0.304

0.290

0.343

0.061

-0.241

Bivariate correlation between groups. All values are significant (P<0.01) unless otherwise noted. [* not significant]

The relationships in this data also urge one to piece out the differences between Hispanics and BNHs. For the purposes of this analysis they have been usually grouped together due to the ways both groups have been depicted in the history as the major residents of the area. The two groups diverge mostly around economic categories.

280

BNHs are strongly related to high school educations and are negatively related to blue collar jobs, which are actually strongly related to Hispanics (.821). In terms of collegeeducated and white collar jobs, BNHsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; relationships are negligible, but are strongly negatively correlated to Hispanics. Interestingly, median land values are strongly related to BNHs, but negatively related to Hispanics. On the flip side, income is negatively related to BNHs, but slightly related to Hispanics. These results are counterintuitive, but may be explained by the nature of the data and the fact that BNHs are lower in population and thus more susceptible to fluctuations in values. BNH

HISPANIC

Total Housing

-0.083

-0.259

High School

0.58

-0.737

College

0.011

-0.429

White Collar

0.078

-0.436

Blue Collar

-0.27

0.821

% Change in MLV

0.367

-0.273

Income

-0.444

0.139

Bivariate correlation comparison between BNHs and Hispanics. All values are significant (P<0.01) unless otherwise noted.

Additionally, some preliminary mapping of new and proposed developments around Los Angeles bolsters the argument that investment is concentrated in certain spaces, and thus, as documented by the data above, for certain demographic groups. Gathered through two comprehensive Los Angeles Downtown News articles that track 114 new developments in 2010 (Guzman et al. 2010), lofts, retail, and development (red circles) both proposed and currently undergoing construction are clustered within Area 1, especially around the Convention Center, Staples Center, and L.A. Liveâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and, more broadly, downtown. Interestingly, housing under construction for low-income and the homeless (blue circles) are clustered far from the three developments, to the fringes of Area 2. See Appendix 1 for further detail on these developments.

281

Map of Area 1 and Area 2 with new developments proposed and constructed since 2000, drawn from a comprehensive inventory of new developments in Downtown L.A. Most developments are clustered around the 3 developments, specifically within Area 1. (See Appendix 1)

The Los Angeles Business Improvement District found that from 1998-2009, there has been an approximate parity between affordable and market rate units. However, post2009, with new and currently constructed units, market rate units outpace affordable units dramatically, 22,100 to 10,500 (Downtown Los Angeles BID 2009). Though the data looks at the downtown as a whole, the three developments observed in the Figueroa Corridor are part of these broader trends of urban investment and the creation of space for certain groups of people. And, of course, as seen historically, thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s profit to be made in all of these developments.

AFFORDABLE UNITS

MARKET RATE UNITS

Existing Housing Before 1998

8,445

3,181

Constructed Since 1999*

2,347

13,345

Total up to 2009

10,792

16,526

AFFORDABLE UNITS

MARKET RATE UNITS

Under Development since 2009

1,014

3,635

Grand Total**

10,808

22,100

Comparison of affordable and market rate units in exisitng and proposed developments since 1998. [*1999 marks the passage of the Adaptive Reuse Ordinance] [**Existing and Under Development]

282

CONCLUSIONS: TOWARD AN INCLUSIVE URBAN AGENDA?

The goal of this study is to situate the Convention Center, the Staples Center, and L.A. Live in light of a growth coalition adjusting to new political economic conditions, such as neoliberalism and the rise of slow growth activism. Several historical themes appear in this case analysis. One is the change in growth discourse, which began simply value- and race-neutral, and eventually also considered the excitement of a “spectacle,” as noted by the use of “Times Square West” and a “New Times Square.” Second, the organization of the growth coalition shifted from mostly place-based coalitions to coalitions built between both local and extra-local agglomerates, such as the Anschutz Entertainment Group and Rupert Murdoch. These shifts occurred through injuries sustained through faulty developmental strategies and increasing fragmentation that debilitated the vision of the local growth coalition. Third, displacement occurred either by replacement via new construction or exclusion via investment value multiplier effects (Hackworth and Smith 2001). Lastly, growth resistance shifted from very localized efforts to labor and community struggles as well as general slow-growth movements that began to weaken the established growth coalition. As seen in broader resistance to downtown-focused development, “use value” agendas and local community residents themselves (often working class people of color) are often displaced and reorganized to make space for a specific vision of a revitalized downtown as an entertainment, cultural, finance, and technology capital. Problematizing Exchange Versus Use Value: How Do Growth Coalitions Decide What Is Profitable?

