CITIZENSHIP, CONFLICT AND

RECONSTRUCTION

A case-study of the effects of armed conflict on

peasant-state relations in Tambo, Peru

Jemima García-Godos

Dissertation for the Dr. Polit. Degree in

Human Geography

Department of Sociology and Human Geography

Faculty of Social Sciences
University of Oslo

2005
Brading (1980), (Brading 1980)
(Degregori 1991)(Degregori 1992)
VELAZCO (2000) (VELAZCO 2000)

ii
TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS IX
1. INTRODUCTION 1
Purpose of the dissertation and research questions.............................................................. 3
A doctoral project over time................................................................................................ 7
Andean studies................................................................................................................... 10
Post-modern critique.......................................................................................................... 14
Structure of the dissertation............................................................................................... 17

2. A RELATIONAL APPROACH TO PEASANT CITIZENSHIP 19

Political history from below .............................................................................................. 20
Relational setting ............................................................................................................... 26
Disaggregating the state..................................................................................................... 28
The transformative potential of law................................................................................... 32
Citizenship as meaning and practice ................................................................................. 34
Citizenship and armed conflict 39
Summary............................................................................................................................ 41

3. METHODOLOGICAL CONSIDERATIONS: DOING FIELDWORK IN TAMBO

42
About qualitative research ................................................................................................. 42
Choice of site..................................................................................................................... 45
Fieldwork and data collection............................................................................................ 48
Interviews 48
Participant observation 51
Data collection through complementary activities 53
Gender 54
Follow-up fieldwork.......................................................................................................... 55
Credibility, accountability and transferability ................................................................... 55
About memory and recollection 57
Summary............................................................................................................................ 58

4. TAMBO, A RURAL DISTRICT IN AYACUCHO, PERU 61

Where is Tambo?............................................................................................................... 61
Tambo and its people......................................................................................................... 65
Livelihood and economy in Tambo................................................................................... 68
Land tenure 69
Agricultural production and household economy 71
Living conditions and basic services 74
A brief history of Tambo ................................................................................................... 75
Indigenous peasant rebellions 77
Integration with the rainforest economy 79
Summary............................................................................................................................ 80

iii
5. THE ONSET OF ARMED CONFLICT AND DISPLACEMENT – TAMBO UNTIL
1984 82
The Shining Path................................................................................................................ 83
PCP SL ideology 86
“Initiation of the armed struggle” ...................................................................................... 88
The Shining Path in the countryside 91
First attempts of peasant resistance against the Shining Path 92
Experiences of armed conflict and displacement in Tambo 1983-1986............................ 98
The first phase of counter-insurgency strategy in Tambo: Ccarhuapampa 1983 99
The second phase of counter-insurgency strategy in Tambo: The mid- eastern
communities, 1984 104
The dynamics of displacement in the district of Tambo.................................................. 112
Internal displacement within the district 113
Displacement as a temporary strategy 114
Summary.......................................................................................................................... 115

6. PEASANT SELF-DEFENSE IN TAMBO (1): THE FIRST YEARS 117

Reconstructing a history of self-defense.......................................................................... 117
Trends in the armed conflict and self-defense in Tambo: A view from the data of the
compensation rights registries 120
Civil defense committees as community organizations................................................... 124
Community governance 125
Practices of self-defense .................................................................................................. 128
Safeguarding the community 129
Autonomous and mixed operations 130
Testimonies and the early “peasant law of repentance” 134
Reporting local experience: an example from Huayao.................................................... 142
Making it “official”: Recording and validating information 143
What is worth recording: Types of entries in the libro de actas 145
Between consensus and compliance 147
Summary.......................................................................................................................... 151

7. PEASANT SELF-DEFENSE IN TAMBO (2): WEAKENING AND REBIRTH OF

PEASANT RESISTANCE, 1986-1993 152
Weakening and rebirth of peasant resistance, 1986-1992 ............................................... 152
Operación Halcón: An attempt to revamp the CDCs 156
New counter-subversive strategy and the pacification plan: Creating the basis for a
peasant-military alliance 161
Comandos Especiales and the consolidation of self-defense in Tambo 164
The “Law of Recognition of Self-Defense Committees” and its effects in Tambo 167
Tambo on its own 169
A landscape for reconstruction – Tambo since 1993....................................................... 170
Legalization and legitimacy of CADs in rural society 170
Return: New settlement and population patterns 174
Summary.......................................................................................................................... 176

iv
8. RECONSTRUCTION AS SOCIAL POLICY 177
From “migrants” to “IDPs” ............................................................................................. 178
Social policy during the Fujimori regime........................................................................ 181
“Direct democracy” as social policy implementation 183
The discourse of reconstruction and development .......................................................... 185
The national program in support of repopulation ............................................................ 189
Institutional development of PAR 190
Types of intervention by PAR 197
Assessing the PAR intervention 207
Summary.......................................................................................................................... 211

9. DEFINING CITIZENSHIP: THE ISSUE OF COMPENSATION RIGHTS FOR

PEASANT RONDERO CASUALTIES 212
The Compensation Decrees ............................................................................................. 212
Designing a register for casualties of the armed conflict 215
Limitations of the registers 217
Data collected in the registers 219
Legitimating compensation: Citizenship and armed conflict .......................................... 219
Peasant-military relations behind the scene 222
Peasant ronderos in Lima – or how contribution makes us citizens 224
Assessing the compensation rights mobilization............................................................. 227
Local government reaching up to central government 227
Mobilization and identity in the CADs 228
Different citizens, different demands, different compensations 230
The compensation rights issue on its own: A long and lonely journey ........................... 233
Summary.......................................................................................................................... 237

10. THE UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES OF NEOCLIENTELISM: ELECTORAL

BEHAVIOR AND PEASANT CITIZENSHIP IN TAMBO 238
Why the mayor did not run for re-election ...................................................................... 240
New and old contestants .................................................................................................. 244
Decisions, decisions: electoral campaign in a rural district............................................. 249
Elections day 250
Making sense of election results...................................................................................... 252
Summary.......................................................................................................................... 257

11. VICTIM OR ACTOR - DOES IT MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE WHAT

REPARATIONS ARE FOR? 258
Compensation rights in the era of reconciliation: A reparations proposal ...................... 259
Compensation or reparations – A choice? ....................................................................... 265
Context of origin 266
Basis of the benefit 267
Implementation 268
Historical dimension 268
The challenge of recognition ........................................................................................... 270
Summary.......................................................................................................................... 271

v
12. CONCLUSIONS: ARMED CONFLICT, RECONSTRUCTION AND PEASANT
CITIZENSHIP 272
Implications for the study of armed conflicts .................................................................. 273
Implications for the study of internal displacement......................................................... 277
Implications for the study of post-conflict reconstruction............................................... 279
The role of law in society ................................................................................................ 282
Implications for the study of citizenship among subaltern groups .................................. 283
The challenge(s) of historical interpretation: Peasant self-defense and the legacy of the
armed conflict .................................................................................................................. 288
REFERENCES 293
APPENDICES 303
APPENDIX I: List of main informants during fieldwork in Tambo, 1999 303
APPENDIX II: Database from the registries of the compensation rights issue collected in
the District of Tambo in 1999: 304
Autonomous and mixed operations, including date, location, casualties by Shining Path
and additional information. 304
APPENDIX III: Database from the registries of the compensation rights issue collected in
the District of Tambo in 1999: 306
Confrontations and Incursions – incidents and casualties caused by Shining Path, by
community and year, Tambo 1981-1994. 306
APPENDIX IV: Overview of PAR Investment 1994-2000 308
ACRONYMS 309

LIST OF BOXES

Box 1: The multiple uses of “citizenship” as a concept, according to Tilly……………………..35

LIST OF MAPS

Map 1: Peru and the Department of Ayacucho, with provinces ................................................ xi

Map 2: Province of La Mar, with districts ..................................................................................xii
Map 3: The District of Tambo, 2003 ......................................................................................... 60
Map 4: Road Ayacucho – San Francisco ................................................................................. 63
Map 5: Peru’s South Central Region, Zone II:
Huanta, Huamanga and La Mar Provinces ................................................................. 94
Map 6: Peru’s South Central Region, Zone III: Apurímac River Valley.................................. 158

vi
LIST OF TABLES

Table 1. Total population in district of Tambo and La Mar province, 1940-1999..................... 66

Table 2. Number of producers & extension according to agrarian producers’ juridical status in
district of Tambo, 1994. .......................................................................................... 72
Table 3. Land tenure in the district of Tambo, 1994. ............................................................... 72
Table 4: Number of casualties by all types of incidents, Tambo 1983-1994. ........................ 120
Table 5. Registered number of incidents per type and year, Tambo 1983-1994. ................. 121
Table 6. Registered number of casualties per type of incident and year, Tambo 1983-1994.
.............................................................................................................................. 121
Table 7. Number of dead and missing in the district of Tambo, La Mar, Ayacucho, reported to
the CVR, 1980-2000. ............................................................................................ 123
Table 8. Summary of entries in the CDC Huayao Registry Book, 1985-1987. ...................... 146
Table 9. Projects funded/executed by PAR in Tambo, 1994-1998........................................ 192
Table 10. PAR projects in Tambo, per year and annual investment, 1994-98. ..................... 195
Table 11. FONCODES projects in Tambo, per year and annual 1993-98............................. 195
Table 12. PAR projects in Tambo, per type and investment, 1994-98. ................................. 198
Table 13. FONCODES projects in Tambo, per type and investment, 1993-98. ................... 198
Table 14. PAR investments, 1994-2000. ............................................................................... 208
Table 15. Description of information collected in the registry formats for rondero casualties of
the armed conflict.................................................................................................. 217
Table 16. Total number of registered casualties in confrontations and incursions in the districts
of Tambo and Santillana. ...................................................................................... 220
Table 17. Beneficiaries of compensation rights according to DS 077 y DS 068, in relation to
number of casualties in confrontations only. ........................................................ 221
Table 18. Beneficiaries of compensation rights according to DS 077 y DS 068, in relation to
number of casualties in confrontations AND incursions. ...................................... 221
Table 19. Summary of benefits for victims of terrorism.......................................................... 232

vii
viii
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This dissertation came through thanks to the assistance and support of many people, in
both Norway and Peru. First of all, I wish to thank my advisor, Jan Hesselberg, at the
Department of Sociology and Human Geography, University of Oslo, for getting me
started with the doctoral project, and for his patience and advice throughout the years;
his comments have been most valuable. I have spent most of my time as a doctoral
research fellow at the Centre for Development and the Environment, University of
Oslo, where I thank Director Bente Herstad and the entire staff for their support and
friendship, and for providing a happy and reliable working environment. My project
formed part of the SUM research program “The Dynamics of Displacement in
Situations of Conflict”, led by Kristi Anne Stølen. I am deeply indebted to her for her
incisive comments on several chapters of the dissertation, and for being a good
discussion partner. I thank Desmond McNeill as well for his encouragement since I
joined the Centre as a graduate student, and for always finding interesting projects for
me to do as part of my “pliktarbeid” quota at SUM; these have indeed enriched my
work experience. He also helped me with the proof-reading of one of the chapters.
Thanks also to Kristoffer Ring for solving all my technical data problems, and for
making the maps look as nice as they do. To the doctoral fellows at SUM, particularly
Tanja Winther, Harald Wilhite, Anne Gjerdåker and Guro Aandahl, thank you for
making the final stages of the process a not so lonely enterprise.
In Peru, I thank Ponciano del Pino for attracting my attention to the district of
Tambo, and to Pepe Coronel for sharing with me his knowledge of civil defense
committees, the armed conflict, and displacement in Ayacucho; they were both at the
Universidad Nacional San Cristóbal de Huamanga, Ayacucho at the time. In Tambo, I
first and foremost want to thank the people of the peasant communities of Huayao,
Ccatupata and Ccarhuapampa, for their hospitality and patience in answering all my
questions, and in finding time to talk to me. Special thanks should also go to the
members of the CAD District Committee and the Mayor of Tambo, for facilitating my
research there in 1999. I thank also CODEAC and CEPRODEP for introducing me to
the district. At the institutional level, I wish to thank the Office of the Ombudsman,
PAR and FONCODES both in Ayacucho and Lima, for access to information about
their programs and activities. Last but not least, I thank Jaime Antesana, for his

ix
support and collaboration during my fieldwork, and for his devoted commitment to
the cause of peasant ronderos and the areas affected by the armed conflict.
The project has been funded by a doctoral research and two travel grants from
the Research Council of Norway, with additional funding from the University of Oslo.
Individual papers have been presented at the OPUS and LPD seminars, doctoral
research courses in Norway and Denmark in 1999 and 2000, NFU Conference 2003,
and the AAG 2005. I thank all participants, including Anne and Guro at SUM, for
their comments and feedback. I also wish to thank my friends Victoria, Olaug and
Eline for not giving me up and for helping me through at times when I felt “totally lost
in space.”
Most of my family from my father’s side lives in Ayacucho. Returning to my
grandmother’s home, on my way to Tambo or Lima has always been a pleasure.
Abuelita Victoria, tío Juanito, and cousins Freddy, Luis, Cecilia, Kike, and Elba, and
all other members of García-Godos family in Ayacucho have my love and gratitude.
Through them I have learned much about our family, roots and history, life in
Ayacucho, and none the least, about the armed conflict.
My parents have been a constant source of encouragement. I know that they
are glad that I do research on Peru, because that means I can visit them regularly, and
now with two grandsons in the picture, they want me to visit even more. I met Henrik,
my husband, immediately after I returned from my main fieldwork period in Tambo.
As one of our friends said this summer “If it hadn’t been for him, you would have
finished the dissertation years ago!” We all laughed, and agreed that luckily for both
of us, he did come across. Our sons Stian and Emil did not have to wait long before
they came into this world. As Henrik says, two children and two dissertations would
not be possible if it was not for a bit of organization, lots of respect for each other, and
deep love and commitment. This dissertation is dedicated to them, the three men in
my life.

x
Map 1: Peru and the Department of Ayacucho, with provinces.

Source: Instituto de Estadística e Información website; and PromPerú website; both

accessed July 2005.

xi
Map 2: Province of La Mar, with districts.

Source: Instituto Nacional de Estadística e Información website: Cartografía Nacional. Accessed July
2005.

xii
Chapter 1

INTRODUCTION

On May 17 1980 the Shining Path Communist Party of Peru (Sendero Luminoso –
SL) launched its guerrilla war against the Peruvian state in the peasant village of
Chuschi, in Ayacucho, in the highlands of Peru. The guerrillas (five hooded men) tied
down the registrar and burned the electoral registry and ballot boxes where local
peasants and villagers were to cast their votes the following day at the first democratic
elections for 18 years. This was also the first time that the indigenous peasant
population was to participate in an electoral process in large numbers. The
Constitution of 1978 had enfranchised the illiterate, consisting for the most part of
peasant indigenous populations from the rural areas. After the attack, the registrar
managed to untie himself and raised the alarm in the village, so that a search was
initiated. The registrar had recognized his attackers, four youngsters from area, who
were arrested the following day by the local police. The leader, a teacher from another
village, managed to escape (Gorriti 1999).
This episode is mentioned in most literature dealing with guerrilla war in Peru,
as it marks the ‘official start’ of the Shining Path insurgency. Many questions can be
raised from it, such as why Chuschi was chosen for the first attack, its symbolic
meaning, strategic significance, or impact. News of the event went almost unnoticed
in the press, which presented it then as an isolated event in a remote place no one
knew. However, Chuschi was not as remote as one might think, since new ballot
boxes arrived the following day from the district capital of Cangallo, and elections
proceeded as planned (Degregori 1985; Poole and Rénique 1992).
What does the Chuschi episode tell us about state-society relations in Peru of
1980, at the brink of guerrilla war? Without attempting a thorough analysis, it tells us
at least three things. Firstly, it tells us about the presence of the state in the
countryside, in the form of public officials and a local bureaucratic system (electoral
office, local police, district authorities). Although the relative nature of state presence
in rural Peru has been questioned for decades, it cannot be argued that peasant
populations lived in total isolation and/or without knowledge of the nation-state.
Particularly during the 1970s, interaction between indigenous peasantries and the state

1
increased as a result of the Agrarian Reform process initiated in 1968. In the late
1970s, the extension of the vote to the illiterate legally created a new pool of citizens
of the nation-state, making peasant populations attractive subjects for political parties
and electoral politics. Furthermore, the formal and bureaucratic presence of the state
also reached the everyday lives of people in a variety of ways that became so
normalized and routinized that they are often taken for granted, such as the enrollment
of children in public schools, processing identity cards, obtaining a land title, or
getting married.
Secondly, the episode tells us about the prevalent attitude in Peru among both
state officials and public opinion towards events occurring in the highlands,
considered as remote and unimportant. This attitude is characteristic of a highly
centralized political system which privileged coastal urban areas, along with a society
intrinsically elitist and racist, particularly towards its indigenous population. Had the
attack occurred in Lima, it would undoubtedly have received immediate and extensive
coverage.
Finally, the episode tells us about the capricious combination of the advent of
democracy and guerrilla war in Peruvian history. The newly recovered democracy and
the inherent freedoms attached to it were curtailed and blocked by the armed conflict
for large sectors of the population in the years to follow. The conflict made democracy
difficult; yet democracy also made possible the spread of a liberal discourse of
inclusion, participation and equality, as well as the limited (or attempt to) exercise
such principles.
How can a discourse of liberal democracy coexist with a constant state of
emergency, where repression, suspicion and insecurity become part of everyday life?
What are the effects of armed conflict upon state-society relations? How can
democracy and its citizens, particularly those in subaltern positions such as indigenous
peasants, survive an armed conflict? And what role do civilian populations play in
internal armed conflicts? These are highly relevant questions today, given the fact that
such conflicts continue to affect the lives of thousands of people across the world –
mostly poor and marginalized groups – while challenging the authority of the state.
Whether intentionally or not, the reality of internal armed conflict makes the presence
of the state be felt among local populations – for better or for worse. Curfews, raids,
inspections, patrols, new rules, marches, public appeals, patriotic symbols and
discourse, detentions, disappearances, abuse; these are but a few ways of how a

2
conflict brings the state closer into the lives of citizens. Along with their often
devastating results, the very occurrence of internal armed conflict produces
(re)definitions of identity among citizens of the affected country: Are we for or
against the rebels? Are we for or against the state? How should the state react? What
is and what is not a legitimate state reaction? Particularly in democratic regimes, an
internal armed conflict puts into question the legitimacy of the nation-state.
Armed conflicts do not leave untouched the relation between citizens and the
state; on the contrary, a conflict tends to redefine the nature and form of these
relations. In this dissertation, I argue for an analysis of armed conflict that is sensitive
to processes of state-formation and nation-building which are taking place, literally, at
the battlefield. How to grasp these processes? If we conceive of state-formation and
nation-building processes not as grand-projects, but as the result of everyday practices
and discourses that link citizens to the state, as “everyday forms of state-formation”
(Joseph and Nugent 1994), then it is possible to argue that such processes can also
occur in the “everyday life” of armed conflicts. The approach suggested here is to
focus on the interaction between subaltern citizens and the state from below, that is,
from the perspective of the subaltern. The case of the Peruvian armed conflict
becomes then the empirical base for the study of relations between subaltern groups
and the state during and after internal armed conflict. As similar conflicts persist (as
in Nepal and Colombia) and reach an end (as in Sierra Leone, Rwanda, Guatemala),
the lessons learned from the Peruvian case can provide insight into the complexity of
state-society relations at a most vulnerable point in the process of nation-state
formation.

PURPOSE OF THE DISSERTATION AND RESEARCH QUESTIONS

The purpose of this dissertation is to explore peasant-state relations in the context of
armed conflict and reconstruction in Peru The dissertation follows the course of the
conflict and the reconstruction period in one of the rural districts worst affected by the
armed conflict: the district of Tambo, in the province of La Mar, in the department of
Ayacucho, in the highlands of Peru. My focus is on the Andean peasant population
and their participation (or lack of it) in society as political actors: how has the armed
conflict affected peasant communities and their relation to the nation-state? This focus
will allow me to analytically approach a rather complex issue: the construction and
practice of citizenship among subaltern groups.

3
 My motivation to conduct this research can be explained by the findings of the
Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which delivered its Final Report in
August 2003. The report indicates that approximately 70,000 people were killed or
missing as a result of the war, a number almost three times the official estimate of
25,000 victims that we have grown accustomed to hearing over the years. Of those
victims, 75% had Quechua or other native language as their mother tongue, 79% lived
in rural areas, and 68% had low levels of formal education. The plight of these victims
and their families was not recognized by those not directly affected by the violence in
urban areas. For the Commission, this speaks of absolute social exclusion, which I
consider the opposite of citizenship. In this dissertation, I will argue that the terrors
visited on peasant populations in Tambo and elsewhere by both the Peruvian armed
forces and the Shining Path guerrillas were mediated by authoritarian and paternalistic
conceptualizations of peasants’ subordinate nature and their need for enlightenment
and command. Peasants were considered a sort of second-class citizens, if citizens at
all.
A definition of peasants is in place right from the start. By peasants, I refer to
the people living in [Peruvian] peasant communities, who are members of the
community,1 and who derived their main income from agriculture and livestock-
raising (but not exclusively), independent of the legal status of their community, their
gender, age, income or religion. Aware of the danger of ‘dissolving the subject’
(Ortner 1995), this dissertation will often refer to peasants in its plural form to denote
their identification as a group, as a collective actor. This does not imply however, a
monolithic, homogenous and reified conceptualization of peasant identity, but a
collective treatment as a subaltern group in relation to the state.
At the start of the conflict, peasants were first the object of suspicion for the
armed forces; for the Shining Path, they were the natural resource for their class
struggle. At the end of the conflict, peasants had become the main ally of the state in
counter-subversive strategy; and for the guerrillas, peasants had betrayed the struggle.
How does a suspected subject turn into a state ally? And what – if any – are the
implications of the new status? The peasant population living in the areas affected by
the armed conflict were long perceived as being mere victims caught between two
swords; it was first in the 1990s that the peasants and their organizations were

1
A discussion of peasant community is presented in Chapter Four.

4
identified as actors in the conflict (for better or for worse) not only by the state, but
also by academics, politicians, and other institutional and non-institutional actors. It
will be argued here that the formal citizenship given to peasants through
enfranchisement in 1979 has developed, with the brutal ‘help’ of the armed conflict,
into legitimate political agency. The state is still coming to terms with this
development, and many of the contradictions and disparities to be found in peasant-
state relations today lie at the heart of the struggle over peasant citizenship.
The issue of citizenship during the armed conflict and in the process of
reconstruction is relevant because of the political and dynamic character of the
process(es) involved. Reconstruction in a post-conflict situation is more than the re-
building of infrastructure: it is mainly about re-organizing, re-constructing, and re-
creating social relations and livelihoods that may or may not resemble those existing
prior to the conflict. In the Peruvian case, the state and its allies could declare a clear
military and political victory over the guerrillas. This victory involved a number of
struggles, alliances and compromises during the conflict among the various actors
which are constantly brought forward in the reconstruction period, for different
purposes and to meet different agendas. It is in this dynamic scenario of social
practices that citizenship can be approached. When peasants deal with public
development agencies, approach public officials, get involved in local government and
politics, or engage in claim-making and contestation – in all these instances we
observe citizenship in practice, citizenship as practice, because these practices are
based on a relationship between citizen(s) and state. The following questions have
been identified to serve as guidelines for research:

• What was the socio-political and economic context of the district of Tambo prior to
the outbreak of armed conflict?
• What were the first experiences of armed conflict in the district of Tambo, and
what were its consequences?
• How did the peasant population in Tambo respond to the conflict in the 1980s?
• What were the processes leading to the end of the armed conflict, and how did
peasants in Tambo participate in this?
• What were the premises for peasant-state relations in the reconstruction period?
How had these changed from the time before the conflict?

5
• What do peasants and the state understand by reconstruction?
• How to understand peasant political participation and local politics in the
reconstruction period?
• How to explain the construction of citizenship among peasants in post-conflict
Peru?
• How is peasant citizenship being practiced in the reconstruction period?

On broad terms, the above research questions identify the issues to be discussed in the
various chapters of the dissertation. Most of the data upon which this dissertation
builds was collected personally during fieldwork in Tambo in the periods January –
August 1999 and December 2003 – January 2004, through individual and group
interviews, as well as participant observation and active participation.2 I hope to
demonstrate how the armed conflict reinforced the presence of the state in the
Peruvian countryside, through both coercive and participatory practices. The
substantive role of peasants in winning the war against the Shining Path and the
peasant-military alliance were the mediating processes for the construction of peasant
citizenship in rural Peru. Now that the conflict is over and peace is taken for granted,
peasant citizens are easily ignored by those in power. The problem is however, that to
be a citizen is like riding a bicycle: once you can do it, you never forget. Similarly,
once you are a citizen, that is, once you have exercised political agency, you cannot be
as before, because now ‘you know’. Or as Sayer (1994:376) says, “once peasants have
been mobilized for political purposes they acquire a habit of refusing to disappear
from the stage.”3
In my opinion, indifference towards citizenship rights and obligations of the
peasant population in areas previously affected by the armed conflict could bring quite
unexpected and serious consequences; these implications do not permeate Peruvian
politics today, at least not in a noticeable manner. My aim with this dissertation is thus
to contribute to the understanding of the relevance and complexity of peasant
citizenship in the construction of Peru as a nation-state.

2
Methodological considerations are discussed at length in Chapter Three.
3
The quotation refers to a case study from Yucatán, Mexico written by Gilbert Joseph (1994).

6
A DOCTORAL PROJECT OVER TIME
As with most doctoral projects, this project has undergone a number of changes to its
initial form. In my case, this is partly due to understanding and experience that I
gained during fieldwork in Peru in 1999, but also a result of an unexpected course of
events on the family front, as well as in Peruvian socio-political life. Here I would like
to account for the development of this doctoral project over time.
The entry point for my research has been a particular type of peasant
organization, the Comités de Defensa Civil (Civil Defense Committees - CDCs;
renamed to Comités de Autodefensa or Self-Defense Committees – CADs, in 1991),
which were initially organized in 1983 in the south-central Andes, either
spontaneously by peasants themselves or enforced by the Peruvian army, for the
purpose of combating the Shining Path. During the violence, the CDCs were the only
form of peasant organization left in the countryside, as traditional community
organizations and other local authorities dwindled under the pressures of the armed
conflict.
In 1994-95 I had studied the rondas campesinas of northern Peru, a local
peasant organization that originated as a response to the indifference of the state in a
context of crime and violence that threatened peasant livelihoods. Starting with night
patrols, it developed to include functions of local government, justice administration
and security enforcement over the years, and today it is widely spread and deeply
rooted in northern Peru (García-Godos 1996). Among the rondas, the practice and
conceptualization of citizenship was closely related to the rondero identity: it was
only through participation, considered to be both a duty and a right, that a peasant
becomes rondero, and by doing so, he/she becomes a citizen. In that study, I
concluded that the content of citizenship embedded in the rondero identity was at the
heart of the conflict between the rondas and the Peruvian nation-state, still trying to
come to terms with the idea that Peruvian peasants do also have the right – and duty –
to be Peruvian citizens. During fieldwork there in 1994, I observed how much
resistance there was among the rondas campesinas to being equated to the CDCs and
regulated by the same body of legislation. The idea that the CDCs were “completely
controlled” by the military was widespread among grassroots and academic circles,
and the CDCs were approached with mistrust (SER 1993; Starn 1993).4 I became

4
Following the legalization of CADs in 1991, a decree was passed calling for the integration of rondas
campesinas into the CAD legislation. This caused heated debates among practitioners and activists,

7
intrigued about the citizenship outcome among the CDCs, given their allegedly
imposed origin and subordination to the military. What kind of relationship between
peasant and state was being developed in the context of armed conflict?
My original intention when designing the doctoral project was to follow the
development of the CDCs in a given district (Tambo was identified later) throughout
the armed conflict focusing on their relationship to the state. I assumed that CDCs
were present only in resistant communities (communities that were not displaced,
those who stayed), and that the process of displacement had left the countryside with
clearly identifiable groups of ‘displaced’ (and therefore, not present, not there) and
‘resistant’ populations. However, reality was not as clear-cut as I had envisioned.
For one thing, displacement had indeed taken place, but it did not
automatically involve faraway destinations such as regional or national capitals.
Peasant families (either individually or collectively) had moved to neighboring
peasant communities where security was more effective, and those displaced also
participated in practices of self-defense in their host communities. Furthermore, with
the pacification and reconstruction period, the CDCs (now called CADs) lost their
starring role in rural society and became an actor among many others in a complicated
local political scene, where links to regional and national networks of power are
common. Through the CADs, or rather, from them, a broad picture of local politics
and state-society relations opened up for me. I opted to explore the ‘corridors’ of these
networks, discovering the many points of convergence between the local and the
national, between democratic and clientelistic practices, and between citizenship and
exclusion.
The 1990s had been the decade of President Fujimori. Quite unexpectedly, the
year 2000 brought the abrupt and muddled end to Fujimori’s regime. In the Peruvian
countryside in particular, Fujimori had been perceived as a hero for winning the fight
against Shining Path, and the authoritarian character of his rule was considered as a
minor price to pay for peace. During Peru’s presidential elections in April 2000,
Fujimori received ample support from rural populations across the country, including
those areas that have benefited the most from the government’s social expenditure in

who saw the new decree as a limitation to the autonomy of the ronda organization (see for example
SER (1993). Comparisons between the rondas campesinas of northern Peru, and the the CDCs of the
southern-central highlands used to be highly critical of the CDCs. For one of the first systematic,
although highly biased, comparative analysis see Burneo and Eyde (1986). Starn (1993) illustrates well
the different views on peasant self-defense among representatives of northern RRCC and southern
CDCs.

8
the reconstruction program for areas affected by violence. Confronted with electoral
fraud, alleged charges of drug-trafficking and proven (video recorded) charges of
corruption and bribery, Fujimori and his associates abandoned the government and the
country in October 2000. Overnight the former leader had turned into a criminal
wanted for trial. The networks and institutions that had based their power in their
association with Fujimori were left on their own to face a realignment of forces under
a new transitional government first, and later under the newly elected government of
President Toledo in 2001. In the new context, former political alliances with the
regime became uncomfortable facts for some, while the remnants of Fujimorismo left
in most government agencies posed a great challenge for all sectors of society.
A reorientation of social programs for reconstruction areas, legislative
proposals for victims of the armed conflict, the establishment of a Truth &
Reconciliation Commission, and land titling programs are among the most relevant
changes that occurred in the social and human rights sectors in Peru at the time.
Previously existing programs established under Fujimori were redefined in more
democratic and transparent terms, while new programs were established to redirect the
reconstruction process in the countryside. Furthermore, the new political environment
opened up spaces – both institutional and informal – for public debate about the
internal armed conflict, in an attempt to re-appropriate, reconstruct and integrate this
dramatic experience into national history. The Final Report of the Truth and
Reconciliation Commission is the prime example of the new era.
The fall of the Fujimori regime did not by itself have to make an impact on the
development of this doctoral project had it not been for changes also on the family
front. The arrival of our two sons in 2001 and 2002 meant a halt to the project that
lasted for almost 2,5 years while on maternity leave in Norway. Back at work in May
2003, I realized that the socio-political changes that I briefly mentioned above had had
the time to settle, new policies and initiatives had been implemented, and in many
instances, they linked naturally with the data collected in 1999. Some of the links were
so strong that I could visualize them shouting in my face to get the attention they
deserve. After an overwhelming period of necessary updating on Peruvian politics and
processes, I could see my original data in a new light, setting the reconstruction period
in perspective. This is why I reoriented my focus towards peasant political
participation in the reconstruction process, thus moving beyond my original interest in
the CDCs during guerrilla war.

9
ANDEAN STUDIES
Work on this dissertation has been strongly influenced by academic debates within the
sub-field of Andean studies, an area of study where the disciplines of history and
anthropology have been most prominent. Area studies focus on specific geographical
or cultural regions of the world, and it can be argued that the knowledge produced in
that framework is the combined result of historical and cultural specificity (real and/or
constructed), intellectual currents within individual disciplines, and the dominant
ideologies and debates of the society under study (García-Godos 1998). State-society
relations, in their various forms, have been the source of intense and sometimes heated
debates within Andean studies, particularly with regard to issues of nation-building,
ethnicity and peasant resistance. In this section, I provide a brief introduction to those
debates within Andean studies (particularly historical research) that inform my
outlook and approach to the issue of peasant citizenship in Peru. The theoretical
framework for the dissertation is developed in Chapter Two.
In 1991 cultural anthropologist Orin Starn introduced the concept of
andeanism in an attempt to come to grips with the armed conflict in Peru. As for most
other anthropologists and Andean specialists during the 1980s, the violent uprising of
the Maoist party the Shining Path took Starn by surprise. How was it possible, he
asked, that the main experts on life in the Andes, the ones with scientific authority and
first-hand fieldwork experience, “could miss the revolution” (Starn 1991)? His answer
to this question was provocative and controversial, but brought to light the features,
strengths and limits of andeanism, the defining tradition of representation in Andean
studies.
According to Starn, “andeanism refers to representations that portray
contemporary highland peasants as outside the flow of modern history.” (1991:64)
Similar to Orientalism, Andeanism dichotomizes between the Occidental, coastal,
urban and mestizo, and the non-western, highland, rural and indigenous, which is
essentialized as lo andino, the Andean. Accordingly, the core of the Andean tradition
is presented as timeless, grounded in the pre-colonial heritage. Contemporary peasants
are then characterized as indigenous, autochthonous, native and Indian as opposed to
mestizo and creoles (criollos). The essentialization or reification of this dichotomy led
observers to see the two components in isolation, as if the two groups lived in separate
cultural worlds. In as much as ‘Andean communities’ were studied in relation to the
‘outside world’, they were viewed as in continuous struggle to defend their traditional

10
way of life from the threat of modernity. In this context, Andean culture has been
represented

“…as a normative order based on ecological harmony, organic reproduction

and forms of consensual and ritual community inherited from the pre-
Columbian or colonial past. The corporative or collective homogeneity
frequently ascribed to such constructions of culture and culturally determined
behavior (including resistance) has the effect of identifying ‘Andean culture’
with certain forms of community organization and linguistic affiliation - and
hence, with a specific ethnic group and social class: the Quechua or Aymara-
speaking, community-based Andean peasantry.” (Poole 1995:6)

Since the essential Andean was/is perceived to be ‘Indian’, ethnicity became a

defining category of identity in Andean studies. The andeanist discourse essentialized
and reified the cultural and racial characteristics supposedly separating indigenous and
mestizo populations and cultures. This led researchers to ignore the flexible and often
ambivalent character of identity formation among the peoples of the Andes. As people
in Peru, Bolivia and Ecuador know from experience “Indian, cholo, and mestizo were
not discrete categories, but partly overlapping positions on a continuum.” (Starn
1991:70)
Along with other intellectual currents active within individual disciplines,
Andeanism has played (and still does) an important role in the production of
knowledge about the Andes. Developments within history as a discipline are
particularly relevant for this dissertation. Andean historical research actively
integrated the ethnic question in the study of peasant consciousness and resistance.
Based on a definition of ethnicity as “cultural and physical attributes to draw social
boundaries that place people into distinctive groupings within the larger world of
social interaction” (Stern 1987:15), Andean historians long believed that ethnicity
necessarily mediated the grievances and aspirations involved in peasant resistance.
Ethnicity has been fundamental in the study of the Andean region, where large sectors
of the population are of Quechua or Aymara origins (Salomon 1982). In their analysis,
historians (erroneously) tended to associate resistance with ethnic membership. It is
perhaps here that the influence of Andeanism becomes most visible. As (Poole 1995)
indicates, the a priori association of ethnicity and practices of resistance reproduces

11
the Andeanist dichotomy or polarization of indigenous and non-indigenous (mestizos)
in a social reality where boundaries are flexible and ambivalent. Although some
claims and mobilization do occur on the basis of ethnic revival (Albó 1987), ethnicity
cannot be proclaimed as the banner of mobilization across the Andes today. Neither is
resistance an exclusive undertaking of defined ethnic groups.
Historical research itself has documented a number of cases where political
mobilization and protest has combined members of different ethnic backgrounds.
Immersed as they were in documenting ethnic resistance against the homogenizing
efforts of the nation-state, Andean historians underestimated the effect of the nation-
building process and the receptiveness of peasant populations towards this. Through
the reification of ethnic-based resistance, historians ignored their own
acknowledgement of peasants as political actors able to make sense of and utilize
political discourses and opportunities. Peasant resistance was then polarized with an
essentialist view of national interventions as destructive or corrosive to pure and
traditional Andean societies. However, the discourses of development and citizenship
so much employed in the continuous nation-building project in the Andes region,
particularly in Peru, is much more inscribed in rural society than historians and
anthropologists would like it to be.
In a comparative study of Mexico and Peru, Mallón (1995) argues that the
universal promise of the national-democratic project had intense mobilizing effects on
rural subaltern classes.5 Andean peasants were not indifferent to the promises of
formal democracy and social reform; instead, they were capable of appropriating and
using the categories and tools offered by the official discourse in framing and voicing
their demands. That Andean ‘Indians’ formulate claims in terms of citizenship and
political rights, and not in terms of ethnic membership may seem to be a contradiction
in terms for Andeanist historians. However, the deconstruction of essentialist views on
peasant resistance is necessary in order to see the processes of contestation and
negotiation that have shaped Andean societies up to this day.
According to Larson (1995), the early 1980s found Andean studies confronted
with an implicit paradox: while anthropology could document the continuity and
capacity of traditional Andean institutions and norms to shield themselves from
pressing capitalism, historians pointed to the destructive impact of the colonial and

5
This will be discussed in more detailed in Chapter Two.

12
modern market economies and the need for continuous forms of resistance. In other
words, while anthropologists told us that the Andean institutions of reciprocity were
still being practiced and protected, history could document the destruction of the same
institutions based on the expansion or integration of Andean peoples in the market
economy (Larson 1995).
This perceived paradox was the result of parallel lines of research that until
then had limited contact with each other. This started to change in 1980s, when both
anthropologists and historians pushed against the frontiers of their own disciplines and
earlier formulations (Assadourian 1982; Salomon 1982, 1985; Stern 1982). Larson
(1995) suggests that this was achieved in two fundamental ways. Firstly, by becoming
more attentive to the possibilities of social agency, while keeping in mind the
constraints of structure. This produced innovative results in history, particularly
regarding issues of peasant rebellion and resistance (ref. discussion above). Secondly,
the focus on social agency and experience called for the need to historicize the
concepts of culture and community. These efforts have punctured some of the myths
surrounding lo andino. As a result, local rural communities are now perceived as
historical constructs and the centre of cultural struggle and change. This revisionism
has also extended to issues of Andean market participation and exchange, and today it
is widely accepted that principles and practices of reciprocity can very well co-exist
with market relations.
Does this mean that Andeanism has once and for all been displaced from
Andean studies? A review of the most recent literature would indicate that Andeanism
can still be considered as the dominant tradition of representation, although not in the
polarized and categorical manner of former times. Not only is this the result of
advances achieved throughout the 1980s and the post-structuralist and post-modernist
critique (see below), but also because the research agenda in Andean studies in the
1990s has changed along with political processes in the Andean region. As mentioned
earlier, the violent Maoist insurgency in Peru in the 1980s came unexpectedly for
social scientists, not to mention Peruvians themselves. But why did this come as a
surprise? There are many elements at work here, and I can only mention a few.
First of all, Andeanism had been effective in creating and reproducing an
image of the Andes as the land of peaceful ancient traditions where bonds of
reciprocity perpetuated pre-colonial structures. If violence and power was to be
included in the picture, it was seen as the result of altered forms of capitalist

13
expansion threatening peasant communities otherwise resistant to change. The
violence that was unleashed in the Peruvian countryside in the early 1980s awakened
similar racial prejudices among Peruvians as the ones experienced following the Age
of Insurrection in the XVIII century, with one modification: the public debate no
longer used ethnic-based terms, instead, the debate was about campesinos (peasants),
senderistas (the Shining Path guerrillas), Peruvians, and citizens. Initially, it was
thought that the Shining Path was a peasant uprising, and it was even celebrated by
some scholars.6 This revived prejudices against peasants, who were perceived as
brutish, ignorant and violent people that threatened the civilized national society.
Later, it came to light that the guerrillas had a low-middle class urban base. This
information was important for differentiating between the guerrillas/cadres and
peasant populations, particularly as it became obvious that peasant communities and
their institutions were being targeted by both the Shining Path and the armed forces
(Degregori 1996).