But how do growth coalitions and urban regimes decide what is profitable or not? Where do they get their ideas to follow the latest trends in urban development? Utilizing the historical, theoretical, and discursive analysis of this paper, several explanations may be proffered to problematize constructions of use versus exchange value.

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On a broader, material level, the prevailing economic ideology of neoliberalism, which grew in force with Reaganism, has debilitated city policy toolkits and treasuries to fund alternative urban development and social services programs, such as public education. Intense inter-urban competition for capital under globalization has created a collective action problem in which cities with strong regulations, “unproductive” social services, and inefficient state employment harm the business climate to attract companies and capital. This collective action problem also affects the ability of states to pursue alternative development strategies, such as human capital investment, due to the riskiness of these investments “leaking” from their areas and the economic impacts much more long-term. Unlike a development into a sports stadium, the jobs created from quality schools or workforce developments are not immediate and quantifiable in the short-term. There is also a vicious cycle that prevents this investment in human capital. In the case of schools, for example, when individuals can simply escape to the suburbs to find quality neighborhoods and school systems there, and when inner city neighborhoods and their schools are continuously disinvested and defunded, both the attraction and the ability to invest in public schools is doubly debilitated. Real estate investments, like the Staples Center and L.A Live, are investments that have far fewer “leakage” issues, with profits directly attainable to the investor, and the promise of very concrete jobs. Indeed, much of the value-neutral discourse of the growth coalition borrows heavily from this neoliberal economic discourse. The free market is represented by: open market information, a multiplicity of small scale production and consumption units, autonomous consumer tastes, and free mobility of labor and capital leading to an efficient equilibrium. Rather, in reality, distortions, disequilbria, and imperfections characterize economic life in contemporary American society. Secrecy, high information costs, and socially structured accessibility to information about jobs, products, and services abound. (Smith 1981, p. 184)

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Much like Smith’s analysis, this paper also challenges this notion of value-neutral discourse, arguing that, instead, growth is based on an imagination to create certain visions of urban space and attract certain groups of people growth coalition leaders deem productive to growth. On an institutional level, the fiscal welfare state, which utilizes tax subsidies to promote economic development objectives (Smith 1988), has created larger incentive structures for the promotion of certain economic development projects. Growth Coalition decisions about what is profitable is affected by not only local subsidies, but also broader federal subsidies that promote a “leisure economy.” Smith writes that Reagan’s supplyside tax cuts stimulated consumption, an economy of spending rooted in Keynesian macroeconomic principles, which “underwrite the commodification of leisure in subsidized urban sports arenas, shopping malls, luxury hotels, and rural retirement and recreation enclaves” (Smith 1981, p. 183). With growth highly situated in consumption, and when both growth and consumption is directly linked to the success of the economy, most corporations followed the money trail. It is a trail influenced by public policy decisions, which, of course, were also influenced by the politics and ideology of national growth alliances, intellectuals, and leaders. The negative and positive characterizations of various groups contain the second explanation to decide who benefits from growth. Growth coalition leaders believed and used discourses that represented urban communities in certain ways to justify the impacts of certain development projects. In effect, these discourses and representations are part of a larger ideology of how cities should be. Value-neutral representations of growth were coupled with highly effective, yet disempowering and otherizing representations of inner city communities. Discourses of the urban crisis, slums, and blight often devalued those who lived in such communities and symbolically served to discard their potential human capital. In this way, economic development strategies that followed not only displaced and excluded, very physically, certain groups of devalued individuals, but also displaced and excluded,

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very symbolically and materially, priorities that invest in human capital, such as public education and health. Networks, institutions, and status symbols that privilege certain ideas also privilege certain ideas. Tomer (1980, p. 210) argues, for example, that the rationale of housing lending decisions that favored suburbs over urban areas were socially produced, not based in economic fact. These ideologies, and the discourses, representations, and imaginations that form them, were continually reproduced through a set of privileged knowledge regimes, which included social networks, consultants, public policy institutes, prestige symbols and awards, and learning institutions (Campbell 2000). To build a convention center, the Staples Center, or L.A. Live was more than economic; it was symbolic. For Mayor Bradley to say he could lift his chest in pride after the Convention Center expansion means that what Los Angeles had before was not enough. Los Angeles had to follow the success of other global cities to remain competitive. Urban Development Growth Strategies: Ways Forward?