POST-MODERN CRITIQUE
A number of issues raised in the above discussion of Andean studies resonate with
those originating in the post-modern critique. Without attempting a full discussion of
postmodernism (which is outside the scope of this dissertation), I wish to discuss in
this section those aspects of the post-modern debate which have influenced the
outlook and the approach taken in this dissertation.
Postmodernism as a perspective grew as a critique of 19th century
Enlightenment, which lies at the base of the modern belief in rationality, reason,
universals, science and the positivist scientific method (Creswell 1998).
Postmodernism challenges grand-narratives and totalizing perspectives on history and
society, arguing that one cannot tell large stories about the world, but only small
stories from heterogeneous subject positions of individual and plural social groups
(Agger 1991). Grand-narratives not only tell a totalizing version of history, but also
give the version of those in power, hiding all other possible versions from sight,
usually from those in subaltern positions. Totalizations hide contradictions,
ambiguities, and oppositions, and are thus means for generating power and control
(Bloland 1995). The implication of this first assumption for postmodern social theory

6
For a critique of such works, see Poole and Rénique (1991).

14
is a call against reductionism and for pluralism. It is thus important to recognize how
different experiences of the world are framed by the discourses and practices
constituting the experience of being (a given subject) at a given historical moment.
Social science becomes then an account of social experience from the multiple
perspectives (class, race, gender, etc) of discourse and practice (Agger 1991).
The relationship between power and knowledge is at the heart of postmodern
perspectives. Postmodernism rejects the possibility of neutral, objective knowledge,
because knowledge is constructed and immersed in power relations. Knowledge must
be traced to the different discourses and practices that frame knowledge production,
because both knowledge and practice are historically constituted. The
power/knowledge relationship is embedded in discourses, which as political and
intellectual processes become the arenas for the struggle over power and meaning. A
discourse establishes the terms through which reality and action will be perceived and
conceptualized, thus its importance in understanding power relations. According to
(Foucault 1980), “power should be analyzed as something that circulates or operates
like a chain… it is used and exercised through a network-like organization”, and
cannot be tied up to a single institution (not even the state). Instead, power is a
pervasive dimension of everyday social interaction which manifests, reproduces and
transforms itself in the practices of everyday life. The question to be asked then is not
“who has power?”, but rather, “what are the consequences of applying power?”.
Foucault was interested in power in terms of its results, at the point where it is
applied; this is why he was interested “in the micro-level, in the micro-politics of
power, politics at the margin” (Bloland 1995). Another important aspect of Foucault’s
concept of power is its dialectical dimension, that is, its capacity to enable and disable
social relations; “power must be seen in its productive as well as repressive
dimensions.” (Nugent 1994:358)
How does postmodernism influence this dissertation? The post-modern
critique can be observed first of all in the development of my theoretical approach in
Chapter Two. The various theoretical perspectives discussed there share a
conceptualization of power as a network, in a dialectical and relational manner.
Therefore, I do not treat power as something that the actor may or may not ‘have’, but
as a relationship between different actors with different positions in a network of
[power] relations. In the case of peasant-state relations, the pervasiveness of power

15
implies the presence of power relations in all forms of interaction, including the
relation referred to as “citizenship”.
Secondly, there is a post-modern influence in the choice of level for this study,
the micro-level. The armed conflict and reconstruction process in Peru is being
approached from the point of view of peasant citizens, and emphasis is given to the
micro-politics of power7, by which we will be able to see the dynamics of local and
national politics in a period where the history of the armed conflict, with its winners
and losers, is being (re)defined and contested.
Finally, the role assigned to discourse here has a clear post-modern influence.
Towards the end of the armed conflict, a discourse of inclusion emerged from within
the state aiming to legitimize the peasant-state alliance that would eventually lead to
the military and political victory over Shining Path. Later on, this discourse was to
provide the base for the formulation of the discourse of reconstruction, which brought
together the aspirations of the peasant population and the state’s need to consolidate
its presence in the countryside into a vision of the type of society that was to be “re-
constructed”. I will argue that the discourse of reconstruction was tightly linked to a
discourse of development which fitted an authoritarian, neo-liberal system of power
relations. In this battle over discourse and meaning, it was important to appropriate the
history and victory of the armed conflict, both for the state and for peasant citizens.
Discursive practices could then be used strategically for a variety of purposes and
agendas,.8

The armed conflict in Peru broke down the idea of harmony, tradition and continuity
in the Andes. The experiences of the 1980s called for the inclusion of perspectives on
power, politics and violence into the agenda of Andean studies, which has been
developed since the 1990s9. This dissertation has been inspired by these debates, and
has benefited from their insights, thus making my approach to peasant citizenship a
relational and contextualized one, as well as post-modern. It is relational, because the
analysis focuses on formal and informal power relationships and the networks formed
7
This does not however, stop us from following the chain of power relations upwards. On the contrary,
the interaction between different levels is necessary to understand the dynamic and the logic of this
particular network of power relations.
8
Chapters Seven to Ten include, among other things, discursive practices of the reconstruction process,
and how these reflect struggle over power and meaning.
9
See for example Smith 1989; Larson & Harris 1995; Mallón 1995; Seligman 1995; Degregori et. al.
1996; Poole 1995, 1997, Howard-Malverde 1997; Paerregaard 1997; Nugent 1994, 1995, 1997;
Thurner 1997; Méndez, 2001; Starn 1999; De la Cadena 2000.

16
by different social/political actors, not only at the local level, but on different scales:
local, regional, and national. The approach is contextualized because the analysis
takes seriously the historical and geographical context in which power relations and
processes occur, seen in an interactive, relational manner. Finally, it has a post-
modern influence, in its awareness of the constructed character of history, practice and
discourse, as well as the relationship between power and discourse. The dissertation
thus addresses and engages in current debates in Andean studies, whilst being aware
of the origins and limitations of its defining tradition of representation. My aim is to
give a nuanced picture of peasant-state relations during and after the armed conflict in
Peru, with a focus on agency and interaction, and I believe that a critical approach to
Andeanism is a good starting point.

STRUCTURE OF THE DISSERTATION

This dissertation is organized in twelve chapters. After the introduction, Chapters
Two, Three and Four present the conceptual and methodological framework of the
research project as well as the geographical and historical background of the district of
Tambo. These chapters introduce a number of issues that will continue to be discussed
throughout the dissertation. Chapters Five to Seven deal with the various phases of the
internal armed conflict in the district of Tambo, and the changing character of peasant-
state relations during the conflict; the chapters are presented in a chronological
manner. Chapter Five deals with the emergence of violence in the early 1980s and the
process of displacement. Chapter Six addresses the issue of peasant organization and
self-defense in Tambo since 1985, focusing mainly on local practices of self-defense.
Chapter Seven continues this discussion but in relation to changes in the national
counter-subversive strategy and the emergence of a peasant-state alliance in the early
1990s, which sat the framework for the reconstruction period to follow. Chapters
Eight to Eleven are based on contemporary data collected during fieldwork in Tambo
in 1999. Each of the chapters constitutes an aspect (obviously not exhaustive) of
peasant-state relations in the reconstruction period. Chapter Eight addresses the issue
of reconstruction as social policy, as it developed during the reconstruction period
proper, after 1993. Here, peasant citizenship is linked to the discourse and practices of
reconstruction and development. Chapter Nine approaches the issue of peasant
citizenship through a claim-making process: the case of compensation rights for
peasant ronderos casualties. The case clearly illustrates how Tambo peasants

17
conceptualize and legitimate peasant citizenship. Chapter Ten discusses citizenship in
the arena of local politics, where peasant organizations played an interesting role in
municipal elections in 1999. Chapter Eleven takes up the discussion of an earlier
chapter, and links peasant citizenship to the work by the Truth and Reconciliation
Commission, particularly its reparations proposal. The focus is on the implications of
various forms of recognition for the historical interpretation of the armed conflict and
peasants’ role in it. The final chapter, Chapter Twelve, reflects on the implications that
this study of peasant-state relations has for the study of armed conflict, displacement,
post-conflict reconstruction, and citizenship among subaltern groups.

18
Chapter 2

A RELATIONAL APPROACH TO PEASANT CITIZENSHIP

Every Sunday morning, at around 9 a.m., the main plaza of Tambo becomes the site of
the weekly “raising of the flag” ceremony, an act difficult for the locals to ignore since
the municipality’s loud speakers spread appeals and music suited to the event. The
ceremony does not take long, yet it is indicative of which social actors constitute local
society. Here we have the head of the national police, representing the armed forces;
the municipal Mayor, representing local government or civil authorities; the head of a
local institution (such a school or hospital), representing civil society; often also the
priest, representing the Catholic church; and last but not least, the head of the Self-
Defense Committees (CAD), representing the peasant population. Similarly, in the
regional capital Ayacucho, most public events and festivities connected to Peru as a
nation are celebrated with the participation of the CADs, either represented by the
leadership alone or by groups of peasant ronderos” as well. Today it has become
common to see colorful peasant delegations with traditional dress marching around
the central plaza alongside military soldiers, policemen, authorities, professional
associations, students and other groups in honor of the particular occasion10.
While the raising of the flag ceremony and public parades probably date from
the beginning of the Peruvian republic in the 18th century, the inclusion of peasant
representatives in these events in rural Peru became widespread practice first in the
early 1990s. The inclusion of the organized peasantry in ceremonies of allegiance to
the nation-state is a highly symbolic act, enjoying as it were the good company of
political and military authorities. Far from providing us with a conclusion, the
symbolic value of this inclusion invites further analysis, raising a number of
interesting questions. Why is it so that peasants started to participate or be included in
such symbolic events? And why, of all times, did this start to happen in the final
period of the armed conflict with the Shining Path? What is the meaning of this
symbolic participation: is it only rhetoric or does it expresses social relations that are
different from before the conflict? In a context of armed conflict where the state

10
The raising of the flag ceremony across Peru has been commented on by various scholars; see
Stepputat 2004, Starn 1998, Theidon 2001 among others.

19
reinforces its dominance through repressive and coercive practices, common sense
would tell us that the population being subject to such repression had every reason to
oppose the state. The coercive presence of the state would thus be a hindrance to the
development of citizenship, understood here as both meaning and practice (more
below), for it does not make any sense wanting to be citizen of a state that explicitly
suspects you – the citizen – of opposing it. Furthermore, what difference does it make
to have citizenship rights when these rights not only cannot be practiced, but are
effectively being violated by the same state that is supposed to guarantee them?
The aim of this chapter is to provide a theoretical framework to understand
peasant-state relations in a context of internal armed conflict and post-conflict
reconstruction. As we shall see in the coming chapters, the relationship between the
Peruvian state and a large portion of its citizens, Andean peasants, is a very complex
one. This relationship can be assertive and ambivalent, inclusive and exclusive,
permissive and authoritarian, all at the same time. The framework presented here –
referred to as a “relational approach to peasant-state relations” – is born from those
debates within Andean studies that made a critical effort to introduce politics, power
and agency into the analysis of Andean culture and communities. The approach builds
upon four elements: “a political history from below” that explains the link between
local politics and state formation processes; the contextualization of social relations
through a relational setting; a non-oppositional and dialectical approach to the state,
and the recognition of the empowering potential of normative law. Together, these
elements form the basis for a discussion of citizenship “as a historically contingent,
interactive vehicle of articulation, conflict and dialogue” (Mische 1996), seeking to
understand peasant citizenship in a context of armed conflict and reconstruction.

POLITICAL HISTORY FROM BELOW

In her book Peasant and Nation: The Making of Post-Colonial Mexico and Peru
(Mallon 1995), historian Florencia Mallon makes a thorough historical analysis of
popular political cultures in Mexico and Peru in the context of nation-building in the
second half of the eighteenth century. This was a period of great political activity and
mobilization in both countries, when the liberal democracies accomplished in the first
part of the century were being consolidated and confronted with the challenge of
foreign military invasions by French and Chilean armies in Mexico and Peru

20
respectively11. Mallon is intrigued by the accumulating body of evidence concerning
the active participation of peasant populations in nation-state formation in Latin
America, such as the peasant national guards in Mexico, and the montoneras peasant
resistance against the Chilean army in Peru. As a subaltern group, peasants are not
accounted for in mainstream theories of nationalism. Such theories relate to the
development of nationalism as a bourgeois ideology with the spread of capitalism.
Accordingly, the driving force behind nationalist ideologies is the bourgeoisie, defined
as a coherent social actor (or rather, a social class), with the aim of legitimizing the
process of capitalist expansion and the inequality reinforced thereby. It follows that in
societies where capitalist forms of production are limited or non-existent, a nationalist
ideology cannot be developed because of the absence of a bourgeois class. Subaltern
groups, such as peasants, were not considered a viable source of nationalist ideology
because their links to localisms and regional power networks were stronger and
isolated them from the larger vision of the nation (Bonilla 1978).
Is it really so, Mallon asks, that subaltern groups cannot develop nationalist
ideologies? Or is it rather that the dominant conceptualization of nationalism does not
allow the possibility of alternative visions of the nation? Arguing for a
conceptualization of nationalism as analytically separate from the politics of the
triumphant nation-state, Mallon opts to see nationalism as “a broad vision for
organizing society, a project of collective identity based on the premise of citizenship
– available to all, with individual membership beginning from the assumption of legal
equality” (1995:4). The making of the nation does not refer then to a single “nation-
building project” but rather to an arena for contestation and negotiation between many
projects, discourses and visions of the nation, intimately related to the regional
histories of power relations. In the case of Peru, Mallon concludes that the official
historiography of the nation-building process itself is the source of limited
understandings and accounts of peasant participation. However, far from simply
celebrating the political participation of the subaltern, she is aware that this
participation, in spite of all the struggle and negotiation involved, has not led peasant
populations to be part of the coalitions of power controlling the state. She meets this

11
I will not go into detail about the historical evidence presented by Mallon, but focus on the issues she
raises about nation-building, hegemony and popular political practices. The literature on Mexican
history for the same period is abundant; see among others Brading (1980), Bartra (1987), Guardino,
(1996), Knight (1986), Gilbert and Nugent (1994). For Peruvian history, see among others, Bonilla
(1978), Burga and Galindo (1981), Mallon (1983), Manrique (1987), Nugent (1997), Thurner (1997).

21
challenge by de-centering the analysis of peasant political participation on several
fronts: theories of nationalism based on the bourgeois and Western exceptionalism,
the historical process, and the concepts of politics and the state. I discuss these in turn.
To de-center nationalism Mallon emphasizes the act of ‘imagining’ involved in
Anderson’s conceptualization of the nation as an ‘imagined community’ (Anderson
1983). Imagining the nation involves processes of cultural, political and intellectual
construction. Nationalism can therefore be seen as a form of discourse, that is, “the
combination of intellectual and political practices that makes sense of events, objects,
and relationships”, that at least in theory, is open and possible for any one, not only
the bourgeoisie. A definition of discourse as both a political and an intellectual
process is based on the premise that struggles over power and meaning are closely
interrelated, and that in spite of different access to power and knowledge, people
struggle to construct their visions and tell their stories. “Thus, the contingency and
creativity of human imagining is conditioned by preexisting inequalities as well as
previous patterns of discursive practice” (Mallon 1995:5-6). In other words, imagining
the nation is not an act that solely belongs to the powerful, but can and is undertaken
by subaltern groups as well.
Power, in this context, is a dimension of social interaction, which manifests,
reproduces and transforms itself in the practices of everyday life (Foucault 1980; Fals
Borda 1992). The struggle over power and meaning can then take place at any level or
location in society, and its ongoing nature means a constant redefinition of the balance
of forces and arenas of contestation. This struggle can also be understood in the
framework of hegemony as both a process and an outcome. As a process, hegemony
can be defined as “a set of nested, continuous processes through which power and
meaning are contested, legitimated and redefined at all levels of society … [thus it]
can and does exist at all times” (Mallon 1995:6). As an outcome, hegemony is the
result of hegemonic processes. In other words: as a process hegemony allows us to see
politics as an arena of contestation, while particular forms of political domination or
arrangements can be seen as hegemonic outcomes. Hegemonic rule (itself a
hegemonic outcome), implies the emergence of a common social and moral project
that includes both elite and popular notions of political culture, whereby rule can be
exerted by a combination of coercion and consent. A hegemonic rule implies an
imagined community of the nation.

22
 The relationship between discourse and hegemony in this alternative view of
nationalism is better expressed by Roseberry (1994), who suggests using the concept
of hegemony not to explain consent but to understand struggle. Indeed, he argues that
“to the extent that a dominant order establishes […] prescribed forms for expressing
both acceptance and discontent, it has established a common discursive framework.”
(ibid., p. 364) A common discursive framework is then a way of talking about social
relationships. By focusing on the construction of common discursive frameworks, we
can approach power and the fragility of a particular order of domination.
To de-center the historical process, Mallon explores the link between
democracy, nationalism, and colonialism. As it is widely accepted today, the
development of nationalism in Western Europe ran parallel not only to the growth of
capitalism, but also to democratic practices of the nation-state, expressed in the
expansion of citizenship rights (Marshall 1964; Rueschemeyer, Stephens et al. 1992).
Mallon is not only critical to “the European creation of the democratic revolution”, but
moves beyond, suggesting that the ideas of freedom and nation in the Western
imagined communities are related to their opposites of slavery and colony in the New
World. It is in the context of colonialism that the contradictory universality of
capitalist, nationalist and democratic discourses can be better observed:

“From the very beginning, the historical combination of democracy and

nationalism with colonialism created a basic contradiction within national-
democratic discourse. On the one hand, the universal promise of the discourse
identified the potential autonomy, dignity, and equality of all peoples, and
people, in the world. In practice, on the other hand, entire groups of people
were barred from access to citizenship and liberty according to Eurocentric,
class-, and gender-exclusionary criteria.” (Mallon 1995:9)

This fundamental contradiction between the promise and the practices of democracy
and nationalism was the source of struggle over power and meaning in the new Latin
American republics of the eighteenth century – an assessment I would suggest is
equally valid today. Peasants and Nation documents exactly that: how Mexican and
Peruvian peasants embraced the nationalist-democratic discourse in an attempt to
create their own visions of an egalitarian society. These struggles illustrate specific
hegemonic processes, where the state and subaltern groups are part of the struggle,

23
although not the only actors. In this context, the state is conceived more as a network
of power relations than a bureaucratic apparatus: “a series of decentralized sites of
struggle through which hegemony is both contested and reproduced” (Mallon
1995:10). This fluid and somehow open notion of the state allows the permeability of
its many “sites” by other social actors, including subaltern groups. Since “the state can
only operate on the basis of other, already existing power relations” (Foucault 1980), a
pact of domination is established as a network of interlocking power structures, such
as gender, class relations, and ethnicity.
To de-center politics and the state, Mallon opts to focus on subaltern groups,
those social actors outside a position of rule in a pact of domination. In the particular
case of Peasant and Nation, these groups include the peasantry and rural populations
in Mexico and Peru. In the political struggle, subaltern groups are considered to be
conscious political actors capable of exerting agency on their own, and not only as a
reaction to external impulses. The dynamic character of Mallon’s approach applies
also to subaltern groups. Subaltern identities are neither homogeneous nor a priori
determined by subject positions, but rather “constructed historically and politically, in
struggle and discourse” (Mallon 1994), both in regards to external actors as well as
among the subaltern themselves. It is through the study or deconstruction of subaltern
identities and popular political cultures that we can understand their manifestations,
alliances and confrontations in local, regional, national and even international power
relations. Popular culture refers to the symbols and meanings embedded in the day-to-
day practices of subordinated groups, a notion that includes much more than
expressive cultural forms and mass culture (Joseph and Nugent 1994). Popular
cultures are socially constructed, and produced in a dialectical relation to hegemonic
processes, in continuous struggle. Seen in this way, the construction of political
systems is less a question of the bourgeoisie or a leading party guiding ‘the nation’,
and more an empirical and historical question that calls for an exploration of political
history from below. Such a historical inquiry departs from a fundamental question:
“What mobilizing effect does the universal promise of a national-democratic project
have on different subaltern groups within a particular society or social formation?”
(Mallon 1995:14). Mallon argues that the national democratic project12 had intense

12
The national democratic project should be seen as a vision of the nation, the ideal society citizens
ought to build. In the context of republican independence in the early XIX century, this project involved
not only a discourse, but an entire set of political and legislative changes inspired by liberal ideas of

24
mobilizing effects of rural subaltern classes and that the presence of military conflict
(with a foreign army) deepened these effects. Indeed, peasant populations were active
participants in the political and military processes taking place at the time. Mexican
national guards and Peruvian montoneras were irregular forces which created a
sociopolitical space where discourses, structures and agency interconnected local
arenas with the national state, particularly the army. Once peace was achieved, the
inherent contradictions between alternative national democratic projects and existing
pacts of domination came more to the fore, and previous alliances were broken and
redefined. It is only by conceiving the hegemonic process and the production of
common discursive frameworks (or discourses) as ‘projects’ rather than
‘achievements’ that we can reach a better understanding of ““popular [political]
culture” and “state-formation” in relation to each other.” (Roseberry 1994:364)
It is at this point that Mallon’s analysis becomes highly relevant for this study
of the armed conflict and reconstruction periods in Peru: Is it possible that the alliance
between peasants and state to confront a common enemy, the Shining Path guerrillas,
was mediated by the mobilizing effects of a national project? And if so, what was the
content of this project(s) for the actors involved? I believe these are highly valid
questions, particularly in light of the fact that the state attempted to live up to the
promises made in the alliance, at least in the period immediate after the conflict. The
process of reconstruction as a national policy taking place in the 1990s can be seen as
the means of fulfilling the promises made in the alliance with the peasant population.
However, and in spite of its political origins, the reconstruction process was not a
coherent attempt and its implementation on different fronts was uneven.
Inconsistencies and contradictions flourished that weakened the alliance, and subaltern
expectations met the limits of the discourses of inclusion and reconstruction. Such an
interpretation poses a number of empirical questions relevant for this dissertation:

• What were the terms of the alliance between peasants and the state?
• How was the alliance legitimized by the actors?
• How was the alliance implemented in practice? What practices did it involve?
• How did the alliance link up with local power structures and networks? And,

democracy. The abolition of slavery, servitude and Indian taxation in Peru were among the most
notorious changes. As the Peruvian republic developed, these liberties were withdrawn and reinstated in
new forms.

25
• As the alliance became weaker, how was this explained and experienced at the
local level, both in terms of discourse and political practices?

The last three questions address the issue of social practice and its contextualization in
social and power relations. These are dealt with in the dissertation through the notion
of relational setting, which is presented below.

RELATIONAL SETTING
The concept of relational setting was introduced by social historian Margaret Somers
in an attempt to explain social action by identifying the positions and connections
between people, power and organizations (Somers 1993). Relational setting is to be
defined as “a pattern of relationships among institutions, public narratives, and social
practices. As such it is a relational matrix, similar to a social network. Identity
formation takes shape within these relational settings of contested but patterned
relations among narratives, people, and institutions.” (Somers and Gibson 1994). As
an analytical tool, the relational setting will help us ‘map out’ (identity, localize) not
only the position of social actors, but also the relations and interaction between them,
as well as the narratives/discourses they use and the social practices they engage into.
Metaphorically, one could see the relational setting as a map of social and power
relations.
Relational settings have two dimensions, the historical and the
geographical/spatial, both of which have to be identified in order to understand how
the network functions and how social change takes place. Historically,

“A relational setting is traced over time not by looking for indicators of social
development, but by empirically examining if and when relational interactions
among narratives and institutions appear to have produced a decisively
different outcome from previous ones. Social change, from this perspective, is
viewed not as the evolutions or revolution of one societal type to another, but
by shifting relationships among institutional arrangements and cultural
practices that comprise one or more social settings.” (Somers and Gibson
1994:70)

Spatially, a relational setting

26
 “…crosses “levels” of analysis and brings together in one setting the effect of
[various social processes] each of which takes social, geographical, and
symbolic narrative expression. This cross-cutting character of a relational
setting assumes that the effect of any one level (for example, the labor market
sector) can be discerned only by assessing how it is affected interactively with
other relevant dimensions (for example gender and race).” (op.cit.:71)

Seen in this way, social processes are not any longer the outcome of categorical
determinants such as class struggle, bourgeois hegemony, or the role of the state, but
rather the result of different relational settings. In other words, it is institutional
relationships and their manifestations in practice and discourse that, in interplay with
contextual factors, determine social processes and their outcomes, including social
change. By institutions Somers refers to “organizational and symbolic practices that
operate within networks of rules, structural ties, public narratives, and binding
relationships that are embedded in time and space” (Somers 1994:595; my emphasis).
In this dissertation, I approach the historical and geographical context of the
armed conflict and reconstruction in Tambo as a relational setting. This will allow me
to identify and contextualize institutions, discourses and practices by different social
actors at different levels of analysis, across regions and in time. Understood as
relational setting, ‘context’ should be considered as more than background
information, and definitely not fixed and intrinsically coherent. A relational setting is
fluid and dynamic, continuously being (re)constructed and molded by the social
relations taking place there. For the case of Tambo, the relational setting includes all
those networks to which peasant communities and their members belong (within
communities, at the district level, at national level), the discourse or public narrative
being displayed, and the practices in which actors and institutions engage. For obvious
reasons, it would be impossible to include an analysis of all such networks in this
study of peasant-state relations, nor is it necessary for our purpose here. Instead, I
concentrate on those networks that build upon the relation between peasants and state,
such as local politics, claim-making structures/processes, and development projects.
As a site of armed conflict, Tambo was a battleground where internal networks
were partially abandoned by national networks. As a site of reconstruction, Tambo
became part of national and regional networks of public services and agencies that
enforced the presence of the state. As a site of political struggle, Tambo is also

27
connected to networks of party politics which extend beyond the district. Strings and
connections in these various networks had specific effects for the district and its
population. Therefore, what happens in Tambo cannot be approached solely on the
basis of what takes place within the territorial boundaries of the district, but should
also be related to action taking place in other sites of the networks. In the next section,
I discuss the ‘central’ site of these networks, namely the state.

DISAGGREGATING THE STATE

Until the 1970s, the academic debate about the state conceived of it as the
fundamental structure of domination in society, intimately related to the capitalist
mode of production.13 Although this raised important issues such as the nature of
state-society relations, the relative strength and scope of state action, and the way
state-society relations are structured, the debate over the relative autonomy of the state
failed to distinguish between an economic system or system of social inequality
(capitalism) and the state as a political structure. Furthermore, the debate did not touch
upon the role assigned to the “non-dominant” classes, who did not seem to fit the a
priori defined model of state-society relations. Increased dissatisfaction with both
modernization and dependency approaches to state-building and political processes
brought along a reaction in the 1980s “to bring the State back in” as a coherent agent
of socio-economic change14, rather than reducing the political sphere to the interests
of dominant classes. The autonomy of the political implied that state actions are
political choices, because these choices manifest the interests and ideologies of state
authorities, even when on occasion these choices reflect also the interests of other
powerful groups. Furthermore, political traditions or cultures are characterized by a
continuity that is not easily changed by economic factors alone, as they are the result
of past and present political and socio-economic conditions.
The state-society dichotomy is based on the assumption that state and society
are both analytically and empirically different; or indeed opposite. “State” has most
often been defined as an administrative apparatus or structure belonging to the realm
13
The “Milliband-Poulantzas debate” (as it was often called because the main positions were those of
Milliband 1969;1970; and Poulantzas 1969, 1973, 1979) The difference between the two positions was
more of degree than substance, because they both considered the state as existing for the sole purpose
of maintaining the present capitalist system. While ‘instrumentalist’ Milliband argued that capitalism
exercised direct control of the state, ‘structuralist’ Poulantzas suggested that the state needed relative
autonomy in order to exercise a political hegemony that the bourgeoisie was unable to fulfill.
14
The volume by Evans et al. (1985) came to give a common denomination to works in this direction.
See also Stepan (1978), Bates (1982), Wade (1990) among others.

28
of politics, with the capacity to exert coercion and dominance upon the people living
within its territory; while “society” usually refers to the realm of the social and
economic forces outside the state. Such a dichotomy is also present in studies linking
capitalist development and democracy. Rueschemeyer, Stephens et al. (1992) argued,
for example, that the first condition for the existence of democracy is “a fairly strong
institutional differentiation between the political realm of formal collective decision-
making from the overall system of inequality”. In other words, in order to foster
democracy, the institutional system of governance (state) must be independent or free
from the socio-economic power structures (society).
Although the distinction between state and society has allowed the study of the
state as an autonomous political agent, some argue that the “back-in” or “statist”
literature had gone too far in stressing political determinism (Kohli and Shue 1994).
This criticism is widely shared today, and has invited a number of alternative views of
the state. One of them is the “state-in-society” perspective forwarded by Kohli and
Shue (2004) for the study of the state and politics in developing countries. Their basic
premise is that states are part of society, and therefore influenced and shaped by the
societies where they are embedded. Similarly, societies are influenced and shaped by
state action, so that state-society relations are mutually and continuously being
reinforced. The authors identify four implications of this premise for the study of the
state:

• Firstly, the relative effectiveness of state action is not a matter of autonomy or lack
of it, but rather of the particular ties existing between the state and social forces.
The nature and structure of these ties can facilitate, counteract or have a neutral
effect on how successful the state can be in achieving its goals.
• Secondly, the state must be “disaggregated”. States are far from being a mono-
directional entity, but rather, a complex hierarchy of authority with influences from
social forces at different levels, from the national to the local. Each level
experiences engagements and disengagements between the state and social forces,
and it is necessary to understand the complexity of the networks and ties involved
in order to assess political processes.15

15
This aspect links up with Mallon’s view of the state as “a series of decentralized sites of struggle”;
see Mallon’s discussion earlier in the chapter.

29
• Thirdly, social forces and states are contingent on specific empirical conditions.
Socio-economic and political conditions, as well as historical and geographical
contextualization are vital to understanding state-in-society relations. Social change
is thus an empirical question, not the a priori defined mission of any given social
class.
• And fourthly, states and social forces may engage in relationships that are mutually
reinforcing, and even be mutually empowering. This implies a rejection of
oppositional models of state-society relations, where the defining relation between
the parts is that of conflict and coercion.

More recently, a call has been made “to study of the state, or discourses of the state,
from the “field” in the sense of ethnographic sites” (Hansen and Stepputat 2001).
Taking the state to be a specific historical configuration, Hansen and Stepputat
suggest approaching it “as a dispersed ensemble of institutional practices and
techniques of governance” (2001:14). The authors identify two aspects for the study
of the state; what they call “the languages of governance and authority”. The former
refers to practical governance, such as the assertion of territorial sovereignty; control
and knowledge of the population, and the development and management of the
national economy. The latter refers to the symbolic aspect: that is, the ways the
authority of the state is imagined and reproduced in society by the state and its
citizens, either through the legalization of social relations; the imprint of state
presence through signs and rituals, and the assertion of a history over national
territory. The diversity of state in the post-colonial world accounts to the specific
combination of these languages. However, the contingency of the modern nation-state
does not impede Hansen and Stepputat’s suggestion that “the desire of stateness has
become a truly global and universal phenomenon… [making] the state the great
enframer of our lives.” (2001:37) The state, its practices and discourses have become
so engrained in people’s lives that it is today difficult not to relate to it in one way or
the other. Furthermore, linkages and relations with the state lend (in most cases) an
aura of authority and legitimacy to various kinds of social practices and social actors.
In his work on state-building in northern Peru, Nugent (1994, 1997, 1998)
explains how the national state established effective rule over a territory not by
imposition and coercion over an unwilling population, neither by developing a cultural
hegemony that normalized an otherwise unnatural rule, but actually by the invitation

30
of the local population In fact, the people of the Chachapoyas region welcomed the
presence of the state and their integration into national society because the nation-state
was regarded as a liberating force, not as a threatening one. “It was only because the
subaltern groups embraced the national community… that the central government was
able to establish any real institutional presence in the region” (Nugent 1997:12). The
Chachapoyas case runs counter to what Nugent refers to as “oppositional model of
state-society relations”. In such models, state formation is achieved through a
combination of cooptation and coercion, on the premise that the national project
delivered by the state is imposed over local populations that have to renounce local or
regional identities in order to take on the national identity of citizens.16
The oppositional model is problematic because it conceives the state as a
separate structure inherently different and even in opposition to society. This has also
been noted by Somers, who argues that “state-centered analyses overemphasize the
coercive power of the state” (1994:596). Furthermore, it takes for granted the origin of
national projects at the level of central government, ignoring the possibility that
similar national ideas can be developed by other political actors, such as peasants. As
Mallon has argued, subaltern groups can also foster, spread, and re-create visions of a
nation-state. Nugent offers then an alternative view of state-society relations and
processes of state formation, one where local and national forms of community and
identity are mutually constructed and reinforced by one another. According to Sayer
(1994) the state lives in and through its subjects, and should be approached through
the materiality of everyday forms of state formation. This is what Stepputat (2001)
calls ‘politics of place’, that is, processes of state formation in localized and historical
contexts.
An understanding of state formation as politics of place is highly relevant for
this dissertation, where social processes in a single district, Tambo, are approached as
localized and historically contextualized. The armed conflict and the period of
reconstruction that followed implied a more active presence of the state in the rural
countryside, both in repressive and positive terms. In that sense, it can be argued that
armed conflict and reconstruction formed part of processes of state formation,

16
See for example C. Smith (1990a, 1990b); and Urban and Sherzer (1991), cited by Nugent (1997).
Nugent (1994) provides a comprehensive critique of the oppositional model for the study of state-
society relations.

31
bringing along a redefinition of social relations among various actors. Several factors
influenced such redefinitions. One of them is normative law, to be discussed below.

THE TRANSFORMATIVE POTENTIAL OF LAW

It is possible to think of many ways in which local communities can be empowered or
reinforced through their connections and ties to the state, such as public programs,
development projects, direct financial support, and political favoritism. However,
these are highly unstable and vulnerable to changes in the political arena. Not
surprisingly therefore, there has been increased interest among a variety of social
actors towards the codification of social relations in law. In terms of “languages of
stateness”, this has become one of the most important loci of contestation and
redefinitions of identity and state-society relations. Law and the discourse of rights
that has emerged thence, constitute today a central part of the myth of the state as
guarantor of rights (Hansen and Stepputat 2001:18).
While it is possible to approach law as a form of “social control and of
enforcing power relations […] the operational concepts for institutions which are
dedicated to the practice of violence, coercion and surveillance” (Wilson 1997), there
is also empirical evidence that social actors can appropriate the concept of law, thus
making it “a space of resistance to the hegemony of nation-state law at the same time
as it reinforces the centrality of law as a mode of protest” (Merry 1997). Law,
legislation, legal action and law reinforcement mechanisms can then be seen as both a
means of social control as well as a guarantor of rights.
According to Somers, normative law and the legal system “can be a source of
popular empowerment, a potential antagonist of private power and the coercive power
of the state, and a central factor in identity formation”17 (Somers 1993:596). If this is
so, why does is not happen more often, and what are the mediating factors for such a
‘progressive’ development? Somers links the potential of law for empowerment to the
nature of the public sphere in the relational setting where law is being applied. The
public sphere is defined as “a contested participatory site in which actors with
overlapping identities as legal subjects, citizens, economic actors, and family and

17
See for example Brewer and Styles (1980) and Herrup (1987), cited by Somers (1993). In the
Peruvian context, a similar example can be the inclusion in the National Constitution of 1993 of article
149, which establishes the right of rondas campesinas to exercise justice administration. This has been
used actively by the rondas in their disputes with local judiciary and police, and has been interpreted as
a sign of recognition of their autonomy vis-á-vis the state; see García-Godos (1996).

32
community members, form a body and engage in negotiations and contestations over
political and social life” (Somers 1993:589). Public spheres are thus arenas of
contestation to be found in relational settings, and can be very different in character
(for instance, elitist or popular), depending on the local context and networks of social
relations.
Different public spheres develop different political cultures, thus their
articulation to a same legal framework can differ. This is why the implementation of
normative law, although having national validity over the territory of a nation-state,
will depend not only on the system set up to enforce it, but will also be subject to
different interpretations and experiences in different relational settings. In other
words, a particular law can have very different outcomes in different places of the
same country18. Furthermore, normative law can produce unintended or unforeseen
consequences, quite different from the original intention behind legislation. Seen as a
point of articulation between the nation-state and the local level (relational setting),
law can foster the practice of citizenship.
The awareness of the potential empowering effects of normative law presented
by Somers resembles Mallon’s discussion of the mobilizing effects of the national
democratic project in the 19th century in Mexico and Peru. The legal system and its
tools, in endorsing a liberal democratic ideology based on the rights of the citizen,
opened an arena for contestation that legitimized the participation of subaltern classes.
It is my argument that the expectations created by the inclusive promises of the
peasant-state alliance through the discourses of inclusion and reconstruction and
legislative changes opened up an arena for contestation and inclusion of peasant
demands that should be critically approached and not so easily dismissed.
Debates about democracy often dismiss legal arrangements in new democratic
regimes as purely “‘formalistic”, in favor of any signs of substantive democracy,
which also includes the free press, well-established party systems, a political culture
of participation, the existence of an independent civil society and more (Eckstein and
Wickham-Crowley 2003). Pachano (2003) calls for a critical evaluation of the 1990s
debate on citizenship and democracy, which he considers overfocuses socio-economic
barriers, at the expense of institutional and legal changes. Although one cannot ignore

18
This is what occurred with the Law of Recognition of Self-Defense Committees in 1991 in Peru.
While the rondas campesinas of northern Peru strongly opposed it for curtailing their independency as
local organizations, the peasants in the areas affected by the armed conflict experienced it as a
recognition of their citizenship and inclusion into the nation-state.

33
the limiting impact of socio-economic inequality upon political agency, this should
not render law as politically useless. The power of law does not rely solely on its
enforcement, but also on the ideals it represents and the discourses it uses. Such ideals
and discourses are often captured and internalized by subaltern groups in their struggle
for power and representation. This re-interpretation of the law takes place in relational
settings, with the most diverse and unexpected of results, including the construction of
peasant citizenship in the context of social reconstruction after a guerrilla war.
In this dissertation, I will argue that the implications of pacification and CAD
legislation reached far beyond administrative and military boundaries. “Legality is the
ultimate basis for legitimacy” (Turner 1993:173), and by having the power to legalize
social practices (to recognize what is accepted and unacceptable, legal and illegal), the
state reproduces its authority in society. I aim to demonstrate how the CAD legislation
contributed to opening up a space of negotiation between peasants and the state for the
definition of their role in the nation-state.

CITIZENSHIP AS MEANING AND PRACTICE

The relationship between a state and those defined as its people is commonly referred
to as citizenship, usually referring to a legal status of social membership. Although
this might seem a straightforward issue (i.e. all those born in Peru are Peruvian
citizens), it is the character or content of social membership embedded in the notion of
citizenship that makes it a highly contestable issue (i.e. a middle-class Lima citizen
has probably a very different experience of the state and social membership than a
displaced peasant family from the highlands). It will be argued here that contestation
about the redefinition of peasant citizenship is at the heart of peasant-state relations in
post-conflict Peru. The new, redefined character of peasant citizenship can be
observed today in the political life of rural districts, with all its challenges and
contradictions.
There are many ways to understand citizenship. According to Tilly, the
challenges that idealism and postmodernism have posed to social history during the
past two decades have led to “an increasingly relational, cultural, historical and
contingent conception of public identities, including the identity of citizenship,” which
has come to be understood as “a set of mutual, contested claims between agents of
states and members of socially-constructed categories: genders, races, nationalities

34
and others” (Tilly 1996). However, the academic debate continues as a result of the
many ways in which the term “citizenship” is used in the literature (see Box 1).

Box 1: The multiple uses of “citizenship”

as a concept, according to Tilly (1996:6-7)

• “Actor: any set of living bodies (including a single individual) to which human observers
attribute coherent consciousness and intention.
• Transaction: a bounded communication between one actor and another.
• Category: a set of actors distinguished by a single criterion, simple or complex.
• Tie: a continuing series of transactions to which participants attach shared understandings,
memories, forecasts, rights and obligations.
• Role: a bundle of ties attached to a single actor.
• Network: a more or less homogeneous set of ties among three or more actors.
• Group: coincidence of a category and a network.
• Organization: group in which at least one actor has the right to speak authoritatively for the
whole.
• Identity: an actor’s experience of a category, tie, role, network, group or organization,
coupled with a public representation of that experience; the public representation that often
takes the form of a shared story, a narrative.”

Citizenship can thus refer either to a category, a tie, a role or an identity. As a

category, we can talk about the category “Peruvian citizens” vis-à-vis the Peruvian
state. As a tie, we can identify the mutual relations between actors such as peasants
and their organizations and a particular state. As a role, we can talk about ‘the actor’s
role as citizens’, that is, all those ties that characterize a specific role. And as an
identity, citizenship can refer to the experience and public representation of a
category, tie or role, as in “the experience of being a peasant citizen”. Tilly opts for a
definition of citizenship as “a certain kind of tie,

“…a continuing series of transactions between persons and agents of a given

state in which each has enforceable rights and obligations uniquely by virtue of
(1) the person’s membership in an exclusive category, the native-born plus the

35
 naturalized and (2) the agent’s relation to the state rather than any other
authority the agent may enjoy. Citizenship thus forms a special sort of
contract.” (Tilly 1996:8)

In other words, citizenship refers to the practices in which actors engage by virtue of
their relationship to the state, either as citizens at large or as representatives or agents
of state authority. According to Tilly, there are two main advantages in defining
citizenship as a tie between people and (agents of the) state. First of all, it can range
from thin to thick citizenship, that is, from a few to many transactions, thus allowing
multiple categories and forms of citizenship within the same state. For example, a
sector of the population can have thin citizenship, having few interconnections with
agents of the state, either due to discrimination or historical tradition, while other
better articulated actors can experience thick citizenship, taking full advantage of what
the system can offer and more. Secondly, citizenship as tie or series of transactions
brings focus to practices, both state practice and state-citizens interaction. This can
illuminate questions such as the kind of practices that the state engages in vis-à-vis
different sectors of the population, or the kind of practices that are permitted and
expected for specific sectors of the population, but not for others. Furthermore, a focus
on practices helps to disaggregate categories such as ‘state’ and ‘citizens’, recognizing
the various interests and identities involved in social relationships and practices.
According to Tilly, it is through these practices of definition, struggle and negotiation
that it becomes/is possible to understand the development of citizenship where
previously it did not exist.
A similar approach to citizenship based on practices has been forwarded by
Somers (1993). Like Tilly, she emphasizes the contingent character of practices in any
definition of citizenship. Somers argues for a conceptualization of citizenship “as a set
of institutionally embedded social practices” (1993:589). These practices are
contingent and constituted on networks of relationships and political discourses that
emphasize membership and universal rights and duties in a national community. Her
central argument is that

“laws applicable to all members of a nation-state can, depending on their

relational setting, be transformed from instruments of state or elite control into
popular citizenship rights” (Somers 1993:603; emphasis in the original).

36
Each nation-state has its own rules for defining social and political membership; these
rules are usually institutionalized in legal and regulatory frameworks. According to
Somers, the existence of regulations per se does not entail the development or
construction of citizenship as ‘institutionally embedded social practices’. It is not
before the rules are transformed into claims for universal rights that we can speak
about citizenship. In other words, when the citizen sees as its right to make claims to
the nation-state as members of the polity, that is when we can speak of citizenship, as
practice, agency and identity. Whether or not this transformation occurs is highly
contingent on the relational setting, depending in particular upon the presence of
associational practices and participatory spaces in the public sphere (ref. above).
What Somers actually provides is a framework for the development of
citizenship (as practice, agency and identity), in places where it had not existed before.
In her convincing case study of the development of citizenship in the English rural
pastoral regions, Somers argues that the varying patterns of citizenship were a result
of the combination of national legal sphere (legal institutions and universal legal
discourses) and the regional differences in the public sphere (different traditions of
participatory association), because they articulated the same legal framework in
different terms. In that particular case, it was labor laws that were transformed into
citizenship rights:

“Because labor relations were embedded in constitutional law and legal

institutions, struggles over labor conditions became struggles to convert the
law into the rights of citizens. (…) At issue were not expectations of charity or
paternal beneficence, but demands for legitimate rights.” (Somers 1993:609;
highlighted in the original)

Mische (1996) takes Somers’s conceptualization of citizenship even further, by

advancing an analytical distinction between the interrelated aspects of meaning and
practice embedded in it. According to Mische, citizenship should be understood as a
“socially constructed and historical variable clusters of claims, narratives and values”
(meaning) which are qualitatively different from “the particular social relations and
projects that such notions support” (practice) (1996:134). In her study on the
construction of citizenship across youth networks in Brazil, Mische finds that

37
 “While the universalizing nature of appeals to citizenship allows
heterogeneous actors to bridge political differences… it also allows them to
ride with those differences into the political arena, providing the basis for
distinct forms of political intervention and challenge.” (Mische 1996:132)

The potential to give ethical support to a number of agendas and practices brings
Mische to define citizenship as “a historically contingent, interactive vehicle of
articulation, conflict and dialogue” (19996:157). This approach does not imply the
dismissal of citizenship as practice, but it does require a change of focus towards
“how social relationships are articulated in particular times and places by means of
historically constructed appeals to values and rights.” (ibid.:137; my emphasis) In this
dissertation, I adopt the analytical distinction suggested by Mische between
citizenship as meaning and practice, in order to understand how different appeals to
citizenship have been/are engaged to support and reshape peasant-state relations in the
contexts of conflict and reconstruction. As meaning, I will explore the ways peasants
formulate their own identity as citizens, and the claims that such a conceptualization
supports. As practice, I will explore those social practices between peasants and the
state that make citizenship meaningful (Mische 1996), opting to concentrate on three
practices: Implementation of development projects for the areas affected by violence:
electoral participation in municipal elections; and claim-making to central
government.
Finally, although the definition of citizenship presented here stresses social
membership and universal rights and duties in the nation-state, the systems of
inequality and hierarchy present in societies such as Peru cannot be ignored. Taylor
and Wilson (2004) touch upon a relevant issue when they ask what it takes for
subaltern groups to be included: can political agency be exercised in a system of
inequality? The authors raise the issue of “citizenship as the organization of
subordinate inclusion”, because of the ambiguous character of social membership,
bringing certain benefits and rights, but on the premises of those in power. Does this
mean that citizenship is simply another way for dominant classes to exert their power
and control over the subordinate? A focus on articulation, contestation and negotiation
as the one presented here let us explore the various ways in which subordinate groups
incorporate, evaluate and reframe the premises of their relationship to the nation-state

38
in spite of existing inequality. To dismiss the relevance of citizenship in poor and
democratizing societies on the grounds of existing socio-economic inequality, is
failing to recognize one of the main vehicles for change available for subaltern classes
(Pachano 2003). Citizenship is so contested exactly because it allows articulation and
struggle in given relational settings. Inequality undoubtly constrains political agency,
but it does not erase it.

Citizenship and armed conflict

Can citizenship develop in a context of armed conflict? Tilly has been one of the most
influential scholars stressing the role of war in processes of state formation.19 He
relates the pressures of military expansion of European states in the eighteenth century
to a similar expansion in direct rule and popular sovereignty, which created an
environment of negotiation and contestation apt for the development of citizenship
(Tilly 1990; Tilly 1996). Accordingly, armed conflict can create, under certain
conditions, a space of negotiation between the state and potential allies. It is in the
process of negotiation, contestation and struggle with agents of the state that
citizenship can develop among civil populations.
In a more recent study, Centeno (2003) introduces a distinction between what
calls “total wars” and “limited wars”20, relating them to processes of state formation.
He argues that in Latin America, total wars have been absent. Although at the outset
this seems to be positive development, the “positive effects” or institutional legacies
of total war upon nation and state building are lost. To engage into total wars, the state
requires not only resources, but also legitimacy to take those resources from the
population. Total wars require a degree of organization and efficiency that can
stimulate the process of state formation. Conscription needed to engage into total war
is rewarded with greater rights and more welfare services. Through training and
military services, populations acquired a skill/resource that the state needs: this opens
for a new political social contract. All in all, this would bring forward a qualitative
shift in the relationship to state institutions: “the transition from subject to citizen.”
(Centeno 2003:83)

19
Others, mentioned in Somers 1993, include Giddens 1982, 1987; Therborn 1977; Turner 1986.
20
Total wars are defined not only by their lethalness on the battleground, but also association with a
moral or ideological objectives, “ the involvement of significant parts of the population either in direct
combat or in support roles, and the militarization of society in which social institutions are increasingly
oriented towards military success and judged on their contribution to the war effort.” (Centeno
2003:83),.Limited wars are defined by the smaller scale and limited presence of the same features.

39
 The occurrence of limited wars in Latin America, Centeno argues, have led to
the emergence of “limited states”, that is, states where the historical and institutional
legacy (‘positive’ effects) of war are limited. Accordingly, for Latin American states
and armies the enemy was ‘internal’ rather than external, that is, the poor and
subaltern sectors of the population. Wars did not lead to wider definitions of
citizenship nor to the consolidation of the nation-state. More importantly,

“there was never a perceived need for the kind of social upheaval implied by
mass armies. The state did not need the population, as soldiers or even as
future workers, and thus could afford to exclude it.” (Centeno 2003:89; my
emphasis)

Although Centeno’s analysis refers to external wars, that is, wars between states, I
suggest that his observations about the relative independence of the state with regards
to its subject-citizens could be applicable to internal armed conflicts such as the one in
Peru. Regardless of whether the armed conflict in Peru can be defined as a total or
limited war, it can be argued that the important factor here is the state’s need – real or
perceived – of the population’s support in engaging and eventually winning the war.
In this dissertation, I will argue that the context of armed conflict contributed to an
increased openness and willingness for negotiation between state agents (civil
authorities and the military) and peasant organizations in order to bring the armed
conflict to an end. In Peru, the state eventually realized (after many years of violent
repression and indifference) that it needed the support of the peasant population for
winning the war in the countryside. Ironically, the armed conflict brought peasants
and state together in an alliance that exchanged support for recognition. In other
words, the peasant-state alliance provided the framework for the transition from
subject to citizen.

Back to this chapter’s opening scene, we can now wonder what is going on between
the actors participating in the flag-raising ceremony, and how that will manifest itself
on the busiest day of the week in Tambo. Until the year 2000, peasant representatives
would have a coordination meeting with the military at the garrison every Sunday,
together with the CAD presidents from all peasant communities in Tambo; today
CAD representatives meet alone. The Mayor and his team would probably take the

40
opportunity to deliver news and messages, contact peasants that are in Tambo for
market day, and make one or two new promises of future support. The church will be
open all day for the faithful who want to pray, while a few public agencies would
open their offices to the public. NGO workers, public officials, and politicians from
Ayacucho and sometimes Lima would hang around for a while, to meet people and
make even more ‘coordinations’ with the local population. It is my hope that by the
end of this dissertation, the reader will understand how the armed conflict has shaped
peasant-state relations and how this manifests in the reconstruction process of post-
conflict Peru.

SUMMARY
My approach to peasant-state relations in the context of internal armed conflict and
post conflict reconstruction, starts with the need for a political history from below,
that is, from the perspective of subaltern groups. Such an approach brings forward not
only the concrete experiences of the subaltern vis-à-vis the state, but also their own
meanings and images of state and nation. Citizenship is regarded as a contingent
social relation between state and citizen, where meaning is socially and historically
constructed. The analytical tools of this approach include a dialectical
conceptualization of power; a disaggregated and contextualized view of the
subject/social actor and the state; the concept of relational setting to ‘map out’ social
and power relations that are historically and spatially differentiated; a non-
oppositional view of state-society relations, where both law and processes of state-
formation can have a transformative/empowering potential; and a distinction between
citizenship as meaning and practice.

41
Chapter 3

METHODOLOGICAL CONSIDERATIONS: DOING FIELDWORK

IN TAMBO

This dissertation is a qualitative study based on primary data collected through

fieldwork in the district of Tambo. Secondary data was gathered mainly in the cities of
Ayacucho and Lima. Fieldwork was carried out on two separate occasions, the first
one lasting for a period of 8 months, from January until August 1999, my main
fieldwork period. The second one, referred to as follow-up fieldwork, lasted for 6
weeks from December 2003 until January 2004.
I start this chapter with some reflections about qualitative research which I
consider important to understand choices made throughout the research project. This
is followed by a discussion about the choice of site and the process of data collection,
that is, the fieldwork itself. The final part of this chapter addresses the issues of
credibility and accountability in qualitative research.

ABOUT QUALITATIVE RESEARCH

As mentioned in the previous chapter, the dissertation focuses on power relations and
networks. Networks often surpass the boundaries of those geographical units (such as
communities, districts, jurisdictions) where social actors operate, linking them to
higher levels of interaction at the regional and national levels. The choice for a
qualitative research design was taken at an early stage due to the nature of the topic to
be addressed. I wanted to understand the interactions between peasants and state from
the point of view of peasant citizens, in practice and in a given context, which
required detailed exploration of the issue on site and over a longer period of time.
A qualitative approach provides a deep understanding of social phenomena on
the basis of rich data about people and processes, particularly if one aims to
understand the situation from the subjects’ point of view (Thagaard 2002). Qualitative
research has been described in various ways by different authors, yet they all tend to
point towards the same kind of features. Here, I will present only two, those
forwarded by (Stake 1995) and Creswell (1998).

42
Stake argues that the defining characteristics of qualitative research are that it is
holistic, empirical, interpretative and empathic. Holistic refers to the role that context
plays in understanding the research subject. This implies that historical and spatial
contexts need to be well-developed in order to understand the particular case under
study, and to avoid simplification and reductionism. Empirical refers to the
predominance given to observable practice and fieldwork experience, including the
perceptions and discourses of informants and relevant actors/subjects of study.
Qualitative research is also interpretative because the researcher, as key instrument of
data collection, intuitively and inductively approaches the subject matter and is aware
of the researcher-subject interaction. And finally, it is empathic because it focuses on
the subject’s perspectives, beliefs/thoughts/opinions and experiences, thus having
often an emergent and responsive design.
Another way to approach qualitative research is through the philosophical
assumptions upon which it is based. According to (Creswell 1998), qualitative
researchers share a set of assumptions or paradigms that guide their work, and that
ultimately have to do with our understanding of knowledge. Knowledge, for
qualitative research, is inherently relational, constructed, and contextualized. These
philosophical assumptions are thus ontological, epistemological, axiological,
methodological, and rhetorical.
The ontological assumption refers to the multiple nature of reality, constructed
as it is by actors with different roles, identities, and situations. The researcher accepts
that different realities exist, and that these are contingent on the different position and
identities that the actors, including the researcher herself, may have. The
epistemological assumption deals with the close relationship between researcher and
the object/subject of study. Instead of seeking an objective distance between
researcher and subject, the researcher tries to identify herself with the actors under
study, in order to be able to understand their situation as they do. The axiological
assumption is closely related to the epistemological one, in that it refers to the value-
laden character of inquiry, both in relation to the researchers own values or biases, and
to the value-laden nature of the information being collected. The researcher is thus
encouraged to confront this issue head on, instead of attempting a “scientific
objectivity” which is not possible in social science. The methodological assumption
refers to the emerging inductive methodology of the process of research, by which the
researcher lets the research process itself guide her towards the definition of categories

43
and issues, rather than making an a priori identification. Another aspect of the
methodological assumption is the importance given to the contextualization of the
topic, particularly important for case studies. Finally, the rhetorical assumption refers
to the personal approach to writing the narrative of the study, using specific terms
developed through the research and those associated with qualitative research in
general. Also, narratives tend to be have a more personal and literary character than
those used in quantitative research.
It is possible to observe that there are many points of convergence between
Stake’s defining features and Creswell’s philosophical assumptions. Instead of
highlighting these on the abstract level, I wish to identify those aspects in my own
research project. In my case, the holistic approach can be found not only in the
historical and geographical contextualization of Tambo during the armed conflict and
the reconstruction process, but also in the institutional setting and networks of power
relations in which the peasant organizations and public institutions are immersed.
Context is then viewed not only as a static background, but mainly as a dynamic
network of social and power relations in historic and spatial terms; what I refer to as
the relational setting (ref. previous chapter). This addresses as well the aspect of
context in the methodological assumption. Given that this dissertation is based on data
directly collected by me during fieldwork, through methods such as interviews,
participant observation, document analysis and active participation (see next section);
the empirical character of the research addresses the epistemological assumption, in its
attempt to bridge the distance between researcher and subject through intensive
fieldwork.
The inductive analysis used in this dissertation, whereby the research design
was modified in order to accommodate new relevant issues identified by the subjects
themselves, speaks to the emphatic character of qualitative research as well as to the
methodological assumption through an emergent and responsive design. Finally, the
awareness of the co-existence of different actors with different positions in networks
of power relations (such as peasant citizens, local politicians, central government
representatives) addresses the ontological assumption of multiple realities. A holistic
approach helps us to understand the particular context in which multiple identities and
realities develop and interact. Such as an approach was particularly useful in dealing
with the information provided by different informants about the same events: whose
version was “real” and why? In the struggle between subjectively interpreted versions

44
of reality, my position as researcher has often met the challenge of having to choose
between one version or the other as the most feasible one, on the basis of supportive
testimonies and supplementary sources of information. Particularly in the study of
armed conflict and subaltern groups, it is important to be aware of the limitations of
our own data, instead of attempting generalizations that might not only be
unsubstantiated but even reproduce further prejudice. It is important to emphasize that
my choice here is to approach peasant-state relations from the point of view of peasant
citizens, thus I make no claim to having provided a “balanced view” filled with
“scientific objectivism”, where all actors are equally heard. Doing research among
subordinate groups, particularly in situations and/or issues of social conflict and
violence can be used to mediate the experiences and struggles of these groups (Falla
1992, Green 1995); not doing so is “an act of indifference” (Scheper-Hughes 1995).
To take a stand is an ethical imperative and the researcher is in the position to become
a committed witness. In such situations, we need to acknowledge that our research has
already given us a role we are unable to ignore or reject, unless we abandon the entire
project (Theidon 2001). This dissertation is in line with the position of the researcher
as committed witness.

CHOICE OF SITE
The selection of Tambo as the site for my case study was a result of various choices
made during the design phase of the project and throughout the initial phase of
fieldwork. To begin with, I made an a priori choice over the region I wanted to study
to highlight a critical and intensity-rich case of armed conflict. The region of
Ayacucho was chosen because it was the place where guerrilla war started, thus
having the longest and most intense experience of armed conflict than any other
region in the country. For this reason as well, the process of internal displacement
started at an earlier stage in Ayacucho compared to other areas in the country.
Furthermore, the first peasant self-defense initiatives21 against the Shining Path
developed in the Ayacucho provinces. I assumed that the CADs in Ayacucho would
thus have much more organizational experience than in other parts of the country. A
final element in the choice of site is that I personally wanted to learn more about the

21
Peasant self-defense initiatives have a long tradition among peasant communities in the Andes. The
most immediate example prior to the CADs is the Rondas Campesinas in the northern department of
Cajamarca, organized to protect life and property from cattle rustlers in the mid 1970s (Gitlitz & Rojas
1983, García-Godos 1996, Starn 1999).

45
region, since my father is from the city of Ayacucho, and most of our relatives from
that side of the family still live there. This added a more personal commitment to my
fieldwork in Ayacucho.
The choice of district was taken after a preliminary field visit to get a general
overview over the research area. The universe of districts that could have been chosen
for my fieldwork was equal to the number of districts affected by guerrilla war in
Ayacucho. To narrow this choice, I applied a specific criterion: a strong presence of
civil defense committees in the district to be selected. This left me with a selection of
the northern provinces of Ayacucho. My hitherto systematic selection of fieldwork
site became opportunistic as I followed leads suggested by local experts, who
described Tambo as an interesting site (due to its location as connection point with the
rainforest lowlands of the Apurímac river valley). I tried to keep an open mind about
any information that was given to me by researchers, NGO workers, and public
officials in order to understand the local setting better and make necessary changes
along the way. The name of Tambo kept coming up during meetings, and instinctively
my interest in/for the district increased. This district was usually described as a
‘difficult area’ (zona difícil) by the NGOs, a place strongly affected by the armed
conflict, due to its nature as a corridor between the highlands and the VRAE
rainforest, a major coca leaf producing area in the country. The province of Huanta
was also mentioned several times, as it has been one of the areas most affected by
violence. However, unlike Huanta, not much research had been carried out in Tambo,
I was told22. Once I confirmed that the Tambo CAD was still operative, I decided to
work in Tambo.
In spite of the relative peace experienced at that time, Ayacucho was still a
region in a state of emergency, that is, where civil rights had been restricted due to the
potential threat of guerrilla activity. This meant that in spite of the existence of civil
authorities, it was the political-military command that was the higher source of

22
This was not completely true, as I later found out. By 1998/99 the only published document on
Tambo was CEPS (1999), a socio-economic survey in a selection of peasant communities, assessing
socio-economic development needs. However, research had been carried on in Tambo by
anthropologist Mario Fumerton in 1997. Since 2000, a few but solid studies on CADs and peasant
communities in Tambo have been published. Fumerton (2002) is of particular interest, since it
recollects the local history of peasant counter-rebellion in the district of Tambo. Monje 2001 is a
Masters thesis on the community of Huayao; Shimizu et.al. (2003) studies various aspects of
development projects in the district, while Wiig (2005) is a study of social capital and income based on
a survey of all peasant communities in Tambo. Occasional references to the district have also started to
appear in studies about other provinces or the department of Ayacucho in general.

46
authority in the area. Although political violence did not interfere with the lives of
common people any longer, the sensitivity to any indication of or threat of violence
prevailed. Therefore I did not venture to travel to Tambo and introduce myself to
peasant communities on my own; I was after all a completely stranger for the people
there. I preferred to be introduced by an institution well-known by the communities,
so I approached two NGOs for their institutional support and introduction to the
communities, CEPRODEP (Centro de Promoción y Desarrollo Poblacional) and
CODEAC (Coordinadora de Desarrollo y Apoyo Comunal). These two NGOs worked
in the field of development projects, gender issues and capacity-building of
community leaders, and they both had working experience in Tambo. At the time, I
was interested in identifying three peasant communities for a more in-depth study of
their experiences during the armed conflict and with the CAD organization. I knew
that I would not be able to work closely with all peasant communities and their CADs
(41 in total), but I wanted three communities that could illustrate different experiences
of peasant organization during the war.
After much consideration, and with the advice of the two NGOs, I chose to
concentrate on the communities of Ccarhuapampa, Huayao and Ccatupata23.
Ccarhuapampa was cited by everyone as the prime example of peasant and CAD
organization in the district, since it was founded by displaced people from 13 different
peasant communities from the western part of Tambo. On the opposite side of the
spectrum, Huayao was mentioned as a “difficult” community to work with, with
“distrustful people who did not want to collaborate” (with NGOs). Huayao was a
“pueblo en resistencia”, that is, a community that had not been displaced from its
original site. On the contrary, it was the destination of several internally displaced
communities from the eastern part of Tambo. I thought that these two apparently very
different communities could provide an interesting basis for analysis, the one having
been created by displacement, the other having stayed put as a centre of refuge.
Ccatupata was chosen because it was something in between the other two cases:
originally displaced in 1984, mostly to neighboring communities, the peasants had
organized their return in 1996.

23
A more detailed presentation of these three communities is given in Chapter Five.

47
FIELDWORK AND DATA COLLECTION
Broadly speaking, my data consists of the material collected and the experiences I had
in Tambo during my fieldwork periods. The bulk of my material is thus primary data
because I collected it myself, first-hand. The greater part of this primary data is
qualitative in nature, as it is composed of information obtained through interviews and
conversations with my informants, as well as through participant observation in CAD
and other peasant organizational activities. Informants comprise a variety of people
such peasant leaders and people from the three chosen communities of Ccarhuapampa,
Huayao and Ccatupata; peasants leaders and members from other communities in
Tambo; members of the CADs Comité Distrital (District’s Committee); district and
regional government representatives, and ordinary people from the town of Tambo
and the peasant communities that I eventually became acquainted with. Most of the
information provided by my informants consists of their recollection of past events,
and their interpretation of them (more on this later).
Throughout the course of the fieldwork the focus on the three communities
identified at the beginning shifted towards social networks and power relations at the
district level. The three selected communities became then more of a reference point
from which to ‘check’ what was going on in the district, than the focus of research
themselves.
Another part of my material is composed of documents and registers, including
printed material and official community reports of events during the armed conflict.
These include a libro de actas, or registry book, and the community registers of war
casualties, drawn up by the communities themselves in the light of the compensation
rights issue which is the topic of Chapter Nine. Secondary sources include printed
material and data from other researchers and institutions, and information about the
area in general.

Interviews24
I applied both individual and group interviews, according to the subject and purpose
of the interview. Individual interviews (28 in number) were usually carried out at the
informant’s home, or in a neutral place such as a local restaurant in the town of

24
This section refers only to interviews with Tambo peasants (the exception being the district’s mayor).
Interviews with public officials in specialized agencies and institutions, as well as academics, also took
place, but are considered as supplementary to the main data from Tambo.

48
Tambo. In about half of the cases, the interviews were recorded on tape and later
transcribed; the rest were recorded through notes, at the request of the informant.
Recorded interviews occurred with the authorization of the informant, who could ask
to turn the recorder off whenever he found it appropriate. A list of the main informants
is provided in Appendix I. Group interviews usually took place in peasant
communities, either outdoors in the local meeting place or in the community house; a
few occurred indoors at someone’s home (usually the community president’s house)
or the CADs office. There were 26 group interviews; in these cases, it was much
easier to take notes than to record them, since it was often the case that people talked
at the same time. The number of people participating in a group interview varies from
two to eight. Some of the group interviews were specifically programmed for a date
and place; others were improvised, usually after an individual interview, or while
waiting for one.
Group interviews have both a positive and negative aspects. On the positive
side, a collective effort is made in recollecting events, and people can corroborate or
correct each other, and many details from the same event can come to light. On the
negative side, if members of the group being interviewed do not exactly trust each
other or even have opposing interests, a confrontation might arise, or worse, no one
would feel inclined to say anything and would maintain a low profile. The latter has
fortunately not been the case in any of my interviews. However, I have witnessed
confrontations where a collective version of the events was put forward, and those
who did not agree chose to remain quiet after a while, renouncing their versions of the
events. I made a record of such situations in order to follow them up, although it was
not always possible. In this way I have tried to obtain several and sometimes different
accounts of particular events.
Transcribing recorded interviews can be a very heavy task, so I engaged a
university student in Ayacucho to assist me with that. In this manner, I had the
opportunity to review the written material while I was still there and was able to verify
certain points before completing my fieldwork period. Whenever possible, diverse
material such as pamphlets, lists and documents were collected in connection with
interviews.
Along with the interviews came a great number of informal conversations
around the plaza, or on the way to and from places with peasants from various other
communities. I rented a room at a guest house a few meters away from the plaza, so

49
my presence in Tambo became part of the local scene after a few weeks, and people
always stopped to say hello and talk. Relevant information from informal
conversations was also recorded in the form of notes. Some of these conversations
have been most useful in tracking down developments and networks in the district.
The qualitative character of my research made it imperative for me to develop
a relationship of trust with my informants, and this was facilitated through my
presentation to the communities via the NGO CODEAC, who provided me with a
letter of recommendation and invited me to attend an organized event in Ccatupata in
order to introduce me to the community authorities. I also had with me presentation
letters from the University of Oslo, the Catholic University in Lima to which I was
affiliated during my stay in Peru, and the University of Huamanga, in Ayacucho, so
that people could verify my connection to a research project. I described my project as
one concerned with the history and functions of the CADs and their connection to
peasant organization.
Initially, I received a polite but careful welcome in all three communities. This
response improved after I answered a few questions regarding the purpose of my work
made by the local peasants, particularly their officials. Why was I interested in these
issues? How would the information be used? And what would be the result of this
work? I expected these types of questions, but I was unprepared for the boldness with
which they were posed. I explained that I wanted to reconstruct the histories of the
communities affected by violence; to learn about the current situation of peasant
communities through three case-studies; and finally, to draw lessons for the future on
the basis of the experiences from Tambo. I particularly emphasized that the
information provided would be confidential and used solely for the purpose of my
study, which led me to the last question, the writing of a book about peasant
communities in Tambo. I felt a bit uneasy with this particular point, since I was asking
for their time and attention and had nothing concrete to offer but the writing of a book
some time in the future. However, the idea of the book did not seem ethereal at all for
those who asked, who replied that it was important that the story of their district
should be told. I also explained that my interest in the region was due to my family
ties, and people reacted positively to this; it seemed as if my Ayacuchano roots
weighed more than my background as a Peruvian mestiza from Lima, thus moving me
closer to the people I interviewed.

50
 Another factor that probably played a role in breaking the ice initially is that as
a young woman, I appeared less threatening to the male peasant leaders, than would
have been the case had I been a man. The ease with which an interview is conducted
cannot be attributed solely to whether the researcher is male or female, but much
depends on the rapport the particular researcher manages to establish with the
informant. Throughout my interviews, I tried to make my informants comfortable in
the interview situation by first emphasizing that they were helping me with their time
and information, and by then recalling information from my own background to give
examples that could illustrate a particular situation. In this way, my informants got to
know me a bit better as well.
The interviews were conducted in Spanish, as an increasing number of
peasants in Tambo are bilingual (particularly men, who make up the majority of my
informants)25, with quechua being their mother tongue. In the few cases I needed the
help of a translator, and then it was usually a younger family member who did the
translation. Early in the project, I engaged a local woman to assist me with the
translation during fieldwork, without success. After a few rounds she lost interest in
the assignment. By then I realized that people spoke better Spanish than I originally
thought, and I surmised that a translator was not necessary after all.
Information originated from interviews was processed after fieldwork in order
to identify themes and track events. In this dissertation, I have kept all my informants
anonymous. Pseudonyms are used only when pieces of text from an interview are used
to convey a particular situation.

Participant observation
By participant observation, I refer to observing social interaction through direct
contact and participation with the subjects of the research. In this sense, the researcher
herself is part of the interaction. My own participation in the processes and events
presented in this dissertation varied in intensity according to different types of
situations and the benefit my intervention could bring. For example, when attending
community assemblies and public activities of various kinds (i.e. working meetings,
faenas, festivals, the weekly assembly at the military base), I could witness the way
people interacted and how decisions were taken. Occasionally I was asked to help

25
The gender dimension in this dissertation is discussed later in the chapter.

51
with given tasks such as drafting documents, particularly community letters, addressed
to public agencies and authorities. I responded positively to this, as it gave me insight
into local needs and the ways community leaders formulate their demands, without
endangering my position as a researcher. In the local elections however, I opted for a
rather low-profile participant observation, in order not to be associated with any one
of the participating lists. My account of the political processes surrounding the 1999
local elections (see Chapter Ten) is also based on this type of participant observation.
During the period February until early May 1999, I had a unique opportunity
to participate in a CAD initiative supported by the local municipality, in collaboration
with parallel organizations from the district of Santillana, in the province of Huanta.
Through the initial invitation of a fellow researcher working in Tambo at the time, and
followed by a request from the district’s CAD organization, I became actively
involved in the issue of “social compensation for peasant ronderos casualties of war”.
Ronderos is the common name given to CAD members; the CADs themselves are
often referred to as rondas, as in rondas campesinas, or peasant patrols. A new
official decree had just approved the actual amounts for social compensation
announced by law six years earlier during the legalization of CADs. A wide range of
issues were raised as a result of this development, offering unexpected opportunities
for gaining insight into claim-making and peasant-state relations at local and national
levels.
My involvement in the issue of compensation rights is better described by the
type of activities that I engaged in (discussed at length in Chapter Nine) rather than by
the name or label of ‘activist researcher’, ‘activist’, or ‘advocate’. Suffice it to say
here that my participation was instrumental in framing the demands to be presented by
peasants to the government (systematizing and analyzing the registries of casualties,
and editing a text to be presented to public officials), and in facilitating contact
between peasants and public officials in a more logistical manner (providing
information, taking notes, making appointments, phone calls). Through my active
involvement in this issue, I gained access to different networks between CADs and
representatives of the state, both formal and informal, and was able to observe directly
the interaction between CAD representatives, peasants, and state officials. This
experience has become an essential part of the data gathered during my fieldwork.

52
Data collection through complementary activities
The experience and understanding gained through the social compensation initiative
brought my attention to the various networks operating in the countryside through
public development programs. Their impact upon peasant societies, particularly in
areas affected by violence is often either overestimated by the agencies themselves or
underestimated by critical researchers. However, one thing was certain: public
agencies had come to stay, and one way or the other, they had carved a place for
themselves as representatives of national authority. To what extent were they an
effective interlocutor of local demands? What did they represent and how did they
interact with peasant communities? Attempting to answer these questions I accepted
to take part in two research-related activities during my fieldwork period.
The first one was a small commissioned study about local participation in
projects funded by Peru’s Social Investment Fund FONCODES (Fondo Nacional de
Compesación y Desarrollo Social); and the second, data-collection for an internal
evaluation of activities for Peru’s National Resettlement Program PAR (Programa de
Apoyo al Repoblamiento y Desarrollo de Zonas de Emergencia). For the FONCODES
assignment, I conducted a case study in 5 peasant communities in the Tambo district
in order to assess community participation in drinking water projects. The
communities chosen were Ccarhuapampa, Vicos, Challhuamayo Bajo, Patapata and
Paccha, where I conducted collective interviews. For the PAR evaluation, I was part
of the fieldwork team that visited several communities in the provinces of Huamanga,
Huanta, Vilcashuaman and La Mar (including Ccatupata, Huayao and Challhuamayo
Bajo, in the district of Tambo). In each community the evaluation team organized a
community assembly to evaluate the support provided by PAR in community
development and reconstruction. These complementary activities gave me insight not
only into the workings of social programs, but mainly into the way peasant
communities relate to these social programs in the reconstruction era, including local
perceptions of development and the use of development discourse in framing claims
and demands. This is indeed, an important aspect of peasant-state relations in the
context of reconstruction. The knowledge and experience gained from these two
assignments form the empirical base for Chapter Eight.

53
Gender
Ortner (1995) reminds us that subaltern groups have politics of their own, and that one
of the most neglected issues in subaltern and resistance studies is gender politics.
Social exclusion and armed conflict have indeed differentiated effects over men and
women, old and young. I have however opted for the treatment of peasants as a
collective actor based on their position as an excluded group in society. A gender-
sensitive approach to peasant-state relations would have surely enriched the analysis,
but it was beyond the scope of this project. I admit to not having been actively
engaged in getting “women’s version of …”, since my focus was on the peasant
citizen(s) and peasant society in general. There were practical reasons as well.
Whether in the context of interviews, participant observation, and
commissioned studies, the large majority of my informants have been men. The
reason for this bias lies in the entry point used for this research project, which is the
CAD organization. CAD members are all men (although a few include women, but
that is not the case in Tambo), and CAD authorities are also men. Since the majority
of my informants were CAD members, they were obviously men too. Similarly,
community authorities in peasant communities are all men, with the exception of the
occasional “secretary of women’s affairs”. Also, a large proportion of the public
officials I interviewed were men.
Tambo is still a male-dominated society, were peasant women have limited
access to leadership in public life and community affairs. This is fortunately changing
through the involvement of public agencies and NGOs, some of them requesting
gender quotas as a premise for funding community projects. Something similar is now
occurring in local elections, where there is a gender quota sanctioned by law for all
electoral lists. In spite of these limitations however, some of my data were provided
by women. A few women expressed their views during group interviews and general
assemblies, or when I visited to interview their husbands. There were also women
among the NGO workers I had contact with, who also became valuable informants
and friends. Moreover, many of the informal conversations I had around the plaza
were with women from the local women’s organization (Mother’s Clubs) whom I met
through the compensation rights issues. Presenting that information under the heading
of ‘gender issues’ however, would be an understatement that I prefer to avoid.

54
FOLLOW-UP FIELDWORK
I had the opportunity to return to Tambo in December 2003 for a period of 2 weeks,
with additional time in Ayacucho and Lima, to conduct follow-up fieldwork in order
to assess the impact of major socio-political changes that had taken place in Peru
during the previous 3 years. I considered these to be closely related to central issues
taken up in this doctoral project. During the fieldwork, I carried out new interviews,
individual and collective, with several former informants regarding their perceptions
of the new socio-political situation, and their participation in local politics.
One particular point of interest was the perceptions peasants had over the work
of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. I also collected information about socio-
political changes in Peru during the past 3 years with relevance to local democracy
and the exercising of peasant citizenship, including a review of current legislation on
these issues. Interviews were also conducted with public officers and researchers from
selected institutions, such as PAR, PETT (Programa Especial de Titulación de
Tierras), and the Office of the Ombudsman.
My return to Tambo surpassed my expectations. I received a warm welcome
from all those who knew me from before, and this was comforting both personally and
professionally. Things had changed to some extent to the worse, and a general sense
of abandonment and disillusion had spread among peasant communities. This
surprised me, since the new context allowed public debate on the armed conflict and
its consequences, highlighting the plight of peasant populations. Soon I understood
that this was precisely the point of contention: a re-interpretation of the armed conflict
where victory seemed to be less important than the means of victory, and where the
victorious had a lot of explaining to do. This had had an impact not only on the way
peasants related to other social actors, but also on self-definitions of identity. These
observations and material form the basis for the discussion on the inclusion of
peasants in the making of national history presented in Chapter Eleven.

CREDIBILITY, ACCOUNTABILITY AND TRANSFERABILITY

Having presented the nature of the fieldwork I carried out in Peru in 1999 and the kind
of data collected there, the question remains as to how credible, accountable and
transferable my research and its results are.
Credibility refers to the way the research has been conducted and the quality of
the data it has produced: has it taken place in a trustworthy manner? Can we believe

55
the data here? (Thagaard 2002). As far as the interviews are concerned, the data is as
credible as the information provided by my informants. Information based on personal
recollections of past events was triangulated with information provided by other
informants and sources. I believe that through my active participation in the social
compensation issue, a relationship based on trust was established between me and my
informants, as they perceived me as a collaborator rather than just a distant observer.
Peasant politics, like all politics, also involve an element of speculation and
strategic planning, so I do not claim complete knowledge of all political struggles and
issues in Tambo at the time of fieldwork. However, through my work, peasant
informants learned to trust me, as I would trust them. Furthermore, the accounts on
local elections and the social compensation movement can be substantiated and
documented by several sources, both in the national media, official institutional
records, and fellow researchers. With regards to interaction between peasants and state
officials, I was able to assess practices directly, through participant observation and
active participation (as mentioned earlier).
On the issue of accountability, the critical eye looks to the analysis and
interpretation of the data (Thagaard 2002). To what extent is my interpretation of the
processes described correct? Is it possible to have another interpretation of the very
same processes? The background for my interpretation is theoretically informed, in
the sense that the theoretical tools that I use to make sense of my data provide a few
markers as to what to look for and how to approach it. However, I have not
approached the fieldwork or the data with a pre-conceived hypothesis or model to be
tested in the field. On the contrary, my approach to theory is exploratory and
empirically-based, in that empirical findings form the basis for my theoretical
analysis. On another aspect of accountability, the kind of conclusions at which I arrive
can be supported by research done by other researchers, both in Peru and in other parts
of the world. I will make reference to these works where appropriate in the text, as
well as try to explain divergent or contradictory conclusions with other works when
necessary.
Finally, on the issue of transferability, the question is whether the framework
of analysis used in this project is replicable for other case-studies (Thagaard 2002). “Is
this a useful and transferable approach?” As discussed in the previous chapter, I
believe that political history from below is applicable to study the links between local
communities and processes of state formation; from the perspective of the actor, it is

56
possible to approach state-society relations as localized and historically constructed.
Power relations cross borders from one level to another, from the local to the regional
to the national, according to political alliances and rules, formal and informal, and it is
thus necessary to follow the tracks of these networks (ref. relational setting). Last but
not least, although a case-study on peasant mobilization can never be replicated
because contexts will always be different, the lessons learned from a particular case
can help us understand and put into perspective other similar cases. This particular
point will be discussed in the concluding chapter.