Projects based in real estate development, entertainment, and tourism appear profitable with concrete benefits to the city and the community. The actual picture, however, is not always positive. Putting aside the data for now, history can provide several lessons and further questions. The Convention Center and its expansion, despite the predicted economic gains to the city, both continue to rack up expansive debt—tens of millions every year—with an immense capital start-up cost. Though the Staples Center and L.A. Live were both financed privately, the city lost hundreds of millions in tax dollars and entitlements to attract growth, severely debilitating its treasury and its policy toolkit to address the externalities created by increased traffic, pollution, and other quality of life concerns. The Brookings Institution even recently sounded the death knell for the increasingly competitive convention industry (Hayward 2006). Jumping on the bandwagon for development, and searching for a silver bullet for the “urban crisis,” though creating short-term, low-wage service jobs, has harmed city coffers and displaced and excluded many. So, how stable and equitable is the growth created by this new

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round of development, in light of globalization, suburbs, and overseas competition? Can we invest in growth that lasts—perhaps feeding and growing sustainable growth in our regions—instead of continually competing to attract and chase new money trails? Answering these questions escapes the furthest boundaries of this paper. The paper’s analysis, however, may provide a couple of important trends that can shed some light on this vital topic. First, an important part of growing growth is to ensure that growth actually invests in the area, not just those who profit and enjoy the luxuries created by it. From the very beginning, there have been proactive actors who have sought to ensure that growth is fair, challenging the value-neutral growth discourse. Examples include the Justice in the Construction Campaign in the 1960s for the Convention Center, the Legal Aid Foundation’s advocacy to build affordable housing to house the thousands displaced by the Convention Center expansion, and, more recently, the Figueroa Corridor Coalition’s community and labor effort to link city development subsidies to job training, affordable housing, and local hiring. These efforts sought to not only challenge disempowering representations of community and those who live in them, but also construct a more inclusive imagination of the city. To create sustained growth, however, physically investing in communities is not enough. People, families, and neighbors make up communities and are a vital part of the economy. How might growth also serve to invest in those who live in the local community for the long term? One must first challenge disempowering representations of local communities that form the logic of exclusion and displacement. Disciplining and “cleaning up,” an area makes implicit judgments and pervade much development discourse that go hand in hand with policies of policing, imprisonment, and a “war” on poverty. A new wave of fair or just growth advocates challenge these representations and the power dynamics that embed them. Through partnerships and community-based investments, growth coalitions may not only challenge their own understandings of growth, but also see local leaders and members as partners and human investments that can “grow growth” regionally. Indeed, Birdsall, Ross, and Sabot (1995) argued “investment in education is a key to sustained growth, both because it contributes

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directly through productivity effects and because it reduces income inequality” (1995). Investing in people and reducing the inequitable impacts of growth creates a sustained growth pattern. Similarly, Pastor, Benner, and Matsuoka (2009) also contend that “regions characterized by high levels of inequality may also tend to underinvest in human capital, even as they get involved in distributional conflict that can derail a focus on economic growth… regional economic growth and a more equitable distribution of income at the metropolitan level (tend) to go hand and hand.” In both of these formulations about sustained economic growth, human capital and reductions in inequality are a critical foundation. Growth coalitions and, more broadly, cities and regions could stand to gain a lot by integrating place- and people-based strategies. But this requires smart and proactive state institutions and policies. In terms of education, linking the fate of both the cities and their suburbs, and, even further, coordinating federal urban policy for education and workforce development are important steps. This institutional investment would remove the collective action problem of human capital investments potentially leaking from one city or business to another. Overall improvements in the human capital of the labor force, especially of underserved communities, and investments into public infrastructure such as housing and transportation, create an important foundation for sustained and equitable growth (Pastor, Benner, and Matsuoka 2009). With simultaneous investments into innovation, research, and development foundations to generate new ideas for growth and progress (Brookings 2009), a new virtuous cycle of growth, equity, and sustainability can be pursued. For our cities, and for democracy at large, the important point is that a population with more human and financial capital will have the opportunity to overcome the spatial exclusion and stratification that is intensifying in Los Angeles. The landmark Community Benefits Act is an important step toward a more inclusive development agenda. Policymakers must be cautious, however, of community benefits and their actual implementation and impacts of achieving an inclusive