About memory and recollection

My focus on citizenship during the reconstruction process could not start from an
artificial baseline such as a year (for example, 1993) or an event (the capture of the
Shining Path leadership; the creation of PAR). I will argue that the formative stage for
peasant-state relations of the reconstruction period is constituted by the armed conflict
itself. It was therefore vital to understand and reconstruct the local history of the
armed conflict as a historical process of its own. Access to information, experiences
and accounts of the armed conflict were by necessity based on recollections of peasant
informants in Tambo, either individually and collectively. Were these recollections
“truth”? Recollections are invocations of the past taking place in the present; as such,
they can never be a blueprint of “what really happened”, or an identical reproduction,
but an act of interpretation by the subjects themselves. In other words,

“Recollection is based on the past context in which the story is historically

rooted and the current context in which the story is retold.” (Kirmayer
1996:191)

Memory and recollection make use of narratives that are constructed by the subjects in
order make sense of the past, thus positioning themselves in regards to the past. In
reinterpreting the past, memory does not recall everything; instead, it operates rather
selectively. There will be things unrecalled, forgotten or silenced, because they do not
fit in with the narrative interpretation. “Narrated memory is a creative distillation and
transformation of past experience” (Antze 1996:244). Furthermore, memories are
most accessible when it is socially acceptable to remember and recall, and when there
is an enabling environment that does not repress the act of recollection (Kirmayer

57
1996). Another important aspect of memory is that it can be the object of contestation
and struggle, when actors have to decide what is to be remembered and how, and what
is to be forgotten. These are social processes that involve power and the construction
of collective memory, eventually leading to the construction of a history as the
hegemonic interpretation of the past.
In the case of Tambo, recollections of the armed conflict occurred in a context
where the state and its peasant allies could declare victory over the Shining Path
guerrillas. From a position of victory, peasants could recall and construct narratives of
the armed conflict, putting their own experience and role in context. Compromising
situations with the guerrillas were, in this context, undesirable and therefore dismissed
as unimportant, based on coercion and force, or simply omitted from the recollections.
At the same time, I could observe silences and discretion being practiced when
recalling violent events with the military or by the CDCs themselves. Once again, the
present was setting a framework for what was to be recalled or not. Based on these
recollections, I have also constructed a narrative with which I aim to make sense of
what happened in Tambo during the armed conflict.
Jelin suggests that the past leaves prints or traces in both the material,
psychical and symbolic world, and that the challenge is not that there are too few
traces left, but rather how to access these traces (Jelin 2003). The narratives of
displacement and peasant self-defense that I present in Chapters Five and Six are
based on such traces accessed through recollections, documents and secondary
sources. Linking traces and putting them in context has been an extremely challenging
process, both professionally (as a researcher, struggling to do systematic and serious
research) and personally (for my commitment to peasant issues, and for being
Peruvian). Memory and recollections aspire to a minimum of coherence; however, too
much coherence on the other hand, points towards reification (Antze and Lambek
1996). The reader is left to judge to what degree I have succeeded in presenting a
sound account, without falling into the trap of reification.

SUMMARY
This dissertation is a qualitative study based on primary data collected through
fieldwork in the district of Tambo, Peru, and supplemented by secondary sources. The
underlying premise for the methodological framework here is a view of knowledge as
relational, constructed, and contextualized. This has involved several choices during

58
the research process concerning data-collection and the analysis/interpretation of the
data. The project opted to provide an analysis from the perspective of the subject, in a
holistic and contextualized manner. A choice was also taken in favor of
acknowledging the ethical imperative in doing research with subaltern groups, and the
role of the researcher as committed witness. A final methodological issue involves an
awareness of the implicit presence of the present in recollections of the past,
particularly when this includes such painful memories as experiences of armed
conflict and violence.

59
 Map 3: The District of Tambo, 2003

Source: Wiig, H. (2005), p. 11. Reproduced with the author’s authorization.

60
Chapter 4

TAMBO, A RURAL DISTRICT IN AYACUCHO, PERU

This chapter presents the socio-economic features and historical background of the
district of Tambo. Tambo is considered the gate between the urban centre of
Ayacucho to the west and the highland rainforests to the east. This particular location
has given Tambo a dynamic character in terms of population movement and economic
activity. Similarly, it has also played a major role in the way the district was affected
by the armed conflict and how it later dealt with the reconstruction process. Particular
emphasis is given to the political and economic history of the district, in order to
provide a background against which continuity and change can be identified in the
process of reconstruction and the development of citizenship.

WHERE IS TAMBO?
The district of Tambo lies entirely upon the eastern range of the Andes mountains,
which runs across Peru from north to south. The district covers an area of 335 square
kilometers, and is located in the province of La Mar, in the northeastern part of the
department of Ayacucho. Together with the provinces of Huanta and Huamanga, the
province forms what is often referred to as the “northern provinces” of the department
(see Map 1), an area delimited by the Mantaro river to the north, the Pampas river to
the south, and Apurímac river to the east. The histories and economic activities of
these provinces are closely interrelated, as will be discussed shortly.
The province of La Mar comprises eight districts, for which Tambo serves as a
port of entry for the rest (see Map 2). With the exception of Tambo, and the small
districts of Luis Carranza and Chilcas, which present solely high altitude valleys
(above 2500 m.o.s.l.) and mountains (often over 4000 m), all other districts in La Mar
show a combination of high altitude valleys and highland rainforests (the latter know
as ceja de selva and selva alta), progressively descending along the eastern slopes of
the Andes down to 500 m.o.s.l. along the Apurímac river. These very different
ecological regions have been closely integrated in livelihood strategies of the local
population for centuries, giving this region a dynamic of its own.

61
 Tambo is approximately 85 km away from the city of Ayacucho (2,700
m.o.s.l.), a trip made usually in two and a half hours, depending on the road and/or the
weather. Leaving the usually dry valleys surrounding Ayacucho, the road to la selva
(“the jungle”, as it is locally called) is joined by the one coming from Huanta before it
heads eastwards to climb the mountains above the town of Quinua, crossing the Andes
towards the eastern slope at a pass approximately 4,200 m.o.s.l. These high areas are
called punas, apt for pasturing local camelids such as llamas, and sheep and large
cattle due to the rich presence of ichu, a high Andean grass. Once we have passed the
area called Tocctococha (after the nearby lake), the road starts its descent into the
territory of La Mar province. About 15-20 minutes from the mountain pass the new
valley opens up to view: the district of Tambo, with the town of Tambo (3,219
m.o.s.l.) almost at the foot of the mountain, with the surrounding countryside formed
by high mountains opening up as an open hand around the Torobamba river valley
(see Map 3). The climb down is so steep that the road has to make sixteen rounds
before we reach the town.
Once in Tambo, the road divides itself in two directions: southwards, to the
administrative provincial capital of La Mar, the town of San Miguel, only 30 minutes
away. And eastwards, to the town of San Francisco, 100 km away, in the Apurímac
river valley (here after referred also as the eastern rainforests or VRA, for Valle del
Río Apurímac), a journey that takes an additional 6 hours at least26 (see Map 4).
Shortly after the pass of Tapuna, north of Tambo, bordering the neighboring district of
Ayna, the landscape is still abrupt but becomes greener. Vegetation is denser as the
road descends towards the VRA, passing many villages along the way, the most
notable of them being Ccano for its former military check-point, and Machente, where
police patrols stop most vehicles in search of items related to drugs trafficking, and
passengers can have a quick meal if time (and the driver) allows it.
Public transport to Tambo is provided by large vans leaving on average once
every hour from the city of Ayacucho, or actually, every time all the seats are
occupied, heading either to San Miguel or San Francisco. These vans are usually
packed with people and goods, sometimes also small animals. Large trucks for the
transport of goods (and people) also service these routes. Until August 1999, at the

26
On one occasion, it took me and fellow passengers 24 hours to travel from Tambo to San Francisco,
due to both the weather (heavy rains washed away the road) and a late arrival at the check point in
Ccano.

62
Map 4: Road Ayacucho – San Francisco

Source: Peru’s Ministry of Transport and Communications website; accessed July 2005.
http://www.mtc.gob.pe/portal/transportes/red_vial/rutasold/024_g.htm.

63
time I did my fieldwork, there was a vehicle curfew after 6pm on the Tambo – San
Francisco stretch, meaning that all vehicles that had not passed the military check
points in Tambo, Ccano and Machente by 6pm had to stay overnight until the next
morning, when the gates re-opened at 6am27. Furthermore, a trip to Tambo, and to a
greater extent to the jungle, could turn into adventure depending on the road.
The road to the jungle is paved only halfway. Passing Quinua there is only a
dirt road much left to the mercy of the weather and the changing budgets of local and
central government28. The road linking Ayacucho to San Francisco via Tambo (197km
in total) was built in the early 1960s and inaugurated in 1964, as part of a regional
development strategy to boost economic activity through the commercialization of
rainforest products. This strategy has been partly successful, seeing the rise of San
Francisco (district of Ayna, La Mar) as a dynamic economic and service centre
catering for the VRA area, although for reasons far different than originally
envisioned.
As an urban centre, Tambo has expanded along one axis since the 1960s: the
road to the jungle. The road Tambo-San Francisco runs through the centre of town, so
that Tambo’s “main street” is part of the road to la selva. The stretch between the
main plaza to the exit road to San Miguel is the commercial and administrative centre
of town, with numerous shops, hostals, and public services within range. Both ends
serve also as pit-stops for caravans and trucks of all sizes. There is plenty of activity at
the plaza all day long, particularly during weekends, when peasants and staff from
various institutions come to Tambo for trade, business, and also relaxation. Running
parallel to the main street is the market, where both urban and peasant small traders
sell their products on stands or on the ground, mostly staple food products. Behind the
church there is a section of the market specializing in clothes and other consumption
goods, such as utensils, school materials, music, etc. Trade and commercial activity is
mostly directed at the local peasant population on the basis of both local and imported
goods from other regions.

27
This added an additional constraint to transportation, making it difficult to travel from Ayacucho to
Tambo/San Miguel after 3pm, as drivers had no guarantee of making it through the gates before 6pm on
the way back. But leaving from Tambo back to Ayacucho in the afternoon was even more difficult,
since the vans came already full with travelers from the rainforest and San Miguel, and had often few if
any seats left for new passengers.
28
This situation has improved since year 2001, due to the construction of the Camisea Gas Pipeline,
which crosses the southern district of Chungui in La Mar province. The road through Tambo was the
only way to access this remote area.

64
 It is difficult to assess the net impact of trade between San Francisco and
Ayacucho upon the local economy of Tambo. For the urban population dedicated to
service activities, the impact seems to be greater than for people in rural areas. This
could have a trickle-down effect on the local economy, but given the poverty level of
the district, the impact seems to be limited. Wealth and goods may pass through
Tambo, but do not stay there. What seems to have more impact on the local economy
is what happens at the other end of the Tambo-San Francisco road, in the rainforest,
where peasants join a larger regional economy as laborers in coca-leaf farms; this is
discussed below.

TAMBO AND ITS PEOPLE

In 1999, at the time I did my fieldwork, the district of Tambo had around 15,000
inhabitants, according to estimates made by the municipality. Table 1 shows the
pattern of population growth from 1940 until 1999. Throughout the years, Tambo has
remained a basically rural district, with a large proportion of its population living in
the countryside and dedicated to traditional agriculture. In a rural landscape of
agricultural fields, small villages or homesteads are to be found along the local road,
each settlement usually representing one peasant community. Houses are built next to
each other, with nearby backyards for cattle and smaller animals. There are very few
buildings that are used for other purposes than habitation, such as schools, health
posts, or the occasional community house.
The rural setting contrasts with the urbanized character of the town of Tambo,
where public and local government agencies are located, including a police station, the
health centre, and the districts secondary schools. A number of shops are to be found
around the plaza and along the main street, catering mostly for the local peasant
population. Tambinos had access to national television (mainly in restaurants), radio,
and four public telephones in 1999. In 2003 the number of public phones had at least
doubled, but private connections were still unavailable, even for the municipality. No
newspapers, national nor local, are available in the district.
The proportion of Tambo’s rural population has decreased from being 89% in
1940 (Vílchez 1961) to 60% in 1993 (INEI). This development follows a national
trend of urbanization for the same time period; but in the case of the southern sierra,
this process has also been affected by the armed conflict. Population growth in Tambo
came to a halt during the 1980s. In absolute numbers the district lost around 3600

65
inhabitants in the inter-census period, either to natural mortality, external
displacement, or armed conflict-related deaths29.

Table 1. Total population in district of Tambo and La Mar province, 1940-1999.

Census District of Rate of pop. Province of Tambo pop. %

Tambo growth La Mar
of La Mar
1940 13850 - 52376 26
1972 14531 - 66351 22
1981 15943 1,02 77477 21
1993 12359* -2,10 72924 17
1999** 15931 - 75595 21
Sources: Vílchez Amésquita 1961; INEI Censos 1972, 1981, 1993; CEPS 1999.
(*) Includes estimates for omitted population and in rainforest areas.
(**) Projection by INEI.

Tambo’s peasant population lives in the countryside, distributed in around 50 peasant

communities. The term “peasant community” as it will be used in this dissertation,
refers to a unit of social organization for peasant families living together and working
(individually and/or collectively) the land of a given territory (referred to as
“community land”, tierra de la comunidad). In a peasant community, peasant families
are allocated separate plots of agricultural land by the community assembly every 1-2
years. While land is worked individually, pastures are shared and used as a common
resource. The practice of individual allocation of land is so engrained among peasant
families that plots can even pass from parents to children even when the land actually
“belongs” to the community. “Peasant community” however, is also used as a juridical
category to refer to common ownership of the land; this use springs from a traditional
form of land tenure, where an entire community collectively “owned” a piece of land.
It is important at this point to emphasize the social character of peasant
communities as different from their legal status. Peasant communities have been
legislated for in Peruvian law since 1920, having both their social and territorial rights
recognized and protected under the law. Peruvian legislation on peasant communities
has changed much since then, gradually opening up for the possibility of granting

29
The Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission indicates 498 reported dead and
missing for the district of Tambo. A national register for victims of war is to be established, and as
more cases are reported, this figure is expected to increase (CVR 2003, Annex 4.1).

66
individual property rights to individual peasants30. The fact that a group of families
living together in a village refers to itself as “peasant community” does not necessarily
mean (i) actual and/or formal common property rights over the land; (ii) that it has
been formally or legally recognized as common-property-unit by the relevant
authorities, i.e. the Ministry of Agriculture, and even less (iii) that it has completed the
process of formalizing a common property title over the land in their possession31.
By 2003 in Tambo, only 15 communities had official recognition as “peasant
communities” in the juridical sense of the term, while only 8 (out of those fifteen) had
an official common land title (PETT 2003). Interestingly enough, only one community
– Challhuamayo, in 1957 - had registered its claim prior to the armed conflict. All
other registrations – with one exception, have been made after 1991 (see Table 2).
What this indicates is that the legal status of peasant communities and peasants in
Tambo was far from clear prior to the armed conflict. However, this did not interfere
in the social reproduction of peasant communities as the chosen unit of social
organization among Tambo peasants. Peasant families were living together as a
peasant community, holding community assemblies and had community authorities in
spite of the absence of land property titles, common or individual.
To get a sense of the changes in the population of Tambo, it is useful to focus
on the number of peasant communities (as social units) living there for the past 40
years. Using the number of active/registered CADs in the district as an indicator (since
each peasant community usually has one CAD organization), there were at least 38
peasant communities in Tambo in 1999. In fact, there were 42 CADs operating in the
district, on the basis of 38 comités de base (base committees), another term commonly
used in the CAD structure to refer to peasant communities. The 1999 pre-census
conducted by the National Institute of Statistics in Peru (INEI) after my fieldwork
period, reported 3 urban and 55 rural population settlements (centros poblados),
which is the unit INEI employs to classify human settlements32.
The number of settlements is not equivalent to the number of
existing/functioning peasant communities, as a single community can have 2 or 3
30
There are many reasons for these changes, among others facilitating access of peasant families to
credit financial markets; reducing the number of land-related conflicts on judicial process; and the not
so loudly mentioned issue of taxation.
31
The lack of clarity around the legal status of the communities and their property rights has been the
source of conflict between (but also within) communities for decades in many places around the
country. However, I have not registered such conflicts in Tambo.
32
For the 1994 Agrarian Census, INEI defined as ‘rural’ all those settlements where buildings/houses
presented a dispersed pattern and did not exceed 100 buildings.

67
barrios, anexos or pagos within its territory, that is, groups of families living within
community territory but outside its core site. Therefore, it is to be expected that the
number of peasant communities is lower than the number of settlements. A survey
made in 2002 however, registered 49 peasant communities (Wiig 2005), a number
based on the list of COZODES or Comités Zonales de Desarrollo (Zonal
Development Committees) produced by the Municipality of Tambo. Wiig compared
these settlements with those reported by Vílchez Amésquita in 1961, succeeding in
identifying all current settlements with previous ones. What these variations in
numbers show (38 in 1999 and 49 in 2004), apart form the methodological differences
that may exist in the counting process, is that the process of return and reconstruction
in the Tambo countryside is still an issue of the present, with peasant families still on
the move, regaining control over and reshaping the territory they once abandoned due
to the armed conflict.33 The issue of displacement is explored in detail in Chapter
Five.

LIVELIHOOD AND ECONOMY IN TAMBO

For the majority of people in Tambo, life revolves around traditional agriculture and
animal husbandry, the basic activities of peasant family livelihoods. A peasant family
is usually composed of a nuclear family of mother, father and children, including adult
unmarried children. Elderly parents usually live separately. The division of labor
within the household presents a traditional pattern, with women mainly taking care of
domestic activities such as cooking and washing, and looking after the children, as
well as tending to small animals, while the men work mostly on the land, looking after
large animals (if any), and attending to duties in the organizational life of the
community. Women also participate in agriculture, particularly in those periods when
intensive labor is required, such as the sawing and the harvest season. Children of all
ages look after small animals and help their mothers with various chores, such as
peeling potatoes, collecting things, or looking after smaller children.

33
In 1961, Vílchez A. reported 74 settlements for the district of Tambo, plus the town and 2 peasant
communities ‘proper’ (Challhuamayo Alta and Challhuamayo Baja). The settlements included 17 pagos
(peasant communities?), 22 haciendas, and 35 caseríos. Unfortunately, the author does not provide
information about the categories used in his reporting. Bearing in mind that today there are no
haciendas in Tambo (most of them had dissolved before the Agrarian Reform of 1968), and that
caseríos usually fall under the jurisdiction of peasant communities, we can assume that before the onset
of the war in 1981, there were approximately 40 peasant communities in the district of Tambo.

68
Land tenure
Historically, Tambo was an area characterized by the co-existence of large
landholdings or haciendas existing among peasant communities, both in and outside
haciendas, particularly in the republican period. The main produce was potatoes,
maize and grains. Due to the limited productive base in Tambo, haciendas in the
district never reached the size of counterparts in other districts with more productive
and/or irrigated land, such as in the valleys of San Miguel or in the rainforests.
Besides their economic importance, large estates were vital for access to political
power in Peru until the XX century. The system of social and economic relations in
place at the time is usually known as latifundismo, by which large landholdings and
political power went hand in hand. While some peasant communities lived outside
private estates, with their own land, a number of peasant communities lived “in
captivity”, that is, within the boundaries of haciendas because of earlier allocations of
peasant labor to landlords during colonial times.
Under this tenancy arrangement, landlords had access to the labor and products
of his tenants, while providing for their protection and some basic services. The
relationship of patronage embedded in the tenancy system was based on uneven
reciprocity, thus allowing the exploitation of peasants and the encroachment of
peasant community land. Throughout the 1900s, the political power of highland
landowners was gradually reduced by changes at the national level, in terms of
administrative reform and the increased economic power of coastal haciendas. The
expansion of a state bureaucracy independent of local hacienda owners, contributed to
the disintegration of the hacienda system in the highlands. In places like Tambo, the
hacienda system started to disintegrate as landowners opted to sell or distribute their
lands to the tenants. By 1961, Vílchez reports of 22 haciendas, most of them of
relative small size. The Peruvian Agrarian Reform of 1968 found in the district of
Tambo a landscape of small farms run by peasant families living in and organized in
peasant communities. The reform then only consolidated a process that had been
under way for several decades. Such was the situation therefore in Tambo’s
countryside when the armed conflict started in the early 1980s.
According to the National Agrarian Census carried out in 1994, the total area
of land available in the district of Tambo is 6997.34 hectares. Of this, roughly 52% is
agricultural land while 48% is non-agricultural land (such as pastures, woods, roads,
settlements). In Tambo, agricultural land is to be found in both steep mountain slopes

69
and the valley bottom. The soil is predominantly reddish-brownish (kastanozems
cálcicos) and clayish (kastanozems lúvicos), with, overall, an average level of fertility.
The most fertile land is found in the valley. The census reported 1985 agrarian
producers34 in the district (see table 2). Of these, only 3 were legally registered
peasant communities in the juridical sense of the term (common property title), while
the remainder were for the most part private persons. Only 18 producers did not have
access to land, while the remaining 1967 did have access to or own land.
The census reported a total number of 1970 agrarian units35, with the large
majority (1952) having access to or owning land. A single agrarian unit can include
several parcels or land plots. Table 3 indicates the land tenure arrangement for all
parcels in agricultural and non-agricultural land. While the average number of parcels
per agrarian unit is 2.33 parcels, the average size of a parcel is no more than 1.5
hectares. Census information indicates that approximately 72.5% of all agrarian units
with land in Tambo have less than 2 hectares of land each; 19.7% units have between
2 and 5 hectares each; and 5.2% have between 5 to 9 hectares each. Only 2.5% of
agrarian units have more than 10 hectares each.
How much land does a single peasant family have for its subsistence?
Knowing that there are 1967 producers with land (table 2), the average size of land
available per agrarian producer for all his/her parcels is 3.5 hectares. This average
includes both agricultural and non-agricultural land. In other words, we can estimate
that a single peasant producer has access, on average, to 1.82 has of agricultural land
and 1.68 has of non-agricultural land. These figures are similar to estimates made by
CEPS (1999) and Wiig (2005), the latter reporting as low as 0,5 hectares per family
member.
The overall pattern is thus one of small subsistence farming, where agricultural
production occurs on a household basis, with each peasant family working their own
land, while pastures are managed collectively, as a common good. These

34
Productor agropecuario (agrarian producer), “is the person, natural or juridical, in charge of the
technical and economic management of an agrarian unit, exercising this function either directly or
through an administrator. The producer is the one who takes decisions about crops and livestock to be
produced, their management and the sale of products; (s)he decides as well over investments, assumes
economic risks and enjoys the benefits of production. In many cases the producer is the owner of the
agrarian unit, in others, the producer is the one renting an agrarian unit or part of it.” From the Glossary
of the National Agrarian Census 1994.
35
Unidad Agropecuaria (agrarian unit), “all land or group of land plots utilized totally or partially for
agrarian (crops and livestock) production, managed by an agrarian producer, independently of their
size, ownership regime or juridical status.” From the Glossary of the National Agrarian Census 1994.

70
arrangements are independent of the juridical or legal status of the community. As
previously mentioned, a peasant community is basically a social unit, not only a
juridical category.

Agricultural production and household economy

The most common crop in Tambo is potatoes, of which there are many variants, due
to the high altitude of the land. Other crops include maize, wheat, malt, green peas,
habas, and a few vegetables. Agriculture in Tambo is dependant on natural rains, and
the few irrigation systems in existence are to be found in the valley or nearby areas.
This makes agriculture a highly risky enterprise, dependent as it is on climate
variability and draught. Agricultural production is highly labor-intensive, and
rudimentary instruments such as the chaquitaclla (a hand plow) are still in use. Oxen-
driven plows are used only by those peasant families that do have ox or that can afford
to rent one, which are the minority.
Traditional practices of labor exchange are still in used in Tambo, such as ayni
and minka. Ayni involves the access to labor mainly from relatives, neighbors and
friends in return for similar work later on, and it is mostly used in relation to
agricultural production. A day’s labor helping your neighbor to plow his land means
that you can expect him to help you plow your land plot next time. Minka is a form of
collectively organized work mostly used for common projects and goods, such as the
maintenance of water channels and roads, school construction, and the like. The
highlands of Tambo are highly suitable for pastures, and the district had great numbers
of cattle before the armed conflict. In a context of conflict and displacement, cattle
became the first ‘loot of war’ and an immediate source of income for families on the
run. This was also the case in Tambo, where the herds of peasant families were still
well below their original size in 1980. An average peasant family today might have 3-
5 sheep, 3-5 goats, 1-3 pigs, an up to 10 guinea pigs, and chickens. Occasionally a
family will have an ox, a cow, or a mule; a handful of families specialize in cattle-
raising, so they have larger herds for trade.
Produce from peasant families goes almost entirely to satisfy family needs, so
that little enters the money economy. Very few products are actually marketed outside
the district, as most producers prefer to sell to middlemen in Tambo rather than sell
directly outside the district (Wiig 2005). One estimate points to only 3% of total

71
 Table 2. Number of producers & extension according to agrarian producers’ juridical status in district of Tambo, 1994.

Juridical status of producers Total Private De facto association Registered Peasant Communities
persons (common land property)

No. of producers 1985 1962 20 3

… in agrarian units without land 18 18 - -
… in agrarian units with land 1967 1944 20 3
Source: INEI Agrarian Census 1994.

Table 3. Land tenure in the district of Tambo, 1994.

Total* Nr of parcels according to land tenure

Registered property
Total No. On rent Communal Others
of use
parcels Total Registered title Unregistered title In process Not in process

No. AU 1952 4557 3511 1990 908 98 515 598 269 179
* Does not include agricultural units abandoned nor those that exclusively dedicated to livestock farming.
Source: INEI Agrarian Census 1994.

72
production being marketed outside Tambo (CEPS 1999). In spite of this, it cannot be
argued that peasant families in Tambo live outside a market economy; money is
needed to purchase items not produced locally, such as school materials and clothes.
There are two main sources of cash income: trade of surplus products, and
seasonal labor migration. Trade is conducted through local ferias (markets) or at the
market in town. Local ferias take place once a week along the road network. For
example, for the north-western part of Tambo, every Thursday at dawn 1 or 2 trucks
leave town full with merchants and their goods heading for the community of
Ucchuraccay, a community in the neighboring district of Huanta with close cultural,
commercial and administrative links to Tambo. The drive takes a little longer than 2
hours, depending on the road’s condition and the weather. The road ends in
Ucchuraccay, which is the first stop of the feria. After a couple of hours, the track(s)
begins to make its way back to Tambo, stopping at the intermediate communities of
Churrulla and Ccatupata for the travelling feria. Tradesmen (and women) are quick to
display their products, and local peasants bring their own for sale as well. This system
of traveling ferias is also used by civil servants or NGO workers that need to visit
communities en route (, as this is the only form of “public” transport available in the
countryside. Other areas serviced in this manner include the routes Tambo-Iquicha
and Tambo-Usmay.
Labor migration is a well-established practice in the livelihoods of peasant
families in Tambo. Most of the families have at least one family member migrating
for longer or shorter periods of time every year, mostly to the eastern rainforests, to
work either as hired labor or to tend to their own family plots. It is not unusual for
peasant families to own small holdings in the forested areas, where they cultivate a
variety of products to add to the family income, such as cocoa, coffee, fruits, sugar
cane, and of course, the coca leaf. In spite of the reduction of coca leaf production
across the country since 1996, the Apurímac river valley has remained the second
largest production area in Peru since that year, with a share of approximately 17,400
metric tons of coca leaf in 2002 (DEVIDA website 2004).
The direct impact of coca leaf production and related migration in the local
economy of Tambo has not been sufficiently researched and documented, neither in
this study nor in others consulted by this author36. During my stay in Tambo, I

36
This is a good example of those issues that become so natural or obvious in a given setting that they
are not researched in further detail. For example, the only the socio-economic study existing to date for

73
observed that it was taken as a fact of life that people (mostly men) were absent from
the community from time to time due to work engagements in the rainforest, either
tending their own plots or working for others. Peasants themselves are wary of talking
about this issue in detail, so a brief line (Me fuí a la selva, “I went to the jungle”) says
it all. For instance, with regards to community projects and organization activities, this
was considered a valid argument for absence or sending a replacement instead. Labor
migration to the rainforest is not an activity exclusive to Tambo peasants, but it is
widely practiced across the La Mar and Huanta provinces. Nor is this a new practice;
peasants have been migrating to the rainforests for centuries, and coca leaf has played
a major role in the regional economies of the northern Ayacucho provinces at least
since colonial times (see below). What is relatively new – that is, the last 20-30 years
– is the intensive cultivation of coca leaf for the illicit production of cocaine in
international (and national) markets (Álvarez 1999).

Living conditions and basic services

The fact that labor migration is a source of extra income does not mean that it raises
the living standard of peasant families out of poverty. According to the national
poverty map, the district of Tambo fell into the category of “Very Poor” (the second
lowest scoring for poverty assessment in Peru) based on data from the 1993 census.
What this actually meant in terms of indicators was that 46% of Tambo’s population
suffered from malnourishment; 52% did not have access to drinking water; 93%
lacked sewage systems; 89% did not have electricity; and that there was one health
centre per 3983 inhabitants (FONCODES 2000). Although poor housing conditions
and shabby clothes bear witness to this, poverty can also be observed in the diet of
peasant families, which is based on potatoes and other locally produced carbohydrates
(such as maize), while meat and vegetables are seldom served. The protein and
vitamin intake is therefore low. Small animals such as chicken and cuyes (guinea pigs)
are saved for special occasions or for trade, and vegetables have to be purchased. In
1999, the only place in the district that had electricity on a ‘permanent’37 basis was the

the district of Tambo (CEPS 1999) does not include labor migration as source of income, not even as a
form of complementary economic activity, in spite of the widespread character of this practice.
Unfortunately, this dissertation cannot provide a more accurate analysis of seasonal labor migration to
the rainforest either, due to its theme and scope.
37
‘Permanent’ in the sense that an electricity network was in place, not in sense that there was electric
flow all day long, or everyday. By 2003 this situation had improved greatly, including in the

74
town of Tambo. Drinking water was also limited to the urban area, although not all
houses had access to this either, and even fewer had a sewage connection. Latrines
were being installed in the rural areas with support from FONCODES, with very
mixed results.
A more positive sign of progress is the presence of primary schools in a
relatively large number of communities. In 1999, there were a total of 34 schools in
the district, over 2/3 of them located in large peasant communities to service children
from nearby areas. Many rural schools have only one teacher; the number increases
according to the number of children registered. The majority of schools provide
instruction up to 3rd or 4th grade. Older children have to walk to the nearest school
offering higher grades in order to complete their primary education. The only two
secondary schools in the district are located in town, in spite of an increasing number
of children from rural areas reaching that level of instruction. It is therefore not
unusual that children over 12 years of age move to town on their own, or with
relatives, in order to complete secondary school.
For higher education, locals have to move outside the district, the most
common places being the cities of Ayacucho or Huanta. Ten schools had the status of
being “temporarily closed” in 1999; of these six had re-opened by 2003, all located in
distant peasant communities. The total number of registered students undertaking
formal education in Tambo was 4938, approximately 1/3 of the total population in the
district. This is indicative of the age structure of Tambo’s population today, a place
with many young people and few alternatives outside traditional agriculture; searching
for work in the rainforest is one of the most attractive options.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF TAMBO

The relation between Tambo and the regional economy based along the axis of the
Ayacucho-San Francisco road is not a recent phenomenon, but one closely related to
the history of this region. The history of Tambo is closely interrelated to that of the
Huanta province, and the Apurímac river valley, north and east of Tambo
respectively. An awareness of the historical background of this region will be a good
starting point for the presentation of the empirical material to be presented in the
remaining chapters of the dissertation.

countryside, where the nearby township of Ccarhuapampa had been connected to the public network in
2002. Street lighting in Ccarhuapampa added to its increasing urban character.

75
 During the Inka empire, storage houses found along the royal road system
served the double purpose of storing food and grains, and providing shelter to
travelers, public servants or troops. These places were called tampu in quechua (the
Inca language), later hispanicised to tambo, which literally means posada or mesón in
Spanish, or “place of rest”, “shelter” in English (Rostworowski 1988). A local source
reports that at the time of the Incas, Tambo or ‘Tampuso’ is mentioned as a place of
rest for the armies of Inca Huiracocha following the Chanka army that was on retreat
from what is today the central Ayacucho provinces (Vílchez 1961). Whether this is
historical fact or legend remains uncertain. The name given to the district of Tambo is
however indicative of its function as a place “on the way”, a place to rest on the way
to and from other places.
Vílchez (1961) also indicates that Tambo (then called San Juan de Tambo)
became a partido of the Huanta corregimiento already in 1569, along with San
Miguel, Osno and Chilcas. He also mentions the existence of the Doctrina de Tambo
(a jurisdiction within the Catholic Church in colonial times), which was the centre of
missionary activity around 1620. Towards the end of the XVIII century, following
administrative changes in the Vice-royalty of Peru, the territories of today’s province
of La Mar belonged to the Intendencia de Huamanga, with the administrative centre
in the city of Huamanga (today’s Ayacucho). This intendencia was composed of 7
partidos, one of them being Huanta, to which both the jurisdictions of Tambo and San
Miguel belonged as curatos.
This structure remained the same, although under different titles during the
early republican period, when Tambo turned into a district within the newly created
province of Huanta. In 1861, the province of La Mar is created through the unification
of the districts of Tambo and San Miguel from Huanta with the districts of Anco and
Chungui from Huamanga (CEPS 1999). The administrative centre of the new province
became San Miguel, in spite of Tambo’s more strategic and commercial importance,
due to the influence of powerful landlords from the Ninamanba valley (in San Miguel)
who wished to have parliamentarian representation and thus be able to control
peripheral areas such as Anco and Chungui (Galdo 1992).
There are two processes that characterize the history of Tambo throughout the
XIX century: indigenous peasant rebellions, and economic integration through trade
of rainforest products, particularly coca leaf and aguardiante (sugar cane brew). These
will be discussed in order.

76
Indigenous peasant rebellions
Tambo’s participation in violent conflict involving peasant indigenous communities
can be traced on and off since the late 1700s until the early 1900s (Vílchez 1961;
Méndez 1991; Galdo 1992; Husson 1992). These peasant rebellions had different
purposes, depending on the changing political context. In the early 1800s, the income
resulting from the production and trade of coca leaf and aguardiente from the
highland rainforests of Huanta had protected this sub-regional economy from the
overall economic decline experienced in the Huamanga region. By the time of the
independence in 1821, political and economic cleavages between the elites of
Huamanga (present day Ayacucho) and Huanta led to open war between the pro-
Spanish, royalist Huanta and the republican Huamanga armies, mainly composed of
peasant Indians recruited from their respective areas of influence.
Being part of Huanta at the time and in close proximity to the rebel territories
later identified as “Iquicha”38 (those between present-day Huanta and La Mar
provinces), Tambo initially became involved in the conflict on the side of the rebel
royalists. An indigenous rebellion led by the “Iquichanos” was sustained in the region
for about three years after the republican pacification armies were sent to control the
area. In this context, Tambo also served as a military base for the continuous search
for the rebel leader Antonio Navala Huachaca. During the caudillo wars of the 1830s,
iquichano peasants fought on the side of the Peru-Bolivian Confederation, receiving
honors and retributions from the national government for their support, as long as that
government remained in power. In the young republic, Tambo became once more a
base for military actions on both sides, leading to continuous rebel attacks throughout
the 1830s and leaving destruction and impoverishment behind. In 1840, the former
Ministry of Finance granted a tax waiver to the district, because of “the ruinous state
in which the district of Tambo currently is due to incursions, pillage, fires, and other
crimes committed there by the Iquicha rebels, to the extent of leaving the inhabitants
in the most precarious conditions, unable to pay their contribution.” (A.D.L.P 1840);
my translation). Tambo’s population found themselves, then, on both sides of the
conflict at different times, a situation that echoes the armed conflict in the 1980s, as

38
Méndez (2001) provides a thorough analysis of the historical construction of Iquicha and iquichano
identity in the context of nation-state building processes. Today’s peasant community of Iquicha is still
in Huanta’s territory, but for economic, administrative and even electoral purposes, it falls under the
jurisdiction of Tambo.

77
we shall see in Chapters Five and Six. A similar future awaited the southern areas of
Anco and Chungui39
After the creation of La Mar province, the political history of Tambo follows
the winds of rivalry between the elites of Huanta and Huamanga. Ties between La
Mar, Huamanga and Huanta forced local elites in Tambo and San Miguel to choose
sides in the constant struggle for political power and representation. By the time the
War of the Pacific and the Chilean invasion occurred in 1879, one of the caudillos
from the Huanta elite had gathered support from his area of influence (including
Tambo and San Miguel), and joined forces with the Peruvian resistance of Mariscal
Cáceres, who eventually managed to expel the Chilean army from the region. Cáceres’
supporters were known as montoneros or guerrilleros, because they engaged in
guerrilla tactics first against Chileans, and later against the Peruvian government
forces that had signed a peace treaty with Chile in 1883.
The civil wars lasted until 1885, when Cáceres would claim victory, call
elections, and initiate the period of “National Reconstruction” (Contreras and Cueto
1999). During this period, which lasted until 1895, those territories and caudillos that
supported Cáceres received ample support from the central government. At the same
time, the financial crisis of the reconstruction period led Cáceres to re-impose the so-
called “personal contribution” from the indigenous population, which he himself had
abolished years earlier. In 1896, when the newly elected anti-Cacerista government
put a tax on salt to raise “rescue money” for the southern provinces taken in
possession by Chile, peasant communities from Huanta and La Mar refused to pay,
initiating what soon came to be known as la Rebelión de la Sal (the Salt Rebellion).
The city of Huanta was taken by peasant montoneros and their allies, which led to
violent clashes and the death of the governor and other notables. Huamanga asked
central government for support and a Pacification Army was sent to the area, with the
purpose not only of putting an end to the rebellion, but to completely disband any
remnants of Cacerista support in the region. For seven months rebels were chased
across Huanta and La Mar territories, and communities and haciendas associated with
them were burned/razed to the ground (Galdo 1992; Husson 1992).

39
For a thorough account of the ‘Huanta wars’ in the 1820s and the ‘Salt Rebellion’ in the 1890s, both
led by Iquichano indigenous populations, see Husson 1992, Méndez 1991; and Méndez 2001. I will
return to this resemblance in the concluding chapter of the dissertation.

78
 The final experience of armed conflict with the involvement of national forces
in Tambo, before the internal armed conflict in the 1980s, was in 1922/23, when
peasants from the districts of Anco and Chungui took up arms against a local
hacendado, Albino Añanõs, burning his property and causing several deaths,
including two of his sons and the vice-governor of San Miguel. At some point Tambo
and San Miguel were surrounded by the rebels, according to Vílchez (1961). A new
“pacification” army was sent from Ayacucho (and Lima?) to San Miguel, to put down
the rebellion. Contemporary reports tell of widespread massacres and destruction in
the countryside (Kapsoli 1977).

Integration with the rainforest economy

In this historical overview of Tambo, the road to the rainforest deserves particular
attention; this entry point contributes to an understanding of the republican project of
colonization, integration and exploitation of those territories considered as
Ayacucho’s frontier – the rainforest of the Apurímac river valley. The Ayacucho-San
Francisco road is relatively new, dating back to 1964. Its conception, however, dates
back to the late 1800, more specifically 1891, when a law was passed by the Cacerista
government of President Morales Bermúdez for the construction of access roads to the
rainforests of Ayacucho. Accordingly, the connection to the Apurímac river was to be
established, and this terminal or port city’s intended name was “Puerto Bolognesi”.
The project would be funded through the Alcabala de la Coca (a tax on coca-leaf), to
be charged in Huanta and La Mar and managed by a Junta Administradora
(Administrative Board) formed by authorities from Ayacucho. Apparently this Board
remained inoperative for a decade, in spite of efforts for implementation in 1896 by
the Governor of Ayacucho (Vilchez 1961). It is also feasible to suggest that the Salt
Rebellion impeded the application of the coca tax.
In October 1901 a new law was passed by President De Romaña concerning
the composition of the Junta Administrativa, this time including representatives from
the municipalities of Huanta and La Mar. Less than two months later, new President
Cornejo redefined the use of the coca-tax – once the road to the jungle was finished –
for the construction of a road connecting Ayacucho to the coast. In 1919/20, the
Administrative Board was deactivated by the regional government, but on several
other occasions during the first half of the XX century, a coca tax for Huanta and La
Mar has been imposed as a source of funding for regional projects. As late as 1942,

79
Law No. 9569 established a uniform tax of 2.40 soles per arroba introduced and
consumed in these two provinces. After deductions for the alcabala and the national
defense budget had been made, the remainder of this tax income was to be distributed
between public goods (hospital in Tambo and school in Huanta) and municipal district
governments. The scope of this dissertation does not allow further study of the link
between coca-leaf production and regional public investment, but the presence of
coca-taxes in national legislation points towards the importance of this good in the
economic and political life of the region.
Once in use, the road to San Francisco facilitated the colonization of these
territories mainly by peasants from the highlands of Huanta and La Mar. The
rainforest offered land plots considerably larger than those in their communities of
origin, and many peasant families opted for permanent settlement instead of seasonal
migration, as was previously the case. The Apurímac river valley soon became the
most dynamic agricultural area in Ayacucho, and thus also the one with the highest
population growth, with peasant producers highly integrated into the market economy
(CVR 2003). The road not only influenced the creation of new settlements and the
proliferation of ferias, but also the generalization of money exchange instead of barter.
Small, middle and eventually large tradesmen entered a regional economy which until
then had been dominated by large haciendas and peasant migrants. (Del Pino 1996).
According to Del Pino, most agricultural land was dedicated to products such as
cacao, coffee, cube and fruits until 1983. The expansion of guerrilla war in the VRA
produced changes not only in population patterns, but in agricultural production as
well. Rich farmers and traders left their properties and businesses to seek refuge in
large cities, while peasants from the highlands of Huanta, Tambo, and La Mar escaped
to the rainforest. In this new context, coca cultivation intensified; the crop required
relatively little effort to grow, and left plenty of time for the newly assumed task of
self-defense against the Shining Path (Del Pino 1996:127).

SUMMARY
Tambo is a district characterized by its rural peasant population, whose private use
and benefit of their land does not impede them from using the peasant community as
the preferred form of social organization. Tambo has historical, political and
economic ties to the regions of Huanta and Huamanga, and the rainforests of the
Apurímac river valley. Seasonal labor migration to the rainforest is a well-engrained

80
practice among the district’s population, either to work as rented laborers or to
cultivate their own plots. Production for self-consumption does not exclude
participation in the market economy through consumption, petty trade or seasonal
labor migration. The peasant economy is thus neither isolated nor independent of the
local and regional economy.
Throughout its history, the district of Tambo has been the site of armed
struggles, peasant rebellion, “pacification” campaigns, and reconstruction processes.
This is not a district untouched by political process at the national level, quite the
contrary. Together with the neighboring districts of La Mar and the province of
Huanta, Tambo has experienced at the local level the many shifts and struggles
involved in nation-state building processes. Historical experience in this region has
shown the risks of choosing the “wrong” side, as well as the temporality of political
alliances and shifting meanings of victory.

81
Chapter 5

THE ONSET OF ARMED CONFLICT AND DISPLACEMENT –

TAMBO UNTIL 1984

By the year 1980, the district of Tambo was going through a period of relative
tranquility that was soon to be broken. The Agrarian Reform of the 1970s had
consolidated the end of the hacienda system, a process initiated in the district about
half a century earlier. Agriculture was the foundation of a subsistence economy for
peasant families organized in peasant communities. Although traditional institutions
had undergone organizational changes introduced by the Agrarian Reform, the peasant
community remained the social unit of organization in the countryside. The incipient
coca boom in the Apurímac river valley also meant new opportunities for peasant
labor migration and increased incomes. In brief, the decade of the 80s found the
Tambo peasantry immersed in a process of change through increased contact with the
national state system and relative economic stability. The bureaucratic and
hierarchical nature of this contact however, turned into a closer yet highly
authoritarian and contradictory relationship during the 1980s, with the onset of
guerrilla war and the presence of the Peruvian military in Tambo as a result of this.
In this chapter I discuss the beginning and spread of the armed conflict in
Tambo, and its most immediate and dramatic consequence: internal displacement. The
chapter starts with an introduction of the Maoist communist party, the Shining Path
(Sendero Luminoso, SL), focusing on issues of ideology, recruitment and practices at
the local level,40l in order to understand Sendero’s approach to social and popular
organizations such as peasant communities. I then move on to discuss initial peasant
responses to SL, focusing on the elements that influenced such diverse responses as
support and peasant resistance against the guerrillas. The chapter ends with an account

40
The following section is intended as an introduction to a very comprehensive topic for which there is
a substantial body of literature, both in Spanish and English. This introduction is not exhaustive, and is
largely based in the works of Degregori (1990, 1991) and Poole and Renique. For literature on the
origins of the the Shining Path and its ideology, see CVR 2003; Degregori 1985, 1990, 1991a, 1991b,
1992; Gorriti 1999;Poole 1991, 1992; Starn 1995; Strong 1992. For literature on the start of guerrilla
war and initial peasant responses, see Coronel 1992, 1996; CVR 2003; Degregori 1992, 1996; Del Pino
1992, 1996, 2003, Fumerton 2001, 2002; Starn 1995, 1996; Portocarrero 1991.

82
of the process of displacement in Tambo, which followed the violent intervention of a
new actor, the Peruvian armed forces.

THE SHINING PATH

Throughout the 1960s, the Peruvian Communist Party suffered a series of internal
divisions resulting from the international debates between pro-Chinese and pro-Soviet
strands of socialism41. The first split occurred in 1964-65, when pro-Soviet militants
formed PCP Unidad, while the pro-Chinese formed PCP Bandera Roja. Abimael
Guzmán, the future Shining Path leader, sided originally with this pro-Chinese group.
In Ayacucho, the radicalism of some militants within Bandera Roja would lead to
further divisions. By 1970, Partido Comunista del Perú Sendero Luminoso (PCP SL)
had been formed by a “red fraction” within Bandera Roja, led by Guzmán. These
divisions meant the isolation of the new group from its original popular bases in the
regional peasant federation and citizen organizations. However, the new PCP SL
managed to retain control over the teacher’s federation and most importantly, within
the regional university.
Guzmán was born in Arequipa, where he studied for university degrees in both
law and philosophy. In Ayacucho, where he obtained a position as lecturer on
Philosophy, he joined a number of young academics from various parts of the country
in the newly re-opened Universidad Nacional San Cristóbal de Huamanga. Degregori
(1990) explains how throughout the 1960s the university became the basis for
ideological change in a region that otherwise lagged behind in socio-economic
progress. In this context, the university became a dynamic force within the region.
Following the political isolation caused by the final split with Bandera Roja, PCP SL
opted to withdraw into its university trenches and prioritize ideological work. The
political objective during the first part of the 1970s was therefore to achieve
ideological unification within its own cadres concerning the necessity of preparing for
armed struggle. This did not prevent the Shining Path from spreading its ideology
among university students, particularly through new curricula42. This ideological

41
This is the well-known debate on “revisionism” by the Soviet Union following the death of Stalin in
1953. The new USSR leadership took a critical stand, among other things, towards the personified cult
of the leader so developed during the Stalin regime (CVR 2003).
42
According to Degregori, basic courses such as the Introduction to Social Sciences, Biology, and
Philosophy, were replaced by Historical Materialism, The Dialectics of Nature, and Dialectic
Materialism respectively (Degregori 1990:192). Similar courses were also introduced in specialization
programmes, particularly in social science and education.

83
groundwork resonated well among an audience of teachers and students originating
from Ayacucho’s area of influence, that is, young people from middle and working
class, as well as peasant families from the provinces in Ayacucho, Apurímac and
Huancavelica. Upper-class youth would often be sent to Lima for their university
education. In 1973, the Shining Path lost control over the steering bodies of the
university, yet the Faculty of Education remained under its grip.
Degregori has studied the socio-cultural profile of the students which formed
the audience and recruitment base for the Shining Path in the early 1970s (Degregori
1985, 1990). Throughout Peru since the mid-1900s, education has been linked to the
myth of progress, the only way to scale up the social ladder in which peasant
populations found themselves at the very bottom. Peasant families did indeed invest in
the education of their children, and the first generation of peasant university students
were reaching the classrooms. Degregori argues that through their pursuit of higher
education, these students found themselves between two worlds: the Andean
traditional world of their parents, with which they no longer identified; and an urban-
criollo world that discriminated against them because of their peasant origin. These
students were thus in need of a new identity and intellectual security (Degregori
1991:193). The PCP SL offered both: an ideology that systematized (although in an
outdated fashion; see below) the social and political context in which they lived; and
an identity as members of an organization with the potential of changing that
discriminating context.
In 1973, the Shining Path established the organizational basis for the people’s
war through the formation of organismos generados (party-generated organisms /
organizations), defined as “natural movements generated by the proletariat itself in the
different organizational fronts” (Poole and Renique 1992:40). Soon a number of SL-
based organizations had developed in a variety of popular fronts, such as women,
peasants, workers, and neighborhood federations. According to Degregori, this meant
fierce competition for representation, leading to parallelism and eventually to the
division of popular organizations. Through the organismos generados PCP SL could
expand its outreach both within and outside Ayacucho, setting up a network of
sympathizers and supporters, led by party cadres. From 1975 onwards, the Shining
Path engaged into political education in the rural countryside through “people’s
schools”, on the basis of networks from organismos generados in Ayacucho,
Apurímac and Huancavelica. These schools allowed the development of a social base

84
in the rural areas and provincial towns, and had particularly appeal among the peasant
youth.
During 1977-1979, the Shining Path declared that the reconstitution of the
communist party was almost achieved, so that preparations for the armed struggle
could be initiated. The first Shining Path military school was established in 1979, and
Guzmán himself went underground that year. By the time this happened, a party
structure suitable to clandestine activity and military operations had been formed. The
party was led by a Central Committee (CC) and headed by a general secretary
(Guzmán himself). The CC was in charge of the overall management of the party; all
political, military and strategic orders sprang from it. The committee was constituted
mostly by party members that had joined since the beginning, professionals and
intellectuals from Ayacucho’s provincial elite, with close ties to the university. At the
second level, there were five regional committees, which controlled militant cells in
their respective regions. Each cell was headed by an experienced cadre, who would be
the contact point between the regional committee and the other members of the cell.
The chain of command made it impossible for cell members to know any other
members outside their cell, or at higher instances in the party (Poole 1992:43).
Besides the cells, PCP SL had a network of supporters and sympathizers that provided
various forms of support such as refuge, information, services, etc. According to the
CVR Final Report, PCP SL was constituted of 520 party militants and close
sympathizers at the start of the armed struggle in 1980, and about 2,700 in 1990, when
guerrilla war reached its most extensive and intensive moment (CVR 2003, Vol.
II:13).
The final period before the start of PCP SL’s armed struggle was one of active
political and social mobilization throughout Peru, with protests and strikes from all
sectors of civil society that finally led to the end of the military dictatorship and the
election of a Constitutional Assembly in 1978. PCP SL did not participate in these
mobilizations, in contrast to other political parties of the left, who regarded the
transition to democracy as an opportunity to shape the political future of the country.
For PCP SL elections and democracy were just another rearrangement of forces within
an already “rotten bureaucratic capitalism”, leading only to the establishment of
“parliamentarian cretinism”. In SL’s view, the political mobilizations of the late 1970s
were simply a misguided use of the masses by “revisionist forces” (that is, leftist
parties).

85
PCP SL ideology
The ideology of the Shining Path as it developed throughout the 1970s is
characterized by an authoritarian and totalizing worldview based on a fundamentalist
re-interpretation of historical materialism and a dogmatic belief in armed struggle. For
Shining Path, “the historical process of millions of years” had unequivocally led to the
formation of the party in order to lead the people’s war and establish the new and true
society of communism, “the society of great harmony”:

“Communism [is] the only and unsubstitutable new society, without exploited
or exploiters, without oppressed or oppressors, without classes, without State,
without parties, without democracy, without arms, without wars. [It is] the
society of great harmony, the radical and definitively new society towards
which fifteen billion years [sic] of matter in movement, of that part which we
know is eternal matter, is directed necessarily and irrepressibly, [and] to which
humanity must arrive only by passing through the highest expression
[potenciación] of the class struggle… and [through] the shadow of the rifles of
the invincible people’s war.” (Interview to A. Guzmán, in El Diario, July
1988; quoted in Poole and Renique 1992:50-51)

The Shining Path doctrine, or “Gonzalo Thought” (Pensamiento Gonzalo), as it was

called, was considered to be the “Fourth Sword” of communism after Marxism,
Leninism and Maoism, because it had assumedly achieved the highest level of
ideological purification. This entitled the party to engage in the historic task of leading
the people’s war; such glorious destiny legitimized the supremacy of the party above
all. Poole and Renique (1992) observe that the language of purification common to
Maoist ideology is taken to extremes in Gonzalo Thought. Revisionists and all those
that question the armed struggle were considered as a “cancer”or “filth” which had to
be cleansed and uprooted from the body of the party – and the masses. The armed
struggle is then conceptualized as “a purging mechanism for the attainment of
absolute purity, perfection and truth…” (1992:48), not only at the level of the
political, but also between the forces of good and evil (“red and black flags”) which

86
resided in every single being. Since these forces are irreconcilable43, the only solution
is the total destruction or eradication of the impure, a task to be carried out by the
party in processes referred to as “sweeping” or “burning”. Armed struggle is thus
conceived as a universal purging mechanism needed to achieve the society of great
harmony.
Another important aspect of the Shining Path ideology is its conceptualization
of history. The historical process is conceived in a linear, deterministic manner, with
only one possible outcome: the formation of the party (PCP SL) and the fulfillment of
armed struggle. Whatever other historical events might be taking place, they are only
rocks on the way, and must be removed. This was also a history without human
agency, because the pre-determined character of history cannot be resisted by
humanity. The moving force of history was violence, which had to be “elevated into
the higher principle for political action, revolutionary praxis and the reorganization of
a ‘new society’” (Poole and Renique 1992:52). It was through the maximization of
violence that the old State, the old system would be made to crumble, either through
direct attack or provocation. The latter was the preferred form, because repression and
retaliation by the State would isolate it from the masses. Gonzalo Thought combines
these conceptualizations of history and violence in a peculiar interpretation of
Peruvian social reality. Accordingly, violence was already a motor for change
throughout Peruvian history, but these changes had not achieved anything because
they lacked the ideological guidance of the party. If there ever was an agent in this
deterministic view of history, this could only be the party.
What are the implications of Gonzalo Thought for the way the Shining Path
viewed and approached social organizations? The supremacy of the party implied that
the solely and truly legitimate representative of the “masses” was the party, thus
defining all non-SL-based organizations as illegitimate and therefore opponents and
impure elements that had to be purged. The historical necessity of the armed struggle
implied the predominance of military action and violence over political change: first
seize power through violence and then, build society anew. Whatever efforts social
organizations might engage for bringing about social and political change were vain,
and therefore dismissed, opposed, and in many cases literally “crushed”. I would

43
Poole and Renique (1992:50) trace the roots of Guzmán’s conceptualization of contradiction as
antagonism to Kant’s concept of real or exclusive oppositions. Orthodox Marxism instead sees
contradiction as the unity of opposites.

87
argue that by defining popular organizations as either false, misguided, revisionist or
impure, the Shining Path could dehumanize their representatives and exert violence
over them: these were not individual human beings representing popular
organizations, only “enemies” of the party. In the context of such social change and
broad popular organization as Peru was undergoing in the 1970s, PCP SL was blinded
by its own ideology, as Degregori’s conclusion depicts so well:

“[I consider that] the level of violence that SL develops is so great –among
other reasons– because senderistas have to fit reality to the idea, and in order
to do so, they have not only to stop time, but to turn it backwards.” (Degregori
1991:244)

In other words, not only did the Shining Path have a distorted interpretation of
Peruvian history, where social and political organizations had no role to play; but it
also intended “to fit reality to the idea” by erasing these organizations from the map.
Even the party structure demonstrated the hierarchical character of Shining Path
ideology. At the top of the pyramid was “the party”, that is, its central committee,
deciding everything. The party did not need to be an organization of the masses in
order to carry out armed struggle. Instead it was an organization of cadres, because the
party considered itself the true representative of the proletariat; even more – the party
was the proletariat (Degregori 1990). PCP SL took the authoritarian character of the
traditional provincial elites or mistis to its extremes, and became the new lords, the
new mistis of the countryside.

“INITIATION OF THE ARMED STRUGGLE”

The attack in Chuschi on May 17 1980 marked what the Shining Path called
“initiation of the armed struggle”, a day before the first presidential elections in Peru
after military dictatorship44. Following this attack, a number of other surprise attacks
took place in various places in and around Ayacucho, and across Peru. Attacks would
target banks, public buildings, police stations, electricity pylons, and isolated mines
(where access to dynamite was relatively easy). Ambushes on police forces were also
common, with the aim of obtaining weapons. Newly elected president Belaúnde had

44
This particular event is discussed in Chapter One.

88
only been in office for six months when his government sent the first contingent of
police reinforcements to Ayacucho in January 1981, 150 troops called Sinchis, a
specially trained anti-terrorist unit45. Soon after, the first reports of abuses and
excessive violence by the police emerged from the provinces. Throughout 1981, the
Shining Path expanded its operations across the country; about a quarter of these took
place in Lima (Poole and Renique 1992).
In March 1981, the first terrorist legislation of the democratic period was
passed in Congress, Legislative Decree 046, which typified terrorism as a crime
subject to military jurisdiction. This law was (mis)used to persecute any possible usual
subjects/suspects, such as leftist party leaders, activists from labor organizations,
radical priests, and students. Towards April that year, the Shining Path declared that
the first wave of its military operations was completed. The second and third waves
had the aim to “conquest, move and stir the countryside” and lasted until September
1981. It is in the fourth wave that the Shining Path announced the development of
guerrilla war and the intensification of violence. This would involve more risky
operations by the cadres, often at the cost of their lives. In PCP SL jargon this is
known as “the quota”, in reference to the great number of lives that armed struggle
required, both from the cadres and the masses (CVR 2003).
In the context of the fourth wave, on Sunday October 11 1981, about 50
guerrillas attacked the police station in Tambo, taking with them weapons and
ammunition and causing three deaths (including a one-year old child) and five injured
(Gorriti, 1999). The attack had been prepared two days earlier, when a few militants
arrived in Tambo unnoticed. On the day of the attack, these were joined outside the
town by other groups, mainly from the neighboring district of San Miguel, but also
from Tambo itself. No one except the cadres knew about the nature of their mission
until the last minute. After the attack, the group escaped quickly in two pick-up trucks
and a motorcycle which left them in the road outside Tambo, and then dispersed in the
countryside. The day after, president Belaúnde declared for the first time a state of
emergency in five provinces in Ayacucho: Huamanga, Huanta, Cangallo, La Mar and

45
This unit had been created almost two decades earlier, as a result of guerrilla activity in the 1960s.
These were small militant groups inspired by the Cuban revolution, and were disbanded fairly quickly.
For these guerrilla movements, see Béjar (1973).

89
Victor Fajardo. This measure, which suspended all civil liberties, was meant to last for
60 days only46.
The year 1982 saw the expansion of guerrilla activity on several fronts, and
with even more audacity than before. In March, the Shining Path mounted an
impressive attack on the Ayacucho prison, liberating 250 inmates, Shining Path
cadres. This single action had an enormous effect on public opinion, both locally and
nationally, and was interpreted as a result of the incapacity of police forces to control
the situation on their own home ground. The next day the police killed three alleged
guerrilla cadres in Ayacucho’s central hospital, who were receiving medical treatment.
This added to the national outrage.
SL attacks continued, including a second attack on Tambo for several hours on
May 15, 1982. The town was defenseless, since a few days earlier the police had
retreated to the provincial capital San Miguel. This was the beginning of a strategy
chosen by the police, to gather their forces in larger cities at the expense of
abandoning the countryside and smaller towns. The fall of the town of Vilcashuamán,
in another province, in August that year was another blow for the authorities, because
police forces had surrendered to guerrillas in order to stay alive.
According to Poole and Renique (1992), there was a certain level of sympathy
for the Shining Path among the urban populations of Ayacucho and Huanta, both
because it represented an oppositional force to the centralistic state in Lima, where all
decisions were taken47, and because of the many abuses that the police committed
against the local population in carrying out counter-insurgency. The funeral of 19-year
old cadre Edith Lagos became a public manifestation of support to the Shining Path
for some, and one of frustration with the anti-subversive strategy for others.
Thousands of people participated in the burial procession and the religious service,
where a number of contradictory signals appeared: the service was led by the
conservative bishop of Ayacucho, and the coffin was covered by the red flag of the
Shining Path. The police watched on the side. Lagos, a well-known senderista, had
been a university student in Lima, the daughter of a prosperous merchant family in

46
The fact is that state of emergency continued in this region for almost 20 years, with a few breaks in
between. Throughout the years, an increasing nuumber of departments across the country were to be
put under state of emergency due to the armed conflict.
47
Centralization efforts by the military regime in the 1970s were met with regional skepticism across
the country (see Nugent 1997 for the case of the Chachapoyas). This seems to be case also in
Ayacucho. Ttwo years after the return to democracy, little had changed; and the armed conflict did not
make the situation any better.

90
Ayacucho. She was killed during a police raid in Andahuaylas, in the neighboring
department of Apurímac.
By now it was obvious that the Shining Path was of a completely different
nature than the guerrillas of the 1960s,48 and that police repression would not suffice
to solve the problem (Tapia 1997). Increasing numbers of executions of public
officials and local authorities by the guerrillas imposed such a climate of fear that
people even doubted about whether to help the victims, because “the party has a
thousand eyes, a thousand ears” (Gorriti 1991). President Belaúnde was wary about
sending the armed forces into the emergency areas, as he himself had been deposed by
the military in 1968 in a coup d’etat. After a number of violent deaths at the hands of
the Shining Path in Ayacucho, Belaúnde ordered the armed forces to take charge of
the emergency areas on December 23rd,1982. General Noel became the first head of
the political-military command for the emergency areas, and two thousand troops
were deployed on December 31st. Like everyone else at the time, Noel thought that his
mission would last a few weeks, a few months at the most. This marks the start of the
most violent period of the internal armed conflict in Peru.

The Shining Path in the countryside

The numerous attacks and executions carried out by the Shining Path in the first two
years of the conflict in Ayacucho, Lima and the provinces were the most visible
expressions of the armed conflict. The less noticeable aspect of “the struggle” was
taking place in the countryside, at the level of local populations and peasant
communities. As we have seen earlier, the party structure emphasized political and
ideological cadre preparation rather than massive active participation. In their initial
approach to the peasant population, the Shining Path gave priority to the spread of
Gonzalo thought and the ideal society of great harmony. Those cadres sent to spread
these ideas were young students and teachers of peasant origin, often known to the
local population. Family and friendship networks were used to have access to larger
peasant audiences, and to recruit sympathizers and militants. The Shining Path started
to approach the Tambo peasantry in 1980, through sporadic visits to the communities
to spread information about their cause. They would speak about taking power away
from the rich, about fighting the government, about Marxism Maoism, and about the

48
These are the guerrillas referred to on footnote 41; see above.

91
party. During these visits, the guerrillas would usually select a few responsables or
contact persons among the members of the community, to be in charge of calling up
meetings, and informing them (SL cadres) about problems and community events. SL
intended to gain support not only through political and ideological work, but also by
playing the role of arbitrator or judge in the solving of internal community problems.
For example, SL members would publicly reprimand or punish community members
who had misbehaved, or abused their authority for personal gain. In the eyes of the
community, such acts were justified and contributed to raising local support for the
Shining Path (Coronel and Loayza 1992; Degregori 1991, 1992; Del Pino 1992).
In 1982, the Shining Path was ready to move beyond ideas in the countryside
and to go ahead with the establishment of “the new State” through the creation of
“people’s committees” (comités populares) in peasant communities. These
committees were to be led by comisarios or responsables in charge of managing the
affairs of the community such as security, production, justice and organization. SL
had gained not a few adherents, particularly among the younger people (Degregori
1991), and not everyone was unwilling to become a comisario. In the context of the
revolutionary ideology and party structure introduced by the Shining Path, there was
no room for the traditional structure of peasant organization around the varayocc and
community authorities. Local authorities were thus removed from their positions, and
in some cases, killed by the guerrillas.
With the new system came also new rules and step by step, the Shining Path
tightened its grip over the everyday lives of community members. Traditional local
markets were prohibited, and peasants had to get authorization from the responsables
to move beyond community borders. Peasants were not allowed to bring their
products to sell in town any longer; instead, they were obliged to contribute to the
party cause with food and grains for free. Children and youngsters were forced to
abandon regular education in order to attend “people’s schools” (escuelas populares)
where they were instructed in party ideology; or even worst, youngsters were
forcefully recruited to join guerrilla cadres outside the district. The new lords wanted
to exert far more control over the communities than peasants were willing to accept.

First attempts of peasant resistance against the Shining Path

The Shining Path underestimated the importance of community organization and local
authorities, as well as the ways in which peasant economy was interconnected with

92
local and regional markets (Degregori 1992). Complaints against the new rules and
rulers were treated with severity, often through physical punishment and public
humiliation. As peasant discontent with strict party rule increased, the Shining Path
applied harder disciplinary measures including public executions for those who
disobeyed or were unwilling to collaborate. According to Coronel, Degregori and Del
Pino (1996) whatever initial peasant sympathy and support there was for SL, this
ended when the party exceeded the limits of what is morally acceptable and turned
instead to the raw use of violence to maintain its control over the peasant population.
These reactions occurred spontaneously and relatively early in the history of the
armed conflict, that is, in 1982.49 Neither of these first attempts occurred in the district
of Tambo itself (at least not in a noticeable manner), but in neighboring areas. Yet
these first experiences have played an important role in the history of the armed
conflict in Tambo (as will be discussed later) in terms of the spread and nature of the
armed conflict in the district (the course of the conflict over time across the district),
and the re-arrangements in local rural society through the processes of displacement
first, and later return and reconstruction. The start of peasant resistance is discussed
below.

North of Tambo: Uchuraccay, Huaychao, and Macabamba

The first peasant uprisings against the Shining Path took place in the highlands of the
province of Huanta, in the communities of Uchuraccay, Huaychao, and Macabamba.
This area lies north of Tambo, and the community of Uchuraccay is considered part of
Tambo’s area of influence mainly due to its physical proximity50 (see Map 5). A first
incident reported by the CVR took place in Uchuraccay in October 1982, where the
community surrounded six senderistas active there, including the head cadre
“Martin”. The authorities decided to kill them, but the rest of the community were
against this, so they were forgiven and kicked out of the community under the promise
of never returning (CVR 2003, Vol.V:131). When a red flag appeared on the mountain

49
That is, nine years before the legalization and institutionalization of Self-Defense Committees
(CADs) in 1991.
50
This is of course relatively speaking, since it takes approximately 2 hours to reach Ucchuraccay from
Tambo by car. The road from Huanta does not reach Ucchuraccay yet, and one has to walk around 4
hours to reach transportation in that direction. For access to public services, including electoral
processes, peasants from Uchuraccay and Iquicha, as well as Catupata and Tanahuasi (all under the
territorial jurisdiction of Huanta) are referred to Tambo. These communities also participate in popular
festivities in Tambo, such as carnivals and religious celebrations.

93
Map 5: Peru’s South Central Region, Zone II: Huanta, Huamanga and La Mar Provinces

Source: Peru’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission Final Report (2003), Vol. IV, p. 63.
Reproduced and edited from original website (accessed 28 August 2003) and CD-rom version.

94
slope, it was removed and burnt by the community president. The Shining Path’s
revenge came a few weeks later, in late November or early December, in an incursion
aimed to set an example of how the party punished its opponents. The community
president was violently taken from his house, detained for several hours, and killed
together with another peasant after a “people’s court” (juicio popular). In addition, his
house was set on fire, and a female relative was injured. A similar incursion took
place in Huaychao, killing both the community’s president and the governor
lieutenant. From this moment onwards, peasant response to the Shining Path became
one of resistance and violent confrontation, while at the same time one of fear of
reprisal. The new situation required rapid organization of self-defense measures, such
as watching posts, guard shifts, the use of sound horns to alert others, and sleeping in
mountain caves if necessary. It also required cooperation and coordination among
neighboring communities, in order to help each other in case of attack.
The climate of vigilance and imminent attack was not unsubstantiated. The
CVR has registered a total of 24 senderista deaths at the hands of peasant
communities in this area around this time. Sendero’s revenge was then only a matter
of time. The most notorious cases of peasant resistance were the ones that occurred in
Macabamba and Huaychao, where seven guerrillas were killed on January 21st 1983,
and five more in Uchuraccay the following day. These events received national news
coverage, and were applauded both by President Belaúnde, the military commanders
and the newspapers, as evidence of “virility” and “courage” of “citizens” with the
right to defend themselves against terrorism (Del Pino 2003). In acknowledgement for
their contribution in fighting the guerrillas, a military helicopter was sent to
Uchuraccay on January 24th with troops to protect the community (but stayed only one
night), and food supplies from the president. The message sent by the state was clearly
one of approval and support for the involvement of peasant communities against the
Shining Path, regardless of their tactics. The military left peasants with a warning
against all strangers that arrived on foot, as these might be senderistas; the military
would instead arrive by helicopter (CVR 2003, Vol. V:132).
On January 26, only a few days after peasants from Uchuraccay and Huaychao
had been praised as loyal citizens and heroes, eight journalists from Lima and
Ayacucho plus their guide (a local peasant youth) were killed in Ucchuraccay when

95
the community confused them with senderistas51. The community never stopped to
think that the people they had just killed could not be senderistas, and so on January
28th two peasant representatives were sent to Tambo to inform the authorities of the
events. On their way, they met a team of navy and police officers who had been sent
out to search for the journalists (CVR 2003, Vol.V:139). Once the news reached
Lima, the previous support turned into condemnation over the deaths of the
journalists, who became ‘martyrs’ of the armed conflict. The brief peasant heroes
were immediately condemned by public opinion as ‘brutish and primitive’, both of
which were allegedly ‘common features of their peasant nature‘. This highly
discriminatory and racist view of the peasant indigenous population in Peru, mixed
with a paternalistic analysis of power relations (that peasants are incapable of knowing
what is best for them and are therefore in need of protection ), to construct an a priori,
yet widely accepted interpretation of the events.
An Investigative Commission was set up by the Senate to find the truth of
what happened.52 The Commission’s report concluded that it was the community,
collectively, who killed the journalists. But public opinion, including the families of
the victims, never went along with this conclusion. As the CVR Report concludes, the
four-year long legal process that followed the Uchuraccay case had as its objective to
uncover a predetermined truth: that it was the military who killed the journalists, and
if it had indeed been peasants who killed them, it was only under direct orders from
the military, because “how could these innocent peasants do a thing like that?53”. In
fact, indigenous peasants were so devoid of human agency in Peruvian public opinion,
that “the possibility that peasants could be capable of defending themselves violently
in a situation of war, was never considered by the judges” (CVR 2003, Vol.V:168).
There were a number of irregularities in the investigations and legal
procedures that followed the deaths of the journalists, and which received the attention
of national press. What was not publicized, or not listened to, were the continuous
attacks by the Shining Path throughout 1983 and 1984 on the community of
Uchuraccay in response to peasant resistance, as well as by the military and even
51
For a solid analysis of the Uchuraccay case see Del Pino (2003). The most complete version of the
events is found in the CVR Final Report, “El Caso Uchuraccay” (Vol. V:121). For an analysis of the
case in the context of nation-building and local/regional history, see Méndez (2001).
52
This is usually referred to as the Vargas Llosa Commission, as it was led by writer Mario Vargas
LLosa. It included a journalist and a lawyer, in addition to an advisory team made up of three
anthropologists, a psychoanalyst, a lawyer, and two linguists.
53
Paraphrasing a comment by a relative of one of the journalists during a commemorative event in
Uchuraccay, reported by Del Pino (2003:88).

96
neighboring self-defense committees. Furthermore, after the events in Uchuraccay, the
Political-Military Command in Ayacucho banned the press from access to the rural
areas. In August 1984, Uchuraccay was abandoned. 135 people had been killed out of
a population of 470. The rest sought refuge in places such as Tambo, Huanta, and the
rainforests of the Apurímac river valley (CVR 2003).
The events in Ucchuraccay clearly demonstrated the contradictory position of
indigenous peasants in Peru, perceived at once as peaceful, innocent, pure and free
from the evils of modern society, as well as brutish, primitive, prone to violence and
ultimately ignorant to the point of being fooled by the powers that be. There was a
long way to go before peasants could be seen as political actors. However, the
Uchuraccay experience did not bring an end to peasant self-defense in the highlands
of Huanta, which continued under the local name of montoneros, in reference to the
resistance initiatives after the War of the Pacific and the peasant uprising against the
landlord Añaños in 1923 (ref. history of Tambo). Informants from the western part of
Tambo report of violent raids by these montoneros, reaching as far south in Tambo as
Ccarhuacc, Ranra, Paria, Yuracc Tullu, and Polanco. These montoneros came together
with military soldiers, and a number of killings and abuse against ‘suspected
guerrillas’ have been reported. Cattle were also stolen during these raids.

On the Apurímac River Valley54: Chinquintirca and Anchihuay

Southeast of Tambo, in the district of Anco, uprisings similar to those in the north
developed in 1983, becoming a general response towards mid-1984. The communities
of Chinquintirca (bordering the highlands) and Anchihuay (in the rainforest valley) in
the district of Anco took the lead against the Shining Path cadres, who approached the
district first in late 1982. With guerrilla war already under way, the Shining Path did
not have the time to conduct political work and gain supporters in these communities
as it did in the highlands, yet the needs and demands for control and resources were
more pressing. Local authorities were executed by the guerrillas fairly soon after
arrival, thus producing an almost immediate reaction among the local population.
According to Del Pino (1996), organized peasant response was also facilitated by an
army presence in the area since 1984, supporting – sometimes actively, sometimes

54
This section is based on Del Pino (1996), who provides the most comprehensive account of the
origin, development and organization of peasant resistance in the Apurímac river valley. See also
Fumerton (2002)

97
tacitly – the newly named Comités de Autodefensa Civil (CDCs). These initial forms
of resistance were characterized by raids of organized peasants who traveled across
the valley with the purpose of mobilizing other peasant communities against SL. Also,
these groups were locally referred to as montoneros, as the ones in the highlands of
Huanta. The methods used by the montoneros were violent too, and a number of
deaths and abuses have been reported in the communities they entered. Peasants from
the eastern part of Tambo (particularly those bordering the district) report on the
arrival of montoneros from the rainforest from time to time, urging them to organize,
but also threatening them about the consequences of supporting the Shining Path.
Physical punishment for those suspected of collaboration with the guerrillas is also
reported. These acts gave the montoneros fame as bravos, meaning tough, harsh.
The Shining Path, on the other side, could not allow any form of challenge
over its control of the area, and hit back hard. This led to an intensification of violence
on both sides. By 1985, the CDCs and the military had regained control over the
valley and neighboring areas, and the number of CDCs increased rapidly across the
valley. Although the Shining Path regained strength in the period 1985-1988, the
CDCs pervaded and formed the basis for a counter-offensive strategy that ended with
the victory over the Shining Path and the consolidation and institutionalization of
organized peasant resistance in the early 1990s; this is discussed in Chapter Seven.

EXPERIENCES OF ARMED CONFLICT AND DISPLACEMENT IN TAMBO 1983-1986

The attack on the Tambo police station in October 1981, mentioned earlier, would
indicate that political work by the Shining Path had already been initiated in the
district, particularly the urban centre, as it involved the participation of local youths,
and some from neighboring San Miguel as well. This work continued and increased
throughout 1982, when SL set up comisarios or responsables in most communities in
the district, in order to access information, support and resources. Responses to
involvement in community affairs were mixed in the beginning, with acceptance being
widespread since it was perceived as more risky to oppose SL than to join their
operatives. The situation changed in 1983, when the military took over the task of
counter-insurgency.
As was the case with Huanta, jurisdiction over Tambo was given to the Naval
Infantry, who were already in place by the time the Uchuraccay killings occurred (ref.
above). The effective military control over the district of Tambo as part of a counter-

98
subversive strategy was an uneven process that took place over a period of two years,
and which involved different parts of the district at different times. Based on my
fieldwork material, and corroborative secondary sources, it is possible to argue that
the process went through (at least?) two phases.
The first part of the process involved the communities of the northwestern side
of the district (towards Uchuraccay and Huanta) throughout 1983, culminating in the
creation of Ccarhuapampa, the first multi-communal refugee settlement and civil
defense organization established in Tambo. The second phase of the process involved
the eastern parts of the district throughout 1984, culminating in yet another refugee
settlement and civil defense committee, this time in the already existing community of
Huayao.
This periodization highlights the importance of contextualization in the
reconstruction of experiences as complex as an armed conflict. For one thing, as the
CVR report indicates, the 250 navy soldiers (two companies) assigned to Huanta and
La Mar, were far from sufficient to exert immediate effective control over a territory
so vast and intricate as these provinces are. Furthermore, for the case of Tambo, the
experience of Ccarhuapampa and the western communities has overshadowed that of
the eastern communities, in spite of having fairly similar experiences of brutality,
suffering and organization. This section attempts to bring to the fore a variety of
experiences of armed conflict and displacement in Tambo, basically from the
communities of Ccarhuapampa, Ccatupata and Huayao, but also from others. These
accounts are presented in the context of counter-insurgency strategy for the two
different phases.