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urban vision. The displacement of local community residents, their cultural history, and use-value agendas from the current reimagination of the Figueroa Corridor must be considered closely. Demographically, logistic regression data show, that between 1960-2000 Area 1, on average, is highly significantly different (p<0.01) than Area 2 in certain demographic aspects, especially in terms of percentage of WNHs (22% greater), Hispanics/BNHs (30% less), white collar workers (10% more), blue collar workers (12% less), and the percent change of housing land values (4500% greater). Additionally, between 1980 and 2000, coinciding with neoliberalization and economic restructuring, Area 1 has 10% more high-school-educated individuals (though this group faced a 10% drop from 1990 to 2000) and 13% more college-educated individuals (p<0.01). Building on Ethington et al.’s 2001 study, the findings here suggest that whites, white collar workers, and college-educated individuals are not only resegregating in suburbs but also in downtowns. While the causal relationships cannot be firmly decided through this study, logistic regressions demonstrate that the placement of, especially, WNHs and white collar workers is strongly influenced by their area. Indeed, this feeds this paper’s thesis on the bias of development across not only space, but also to certain demographic groups. With the archival and discursive material seen throughout, growth coalitions have exclusively reimagined a certain vision of city for a certain type of person, favoring a specific types of economic development. However, the historical impact of increasing community-labor resistance, more minority leaders, and the influence of slow-growth movements demonstrate the power of the local. These struggles are part of a larger battle to define the role of the state. To use Bourdieu’s (1994) and Wacquant’s (2009) analogy of the Bureaucratic Field, the struggle about growth is part of an “internecine struggle” of the state’s social “Left Hand” (i.e. affordable housing, public education, social services) against the disciplined “Right Hand” (i.e. prisons, deregulation, fiscal incentives). And this internecine struggle is related to the social struggle to construct space and the role of the state. Community

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resistance—with its desire for more inclusive growth city policies and its alternative representations of inner city residents—contest those representations and policies of the growth coalition. Future research would integrate more ethnographic and interview data, especially of displaced individuals, to provide a bottom-up picture of the Figueroa Corridor. Additionally, a comparative study of urban growth agendas will prove useful. Jacksonville, for example, with its integrated metropolitan government and its decision to not invest in entertainment and tourism industries, can illuminate a different story than Los Angeles’ Figueroa Corridor. Comparing and contrasting these stories can provide a typology of growth coalitions, growth discourses, institutional structures, and community responses that influence how “just” and “sustained” growth is in a region. Lastly, integrating the new 2010 census data can help confirm or condition the major findings of this paper. The Chicago School urban ecology’s contention that growth, as it is constructed, is good for all has been an influential theory. But research has continually sought to challenge it. Urban political economic research must do two things. It must first document increasing urban stratification due to traditional growth strategies and second promote alternative city narratives that demonstrate growth and equity can go hand in hand. Much like the community battles that are being fought now, this research contests the legitimacy of certain constructions of the state and seeks to advocate for constructions through which the state plays a more inclusive role in the imagination of space and opportunity. The internecine struggle continues. More recently, a 2007 ruling from the California Superior Court struck down Mayor Villaraigosa’s effort for inclusionary zoning and mandatory affordable housing in new developments. The conversation between growth and equity must continue. We must imagine a new Figueroa, a new Los Angeles.

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Appendix 1: Map of new developments post 2000. Proposed/Developing

4. Corporation Building 5. Conversion of Holiday Inn to Luxe Hotel City Center 6. 655 Hope Residential 7. 808 S. Olive 8. 1133 S. Hope St 9. City House and Olympic 10. Concerto Tower 11. 8th and Grand 12. El Dorado 13. Jewelry District Tower 14. L.A. Lofts 15. Libeskind Towers 16. Park Fifth 17. Shy Barry Tower 18. South Figueroa, Tower 1 19. South Figueroa, Tower 2 20. Zen 21. 1027 Wilshire 22. Holland Partners Project 23. Orisini II 24. Medallion 25. Metropolis 26. Wilshire Grand/Korean Air 27. Pacific Stock Exchange Nightclub 28. Embassy Hotel 29. Mignon 30. Concerto Annex 31. Emil Brown Lofts 32. Mendocino Farms 33. SB Tower

Affordable Housing (Single Rent Occupancies, Mostly affordable housing)

1. Bristol Hotel 2. Gateway Apartments 3. Panama apartments 4. Renato Apartments 5. The Ford 6. Hope Street Family Center 7. Project Home 8. YWCA Job Corps Campus 9. New Carver Apartments

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