The first phase of counter-insurgency strategy in Tambo: Ccarhuapampa

1983
Until 1983, the peasant community of Ccarhuapampa did not exist.55 Today, it is the
largest community in the district, with approximately 400 families, originally
displaced from 13 peasant communities from the north-western part of Tambo, the
same “corridor” area connecting Tambo to the Razuhuilca mountain, near
Uchuraccay. From the initial contacts with the communities in this part of the district,
the Shining Path gradually increased its control over the local population in a manner

55
Peasant community in the social unit sense of the term; see Chapter Four for a discussion of the term.

99
similar to that of Uchuraccay, appointing responsables to inform on community
affairs and gain support. The sporadic visits of just a few cadres took more permanent
forms, and they started to stay in the communities for longer periods of time. Many
peasants, particularly young men and women were sacados or “taken away” from
their communities to join SL recruits needed by the party for a number of reasons.
Those recruited would take part in activities such as popular trials, raids and attacks
on neighboring communities; setting up red flags; block roads; obtaining food
supplies, petrol and arms; and cultivating the land. The navy presence in the district
meant that SL had to tighten its grip over the rural population in order to secure their
support. People were simply forbidden to leave their communities so as to avoid the
risk of “betraying” the party.
Fumerton (2002) suggests that the Navy offensive over the western part of
Tambo was part of a larger military operation that targeted the “Iquichano”
communities (Iquicha, Uchuraccay, Ccarhuahuaran and others in Huanta). This is
plausible, since it would allow access to that area from its southern flank. Although
my data cannot verify the existence of this larger plan, it does support Fumerton’s
reports of what he calls “a massive sweeping operation through the western half of the
district” (2002:89). Indeed, relatively large and heavily armed contingents of Navy
soldiers combed the area community by community, in search of guerrillas,
frightening the population into giving information, and killing any suspected guerrilla
on the spot. Houses were burned and people ordered to leave their villages in order to
prove that they were not senderistas. After the navy had left, the guerrillas arrived and
served justice of their own, punishing or killing those who had presumably
collaborated with the soldiers: no one was to leave the villages. In this to and fro of
forces, the local population was literally placed in the line of fire.
It has been noted by Coronel (1996) and Degregori (1996) that the Navy is the
one institution among the Peruvian armed forces more “white” and “coastal” in terms
of the social composition of its personnel, than for example the Army, which is more
racially and socially mixed. Discrimination and racism against the Andean peasant
population in particular, but also towards anything “provincial”, help explain the
nature of the violent repressive methods employed in the military counter-insurgency
strategy of the first five years. Furthermore, Navy soldiers were trained for open battle
and direct confrontation with its enemy, which is why they chose large patrol groups
to raid a given area. The use of guerrilla war tactics by the Shining Path, based on

100
isolated attacks and incursions, made it difficult to face guerrillas on open ground.
Being in this way unable to locate or isolate their enemy, the target of the counter-
subversive strategy became the civilian peasant population at large. It was first in
1984 that small combat patrols became a generalized method of offensive action
(CVR 2003).
The following account shows the critical situation experienced by individual
families in the western part of Tambo in 1983, eventually opting to abandon their
home communities. “Leoncio”, from a north western community still abandoned in
1999, fled in September 1983 after being appointed as the new Shining Path
responsable, a position previously held by his brother-in-law. A few days earlier,
Leoncio’s brother-in-law had been taken prisoner by the military, along with other
peasants, during a raid in their community. A guerrilla ambush stopped the military
group on its way back to Tambo, and the prisoners escaped. That same day Leoncio
was on his way back from Tambo, and found himself in the crossfire; he tried to take
cover, only to discover that he was being observed by a guerrilla group from higher up
the mountains. The battle was violent, and the Shining Path suffered many casualties
to the army helicopters backing up the troops.
The guerrillas stayed in hiding until the next morning, when Leoncio was
taken back with them to the community. Leoncio and his brother-in-law were not
looked upon kindly by the senderistas, because they were members of an evangelical
church and had refrained from taking active part in previous Shining Path operatives.
On the way back, he says, all he could think about was that they were going to kill
him, and that the only way to assuage the guerrillas animosity was to pretend to be in
favor of the party. By the time they arrived, the brother-in-law had been intercepted by
the senderistas and taken back to the community, and having chosen to escape instead
of return to the community, he was accused of being a soplón, an informer to the
military. He was killed that evening.
Leoncio could not refuse to become a responsable, but both he and his wife
decided to abandon their community as soon as possible. Peasants had been ordered
by the guerrillas to buy petrol in Tambo, in order to prepare an attack to the military
base. Leoncio tried to leave the community using this as an excuse, but he was not
allowed to go. In the meantime, he learned of the checkpoints and the safest route, and
after 6 days of waiting, he and his wife escaped through a different route, taking some
petrol cans with them as an alibi in case they were stopped by the guerrillas.

101
 Leoncio and his wife arrived in Tambo safely, but proceeded to the city of
Ayacucho in order to avoid being recognized by the locals. However, they came back
two months later, when word went out that peasants from all communities were
coming down to Tambo in search of refuge and security. Leoncio says that when he
came back, “everywhere in Tambo they [peasants] were, in all of the Tambinos’
houses they were, with their sheep, their cattle, and then they decided to organize and
took this place to build their huts.” The place peasants chose to erect their huts was a
hill only 20 minutes away from the town, a piece of land that belonged to a
neighborhood called 9 de Octubre and that was donated to the retirados (literally,
retreated; this is what displaced people were called) or refugees. The place would later
be renamed Ccarhuapampa.
According to Leoncio, 3000 people gathered in Ccarhuapampa: people from
the communities of Balcón, Paria, Ranra, Churulla, Unión Cristal, Polanco, Unión
Minas, Huantaccasa, Uchuraccay, Tantaccocha, Michcapampa, Rayanccasa and
Rodeo. The huts were improvised tents made out of plastic covers that served as home
for people and animals56. Those who had taken cattle with them sold them at bargain
prices, but not a few animals were confiscated by army troops, and most of the cattle
just died. A chicken-pox epidemic spread in the camp, causing a large number of
deaths, particularly among children. As Leoncio says “everyday children died, 5, 6, 7,
10 daily… we were in funerals only, if we had only counted, how many of them
would be”. Living conditions in Ccarhuapampa were harsh from the beginning, and
following the first months of establishment, the military failed to take any measures
regarding food, employment or basic services. According to a USCR report, the Red
Cross and Medecins sans Frontiéres provided aid relief to Ayacucho, including
Ccarhuapampa, on an irregular basis until January 1987. This came to a halt when the
military banned these organizations from the area (Kirk 1991).
The displaced families in Ccarhuapampa lived under constant fear of an attack
by the Shining Path, since abandoning their communities and the countryside had
turned them into yanaomas or “black heads”, “traitors”, that is, those who become
enemies of the party by escaping the countryside. At the same time, the newcomers
were looked upon with suspicion by local Tambinos and the military, namely for
being peasants and for coming from the highlands.

56
The local grass traditionally used for roofs, ichu, was not readily available because the large number
of cattle existing until then used to keep the growth of pastures to a minimum.

102
 The displaced families gathered in Ccarhuapampa organized the first Civil
Defense Committee (CDC) of the district of Tambo on November 29th 1983, with
representatives from all the peasant communities. According to my informants, it was
peasants themselves who took the initiative to organize, as it was perceived to be the
only way of defending themselves against imminent attacks by the Shining Path.
When asked about the creation of the civil defense organization, the answer is almost
unanimous: Peasants organized at their own initiative, not by command from the
military. The role peasants in Ccarhuapampa assign to military involvement in the
organization of the CDC is one of support or oversight, but not one of command. This
widespread recollection contrasts with other versions. Fumerton (2002:90) indicates
that the commanding officer of the Naval Infantry, known as “Capitán Lagarto”,
ordered the peasants to form a CDC, but that it was the people themselves who elected
their authorities; afterwards, the Navy endorsed the new authorities. Recalling the
discussion on memory and recollection in Chapter Three, it is not surprising that the
version of “free will” organization is preferred over one of “direct command” or
“force”, given the fact that self-defense organizations played such a vital role in the
victory over Shining Path. It is also interesting to see how the element of free will,
even if it was only in the election of local authorities, is emphasized by Fumerton’s
informants within the limits of a military decision (to organize CDCs).
Moving beyond the issue of whose idea it originally was, is the fact that the
CDC Ccarhuapampa was immediately operative and that it remained so for at least 15
years. Security became the number one issue, and the new organization became its
means of providing it. There were meetings or formación every day in order to
coordinate tasks and operations, and lookout posts were manned all day long. Security
operations not only dealt with defending the new settlement, but also involved
patrolling the countryside in search of senderistas and/or their bases of operations.
Such actions could be carried out with or without military personnel, yet its results
always had to be reported to the them, particularly if there had been casualties,
prisoners or if arms had been found. Already in 1983 and 1984, the military base in
Tambo supplied the CDC with basic weapons, mostly hand grenades, and instructed
peasants in their use. Besides these, peasants had little other than traditional weapons
such as huaracas and lanzas (a stone weapon, and spears). As they grew in
experience, CDC Carhuapampa gained a reputation for bravery and expediency in the

103
district. The following year, Ccarhuapampa became the district’s Sede Central or
Central Committee for self-defense organizations.

The second phase of counter-insurgency strategy in Tambo: The mid-

eastern communities, 1984
According to the CVR report, the period 1983/84 has passed into history as the most
violent one throughout the internal armed conflict in Peru. For people in Tambo, 1984
is the year when life was turned upside down, when violence and fear permeated all
aspects of life. During this infamous year, the peasant population was the target for a
number of violent attacks and arbitrary deaths caused by the Peruvian armed forces
and the Shining Path (many of which seem to remain unreported today, even after the
work of the CVR). Closely related to this is the ‘completion’ of the process of
displacement, which in 1984 encompassed the entire district. Finally, this year saw
also the expansion and generalization of civil defense committees across the district.
As in Ccarhuapampa the previous year, violence, displacement and self-
defense were closely interrelated both as personal experiences and as social, collective
processes. Accounts from the communities of Ccatupata, Challhuamayo, Huayao,
Patapata,Vicos, and Osno lead me to conclude that the mid- and eastern parts of the
district were effectively controlled by the armed forces first in 1984, particularly in the
second half of that year. The following is an attempt to show how violence,
displacement and self-defense went hand-in-hand in the mid- and eastern communities
of Tambo.

Ccatupata and Challhuamayo: A common destiny

Ccatupata lies at the top of the mountains one and a half hours away from Tambo by
car, on the eastern side of the mid-mountain range in Tambo. The road leading to
Ccatupata ends today in Uchuraccay. At the bottom of the mountain, by the road side
lies Challhuamayo Baja, a community that is the natural local market or feria for the
northern part of Tambo. According to my informants, there had always been tension
between the two communities. Peasants from Ccatupata said that people in
Chalhuamayo disliked them and discriminated against them for being “from la puna
(highlanders), with no manners, chutos”. Given this unfriendly relationship, the
hardships of displacement were accentuated by the fact that they had to seek refuge in
Chalhuamayo itself. Although it seems that animosities have dissipated since then, the

104
recollection that Ccatupata peasants give today about the process of displacement is
closely related to the original distrust between the two communities.
According to my informants, a child disappeared in Chalhuamayo during a
market day in August 1984. People there blamed those from Ccatupata for having
taken the child, capturing a group of peasants from the highlands as suspects. They
went as far as to deliver them to a group of Sinchis (police) who happened to be there
at the time. With these people under arrest, the police sent out a message requesting
all peasants from Ccatupata to present themselves immediately in Chalhuamayo. If
not, “the Sinchis would come to the community searching for us, and probably kill
us.” To make matters worse, Ccatupata peasants had also fallen out of grace with the
tucos (SL members, short for terruco, “terrorist”), because three local peasants had
abandoned the community a few days earlier, heading for Chalhuamayo. The tucos
suspected these three of being soplones, traitors or informers that were going to give
away information about SL. Therefore, the people of Ccatupata expected a SL attack
at any moment. The choice, as they saw it, was between being killed by the Sinchis or
being killed by the tucos; either way they would be killed. An improvised community
assembly took place then and it was decided to leave the village and find refuge in
Chalhuamayo, where the majority of the population stayed for almost 13 years. By the
end of 1984 all communities in the area had been abandoned, including Churumarca,
Marcobamba, Tanahuasi, and Iquicha. According to my informants, only those with
some contact with the Shining Path dared to stay in the land.
“Pablo” is one of those that stayed most of the time in Chalhuamayo. His
experience as retirado57 provides insight into what happened at the time. He is
originally from the neighboring community of Iquicha but lived in Ccatupata, where
his wife is from. He was 26 years old when he escaped heading for Tambo, where he
stayed for only a week, because he was harassed by both the military and Shining
Path. He then went to Huanta and stayed for a month. Relatives from Lima invited
him to stay with them, so he went to Lima while his wife and children stayed in
Huanta. After 2 months in Lima, his family called him back to Chalhuamayo, so he
returned. The newly formed Civil Defense Committee (CDC) arrested him because
they thought that “he had just come down from the hills” (bajado del cerro, an

57
The terms “internal displacement” and “internally displaced person/people” were introduced first in
the early 1990s by the United Nations system. During the 1980s in Peru, different terms applied such as
retirado (retreated), refugiados (refugees), migrantes (migrants), or simply “peasants from…”. See
Chapter 6 for further discussion.

105
expression used for SL supporters who kept to the highlands). Once the confusion was
sorted out, he obtained a 1-day travel pass to go to Huanta and Calicanto to pick up
family members. These are great distances, but as he says “that’s how it was those
days”. Once in Chalhuamayo, he was elected a local authority (CDC President and
Commando), “just so that I would get killed”, he says. He explains that people
suspected him of being a tuco, and since it was local officials that had the highest risk
of being killed by the guerrillas, this was a sure way to get rid of him.
Life in Chalhuamayo was very difficult for displaced peasant families. They
lived by the edge of the road or next to the river in huts made out of plastic sheets and
paper. Pablo says that people in Chalhuamayo treated them well, but there was
nothing to eat, living as they were on other peasants’ good will, “like beggars”. For
security reasons they could not go to their farms, nor travel to the jungle. Daily life
was dependent on rumors about the imminent Shining Path attack, who did not
hesitate to execute CDC leaders in order to demoralize and threaten peasants. In 1984
alone, Chalhuamayo experienced 4 incursions by SL resulting in deaths and injuries.
Incursions and attacks without casualties have not been reported, but have probably
occurred. Pablo is a man who has experience death first-hand throughout the armed
conflict. Besides losing 2 of his children to the conflict, both his father and brother
were killed in 1993 in the community of Calicanto (on the way to the jungle), at a
guerrilla incursion when the local CAD was doing formación (the daily CAD
meeting); 27 people died. Pablo says that after this episode, the military provided
them with 8 Winchester guns; “Calicanto has suffered more than we did, they attacked
even in daylight”, he says.
Before 1984, Chalhuamayo Baja became home not only to Ccatupata, but also
to peasant families from other nearby highland communities, such as Marcobamba,
Chalhuamayo Alta, Iquicha, Tanahuasi, Churumarca, Tincocc, and even Uchuraccay.
At the same time, a number of families from Challhuamayo sought refuge in Tambo,
and even left the district. In September 1984, a self-defense committee was formed
with the participation of people from the various communities. Its location at the
bottom of a narrow valley where the road to the rainforest takes a sharp U-turn made it
vulnerable to incursions or attacks by the Shining Path. According to the registers
elaborated for the compensation issue (see Chapter Nine), Chalhuamayo has suffered
(at least) ten attacks by SL in the period 1984-1994, resulting in (at least) 22 deaths.

106
The CVR report has registered a total of 31 deaths in Chalhuamayo, caused either by
the military or the Shining Path, for the period 1982-2000.

Huayao, a resistant community

Huayao is located in one of the most fertile valleys of the district, east of Tambo, at
the foot of the mountains that connect Tambo with the more forested areas on the
eastern side of the Andes. Peasants from neighboring highland communities all have
to pass through Huayao on their way to town. In 1983-84, Huayao experienced the
same kind of situation as described for other communities: increased control by SL,
violent raids by the montoneros from Anco, and sudden military visits by the military.
Peasants in the area were constantly taken by Shining Path cadres to block the road to
the jungle, and to mobilize surrounding communities, particularly Masinga, along the
main road. The CVR report indicates that during 1983 and 1984, there was a strong
Shining Path presence in the districts of Tambo and San Miguel in La Mar Province
(CVR 2003, Vol.V:225). My own information supports this statement; there seems to
have been Shining Path responsables in every community in the district. Although
some responsables were indeed guerrilla supporters who had endorsed the guerrilla
cause, most peasants today would say that they had no choice but to follow orders,
“because the eyes and ears of the party were everywhere”. Indeed, responsables were
supported in their control activities by a number of local peasants sympathizing with
the party. This is what spread most fear and insecurity within the communities; a
comment from these collaborators could mean death at the hands of the guerrillas,
who were determined to get rid of soplones. In this climate of control and fear
experienced at the time, it is not difficult to understand that few dared to refuse a
guerrilla assignment. Local community authorities had been deposed by the Shining
Path, and had ceased to carry out their functions. As one of my informants succinctly
puts it: “Authority who worked, [he was a] dead man.”
The recruitment of older children (as young as 13 years old) by the Shining
Path to carry out operations was a common practice. Sometimes families received a
warning, for example, that the cadres would come back for this and that child in the
future. In other cases, children were just taken by force. One case reported in the
community register of Huayao (Libro de Actas) tells of a father who was to be
recruited in 1984; after pleading with the cadres to let him stay, because he had five
children to support, they decided to take his eldest son instead. As the father reports,

107
the boy was found dead a few months later in another community. More often than
not, these children never returned.
The history of Huayao as a community of refuge, or comunidad resistente
(resistant community) as it was to be called later, is closely related to the previous
history of its neighboring highland communities. According to testimonies collected
in Huayao, the massive displacement towards Huayao started during the last months
of 1984, when the highland communities were forced to leave their homes after
intensive raids by the armed forces. One particular account stands out for its crudity
and surrealism, the one about the peasant community of Ccescce. This community,
which lies a good two hours walk northeast from Huayao, was said to be a Shining
Path comité de apoyo, a place where the Shining Path allegedly enjoyed broad support
and from which it coordinated operations for the neighboring areas in Tambo, San
Miguel and highland rainforest to the east58. On the occasion of the traditional
celebration of their patron saint on October 4th, the community was ready to start the
festivities and guests from neighboring communities had gathered to join in with the
locals. A key informant says that two peasants from Ccescce who were wanted by the
Shining Path had gone to the military and informed them of the celebration, but this
has not been confirmed by other informants. At about 9am, at least one helicopter
(according to Monje (2000)) there were three; other informants report “several”) flew
over Huayao and soon disappeared behind the mountain. Shortly after, people in
Huayao could hear thunder-like sounds of explosions coming from behind the
mountain (were Ccescce is located). Later, the new retirados from Ccesscce would
tell people in Huayao how the helicopters used their heavy artillery to open fire over
their community – from the air.

58
Unfortunately, I have not been in Ccescce myself, nor interviewed people from there either. This
account is made by people from Huayao, where peasants from Ccescce sought refuge. Besides my own
data, I find references to this episode in Monje 2000 and in a letter from a protestant pastor to an NGO
requesting assistance for Huayao in 1993. Two references are also found in the Huayao libro de actas,
both indicating October 4th as the date of the assault. The first reference is found in the testimony given
by an arrepentido in January 1985; he had heard of the “military intervention”. The second one is given
by a newly elected authority of Ccescce on March 1985, where he refers to what happened as “the
accident… the disaster to be blamed on the senderista groups.” The CVR report has not registered this
event. The closest one gets to the Ccescce massacre in the CVR report is three entries in the register
“Initiative for people missing”, which is an annex to the Final Report. The three missing victims were
detained in 1984, one on October 2, another on October 12 and a third one with no specific date. Does
it mean that the massacre did not take place, and that it was possibly an accident? My own conclusion is
that it did occur, but that it has yet to be properly reported and investigated. I hope to be able to develop
this case in future research.

108
 “It was like thunder and lightning… strong, strong it sounded, up there
[pointing towards the mountain], and then the poor people came, crying they
came, with their little things, their little animals, their small children,
crying…” (Testimony by “Guillermo”, Huayao)

The result of this assault on Ccescce was between 60 to 100 deaths, of men, women,
children, and elderly, who stood no chance against an air raid59. The helicopter(s)
landed in the community and a patrol of Naval Infantry soldiers stayed there for five
to six days. This particular type of patrol is referred to as “the mercenaries”
(mercenarios) by the local population, a term meaning simply “killers”. The
mercenaries are thought of as having no scruples whatsoever, and so had to be if
peasants were to make sense of the brutality used towards them. Not “only” did the
mercenaries kill and set houses on fire, they also stole and took with them anything
that might be of use or value, “even soap”, as many have reported. Similarly, I
observed a sense of indignation when people recall that the mercenaries ate the food
that had been prepared for the community celebration. Having no compassion and no
scruples is how the mercenaries are remembered today. It is interesting to see how the
act of stealing is used as a marker for absence of morality in the peasant narrative,
highlighted sometimes even more than abuse and violence. In the moral code of
peasants in Tambo, to steal from the poor or to take from the one in need is interpreted
as an act of utter contempt and demonstrates a total lack of empathy and compassion.
Stealing from their victims made the context of violence and chaos even more unreal.
From their temporary base in Ccescce, the mercenaries raided neighboring areas,
burning down houses and ordering people to leave and resettle on the valley, in
Huayao. The first to come were the 30 surviving families from Ccescce, but more
were to arrive.
The arrival of displaced families worsened the situation in Huayao, as the fear
of an attack by the Shining Path increased, and their presence could also provoke
suspicion and actions by the mercenaries upon the community. According to my
informants, in November 1984 things got to a point where people from Huayao
decided it had to stop. They had heard about (and some experienced) montoneros in

59
The number of victims varies according to sources. References in the Huayao libro de actas mentions
60 deaths, while informants say 100. Either figure could be correct, since it is unclear whether the libro
de actas refers to number of dead of Ccescce people only, or to the total number of victims, which may
include people visiting from other communities, and maybe even guerrillas.

109
the rainforest, and a community assembly was organized on November 25, 1984 to
reconstitute local authorities. It had been decided to send a delegation to the provincial
capital of San Miguel to inform about the new authorities and to ask for support. But
they never got that far, because a large group of guerrillas carried out an incursion in
Saytahualla, a hill overlooking Huayao, to recruit people for an attack on rainforest
communities already organized as montoneros. With the guerrillas still there, the
military made a surprise assault a few days later. The military raided the entire area
house by house. According to my informants, most people opted to wait for the
mercenarios in their own homes, as any attempt to escape could be misinterpreted and
punished with death.
After the assault in Saytahualla, two patrols totaling 45 Naval Infantry soldiers
entered Huayao and gathered the entire population on the school patio, where Huayao
peasants were commanded to organize a civil defense committee within a week. The
communities of Tantar and Patapata had also been forced to come down to Huayao for
this ‘meeting’. Another version of the same events says that peasants had to march to
neighboring Vicos, to receive instructions from the military, so as in the case of
Ccarhuapampa, different versions of the creation of the CDC abound. What it is
certain however, is that in the case of Huayao, the Naval Infantry had direct
involvement in the organization of the self-defense committees; this is clearly stated
by both informants, and in the registries collected for the compensation issue.
The military established a base on a plain right at the community centre, a
place from which they raided the surrounding highlands over the subsequent 3 weeks,
with the participation of peasants from the newly formed self-defense organization.
During that short period of time, peasants from YantaYanta, Chacco-Pamparaccay,
Julcamarca, Usmay, Huisca, Patapata, Tantar, Cuchicancha, Pucamarca, Tinyas and
Huancapampa were forced to abandon their communities to be reallocated in Huayao,
in order to secure the area against guerrilla control. This happened in spite of the fact
that some communities had already organized into self-defense committees, months
before Huayao, as is the case of YantaYanta, Pucamarca, Tinyas and Huancapampa.,
as reported in the registers for the compensation issue. Once in Huayao, the retirados
lived under the same conditions as people did in Ccarhuapampa and Challhuamayo:
plastic tents, disease and hunger. Those families that were fortunate enough to have
land plots within walking distance from Huayao, could continue working the land; the
rest had to make do working for other people or renting plots from Huayao peasants. It

110
is impossible to know with certainty how many people had gathered in Huayao by the
end of 1984. Informants say “thousands, many, cantidad”, but no accurate numbers
are provided. An OXFAM-Peru report cited by Kirk (1991) indicates that

“… the Peruvian navy had formed nine refugee camps in the Emergency Zone
by 1984: Huayao (581 people), Yanta-Yanta (202 people), Tantar (175
people), Ccescce (145 people), Vicus (100 families), Pata-Pata (60 families),
and Pukrura (50 families).” (Kirk 1991:13)

All the communities mentioned above are located in the district of Tambo, in the
eastern vicinities, with Vicus being the only one not re-allocated in Huayao. If we
count only the number or people assumed to have gathered in Huayao, YantaYanta,
Tantar and Ccescce, we reach over 1100 people. This figure can well be considered as
a minimum estimate of the number of people gathered in Huayao towards the end of
1984.60

Other communities
Ccarhuapampa, Huayao and Chalhuamayo were not the only communities of refuge in
the district of Tambo. The communities of Acco, Osno and Mahuayura also became
centers of refuge for peasants from neighboring areas, located as they were along the
road to the rainforest. A few communities did in fact remain in their original site
because their central location meant easier access to roads or neighbors, thus reducing
the threat of a Shining Path attack. These communities however, developed a new
settlement pattern. Distant and isolated family houses came to be seen as risky and
dangerous; and people considered the likelihood of resisting an attack to be much
higher if they lived close to each other. Communities adopted different strategies to
adjust to the new situation of armed conflict and threat, as we have seen in the

60
Based on the number of communities re-located reported by Kirk (1991), it is reasonable to assume,
that the camp population in Huayao reached 1500-1800 people. It is possible that the OXFAM report
refers to the origin of the refugees living in three such camps (Huayao, Vicus and Pukrura), rather than
to the number of camps themselves. It could also be the case that the listed communities had a “refugee
camp” for a very short period of time, given the fact that prior to the armed conflict, the pattern of
settlement in the countryside was spread (much unlike today, when all houses are built next to each
other on a single location). The “camp” could then have been the site within community boundaries
where peasant families gathered for a few days or weeks before they moved on to other communities.
As Kirk herself observes, such reports are impossible to confirm, since the military restricted access to
these camps.

111
previous section. The community of Vicos, for example, opted to re-locate themselves
to Osno, as a security measure to escape attacks by the Shining Path (and possibly also
to avoid suspicion from the military). Fear of an imminent attack was so deeply rooted
that for a period of two to three months both locals and retirados opted to sleep in the
school building to better face an attack on the village. Osno (Osno Bajo) became the
centre of refuge for communities in the valley between Huayao and Challhuamayo,
and included people from Vicos, Tinyas, Huisca, Huancatambo, etc.
In the community of Acco, the organization of a self-defense committee
occurred in early August 1984, after the community had experienced several deaths at
the hands of the Shining Path. According to “Luis”, the community had been
threatened by SL for staying in the countryside instead of retreating to the mountains.
They were told that SL cadres would come during the night to take them away from
Acco. Taking this warning seriously, the authorities went to the military base to ask
for help. There they were told that “to avoid disappearances, you have to bring a list of
people (padrón) so that when we come the following day, we can verify who are the
ones not there, the same way [it will happen] whenever the montoneros arrive”
(testimony from “Luis”, in Acco). The purpose of this list was to identify who was
missing from the community at the moment of inspection; for the military, absence
from the community was synonymous with being a senderista, “why else would they
want to leave the community?”. Once the guerrillas learnt about this, it carried out an
incursion in Acco, threatening to kill all those whose name was on the list. Those
collaborating in setting up the list had hidden during the night. The following
morning, the Naval Infantry surrounded the village and took five Shining Path cadres
as prisoners; one of them was killed in Acco. A new list was made and the community
“organized”, this time under military supervision. As punishment, the Shining Path
bombed the school building the following night. At this stage, the community decided
to move to a location called Tuncupata, where yet more guerrilla incursions awaited.
In December 1984, the community returned to its original site in Acco and formed a
self-defense committee, together with retirados from the communities of Pampa
Hermosa, Polanco, Uchuraccay, and Pucayacu.

THE DYNAMICS OF DISPLACEMENT IN THE DISTRICT OF TAMBO

The process of displacement in the district of Tambo went hand in hand with the
spread of the armed conflict in different areas of the district. Displacement was

112
usually triggered by threats and attacks from the Shining Path and/or the armed forces.
Displacement within the district culminated in the organization (forced as well as
voluntary) of self-defense committees in the communities of refuge. The scope and
impact of displacement was so great in the district, that Fumerton concludes that 49
out of 66 original communities61 were displaced by the armed conflict (2002:339);
while Wiig (2005) reports that 31 out of 49 communities had been displaced. Both
numbers reflect the serious repercussions of the displacement process in Tambo. The
armed conflict included not only subversive activity and incursions by the Shining
Path guerrillas, but also counter-subversive strategy implemented by the Peruvian
armed forces (in the case of Tambo, the Naval Infantry). The post-Uchuraccay climate
of 1983, where the Political Military Command in Ayacucho became under suspicion
for being responsible for the death of the journalists, led the military to shut the press
out from the emergency areas. The use of force and repression as counter-subversive
strategy in Tambo in 1983 and 1984 remained unreported and undocumented until the
1990s. While massacres such as Accomarca, Ocros, Lucanamarca and others in the
provinces of Huamanga and Huanta (CVR 2003) received public attention, similar
horrors occurring in Tambo went unnoticed. Why was this so? Why did we not learn
about Ccescce, Acco, and Saytahualla before? We might never get a definitive answer
to this question. I end this chapter with a few observations about the process of
displacement in Tambo and its dynamics, on the basis of the empirical material
presented here.

Internal displacement within the district

The process of displacement in Tambo occurred largely within the district’s own
boundaries, involving peasant families from highland communities seeking refuge in
“safer” communities, usually down the valleys or along the road. The town of Tambo
was also an option, and this is how the shanty-towns surrounding Tambo emerged. In
a few cases, entire communities moved to a single location, such as Ccatupata and
Marcobamba moving to Challhuamayo Baja, or the northern communities moving to
Ccarhuapampa, or Vicos to Osno. But in a number of cases, peasant families from a
single community dispersed to a number of communities of refuge, like peasants from
Iquicha, who were found both in Chalhuamayo, Acco, and Ccarhuampampa.

61
Or rather, settlements; ref. our discussion on number of peasant communities in Tambo in Chapter
Four.

113
 Several factors influenced the decision of where to go for the retirados, all of
which could be at work in a single family at different points in time. The families
forced by the military to reallocate themselves in Huayao, had little choice but to
choose other places; but those from Ccatupata found refuge in places as far away as
Lima, because they had relatives and friends that could help them there. When
peasants from Vicos chose to move to Osno, the proximity to their agricultural fields
was an important moment in the decision. Families that had a piece of land in the
rainforests were most likely to escape there than to other places. So imposition
(“forced migration”), fear for their lives, and the possibilities of sustaining a
livelihood were factors taken into consideration by displaced families. Those with less
resources and options outside the district, stayed within the district. Unlike the case
with some communities from the provinces of Huanta and Huamanga, Tambo
peasants did not form large, organized groups of displaced people in Lima and other
larger cities. The self-contained character (in spatial terms) of the displacement
process within the district might have inhibited the spread of information about
Tambo outside of its own borders. The implication of this particular case for other
conflict areas around the world, is that internal displacement can indeed go unnoticed,
be invisible as it were, when confined to the boundaries of a single region. Shorter
distances may not sound as dramatic as crossing international borders, but for those
being displaced from their homes, this can be a traumatic experience nonetheless.
Another implication is that repression and abuse can forego under ‘closed doors’, with
few or no emissaries to alert others about what is going on inside these areas.

Displacement as a temporary strategy

In retrospect, we can observe that displacement has not been a permanent strategy for
peasant families in Tambo, particularly not for those who were displaced within the
district. Instead, displacement was considered mostly as a temporary emergency
measure, even in those cases where it lasted for a decade. The goal of most displaced
families within the district, has been to return to their home communities. Those
families with fields in relative proximity of their place of refuge, continued working
the land. The prospects for those without this possibility were more limited, and other
options had to be considered, such as leaving for larger cities or for the rainforest. In
these cases, it was often young adult males who left first in order to find a job and

114
lodging before sending for the family to join them. In the case of unmarried men, they
usually stayed away for longer periods of time, often several years.
The temporality of displacement in Tambo is well exemplified by the case of
Patapata, a community that already in 1985 returned to its original site in agreement
with the Huayao self-defense organization and the military authorities. Iquicha had a
similar experience, although it was displaced once more in 1990. Temporality also
occurs in reference to the trajectories of individuals and families, and not only with
regards to the community of origin. It was not uncommon for families or members of
the family to seek opportunities in different places throughout the period of
displacement from their home community, eventually coming back for the organized
return.
Displacement as a permanent strategy in Tambo occurred only in the case of
Ccarhuapampa, where the displaced families formed a new community. Since the late
1990s, however, many of the families living in Ccarhuapampa have returned to their
communities to rebuild them, thus exercising a dual residency, one in the countryside,
and one “in town”, that is, in Ccarhuapampa.
The temporality of displacement demonstrated by the case of Tambo,
highlights the “emergency” character of this option. People left their homes because
they were either forced to leave by the military, or because the situation in the
countryside was considered extremely unstable and dangerous. This case shows how
displacement and return cannot be considered as fixed categories that happen only
once during the course of an armed conflict, and with only one destination. Instead,
displacement and return should be approached as dynamic processes, in a fluid
manner, both historically and geographically. This aspect is particularly relevant for
the implementation of humanitarian support to ‘displaced’ and ‘returning’
communities. This will be discussed in more detail in Chapter Eight.

SUMMARY
The Shining Path initiated its guerrilla war against the Peruvian state in 1980,
following an initial period of ideological groundwork and cadre recruitment
particularly among young people in the urban and rural areas of Ayacucho. Original
peasant support for the guerrillas turned to opposition gradually, as the Shining Path
attempted to tight its grip over the local population. The presence of the military in the
areas under state of emergency further increased the violence, as harsh repressive

115
methods were part of the counter-subversive strategy and employed against the
civilian population. This led to massive internal displacement from the rural areas
into a few communities of refuge, and to urban centers in a more limited scale. The
process of displacement in Tambo was almost immediately followed by the formation
of self-defense committees, either imposed by the armed forces, or organized by
peasants themselves. Given the climate of insecurity and fear experienced in 1983-84,
the self-defense committees served a dual purpose for the peasant population: to
defend themselves against Shining Path attacks, and to reduce the chance of becoming
subject to military suspicion and repression, by making a clear statement on peasant
support. In the violent context described above, self-defense became thus an
imperative for survival for the peasant population. Independent of the imposed or
voluntary origin of the initiative, it is possible to argue that self-defense became the
organizing principle of everyday life in resistant communities in Tambo from 1983/84
until the late 1990.

116
Chapter 6

PEASANT SELF-DEFENSE IN TAMBO (1): THE FIRST YEARS

Both this and the next chapter present the logic and practices of self-defense in the
district of Tambo since the time of the organization of civil defense committees
(CDCs) until their institutionalization as “self-defense committees” (CADs) in
1991/1992, as part of the pacification process initiated by President Fujimori. I aim to
demonstrate how self-defense as an organizational principle underwent changes in its
character and implementation at the local level to adjust to a highly volatile political –
military situation,. To do this, I combine the information collected through the
compensation rights registers with material obtained through interviews with peasant
ronderos about this period, in an attempt to reconstruct the local history of the armed
conflict and peasant self-defense in Tambo.
This chapter starts with a summary presentation of the material collected
through the compensation rights issue, that is, the registries of casualties of the
Shining Path (Registro de Víctimas por la Subverción) for the district of Tambo. This
data provides general trends that will be explored throughout the chapter. This is
followed by a presentation of the CDCs as community organizations in 1984-85, and a
discussion on practices of self-defense during the mid-1980s, including the re-
incorporation into community life of people “compromised by the subversion”. I then
move to discuss a specific source of information, the registry book of CDC Huayao, in
order to explore the links between experience and the recording of information in a
situation of armed conflict. The discussion on peasant self-defense in Tambo in the
late 1980s will continue in Chapter Seven.

RECONSTRUCTING A HISTORY OF SELF-DEFENSE

In order to identify trends in the history of armed conflict and self-defense in Tambo, I
suggest that an overview of the armed conflict in terms of violent incidents and
casualties caused by the Shining Path can be a useful starting point. However, this
poses a few challenges that need to be addressed. First of all, human suffering cannot
be limited to the number of casualties a conflict produces, because for each individual
affected and those close to him/her, the trauma and the pain is real and palpable.

117
Furthermore, experiencing and witnessing abuse, suffering and pain creates fear,
insecurity and mistrust. Yet numbers on violent incidents and casualties can signal the
level of violence experienced in Tambo, providing a background against which other
in-depth material can be presented and analyzed. This is how I attempt to reconstruct
the history of self-defense in the district of Tambo.
Secondly, since the focus in this chapter is on peasant self-defense against the
Shining Path, the data from the compensation rights issue is highly relevant. However,
the armed conflict involved also a third and powerful armed actor, the Peruvian armed
forces. A similar registry of casualties by the armed forces in Tambo was not prepared
in relation to the compensation rights issue in 1999, since the registries were originally
designed to fulfill the specific purpose of providing evidence to pinpoint weaknesses
in the compensation decrees (more on this in Chapter Nine). This important part of the
overall picture of the armed conflict has been filled by the work of the Truth and
Reconciliation Commission (CVR), whose Final Report presents also the numbers of
dead or missing reported and registered through a nation-wide process of data-
collection. CVR data for the district of Tambo will also be presented here in order to
complement the limitations of my own material.
Thirdly, the categorization of violent incidents should be discussed. Based on
the data collected for the compensation rights issue (ref. Chapters Two and Nine),
violent incidents between the peasant population and the Shining Path guerrillas
during the armed conflict could be seen as falling into (at least) four broad categories
of events: confrontations, autonomous operations, mixed operations, and incursions.
The first three categories share the common feature of having the initiative on the
peasant side, with the difference consisting of who participated in the operation. In
confrontations, only the members of a single CDC participate; while in autonomous
operations the members of one or several CDC(s) would take part. Mixed operations
involved joint missions between military and CDC personnel, usually led by the
military. In the last category – incursions – it is the Shining Path that makes the move
with a surprise attack upon a peasant community.
Although the categorization of violent incidents might seem arbitrary at first, it
brings the benefit of systematizing the valuable and rich data gathered for the
compensation rights issue62. The data documented CDCs active engagement in search

62
When the registers for the compensation rights issue were designed, we operated with two categories
only: confrontations and incursions. The first one was the one employed in the compensation rights

118
operations for guerrillas outside their home territories. Oral testimonies on such
operations had been reported previously63, but the compensation rights data allowed a
first attempt to reconstruct these (historical, factual) events in a systematic manner for
the district of Tambo.
In Chapter Nine, I discuss the process of data collection for the compensation
rights issue. At the moment of collection however, it was not envisaged that the
registers would provide such comprehensive material as was finally obtained. The
systematization of the data, based in a categorization of violent encounters between
the CDCs and the Shining Path, indicate fluctuations and change not only in the type
of event and frequency, but also on the relative strength of self-defense organization.
It is important at this point to emphasize that I make no claims to absolute numbers of
events and victims of the Shining Path in Tambo. Instead, I consider the data to
indicate a minimum number of violent encounters and casualties, largely because I
cannot exclude the possibility of under-reporting during the process of data collection.
And fourthly, the reliability of the data should be considered. Families might
not have been present at the moment of data collection for the registries; others might
have chosen not to report a victim for personal reasons (perhaps ambiguity over the
cause of death); those filling up the registries might have chosen not to include an
event; the reasons can be many. Could the opposite be the case, that is, that the
numbers presented here have been “inflated” during data collection? This possibility
deserves consideration given the original purpose for the data collection process,
which was to document the claim that most casualties among peasant ronderos had
occurred before 1992 and during incursions, not confrontations, in order to influence
current legislation. Should the data have been distorted to benefit from the
compensation offered by the current law, it is my opinion that the registered number
of casualties during confrontations would have been much higher than the one
reported. To inflate the number of casualties during incursions would only be
beneficial if current legislation were indeed changed; such indirect, long-term strategy
makes the possibility of data-inflation very unlikely.

decree, while the second was the one identified by peasants as the most common type of violent event.
It was first after analyzing the data that we saw the need to make a further distinction between
autonomous and mixed operations, in order to grasp the complexity of the phenomena under analysis.
63
See among others, works by Coronel, Degregori, and Del Pino for Huamanga, Huanta and the
rainforest, and Fumerton for Tambo. It should be noted that Fumerton’s sources included written
accounts by a CAD leader in Tambo for Operación Halcón in 1999 and the siege of Tambo in 1991
(Fumerton 2002).

119
 Another argument that supports the validity of the data is the fact that the
numbers obtained are relatively modest in relation to the perceived assumption in
Tambo that “hundreds and hundreds of people, thousands of people” had died during
the armed conflict. 350 dead casualties are far below “thousands”. My conclusion is
therefore that the data presented here is not “inflated”, nor is it a finished product with
absolute numbers and dates; quite the opposite, it should be considered as a minimum,
a benchmark from which the history and numbers of the armed conflict in Tambo can
be approached and re-constructed.

Trends in the armed conflict and self-defense in Tambo: A view from the
data of the compensation rights registries
According to the data gathered in the registries for the compensation rights issue in
Tambo, dead casualties of the Shining Path (that is, caused by the Shining Path, and
not Shining Path guerrillas dead or injured) amount to 350 people, while 65 were
injured, during the period 1983-199464. These casualties were caused in the course of
136 registered incidents for the same period. The distribution of casualties according
to type of incident is presented in table 4. The table clearly indicates that the vast
majority of casualties occurred during incursions.

Table 4: Number of casualties by all types of incidents, Tambo 1983-1994.

Tambo 1983 -1994 No. of registered Casualties

incidents
Dead Injured
Confrontations 9 22 12
Autonomous operation 25 23 13
Mixed operation 16 41 4
Incursions 86 264 36
Total 136 350 65
Source: Registro de Víctimas por la Subversión - Comités Distritales de Autodefensa de Tambo y
Santillana 1999

However, total numbers hide significant variations on the time of occurrence of

violent incidents. A closer look at the distribution of incidents and casualties per year
will give a better view of the course of armed conflict in general, and self-defense in
particular during the period 1983-1994. Table 5 shows that the most common type of

64
The database of the compensation rights issue registers is found in Appendixes II and III.

120
Table 5. Registered number of incidents per type and year, Tambo 1983-1994.

Tambo 1983 1984 1985 1986 1987 1988 1989 1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 Total
Single confrontations 0 3 3 2 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 9
Autonomous operations 0 4 7 1 2 1 0 0 4 5 1 0 25
Mixed operations 0 2 4 0 4 0 1 0 0 4 0 1 16
All confrontations 0 9 14 3 6 1 1 0 4 10 1 1 50
Incursions 0 25 9 7 9 8 4 14 6 3 1 0 86
Total No. incidents 0 34 23 10 15 9 5 14 10 13 2 1 136

Table 6. Registered number of casualties per type of incident and year, Tambo 1983-1994.

Tambo 1983 1984 1985 1986 1987 1988 1989 1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 Total
Confrontations (*)
Dead 0 42 13 6 0 0 0 0 2 20 3 0 86
Injured 0 7 6 1 0 0 0 0 0 15 0 0 29
Incursions
Dead 0 45 33 12 21 15 31 43 11 52 1 0 264
Injured 0 5 10 0 2 0 3 4 3 9 0 0 36
Total No. dead 0 87 46 18 21 15 31 43 13 72 4 0 350
Total No. injured 0 12 16 1 2 0 3 4 3 24 0 0 65
(*) Includes all types of confrontations: single community confrontations, autonomous operations, and mixed operations.

121
violent incident between the peasant population and the Shining Path was incursions,
with the highest incidence registered for 1984 and 1990. Only in 1985 and 1992 is the
number of confrontations above the number of incursions, signaling a position of
advantage and capability in the self-defense committees with regards to the Shining
Path.
The year with a higher incidence of violence is 1984, with a registered total of
34 incidents, while 1985 shows the second higher incidence. This alone identifies
1984-85 as the years with the highest incidence of violent events during the armed
conflict in Tambo. Independent of the number or type of incidents, it should be noted
that incidents are registered in every single year in the period 1984-1994. A violent
incident in any part of the district became the permanent reminder that the area was
still part of an armed conflict, and that there was still a Shining Path presence in
Tambo, thus adding to the insecurity and fear already experienced by the local
population.
The year 1989 was a turning point, showing the lowest number of registered
incidents, only five. This year is highlighted in many of my interviews as “the prime-
time of disorganization”, a time when the Shining Path moved freely around and
faced no opposition. With a few exceptions (such as in Ccarhuapampa), the civil
defense committees existed only on paper. Therefore, there was no need either for
numerous Shining Path attacks against peasant communities. The lower occurrence of
incursions did not, however, mean fewer casualties. In 1989, five incidents left 31
people dead. According to the registered data, it is in the years 1988-1990 that the
civil defense committees reached their lowest level of offensive/defensive capacity,
falling therefore most prey to Shining Path incursions.
Table 6 presents the number of registered casualties. In Tambo, there have
been casualties by the Shining Path every year, from 1984 until 1993. The numbers
oscillate greatly, from 87 registered for 1984 down to 4 in 1993.65 While 86 peasants
lost their lives in confrontations, the registered number was three times higher for
those killed in incursions: 264 casualties. The number of casualties per incident also
oscillates greatly, from zero up to 47 in a single event, as was the case with the
Shining Path incursion in Huayao on the night of October 10, 1992. From the number

65
In other words, an average of 35 people whose deaths were caused by the Shining Path every year.
As with violent incidents, killings and the subsequent funerals functioned as a constant reminder of the
Shining Path presence in the district.

122
of casualties, it can be concluded that it is the periods 1984-85 and 1989-1992 that
were the most violent ones during the armed conflict in Tambo.
The CVR database indicates 498 reported dead or missing in the district of
Tambo (69 missing, 429 dead). Table 7 presents the CVR data for Tambo. It is worth
noting that the CVR collected information for the period 1980-2000. A year by year
breakdown of this data was not possible because the general list (Nómina) of dead and
missing does not include the year of occurrence66.

Table 7. Number of dead and missing in the district of Tambo, La

Mar, Ayacucho, reported to the CVR, 1980-2000.

Attributed to… Disappeared Dead

State 36 84
Shining Path 29 319
CDCs/CADs 2 10
Confrontation with SL 0 1
Undetermined confrontation 0 14
Undetermined 2 1
Other 0 0
Total 69 429
Source: CVR Final Report, Vol. IX, Annex 4.1.

The compensation rights registry includes only casualties dead and injured caused by
the Shining Path, and not disappearances (because of its original purpose). Comparing
the numbers for reported dead attributed to the Shining Path, 319 in the CVR Report
(349 including missing and confrontation with SL) and 350 from the compensation
rights registries, it can be noted that the gap between them is relatively small67 (only 1,
or 30 if disappearances/ confrontation with the Shining Path are included), particularly

66
The year of occurrence has indeed been recorded, and distribution by year has been done in one of
the annexes of the CVR Final Report, where entries are presented as text on registry files sorted by
community or location. The problem is that each entry in that annex may include one or several
casualties. Even after using a word processor to sort the information by year, to access the numbers of
casualties would have to be done manually. Given the timeframe of this dissertation, such task was not
possible. At the time of my last contact with the Ombudsman Office (the agency in charge of
preserving the CVR’s archival material and documentation) in Lima in August 2004, the necessary
software for processing the data was not yet available to the public.
67
Is this proximity in numbers mere coincidence or can it be interpreted as an approximation to the
truth about death, violence and human rights violations in Tambo during the armed conflict? To answer
that question is beyond the scope of this dissertation. The issue is so comprehensive that it deserves
attention on its own. A comparative analysis of the registry data for Tambo and Santillana and the CVR
report is under preparation and will be published separately.

123
taking into account that the CVR reports data for a larger timeframe than the one
collected for the compensation rights issue (a difference of nine years). In the case of
Tambo, this is particularly important because the CVR has collected 25 testimonies of
incidents and casualties for 1983, a year for which the compensation rights registry
does not report any information.68
Offering more questions than it is possible to answer, I leave this issue here,
appealing to one of the qualities of truth endorsed by the CVR: “la verdad es
perfectible”, that is, that truth is to be perfected, that is, improved, corrected, and
expanded. The truth about the armed conflict in Tambo is thus perfectible, and
hopefully these observations will contribute to the process of finding out what really
happened. What the data presented in this section actually does, is to support and
document a history of the armed conflict in Tambo as told by local peasants. The
trends delineated in the data analysis coincide with the oral versions, recollections,
and testimonies collected through interviews during my fieldwork in Tambo.

CIVIL DEFENSE COMMITTEES AS COMMUNITY ORGANIZATIONS

The practices of self-defense have received much attention in the literature on peasant
resistance69, an interest legitimate in its own right and to be discussed here too. Less
attention has been given, however, to the issue of community governance during the
armed conflict, that is, the management of the community’s internal affairs both
toward its own local population and in relation to external actors. In other words,
community governance deals not only with the internal life of the community, but also
with the various ways the community as a whole relates to external actors through its
governing bodies. The intra-district character of the displacement process, and the
presence of several resistant communities in the district of Tambo bring forward
interesting questions about the various ways in which they dealt with issues
concerning the entire community. The comunidades resistentes in Tambo – which
received an influx of numerous ‘retreated’ families, had to be locally managed or
governed one way or the other, and the CDCs played a very important role in the task.
Although the CDCs were not equally active and strong throughout the armed conflict,

68
The reason for this is unclear. The most plausible explanation is that since the registries were
designed to collect data for the compensation issue, and the CDCs were not created before 1984,
peasants might have obviated any incident that occurred before 1984. This choice was not envisaged in
the design, and must have been taken by the CADs and the communities themselves, as they carried out
the data collection process themselves.
69
Ref. various works by Degregori, Del Pino, Coronel, Starn, Kirk, and Fumerton.

124
this section seeks to highlight the organizational and local governance aspects of the
CDCs, both in good and bad times, with focus on the logic and mechanisms employed
in managing community affairs.

Community governance
By the end of 1984, the entire district of Tambo had been affected by the armed
conflict and re-organized according to the new context of counter-subversive strategy
and self-defense. Every single community remaining in place in Tambo was organized
around a self-defense organization or Comité de Defensa Civil (CDC), which together
with the governor lieutenant and the municipal agent (both positions existed before the
armed conflict), became the new local authorities. The peasant community
organization which existed until the early 1980s, was completely replaced by the
CDC, or rather, the CDC became the new community organization. Each local CDC
was led by a board or junta directiva, and included various posts such as:

• President
• Vice-president
• Secretary
• Treasurer
• Council of vigilantes (concejo de vigilancia): Usually two members; in
charge of overseeing the well-functioning of the organization.
• Head of patrol (jefe de patrulla): Responsible for operative CDC patrols.
• Discipline members (disciplinas): Usually two, in charge of overseeing
good behavior in assemblies and other community activities.
• Inspectors (inspectores): Usually one per displaced community represented
in the resistant community; a contact person between the CDC board and
CDC members of the home community.
• Counselors (vocales): additional committee members; not always included
in the CDCs.

During the first years of peasant self-defense, that is, in 1984 and 1985, each CDC
counted at least 8 or 9 board members in charge of security and community affairs.
Since the organized peasantry was a clear target for Shining Path reprisals, to be a

125
CDC board member was not an attractive position; on the contrary, most people
would shy away from the job. Although those with good command of Spanish or
literacy skills were preferred, the principle of rotation prevailed, so that a considerably
large number of peasants (mostly men) participated at some point in time in the
direction of the CDC organization. The relatively short period of engagement (one
month) was to make the task more endurable and less risky for the individual and his
family. All young and adult men belonged to the CDC as common members, that is,
taking part in assemblies, patrolling, and other activities in support of the organization
(such as joint operatives with the military, or communal works).
In the context of armed conflict, community organization both as a process
(the act of organizing) and as an entity (the organizational structure itself),
materialized in the existence or absence of elected community authorities. The
existence of these authorities was considered by the community as a pre-requisite for
the implementation of organized communal activities, be it either defense, requesting
support from outsiders, or dealing with internal affairs. In the language of peasants in
Tambo, the effective presence or existence of community authorities came to be
synonymous with “being organized”, estar organizados. Thus the community was
organized if it had local authorities, because the existence of these authorities implied
the (well?) functioning of mechanisms of decision-making, such as the general
assembly. In the absence of such mechanisms, no authorities could be elected and the
community remained without leadership, without representatives, simply
“disorganized” (desorganizados). This is nowhere more noticeable than when talking
about the period 1987-1989, where most informants would simply state: “Those years
there was no organization, we were not organized… we had no authorities”.

General assemblies
The CDC board was responsible for organizing general assemblies to discuss self-
defense issues and community affairs, with the participation of people and their
representatives from all communities settled within the boundaries of a single
comunidad resistente. In 1984-85, these assemblies took place every month, and their
proceedings were recorded in the community registries, or libro de actas. The
assemblies themselves were organized in a very formalistic manner, starting with
reports or informes by community authorities and with the setting of the agenda. Only
then could the assembly proceed to the discussion of the issues raised. At the end of

126
each session, local authorities and other attendants had to sign and stamp their seals to
validate the recorded minutes, or acta de la sesión, which was written in Spanish
(more on this below). Those unable to write could sign using their finger print; their
names were then recorded around the print by the secretary.
During the first years of the CDC organization, the general assemblies
functioned as an arena for discussion and decision-making on issues related to the
community, on a wide variety of topics such as:

• Election of community authorities.

• Communal works, such as clearing a rural road or repairing a local bridge.
• Petitions to public institutions, such as soliciting medical assistance and vaccines
for the Medical Post in Tambo; tools for a rural works agency; or food supplies
from the Ministry of Agriculture.
• Regulatory measures concerning the flow of goods and property, such as
prohibiting the direct sale of cattle to brokers (it would have to be done through the
CDC board), or establishing that cultivated areas abandoned by the Shining Path
members/supporters were administered by the CDC board.
• Corrective or disciplinary measures to enhance peace and good behavior in the
community, such as forbidding the sale of alcoholic beverages; appealing for
improved health and hygiene; or taking measures to deal with the morosos y
malcriados (those at fault, in debt of their duties, not showing respect).
• Defense needs, such as planning the construction of watchtowers, requesting
protection from the military, pedir garantías (literally, to ask for a guarantee; see
below), and agreeing on proposed identification of CDC members.

Although the examples above are taken from the Huayao libro de actas (to be
discussed later in the chapter), these cannot be considered a practice exclusive to that
community. Theidon (2003) indicates that similar items were discussed in assemblies
and reported in the registry books of the communities of Ccarhuapampa, Balcón and
Ccarhuahuarán (the last one in Huanta). As can be seen from the examples above, the
variety of topics reflects an agenda which is much broader and more comprehensive
than self-defense activities per se (such as patrolling or participating in raids and
operations). Theidon relates this to “a developmentalist posture steadfastly geared

127
towards the future” (2003:82) in an unlikely co-existence of war and progress. This
co-existence however, is not so unlikely if we consider the CDCs not only as a self-
defense machine, but also as a structure for community governance, as suggested
here.
The literature on self-defense during the armed conflict in Peru tends to
compare the traditional good practices of the communal organization before the
conflict, and the new, authoritarian, bad practices of the self-defense organizations
developed during the conflict. Instead of thinking in terms of a reified dichotomy of
good/old versus bad/new on a normative basis, I suggest to dig into the concrete
practices of the CDCs, bad and good, in order to see the organizational re-adaptation
or transformation processes going on. Such processes entailed the creation of new
positions (such as that of the comandos or inspectores) to meet new demands, but
does not imply the dissolution or disappearance of the traditional organization. It did
changed name and its character had to adjust to a situation of armed conflict and self-
defense, yet it continue to carry out all the other issues that define “normal”
community life, to the extent that “normality” could be achieved during armed
conflict. As a community organization then, the CDCs functioned as the governing
body of displaced and resistant communities. That it managed to do so in the context
of armed conflict is an organizational achievement that should not be underestimated.
As community organization, the CDCs underwent themselves a process of change
throughout the armed conflict. General assemblies became more sporadic (particularly
from mid-1986 until 1989, every two months or more), and the diversity of issues
discussed diminished, reflecting the weakening of the CDCs in the complementary
aspects of community governance and self-defense. I will come back to this later.

PRACTICES OF SELF-DEFENSE
What did the CDCs actually do during the first years of the armed conflict in Tambo?
Although this might seem an obvious question with an obvious answer: “to defend
themselves”, I would like to deconstruct the overall purpose of the CDCs into concrete
practices, in order to understand their complexity and the logic involved in self-
defense and peasant resistance. In this manner, it will be possible to track changes
over time, adjusting to a variable context within and outside the community.

128
Safeguarding the community
The main function of the CDCs was to safeguard the community against the Shining
Path attacks and infiltration. This was done basically through the establishment of
patrols that would stand watch 24 hours a day. Huayao is a good example of how the
patrols worked. CDC Huayao had nine lookout posts operating all day long on two
shifts, with two peasants per turn on duty at each post; that is, 18 men on watch per
shift, or 36 men throughout the day. Organizing a patrolling system of this size
requires time and organizational resources that had to be drawn from other activities,
such as working or providing for one’s family. Since the shifts were distributed on
rotation, it is possible to understand the dominant role of self-defense activity in the
community, and the impact it had on the daily lives of peasant families.
If any sign of activity or guerrilla presence was observed, the community
would immediately be alerted by the guards and the inhabitants would seek refuge and
get ready for the attack. Many testimonies collected in Tambo indicated that although
CDC members were mostly adult men, at the moment of confrontation both young
and old, men and women would arm themselves with whatever they had at hand
(tools, knives, sticks) to face the guerrillas.70 However, there is evidence that indicates
that women were also involved in safeguarding the community, at least during the
toughest period of armed conflict. The general assembly of Huayao in February 1985
discussed and approved the participation of women in the patrols at certain posts,
although it does not specify which ones and for how long. Women are referred to as
“female personnel” or personal femenino, an expression probably taken from military
jargon. Theidon (2003) has also reported direct female participation in the Balcón and
Ccarhuapampa CDCs, in the western part of the district71.
A number of testimonies collected in Tambo indicate that already since
1984/85, the Naval Infantry provided basic training for the production of homemade
weapons, the use of military weapons, and defense tactics. Occasionally, the military
provided hand grenades to the CDCs. This, however, was more the result of personal
decisions by a new military commander than an officially sanctioned practice within a
national counter-insurgency strategy. At the time, there was no clear strategy for
dealing with the Shining Path guerrilla war; what’s more, there was a sort of

70
A similar account is also reported for Tambo by Fumerton (2002), and for Huanta by Theidon (2001).
71
Theidon refers to the registry books of Balcón and Ccarhuapampa as the source of this information,
which she accessed through a fellow researcher. The bulk of her research however, was carried out in
the neighbouring district of Huanta, province of Huanta, north of Tambo.

129
consensus at the national level (including government, opposition, top military
officials and public opinion) against arming the civil population (CVR 2003). This is
why the transfer of weapons to the CDCs occurred sporadically and in an inconsistent
manner.
Rudimentary homemade weapons and hand-grenades provided by the military
were all the arms the CDCs had at their disposal. This was considered insufficient by
the local population, which is why requests for weapons to the military command
were often discussed at general assemblies, as observed in the Huayao registry book.
However, the military was not the only source of arms for the CDCs; sometimes they
kept guns and weapons from the guerrillas that were found during operatives. Most of
the time these were handed over to the military, who sought to have strict control over
the available weaponry in the countryside. The discovery of unregistered arms could
be (mis)interpreted as belonging to the Shining Path, making the owner a suspect
senderista, with all the negative consequences this implied. The purchase of guns for
CDC use became more common towards the end of the 1980s. In Huayao, the
assembly approved the purchase of 4 weapons in 1987; the money had been collected
via compulsory contribution from all peasant families. When asked who sold the
weapons, informants say ‘de la selva traían’, “from the rainforest they brought them”.
As mentioned in previous chapters, peasants in Tambo have close links with the
rainforest of the Apurímac river valley; these networks also served for the occasional
purchase of weapons.
Safeguarding the community also implied strict control over the movement of
locals and strangers. Everyone had to be alert to the presence of strangers, and CDC
guards had the authority to stop them, ask for their documents and even search their
belongings. If those stopped were suspected of being guerrilla members, they would
be handed over to CDC authorities, who then decided the course of action: to let them
go, interrogate them further, or hand them over to the military authorities in Tambo.

Autonomous and mixed operations

While safeguarding community boundaries was the most common exercise of self-
defense, the CDCs engaged as well in more aggressive or pro-active (as opposed to
defensive) practices of self-defense, which consisted in actually going out from their
home communities in search of guerrillas somewhere else. In Tambo, this type of
operation went under several names, such as peinadas (literally meaning ‘combing’),

130
rastrillajes (similar to combing, but also following tracks or traces left by the
guerrillas), operativos (operation, action) and occasionally, acción conjunta (joint
action). These operations were more common at a time when self-defense
organizations stood strong and well-organized, as at the beginning of the organization
(1984-85), and around 1990, diminishing in occurrence in periods of weak
organization.
The categories of autonomous and mixed operations (introduced in the
previous section) refer to pro-active/aggressive practices of self-defense. By
autonomous operations I refer to those missions where peasants from one or several
CDCs participated on their own, without military involvement. Whether these were
communal (only one CDC/community) or inter-communal (several CDCs/
communities) operations, they fall into the category of autonomous because their
implementation took place without the participation of the military. A mixed operation
thus refers to joint actions between CDCs and military personnel. The relevance of
differentiating between autonomous and mixed operations is that they highlight the
element of participation (agency) in counter-subversive operations on the part of
peasant CDCs. Search or ‘combing’ operations in the countryside did not occur only
because the military might have forced peasant to join in; this occurred as well, but it
is not all that happened. CDCs themselves organized these types of operations to areas
outside their home communities in order to assault guerrilla cells or bases of support
where subversive activity had been reported.
Autonomous and mixed operations could be targeted to a remote location
where guerrilla presence had been observed, such as a mountain pass, or a specific
village or community known to be in compliance with the Shining Path. Large groups
of 100 up to over 300 CDC members would mobilize to the target area to make a
surprise assault. In some cases, a peinada could last for several days, and as much as
two weeks if necessary, in order to cover entire areas. Operations often led to the
seizure of arms belonging to guerrillas, and the taking of prisoners. Both professed
and suspect senderistas were interrogated about their involvement with the Shining
Path and any other valuable information.
In dealing with prisoners, CDCs made a distinction between masa and
comandos (ref. previous chapter). The masa, those peasants that had been more or less
forcibly recruited by the Shining Path with little or no ideological commitment (“the
sons and daughters of peasants” as ronderos often say), where often set free after

131
thorough interrogation, to be reincorporated into their home communities (more on
this below). The comandos, identified SL guerrilla cadres, were also interrogated and
passed on to the military, who then decided their future. Some would be taken to the
Tambo garrison or to Ayacucho headquarters. In some cases, alleged senderistas were
killed on the spot, in the presence of CDC members, as some of my informants report.
“Real” senderistas (and possibly also suspects) have also been killed by the CDCs
during autonomous operations. The circumstances around these deaths are often
referred to as occurring “during combat”, in active confrontation. Tambo peasants
admit that it has occurred in a few cases, but there is a general reluctance to talk about
this issue, and only a few key informants have provided this type information. My
overall assessment is that death at the hands of the CDCs in Tambo seems to have
been the exception rather than the rule. This assessment is supported by the CVR
Final Report, in which out of 498 deaths and disappearances registered for Tambo in
the period 1980-2000, twelve are presumably related to (read, caused by)
CDCs/CADs (two deaths and ten disappearances).
From a human rights perspective, those are twelve too many, a view that I also
endorse. Whether or not the twelve victims registered by the CVR report were in fact
senderistas or not is irrelevant, because the value of human life, the endorsement of
human rights, and the application of the rule of law are not to be limited by political
preferences. Without attempting to excuse these violations, it is necessary to
understand the context of armed conflict, insecurity and fear experienced in Tambo
which induced the loss of lives. The question is then, why were these people killed? A
further question is under which circumstances these victims met their deaths – how it
happened. The why and how of the death of suspected and/or “real” senderistas are
closely interrelated, and can bring insight into peasants’ evaluation and perceptions of
the armed conflict, as well as into their self-defined role in that context.
As mentioned earlier, informants in Tambo report of death in combat, in direct
confrontation with the guerrillas, either after a Shining Path attack or during an
operation. Did Tambo CDCs engage in killings and extra-judiciary executions, a “war
between neighbors” as reported by Theidon (2003) in neighboring Huanta? Although
my data does not indicate any specific instance of such events, extra-judiciary killings
– death outside combat – cannot be ruled out. In those cases where abuse by other
peasant actors has been openly reported, my informants have attributed them to
montoneros coming from outside the district (ref. previous chapter). An entry

132
referring to the “disposal” (aniquilamiento, was the term used) of an alleged
senderista was found in the registry book of an unidentified community in Tambo
dated November 26, 1983; this was reported by Starn (1996:253). Similarly, the CVR
Final Report cites another libro de actas entry dated December 27, 1984 from an
unidentified CDC in the highlands of Ayacucho, stating the intention of “disposing”
of those found to be collaborators with the Shining Path (CVR 2003, Vol.II:451).
While the CVR interprets this as a sign of the vanishing of state institutions in
the countryside, I propose an alternative interpretation: the institutionalization of the
CDCs, or rather, of peasant self-defense in the countryside. Recalling theoretical
discussion in Chapter Two, the institutionalization of organizational and symbolic
practices is contingent on the specific particularities of a relational setting. It follows
that institutionalized practices are not limited to those that appear to be ‘positive’ or
‘progressive’; negative and arbitrary practices can also be institutionalized (much to
our regret).72 Furthermore, progressive and arbitrary practices can co-exist within a
single organization, and do not necessarily exclude one another. In the case of the
Tambo CDCs, their authority and power to decide over life and death has to be placed
in the context of the armed conflict, and the specific relational setting of 1983-84
presented in the previous chapter. As Starn rightly notes,

“…the rondas challenge the easy judgment or totalizing generalization, that in

this case comprise the categories of “life provider” or “murderer”, “violent” or
“peaceful”, and announce the imperative acknowledgement of the motives and
multiple contours of the potential form of any social movement.” (Starn
1996:253)(my translation)

The CVR report states that self-defense organizations “have contributed to the spiral
of violence beyond what, in a context of war, could be considered inevitable”. A
statement such as this is doing exactly what Starn warns us against. Generic
characterizations of peasant self-defense in Peru are problematic because they ignore
the highly localized dynamics of the armed conflict. The data from Tambo does not
provide evidence of a “war between neighbors”, “fratricidal war” (Theidon’s terms) or

72
This reminds me of the institutionalization of the mafia in the Sicilian countryside studied in the now
classical work of Anton Blok, “The Mafia of a Sicilian Village, 1860-1960. A study of violent peasant
entrepreneurs” (1974).

133
“war between peasants” (in the CVR). The use of such terminology ignores the fact
that they refer to generalizations based in a few highly contextualized empirical cases;
thus to characterize an armed conflict such as the one in Peru is those terms is not only
methodologically wrong but also politically blind. In other words, if the only thing we
see in peasant actors is that they are ‘peasants’, then of course we have a war between
neighbors, much as we have a football match were both teams play without wearing
their respective team shirts: all we see is a large group of men playing ball; we cannot
recognize teams – even when they belong to two different teams. Similarly with
peasants, some were senderistas and some were not, either by conviction, fear or
force. We cannot study the armed conflict in Peru without making reference to these
allegiances. That allegiances are shifting and boundaries are blurred is not justification
enough to do away with them. I am aware that memory is selective and that the act of
recollection is immersed in the present. Peasant self-defense has become such an
institutionalized practice in Tambo, that even today the death of alleged senderistas
seems justified in the eyes of peasant ronderos. I am not arguing for the death of
senderistas, but for including the role of political identity and allegiance in
understanding armed conflict at the local level. Categories such as “self-defense”,
“death in combat”, “extra-judiciary executions” can start making sense if not devoid
of the political orientations of the actors involved in a given context.

Testimonies and the early “peasant law of repentance”

Another activity carried out by the CDCs during the first part of the conflict is the
taking of testimonies from “those involved with subversion.” In Tambo, this practice
is referred to today as “the law of repentance” or ley de arrepentimiento. An official
law with the same name was established in 1993 in the framework of the pacification
process by President Fujimori, but the practice to be discussed here anticipates and
does not refer to the official law. It is possible however, that the same name was given
a posteriori by Tambo peasants to refer to an older practice, which was simply known
at the time as testimonios or manifestaciones; that is, “testimonies or manifestations
by those involved with the subversion”. 73

73
This activity has received little attention in the literature on the armed conflict so far. Del Pino (1998)
referred to comments made by contemporary CAD members about practices of repentance and
reincorporation prior to the official Law of Repentance of 1993, used as a strategy to fight Shining
Path. Theidon (2003) reports of similar practices in Huanta, approaching them as a ‘chronology of
compassion’.

134
 The origin of this practice is unclear. According to some of my informants, it
was initiated by the CDC Ccarhuapampa, with the aim of “recuperating peasants”, that
is, to re-incorporate them into community life after testifying to their involvement
with the Shining Path. This practice seems to have been directed mainly at the peasant
population, not to town people or outsiders whose past or origin was difficult to
trace.74 So peasant SL cadres, sympathizers, supporters, or anyone else that might
have been comprometido por la subversión, “compromised by subversion” – however
marginal this involvement might have been, could testify in order to clear his/her
name in the community. Those actively engaged with SL who adhered to this sort of
“peasant amnesty” were often referred to as arrepentidos, “the repentant ones”. The
spectrum of involvement with SL went from giving food or shelter for a night and
setting up red flags on hillsides, to participating in a community attack, or being a
military cadre. With this as a standard measure, it is no surprise that taking
statements/confessions was an activity that carried on for months, as “Leoncio” from
Ccarhuapampa explains:

“… that [giving testimonies] we have approved in assemblies, we have only

agreed [on that], we all have to confess all that we have done, what position
[cargo] we occupied, what position at the time of Shining [Path], where you
went on actions, all these they agreed at the assembly, then everyone confessed
daily in statements, for example you told everything you had done, where you
have gone, killed people, for months they went on asking each other.”

According to this and other informants, the news of the possibility of leaving behind a
“compromised” past spread mostly by word of mouth75, and soon people from other
communities went to Ccarhuapampa and other CDCs to confess to their
“wrongdoings.” By giving their testimonies, and telling all they knew and had done,
these peasants were given the opportunity to redeem themselves in the eyes of the
community. The past was put behind them, and the person could start anew, admitted
again into a relationship of trust with the community.

74
How the distinction was made is uncertain; yet it is possible to assume that few non-peasants would
adhere to this ‘peasant-amnesty’, because it involved re-incorporation into peasant life and community;
the prospect might not be so attractive for non-peasants.
75
Some informants mentioned also the use of hand-written notes and leaflets being passed around or
posted at crossings and trees, or doors, but these methods have not been verified.

135
 For those who had left their communities to follow the Shining Path (either
willingly or by force), this involved rejoining his/her family in the home community.
Most significantly, the arrepentido was automatically, as it were, admitted into the
local CDC, thus joining other peasants in the self-defense organization.76 Trust was re-
established, as the CDC trusted the arrepentido enough to let him join the CDC. At
the same time, the arrepentido had to prove his repentance by participating in the
CDC. He actually did not have much choice, since this was the expected way to re-
pay for the community’s forgiveness.
Before further analysis, I would like to provide a few examples of testimonies
reported in the CDC Huayao registry book during early 1985, in order to understand
the content and the framing of the narratives used in this practice. The book contains a
total number of 47 testimonies collected at various dates from January to March 1985.
However, their recording in the registry books first started on February 21, when the
first testimonies are written in reference to an issue discussed at the CDC assembly
that day. It would appear then, that previously taken testimonies were added to the
registry book at a later date, and that the process of taking testimonies lasted until the
first week of March 1985 (the next entry in the book is an assembly on March 7). On
the agenda that first day, the item is presented as “Confession by those compromised
in the subversion”, with the note that

“this item for more clarity and not to confuse will start on page 14, the
confession starts with principal members and political authorities if somehow
they had a relation with the subversives.”

And on page 14, the testimonies start under the heading “Manisfestations from those
who were compromised by the subversion”. Were these testimonies the result of the
early “peasant law of repentance”? Several factors indicate that this was the case, such
as differences in the content of the testimonies (showing the broad spectrum of
involvement with the Shining Path); age and gender composition of the testimoniantes
(those testifying included men and women, young and old, with the majority being
young male adults); the fact that most of the testimoniantes declared themselves as

76
In the terminology of transitional justice, this could be referred to as “an act of reconciliation”. Also,
in Theidon’s chronology of compassion this could be understood as the micropolitics of reconciliation
(see Theidon 2003)

136
members of CDC Huayao at the time of testifying; and finally, the additional fact that
the testimonies were recorded in the registry book, the one place were important
information was kept.
The recording of the information is made in Spanish by someone other than
the person testifying (possibly CDC board members). It is most likely, given the social
composition of peasant communities in Tambo, that the testimonies were originally
given/told in Quechua, the peasants’ native language. The translation in the act of
recording naturally influences the wording and style of the texts. It could also cast
doubts over the validity of their content77, but given the official status of the registry
book in community life, I suggest that it is rather a question of selection and self-
imposed censorship (what to include and what to leave out) rather than falsity (giving
false accounts) that we face in analyzing the registry book; methodological issues
regarding the libro de actas as a source of information will be discussed in more detail
in the next section. The following are examples of the testimonies reported in the
Huayao libro de actas:78

“21/02/85 Manifestation by don MMM, said that he also participated in the

tasks, was taken to blockade the road that is the bridge Ccollpahuayao,
afterwards he said that he was taken along to three rounds, first they entered
and took me from my home comrade Edmundo, [five other names] and various
women their heads covered, afterwards I had a personal defense caliber 22;
this defense the subversives took from me entering and taking from my home,
took [him] to a place called Pocrura, there they wanted to kill him, was tied up
with ropes, but then he escaped undoing the ropes, from then on he does not
sleep in his home but was hidden and threatened by the subversives and until
now alive.”

“22/02/85 Manifestation by JJJ, said that the subversives compromised him in

Huayao, comrade Edmundo, Wilder, comrade Aida, Jorge, Nilo, Paulino, was
in [unclear word] is fourteen years old, there is a gun caliber 22 kept in

77
The translation tries to keep the same grammar structure as the original text, even when it not always
follows Spanish grammar ‘proper’. Similarly, lack of punctuation makes some testimonies difficult to
read, and translate.
78
All personal names and initials are changed. Shining Path guerrillas operated with pseudonyms; these
have been kept as in the original document.

137
 Trebolpampa, taken on task to the place Pillo didn’t kill people, we have gone
to raise the flag to Quinto hill, took from the pago Cceccra four people
towards Volcán, know [recognized?] RR, OO.
The individuals that went to take were GGG, comrade Jorge, comrade Paulino,
Nilo, SSS, those who killed were QQ, comrade Wilder full name ZZ,[.] FF,
AA, EE these three dead were buried in that same place, then went to blockade
the Masinga road, also to plant flags in Masinga, afterwards went to tell
comrade Milton about the arrival of WS, went to assault a car in Osno and
assaulted [.?] the subversive elements only handled among themselves rope,
explosives, mass, grenades, etc.”

“12/01/85 Manifestation by FFF – is 13 years old79, third year of primary

education, combat name comrade Zonia, daughter of NNN and doña YYY
from the pago Tantar. The subversives lied to me and took me on October 3
last year threatening us with knife and rifle they took us my cousin also….
saying that we are to fight in favor of the poor. They took us from the school
of Ccescce…….[abundant information about SL patrols and actions she had
participated at]. Asked how she had escaped, answered they sent us for
potatoes with three men more and while returning they advanced a bit and I
stayed behind, escaping and arriving first at Ccarhuapampa afterwards to the
Police and afterwards to the Governor Lieutenant in Rosaspata and said that
she repented under oath.”

“24/02/85 Manifestation by EEE, 38 years old, illiterate, from the pago Tantar.
The subversives lied to me a year ago that is in October 1983, they named me
second-in-charge military command to work with them, those who
compromised me are Edmundo and Marianito [….mentions the actions in
which he participated] this was in the month of September 1984, immediately
came the organization of the Committee in November and then it ends.”

79
The recruitment of older children and youngsters was a widespread practice in Shining Path. See Del
Pino (1998) for a solid – and painful, account of the implications of this recruitment for the youngsters
and their families.

138
 “21/02/85 Manifestation by TTT, 22 years old, third grade of [primary]
education, taken with lies to place Yantayanta and gathered masas from
Yantayanta and Cusicancha in a place called Chuchimpiccasa, calling out the
list was Alfred (combat name), real name JJJ[,] annihilated four people three
men and one woman [,] to the masses threatened if they were with the party or
with Belaúnde [Peru’s president at the time], for this purpose attended from
the communities of Patapata, Huayao, Ccescce, Tinyas, Huancapampa,
Pamparaccay, Huisca, Chacco, Usmay, etc entered at five in the morning the
executives of death were strangers[,] took me also to a place called Huallhua
exploded weapons bombs burnt houses took me on task to Pillo we entered at
five in the morning attacked with weapons, grenades etc[,] took the animals of
that monto [montonero?] but they reached him and made it give back, took me
also to Llacchuapampa entered those who had weapons I did not entered, PPP
there threatened those who did not want to enter, have gone to blockade the
road to Masinga, then came the organization[,] there it finished.”

In the above testimonies it is possible to identify three issues that are representative
for the testimonies as a whole: the form of recruitment; the importance of weapons;
and the CDC as marker of time. First, the way early peasant support or involvement
with the Shining Path is explained in the testimonies is done in terms of lies and
deceit: “with lies they took me”, or simply “they lied to me” (me engañaron). The
implication of being lied to is that the individual is acting on good faith and is
therefore free of guilt, because he or she was cheated, without their knowledge or
acceptance. This is also related to another term commonly used in the testimonies, that
of being “compromised” by someone else, against one’s will: “they compromised
me”, “they put me at ill”, me comprometieron. In both cases, involvement is
acknowledged and accepted, but the burden of responsibility for recruitment is placed
on the Shining Path, not upon peasants themselves. Accordingly, it was SL who acted
wrongly and dishonestly by luring peasants into subversion.
The stereotype image of the humble and innocent peasant being lied to is
nothing new, and has been politically and strategically used throughout Peruvian
history by both peasants and non-peasants alike (Méndez 1991; Husson 1992; Mallon
1995; Méndez 2001). In 1985, the armed conflict had turned the balance of forces
against the Shining Path, as a result of the repressive measures of the Peruvian armed

139
forces, and the emergence of the CDCs. The new situation was full of ambiguities,
and the near past so close to the present (just a few months had gone by in the
meantime). In the new situation, Tambo peasants seem to have considered necessary
to take distance, take stock of what had happened and choose sides on the basis of
present and future prospects. The framing of involvement in terms of being
comprometido or lied to (as opposed to being a senderista “by heart”) made this issue
manageable for their reincorporation and the re-establishment of trust at the
community level.
Knowledge and handling of weapons is another important issue raised by the
testimonies, both in relation to individual abilities and actions, as well as military SL
capabilities. With regards to the individual, it was important to ascertain (i) whether
the testimoniante had used weapons himself against others, perhaps even killing; and
(ii) if he had any weapons on his possession (in which case they had to be produced
and registered by the local CDC). Concerning military capabilities, it would seem that
the CDCs were particularly interested in knowing about the type and location of
weapons at the hands of senderistas. This interest can be explained by the perceived
need for better means of defense (as recorded in the registry book); information
regarding weapons could be used in planning future operations. None of the 47
testimoniantes in the Huayao libro de actas admits to having killed anyone
themselves, although some admit to having participated in armed attacks. The actual
killing though, is charged to SL cadres, who were often identified by the
testimoniantes in both their combat and real names. The interest in weapons may also
reflect military presence in Tambo at the time, and their close supervision of the
CDCs.
A third issue raised from the testimonies is the perception of CDCs as a marker
of time. Concluding remarks such as “then came the organization then it was over”, or
“until this organization came, then it ended”, where “it” refers to previous
involvement with the Shining Path, indicate a division of time before and after
organization. In the periodization of the armed conflict then, the emergence of the
CDCs – peasant self-defense organization – marks the closure of a time when
collaboration and support to the Shining Path was somehow “socially accepted”
(either for commitment or fear of sanction/reprisal). With the CDCs came a time when
such behavior was not only unacceptable, but also sanctioned and punished. For the
individual, this time-marker involves a new reading of his/her personal history:

140
“before I was comprometido, now I am a member of the organization”. Collectively,
the perception of CDCs as a time-marker demonstrates the importance of the CDCs in
community life and in the construction of identities and a common version of the past;
in other words, the institutionalization of the self-defense practice at the local level.
Recalling Somer’s conceptualization of institutions as organizational and symbolic
practices that operate within networks of rules, structures, narratives and binding
relationships (Somers 1994; ref. Chapter Two), it is possible to approach self-defense
as much more than looking out for guerrillas. Given the context of armed conflict, the
CDCs emerged as a local institution that combined mechanisms of decision making,
legitimacy and coercion adjusted to meet the needs of that particular context. This
observation is often neglected in contemporary debates about CADs and prospects for
the future80. Having become a marker of time, peasant self-defense is deeply engraved
in the personal histories and identities of large sectors of the peasant population in the
Andes today, and will not be easily erased.
To what extent are the “testimonies of the compromised with subversion” a
result of coercion, and not of free will? It is most likely that a combination of coercion
and free will motivated “the compromised” to testify: putting it all in the open was a
way to bring an end to rumors and suspicion, and redemption (in the good Catholic
tradition) could be achieved in the eyes of the community. At least that was the
intention. When asked today about the arrepentidos and former comprometidos,
peasants in Huayao (as in other communities) still remember who they were/are. It is
not unusual to hear comments such as “yes, they all were, you see them now as
ronderos, but they all were involved”, quickly adding that “they are working fine
now… sometimes there are things people say, a bit of mistrust, but now it is fine,
there is trust”. It could be said that today’s trust was built upon the early co-existence
of suspicion and trust.
Theidon (2003) argues that mercy is the privilege of the powerful; accordingly, the
CDCs were in the position of granting mercy to the arrepentidos because of the
relative power they enjoyed during the first year of self-defense organization, when
the threat of the Shining Path had diminished and fear had made room for trust. She

80
Here I refer to various proposals for the abolishment or changes in current CAD-legislation that were
debated in Peru particularly after the presentation of the CVR report in August 2003, where it is stated
that the CADs are an “uneaseness for everyone” (CVR 2003, Vol II:449). These proposals tend to
overemphasize the military character of self-defense organisations, while ignoring their deep roots in
local experience and conceptualisations of the armed conflict.

141
explores the emphasis on confession and repentance for the reincorporation of
arrepentidos into peasant communities in Huanta, linking them to the public
performances and biblical narratives which include suffering and physical punishment
(Theidon 2003). The author observes that the reincorporation of the arrepentidos took
the form of granting land for peasants to work, thus re-establishing reciprocity and
trust. Theidon’s analysis for Huanta is highly relevant and applicable to the workings
of the early peasant law of repentance in Tambo, providing us with insight about the
role of personal regret and public forgiveness during the first year of peasant self-
defense. However, she misses the restorative element of the self-defense organization
itself. As I argued earlier, renewal and trust was made explicit for both parties by
letting the arrepentido join in the CDC. This was the clearest statement of loyalty to
the community, valid and applicable not only for the arrepentidos, but for everyone
living there. Repentance meant not only abandoning former ways and ambiguities, but
in the case of Huayao and Tambo, it meant actively endorsing the cause of peasant
self-defense. Independent of the personal views of individual community members,
such allegiance was yet another sign of the institutionalization of the self-defense
practice.

REPORTING LOCAL EXPERIENCE: AN EXAMPLE FROM HUAYAO

Peasant communities in Tambo, much like others across the Peruvian Andes, were
acquainted with the practice of keeping records of important community events (such
as general assemblies) in a registry book at least since the time of the Agrarian
Reform of 196881. In the eyes of the peasant population in Tambo, the minutes of
general assemblies registered in a community’s libro de actas testifies to the
authenticity and legitimacy of the events reported. Therefore, during interviews in
Tambo, it was rather common to hear peasants say “It is in the libro de actas, it is all
there”, as a way of validating their testimonies.
Although libros de actas for the decade of 1990 are more readily available in
the communities, this is not the case for those of the 1980s. Many libros were lost or
81
I say “at least” because the use of libro de actas by peasant communities probably predates the
Agrarian Reform. The reform process involved not only land redistribution, but also organizational and
juridical changes for agrarian units and social actors, including peasant communities. The internal
management and organizational structure of peasant communities in Peru had been officially/legally
regulated since 1951 through the Statutes for Indigenous Communities, which was replaced by the
Statute of Peasant Communities in 1970. Both statutes regulated the internal structure of peasant
communities, and the procedures that applied. Legislation on indigenous/peasant communities in Peru
has existed since colonial times.

142
burned during the first years of the armed conflict, along with other valuable
documentation that communities had, such as property titles or official documents. In
Huayao, informants told me that the libro de actas was usually hidden in adobe walls,
so that in the event of Shining Path incursions local authorities could not be identified.
Similar actions are reported in other communities as well. Was it really so dangerous
to have a written account of events that the books should be hidden? And if it was so
dangerous, why did peasants continue recording them? One possible answer is that
keeping a libro de actas served as proof to both outsiders and locals about the
existence of community authorities, the clearest sign of organization – or rather, of
organized resistance; I will return to this issue later.
I had access to a libro de actas from the 1980s, that of the community of
Huayao covering the period February 1985 until April 1987, that is, a period that starts
immediately after displacement in the central eastern parts of Tambo, through a strong
CDC phase, and until the weakening of the self-defense organization. I wish to
analyze the Huayao libro de actas in more detail not with the intention of generalizing
about other libros in other communities, but in order to get an idea of what the
community recorded and how. In this way, I attempt to understand what the
community considered should be “official information”, in what terms it was defined
and presented (that is, the discourse being used), and that which is made obvious by
its absence. I am aware that this particular form of record-keeping is not problem-free,
since it offers a one sided and mono-dimensional view of reality: that of the local
authorities in Huayao, while the voices of actors affected by decisions taken by them
are not included. In an attempt to weigh up these limitations, I try to cross this
information with other available data/testimonies whenever possible. Unfortunately,
many questions will remain unanswered, and cannot be further explored in this
dissertation; the insights gained however, will balance the limitations.

Making it “official”: Recording and validating information

Even today, general assemblies in Tambo peasant communities are conducted in
quechua, the mother tongue of the indigenous peasant population. Spanish words are
used to refer to specific ideas, things or activities, such as “progress”, “captain”,
“president”, “documents” or “operation”. The minutes however, are written entirely in
Spanish, the national official language, the language used outside the community, with
the non-peasant population and representatives of the state. This is also the case for

143
the Huayao libro de actas of 1985-87. All entries, not only the minutes of general
assemblies, were recorded in Spanish, in spite of the varying knowledge of the
language by the individual writing them down. This is highly visible through
orthographic and grammar mistakes; the reader can see that only on rare occasions the
author’s hand has good command of Spanish.
That Spanish should be preferred over Quechua to record information is a very
common practice in the Peruvian Andes. The most obvious reason for this practice is
that Spanish is the official language; therefore, all official documents and records
should be registered in Spanish. But when the issues recorded are (apparently) only of
interest to those involved (in our case, the peasant community) – why are the records
still written down in Spanish? One plausible answer is that in Tambo, quechua exists
only as an oral language, and not as a written language. Another possible explanation
lies in the accessibility of the written record in relation to a broader audience. The
aim of registering information is to leave proof or bear witness to certain events. The
official language is thus used because it makes the information available also to those
outside the community, those who were not there when a decision was taken, and
those with the power to question the veracity of the account. If written in quechua, a
Spanish-speaking military commander could question that that which is written down
in the registry book is not what he is being told it says.
The need to leave a valid testimony can also be observed in the writing style of
the registry books, which is concise, to the point and extremely formal, indicating the
seriousness involved in recording information. The registry book records issues and
decisions made, but not the arguments and discussions leading to those decisions. In a
way, the registry book can be seen as a book of consensus, of points of agreement, not
of disagreement. One can only imagine the richness of the debates preceding the
decisions recorded. Or perhaps the opposite occurred: the absence of discussion, due
to apathy, fear, and/or mistrust. The Huayao registry book signals (extensive?)
discussion on particular issues with simple phrases such as “After broad discussions
and debates…” or “After dialoguing discussions…”82, followed by a summary of the
decision taken. Who disagreed and why is it not registered.
Finally, the recording of information is neither complete nor valid without the
proper endorsement by those participating in the recorded event. This is done by way

82
The original text says “Después de dialogar discusiones…”, which is grammatically incorrect in
Spanish.

144
of signing and stamping at the bottom of the entries. The signatures of both authorities
and participants testify to the validity of the record. Thus, in Huayao, a record became
“official” (and still does) when registered in the official written language and when
endorsed by the signatures of local authorities and/or participants. The “official” thus
combines an element of external orientation with local legitimacy; that is, enabling
something internal to be recognized and accepted by the outside world. This
conceptualization of the “official” applies also to the governing bodies of the
community, as we will see later in the chapter.

What is worth recording: Types of entries in the libro de actas

What is the kind of information that the Huayao CDC considered necessary or worth
reporting in their registry book? The types of entries registered in the book can be
identified as falling into four broad categories:

• Minutes of the general assembly

• Testimonies (individual and collective)
• Interaction with the military
• Other issues

The minutes follow a fixed pattern, including presentation, agenda, and debates (the
latter included only the decisions that had been taken). There are a total of 17 entries
reporting general assemblies (table 8); in 13 of these, new local authorities were
elected. What I have called “testimonies” includes actually two very different kinds of
material: 47 individual testimonies by people interrogated by the CDD Huayao with
regard to their possible involvement with the Shining Path83 (see previous section),
and one account of a military raid to Huayao on the February 22, 1985. These
testimonies were collected and registered from January until March 1985; after that
month, no similar entries are made in the libro de actas. The testimonies were
stamped by the military authorities on March 15th 1985, which testifies to their
knowledge of this particular activity. The third type of entry records interaction with
the military in various ways, either for the purpose of ratifying local authorities (three
83
Individual testimonies extend from page 14 to 36 of the libro de actas, and have been recorded on
different dates. Unfortunately, pages 25, 26, 27 and 28 are missing, so that the number of testimonies
available in the remaining pages adds up to 47. It is impossible to know the content of the missing
pages.

145
Table 8. Summary of entries in the CDC Huayao Registry Book, 1985-1987.

1985 1986 1987

January AG (no date) Official opening of registry
book for 1987 by Political
Military Chief 16/1
AG 16/1*
February AG 21/2 AG 2/2*
Individual testimonies dated
January 10-March 4
Report 26/2, followed by
testimony (stamped by Political
Military Chief on 15/3).
March AG 27/3* AG 4/3* (seal JPM) AG 7/3*

April Extra-ordinary assembly: visit Delivery of hand grenades 22/4 AG 24/4

from UNSCH 2/4
Military rule 2/4
AG 19/4*
May AG 20/5 (AG 22/5* –
Patapata returns Rejected entry)

June Reporting “bad behavior” 2/6 AG 27/6* (recorded and AG 18/6*

stamped by Political Military
Chief.
July AG 15/7* AG 7/7
Extra-ordinary assembly 17/7
SL attack 25/7
August Delivery of hand grenades 2/8

September AG 18/9* AG 4/9*

Ataque de SL 26/09: 15 dead.
October Recognition of local authorities
12/10
Clearing false accusation 23/10
November AG 28/11*
Ataque de SL 14/11: 1 dead
December Recognition of local authorities
01/12
NGO delivers blankets
AG: Asamblea General; general assembly.
(*) These assemblies included the election of new local authorities.
Text on italics: events taking place in Huayao but reported in other sources.

occasions), distributing grenades (two occasions), opening the registry book, or

imposing a command (one occasion each). “Other issues” refers to registering events
such as donations or interactions with non-military institutions (an NGO and the

146
university, 1 occasion each), or reports on internal community matters (such as the
“bad behavior” of individual community members, or clarifying a wrong accusation).

Between consensus and compliance

Based on her anthropological work in Huanta, Theidon argues that in a situation of
war, “words trigger terror” (2001:26). At war, social relations are highly unstable and
uncertain; therefore, the spoken word has the potential of fixing reality, with
potentially dangerous consequences. What is being said can give way to rumors that
can determine life or death. Although she refers to spoken words (speech), I believe
that a similar argument can be made for the written word, perhaps with even more
devastating consequences. As I have previously suggested, the registry book should be
seen as a book of consensus rather than an account of events. With the exception of
the testimonies, which are rich in detail, the information provided is scant and limited,
summarized to the point where a further analysis of it remains futile unless it is
crossed with other sources. While the power of speech lies in the potential danger of
rumors, the power of the written word (as in the registry book) lies in its official status
and its potential use as ‘proof’ of whatever is stated there, for better or for worse. The
written word has the power to bring rumors to an end by proving or testifying to the
organization of a community. Nothing that could endanger the welfare of either the
community or a single individual is to be found in the Huayao libro de actas; the only
exception perhaps being that of a report on “bad, insolent behavior” against
community authorities (read, death threats), where the name of the individual involved
was given. In the assembly minutes, it is possible to argue that the way decisions were
arrived at is not absent simply because of limited writing skills or time constraints, or
the option for an economic style of writing. I suggest that this was a conscious
strategy to protect the community and its members from both military repression and
the Shining Path reprisal. Nothing more than what was strictly necessary information
about the existence of a self-defense organization is to be found in the registry books,
particularly after September 1985 (as can be Table 8shows).
If written words can fix reality, the decision of what should be “fixed” in the
records and what to be left to memory and past tells us about priorities and allegiances
in a context of armed conflict. A good example of what was worth “fixing” through a
written record was the events of February 26, 1985. At around 6am, the displaced
families gathered in Huayao were raided by the military, forcing them to line up

147
outside while their tents and nearby houses were violently searched by soldiers.
Weapons were found, along with a number of items (such as tape-recorders,
flashlights, watches) and money. Then,

“One of the mothers noticed the loss of her personal money informing the
chief of the infantry patrol [, who responded by] acknowledging and making
appear part of the stolen [money.] for this reason all affected mothers and
families protested, to this reaction the woman who came with the infantry
patrol threatened to kick an elderly señora called XXX saying that all
complaints were lies, as contemptuously saying where do you have money
from.” (Huayao libro de actas, page 37)84

The money thus recovered made up only half of what had been allegedly lost, so it
was agreed, according to the text, that the rest would be collected through
contributions from all the others. After clearing their name of the charge of theft, in
the report of the events the Huayao authorities go on to clarify the origin of the
weapons and grenades found (some of them delivered by earlier military
commanders), and to list the names of senderistas captured by them in various
operations in December 1984. There we read:

“… all these weapons were kept or retained with the only and exclusive
purpose to give them at an opportune time to the commander or otherwise to
request authorization to utilize them exclusively for our defense.” (Huayao
libro de actas, page 38)

“…all these grenades were taken away from us for the only reason of not
having received with certificate or authorization; leaving this committee with
absolutely no defense exposed to an imminent subversive attack from the
subversives who as is public knowledge the terrorists approach us to different
organizations because their objective is to hinder the electoral process.
The day of the raid twenty-four prisoners were taken[,] twenty-three from this
committee and one unknown suspect; when the army patrol came from

84
I have tried to keep the same writing style in the translation as in the original text, which was written
in Spanish by peasants with Quechua as a mother-tongue.

148
 YantaYanta four more were taken, people who had traveled with them, three
were arrepentidos from the 90 [SL] company and the rest registered
[members] from the beginning of this organization.” (Huayao libro de actas,
page 39)

As can be seen, the goal of this testimony is to clear CDC Huayao from any suspicion
of being or supporting senderistas. Time and again the enemy is clearly identified (the
subversives, the Shining Path), precisely because suspicion and mistrust from the
military lead to abuses against the local population. The raid of February 26 was
clearly experienced as an abuse on the part of Huayao peasants, who made an attempt
to clear their names by writing down what happened and setting the record straight.
What the testimony sought to “fix” in time was Huayao’s innocence with regards to
the Shining Path and the CDCs allegiance to the counter-subversive struggle. Besides
the criticisms implicit in the texts presented above, the testimony allows itself to shed
doubt on the effectiveness of military personnel:

“... [referring to a captured senderista] who was delivered to the Navy in

Tambo who afterwards is known very well that this subject has escaped and is
to be found in Ayacucho[,] we can’t explain ourselves why; …” (Huayao libro
de actas, p. 40)

The February 26 testimony is the only one of its type in the Huayao libro de actas,
and was stamped by the head of the Naval Infantry in Tambo the following month85.
Can this formality (a military stamp and signature) be interpreted as acceptance of the
peasant allegiance in a common struggle? Probably not, as will be discussed below.
Yet for the people of Huayao and their CDC at the time, their case was made because
it had been written in the libro de actas and was sealed by the military. By being made
“official”, their innocence had been proven. Whether or not such a statement would
protect them from further abuse remained to be seen.
Seven months after the military raid, on September 26 1985, Huayao suffered
a Shining Path attack that caused 15 deaths, according to my informants. A testimony

85
I have been unable to find a good answer for why this is so. Perhaps the community did not
experience more raids by the military, so that there was nothing to report. Or perhaps CDC Huayao was
forbidden in the aftermath from reporting these kinds of events in their registry book. This remains an
open question.

149
gathered by the CVR reports as many as 30 deaths. About 100 guerrillas surrounded
the tents where the displaced and the people of Huayao spent the night, taking away
the few valuable possessions they still had (such as blankets or utensils) and setting
the tents on fire. In the collective memory of Huayao, this particular event is referred
to as “the first attack by Sendero”, and is vividly recalled. In spite of its apparent
importance however, the attack is not mentioned at all in the libro de actas. Had it not
been for other sources that confirm the attack, it would be as if it never happened.
The entry made in the registry book prior to the attack is dated September 18,
recording the minutes of a general assembly at which new authorities were elected.
One of the issues on the agenda that day was the construction of watchtowers,
concluding that this was “also approved by the community in general to build very
urgently”. The next entry is a ratification of authorities by the political military chief
in Tambo, dated October 12; the authorities being ratified are the same ones that were
elected on September 18. According to a testimony collected by the CVR, the attack
was not denounced before any official authority, and “as consequence of these events
the military went more frequently to the anexo Huayao hitting [on or at?] the
population, generally men, and “putting them into the water cylinder asking them
about the senderistas”.” (CVR 2003, Vol. VII: 228)
Similar omissions can be observed with the SL attacks on November 1985 and
July 1986, each one leaving one person dead. It would seem then, that a Shining Path
attack placed the victim population under suspicion from the military, instead of
causing the reverse reaction, that is, to interpret the attack as punishment of the
peasants for their self-defense organization. Peasants had openly chosen sides, and
this choice put them in the Shining Path’s line of fire. To judge by their behavior, it
seems that the military was unable to see this. What they saw was just the senderistas
infiltrating the communities, and not what SL actually did there or how they were
received by the local population. The Peruvian armed forces in Tambo were not ready
to join forces with an equally worthy ally during the first phase of the armed conflict
because of the lack of a clear counter-subversive strategy (including the involvement
of civilian population), as much as for prejudice and racial discrimination. What they
expected from peasant organizations was submission, compliance and blind loyalty. In
other words, the kind of obedience inspired by fear, as opposed to trust. “Silence can
operate as a survival strategy, yet silencing is a powerful mechanism of control
enforced through fear” (Green 1995:118). Seen in this way, the Huayao registry book

150
can now be interpreted not only as a book of consensus, but also as an indication that
the CDC had accepted the role assigned to them by the military: a compliant and
loyal organization, where loyalty became synonymous with silence. Silence about
things that could be dangerous, that could reveal more than the strictly necessary.
Silence became a strategy for protection and survival, a way of disciplining collective
memory and the written record in order to avoid life threatening consequence. The
military was now in charge, and fear had taken over in the countryside. The official
status of what is recorded in a libro de actas rendered the written word so powerful,
that silences/absences remained the only feasible option for CDC Huayao in such a
volatile and insecure context as the early years of the armed conflict.

SUMMARY
Following the displacement process, the resistant communities left in the Tambo
countryside organized around civil defense committees. The CDCs emerged as a local
institution adjusted to the context of armed conflict, in order to protect the local
population from Shining Path attacks and military suspicion and repression. As an
institution, the CDCs engaged in community governance, defensive practices, and the
reincorporation of those “compromised by the subversion.” During the first phase of
the armed conflict, the military was unable to see the risks that self-defense
organization involved for the peasant population. The relationship between peasants
and the military was one characterized by silence and fear.

151
Chapter 7

PEASANT SELF-DEFENSE IN TAMBO (2): WEAKENING AND

REBIRTH OF PEASANT RESISTANCE, 1986-1993

This chapter continues with the issue of peasant self-defense in Tambo, focusing on
the weakening of peasant resistance in the late 1980s, and the re-emergence of civil
defense committees in the early 1990s. The final part looks at Tambo as it emerged
from the armed conflict in 1993: what was the new social, political, economic and
physical landscape upon which return and reconstruction was to be initiated? Such an
assessment is necessary as a basis for the analysis of the reconstruction process,
discussed in the remaining chapters of the dissertation.

WEAKENING AND REBIRTH OF PEASANT RESISTANCE, 1986-1992

In 1985, the Naval Infantry withdrew from the highlands of Ayacucho, including
Tambo, and was replaced by the army. According to my informants, the army
presence in Tambo was very similar to the navy, but was less abusive. The overall
view is one of passivity vis-à-vis the Shining Path: “they [army soldiers] just stayed in
their quarters; if there was an attack, they would come out two, three days later”. This
passivity is associated in peasant versions to changes in national politics and the
inauguration of a new president. Indeed, 1985 is the year of change of regime from
conservative president Belaúnde to populist president Alan García, from APRA. Right
from the start, Alan García declared that his government would not tolerate human
rights violations in the fight against terrorism. Furthermore, the president not only
encouraged the creation of a congressional commission to investigate massacres
carried out by the armed forces against peasant communities in Ayacucho, but he also
sacked the chiefs of the armed forces, who were to take responsibility for the tragic
events.
In the light of these developments, the armed forces opted for non-
intervention, withdrawing to their barracks in spite of the increasing number of areas
being declared in a state of emergency, and placed under military-political command.
Back in Tambo, this position was directly linked to the new president: “Alan didn’t

152
support us, didn’t give us any guarantees”; or “Alan García did not recognize [our
efforts], at that time Sendero kept on”. With an army not willing to take risks and
initiative in counter-subversive activity, the civil defense committees were left on their
own. 86
According to the CVR Report, the armed conflict fell in intensity during the
period 1985-1987 in the northern provinces of Ayacucho, relating this development to
(i) the destitution of the military-political commander in Huanta and the subsequent
passivity of the armed forces in the area; and (ii) the Shining Path’s expansion of
guerrilla war to other regions in the country (CVR 2003, Vol. IV:77). The blow that
SL suffered as a result of indiscriminate repression by the armed forces and the civil
defense committees in the countryside played also a significant role in this relative
calm. This overall assessment is valid for Tambo only when comparing this period to
the previous one, 1984/85, as demonstrated by the number of violent incidents and
casualties presented earlier in tables 5 and 6. In fact, the reduced intensity of the
armed conflict did not mean tranquility or lack of Shining Path presence in Tambo. As
I argued earlier, incidents and casualties (on average one incident and almost 2
casualties a month between 1986-89!) became the constant reminder of SL presence.
However limited and arbitrary the support previously provided by the armed
forces had been, the inaction and indifference demonstrated during this period were
discouraging for the civil defense committees. Having no guarantees for peasant self-
defense (that is, military authorization and support), the CDCs started to disband and
become disorganised. Self-defense practices such as autonomous operations almost
came to a halt. In general, self defense came to be perceived of as a highly risky
activity, with few or no rewards.
Informants from Huayao, Ccarhuapampa, Ccatupata and other communities
describe the period 1986-89 as the time of disorganization and lack of leadership,
particularly from 1987. As a local institution, the CDCs entered a period of weakness
and stagnation. Local authorities and CDCs did not dare to demonstrate much
initiative or engagement in self-defense, for fear of reprisals by the Shining Path. With
no functioning authorities to enforce self-defense practices and community

86
By contrast, it can be observed that during the internal armed conflict in Guatemala, which occurred
at about the same time as the one in Peru, the military also was involved in the organization of peasant
patrols (known as PACs)to combat guerrillas, “the army represented itself as an egalitarian, nationalist
force of change and development”, thus making the PACs and embodiment of the state at the frontier,
“the wilderness”, that is, in those are where the presence of the state was still being challenged by the
guerrillas (Stepputat 2001: 295)

153
governance, mistrust increased among neighbors in an everyday struggle to protect
one’s own life and that of one’s family, as these testimonies from Huayao
demonstrate:

“In 1986 we suffered several attacks and the government suspended all
guarantees, state of emergency they said. Then as dogs we have died. Took too
much the attacks and that made people to split, and people left, Huayao people
went to the mountains [huayquitos] at night, that’s when they [the Shining
Path] start messing with us, people abandoned the organization.” Interview
with “Marcos”, from Huayao.

“The organization dissolves in 1986-1988, existed by name only, the most

obedient ones would do formación [stand up in columns], went to the
[military] base, meetings, but it was too risky, those who continued in self-
defense [the Shining Path] checked them up. But governor lieutenant and
municipal agent existed, but hidden.” (sic) Interview with “Fernando”, from
Huayao.

Also in Ccarhuapampa, the self-defense organization had experienced increasing

weakness and disillusionment, yet never to the levels experienced in the rest of the
district. There, the CDC persisted in their intra-community tasks, but lost influence
and initiative at the district level. A key informant says that when two local authorities
started to question the existence of the organization, rumors spread that
“Ccarhuapampa had turned around” (se había volteado), deterring people from their
commitment to the organization. Informants from other communities report that even
Ccarhuapampa had been infiltrated by SL during this time. In August 1985,
Ccarhuapampa had become CDC Sede Central for the district of Tambo, showing
leadership and the capacity to organize and support self-defense operations. When the
CDCs in the rest of the district disbanded the following years, Ccarhuapampa was left
with no trustworthy counterpart willing to take the necessary risks to revamp the CDC
organization at the district level. As the sole bastion of self-defense in Tambo in the
second half of the 1980s, Ccarhuapampa was the object of continuous harassment and
attacks by the Shining Path guerrillas, sometimes resulting in casualties. According to
the compensation rights registry, Ccarhuapampa suffered 7 attacks with a reported

154
number of 44 dead from 1986 to 1989. In one single event – the SL incursion on
March 30 1989 – 27 people were killed.
Other communities that suffered several attacks from the Shining Path between
1986 and 1989, with casualties, include Acco, Vicos and Millpo. The communities of
Challhuamayo Baja, Cceccra, Moya, Tinyas, and Yuraccyacu experienced at least one
incursion with casualties during the same period. Huayao has no reported incursions
with casualties for the years 1987-89, while neighboring Patapata, Cceccra and Vicos
did. This might be indicative of the disorganization of the CDC in Huayao during this
period, in contrast to other communities: in the absence of a functioning CDC, there
was no need for the Shining Path “to punish” the community. Furthermore, many
describe this period as the time “when the Shining Path did as they pleased” in
Huayao, because the local population had given up self-defense. Without a
functioning CDC, Huayao (as other communities as well) entered a phase
characterized by a loss of direction. As informants tell, the situation seemed
immutable and hopeless. Co-existence with SL and the turning of a blind eye, had
become the necessary strategies for survival in the Tambo countryside.
There were, however, a few people who kept a certain degree of contact with
the military, providing information about SL activity in the community, and
occasionally serving as guides. Furthermore, there are those who considered co-
existence with the Shining Path as more than a necessity in a situation of armed
conflict; they see it as a sign of complicity and support to SL. According to these
informants, those who kept some contact with the military during the period of
disorganization/upheaval were “phantom authorities” (autoridades fantasma), false
authorities who were nothing more than ‘real’ SL supporters who passed on
information obtained from the military. When asked what led him to this conclusion, a
key informant answered: “If not, why did SL leave them in peace?”
It is possible then to see the level of mistrust that reigned in the district at this
time. The Shining Path imposed fear and peasants shrank from confrontation with the
guerrillas; at the same time, not being victimized by SL could also give rise to
suspicion of complicity with SL. Aware of the possibility of infiltration, the army also
kept peasants at a distance when it came to strategy, but this did not stop them from
requesting services such as food supplies and firewood delivered to their door! Similar
requirements came also from the Shining Path, who did not hesitate ‘to confiscate’
(steal) cattle or produce from peasants. As for civil authorities in the town, such as the

155
district’s Mayor, governor and the like, it is unclear whether these positions were
effectively filled at the time, that is, operating in Tambo and not outside the district
(for example, operating from Ayacucho).
Given the absence of references to such institutions during my interviews (the
general response was “there wasn’t anything, no authorities, nothing” (no había nada,
autoridades, nada), it seems reasonable to conclude that independent of their actual
existence or not, their relationship and involvement with the peasant population was
marginal. This is hardly surprising, as the Shining Path made public authorities the
target of continuous attacks, to such an extent that in over 15% of the districts in the
country there were no candidates for the 1989 municipal elections. According to the
CVR, in 1989 a total of 81 districts in the region of Ayacucho had a status of
“municipal vacancy”, that is, that public positions had been simply abandoned by
those in charge of them (CVR 2003: Vol. III:51). And even if municipal authorities
were in place, the state of emergency in almost 30% of national territory, including the
entire region of Ayacucho, rendered civil authorities powerless vis-à-vis the political
military command.
Another option for dealing with the increased insecurity experienced in the
district in the absence of local authorities and/or CDCs was simply to leave Tambo.
Testimonies from several informants indicate that this option was particularly popular
among young men, who would leave for one or two years, mainly for the rainforest.
When talking about the period of disorganization (of the CDCs) informants often
mentioned that “people left”, usually for the rainforest but also to other places outside
Tambo. It is therefore possible to think of a second wave of displacement around
1987/1988, one perhaps not as dramatic as the first wave of 1984, and therefore even
less notorious. Unfortunately, there are no statistics or alternative sources to support
this observation made for the district of Tambo.

Operación Halcón: An attempt to revamp the CDCs

According to my informants, the situation became unbearable by 1988-1989. At the
time, the Shining Path had not only extended its presence to other regions of the
country, but increased the intensity of violence, as a result of the initiation of a new
phase in their guerrilla war, the equilibrio estratégico, or “strategic equilibrium” as it
was called. The objective of this new phase was to “shake” the entire country so hard,
that the system would fall on its own. Violence was the means to the goal, and greater

156
peasant participation was expected. Therefore, SL pressure on the peasant population
increased, with a subsequent new wave of violence (CVR 2003).
As informants recount, something had to be done, and the only hope for
Tambo seemed to be to get help from outside the district, specifically from the
rainforest. There, the DECAS (Defensa Civil Anti-subversiva, Anti-subversive civil
defense) had managed to blockade the Shining Path activity, controlling most of the
Apurímac River Valley (see Map 6) through a highly-structured and disciplined
organization with strong tactical capacity87. The reputation that the DECAS enjoyed in
the valley, and in Ayacucho in general, spread not only by word, but most importantly
through direct experience, as Tambo peasants had maintained (in spite of many
difficulties, or perhaps because of them) their links with the valley in various forms,
such as seasonal labor or family ties.
According to my informants, a request was sent from CDC/community
authorities in Tambo (it is contested which community actually drew up and sent the
request) to the DECAS headquarters in Pichiwilca, asking for urgent help to re-
organize and re-enforce the CDCs in the district. The DECAS responded in August
1989 with what came to be called Operación Halcón (Operation Halk). This operation
has been studied in great detail by Fumerton (2002), who sees it as part of the process
of expansion by the DECAS beyond the Apurímac river valley. He argues that the
DECAS leadership aimed at gaining

“…an important foothold in the districts of San Miguel and Tambo, from
which the DECAS could expand their unique organizational system and
counterinsurgency strategy throughout the rest of the department.” (Fumerton
2002:131)

Thus, Operación Halcón was not only the result of a cry for help from Tambo, but
also a strategic move for the DECAS as a self-defense organization of regional scope,
which saw itself as a regional and national actor of importance. From this perspective,
peasant self-defense can be seen to raise issues beyond the protection of life and
property, and towards conceptualizations of nation-state formation and citizenship. I
will return to this discussion in later chapters.

87
For an excellent account of the origins and development of the DECAS up to the early 1990s, see Del
Pino (1996).

157
Map 6: Peru’s South Central Region, Zone III: Apurímac River Valley

Source: Peru’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission Final Report (2003), Vol. IV, p. 85.
Reproduced and edited from original website (accessed 28 August 2003) and CD-rom
version.

158
 Operación Halcón had a single and clear mandate: to re-organize the peasant
populations of Tambo and San Miguel into civil defense committees. Building on
their own experience, DECAS leadership considered peasant self-defense organization
as the most effective way to deal with the Shining Path threats and attacks.
Accordingly, if the immediate highland areas were to be free of SL influence, the
CDCs had to be re-activated. With the knowledge and authorization of VRAE military
headquarters in Pichari (led by the Naval Infantry), Los Pichihuillcas arrived in
Tambo in mid-August 1989.
People in Tambo refer to the DECAS peasant soldiers as “the Pichihuillcas”
because the DECAS headquarters were located in the village of the same name,
Pichihuillca. The three companies sent to Tambo were led by commandos Lagos and
Choque, experienced DECAS leaders. From Challhuamayo, Acco and Millpo, they
moved on to all peasant communities in the district to re-organize the CDCs
(Fumerton 2002). New CDC leaders were elected and the patrol system was
reinstalled. Peasants from Tambo recall that the new CDCs were immediately
requested to attend a meeting in Patibamba (in neighboring San Miguel), for an event
that included not only a public parade in the presence of the political military
commander based in Pichari and civil authorities (i.e. a public manifestation of the
organized peasantry), but most importantly, agreements were reached about the
organization of Sede Central Patibamba, with oversight over Tambo and San Miguel’s
CDCs; the acquisition of weapons; and operational coordination with Sede Central
Pichihuillca, in the Apurímac River Valley. Los Pichihuillcas stayed in Tambo for 15
days only, after which they returned to the rainforest, to engage in yet more counter-
subversive operations88.
Operación Halcón is thus a turning point in the history of the armed conflict in
Tambo. It meant the re-establishment of self-defense organizations, and to a certain
extent, of order and organization at the community level. This re-vamping of the
CDCs was not going to remain unnoticed and unchallenged by the Shining Path, who
carried out (at least) 14 incursions against the communities of Acco, Challhuamayo,
Huayao, Millpo Osno, Cceccra and Vicos in 1990. Similar attacks are reported for the

88
Fumerton (2002) gives detailed accounts of both Operación Halcón, and other operations that formed
part of this first expedition from the rainforest to the highlands. Fumerton had access to DECAS own
documents, and a variety of testimonies by the DECAS leadership, particularly the controversial
Comandante Huayhuaco, material presented in Chapter Four of his book. The relevance of these
operations lay in the regional scope and strategic nature demonstrated by the DECAS. This falls
however, outside theme of this dissertation and will not be discussed here.

159
adjacent areas of Tambo town (barrios). The death toll for this year, according to the
compensation rights registry is 43, mostly CDC authorities directly targeted by the
Shining Path in an attempt to damage, and eventually put a stop to peasant self-
defense.
The CDCs, for their part, actively engaged in the purchase of weapons with the
support of the Patibamba and Pichihuillca bases, usually Mauser rifles, retrocargas
(automatic shotguns) and hechizos (homemade guns). Such acquisitions by otherwise
impoverished peasant communities is indicative not only of the primacy and urgency
that self-defense regained in 1989/90, but also of the renewed power and legitimacy of
the CDC organization. Original second-hand firearms were very costly, and even
handmade hechizos could cost between 200-300 soles.89 This required the compulsory
contribution of a substantial sum of money from peasant families. Without a relatively
strong organization that could legitimize its presence and mission, the very task of
collecting moneys seems unfeasible. On his discussion of the public event arranged by
the DECAS and CDCs at Patibamba after Operación Halcón, Fumerton (2002) argues
that

“… it was meant to underscore the patriotic, and therefore morally just, nature
of the undertaking. And the attendance of various military and civil authorities
confirmed the legitimacy of the venture. The pact signed by the Sede Central
of Patibamba and the Sede Central [Pichihuillca] was intended not only to
specify mutual goals and obligations; it also served to formalize and legitimize
DECAS expansion into San Miguel and Tambo. Having carefully constructed
the symbolic aura of legitimacy and popular endorsement behind its actions,
the DECAS were then in a position to denounce any opposition it ran into as
“unpatriotic,” or even downright “subversive.”” (Fumerton 2002:136)

Was something similar taking place at the community level in Tambo as a result of
Operación Halcón? For those community authorities that had struggled to keep the

89
It is impossible to provide accurate information about the price of firearms in the late 1980s and early
1990s on the black market. The price provided here is a rough estimate given by two informants in
1999; and would correspond to approximately USD 90. In 1989, the currency in Peru was Intis.
President Fujimori introduced later Nuevos Soles, which has remained relatively stable until today. It is
possible that the estimate is wrong. According to Fumerton (2002), the price of a second-hand mauser
sold by the army to the CADs was roughly 1,500 nuevos soles, approximately USD 440. In today’s
international second- hand markets, prices run from USD 200 up to over USD 2000.

160
CDC organization alive, and all those who wished for change but did not dare to
organize for fear of repercussions, Operación Halcón was a demonstration of the value
and legitimacy of the self-defense ideal. Theirs was not a lost cause any longer, but
one endorsed and supported (organizationally and militarily) by the powerful and
respected DECAS, with the tacit support of the military in Pichari as well. As a
peasant leader from Vicos says, “then [with the arrival of the Pichihuillcas] we started
to put the pants on” (ahí empezamos a ponernos pantaloncitos), that is, to play strong,
to toughen up against the Shining Path.
Empowered by the Pichihuillcas involvement, the re-organized authorities had
the power to redefine the terms of existence within the communities, with the ability
to define self-defense as a just cause, and all support of its activities (be it in the form
of patrols, monetary contributions, or organizational work) as the desirable form of
behavior. To do otherwise could cause suspicion, and the CDC – once again – had the
power to define who was a subversive or not. This is not, however, the same as
arguing that peasant families contributed to the purchase of weapons and the re-
establishment of the CDC simply out of fear or coercion. As in other cases of
community endeavors in the Andes, social sanctions weigh high in individual
decision-making, and what is defined as the common good is often prioritized. As we
mentioned earlier, disorganization and disorder had become unbearable in Tambo by
1989; the absence of rains and failing crops that season did not make the situation any
better. Therefore, I argue that it was the need for some form of order, protection and
organization, not force, that lead peasant communities in Tambo to consider self-
defense as a viable alternative once more. Operación Halcón revitalized the dawning
faith in self-defense in Tambo.

New counter-subversive strategy and the pacification plan: Creating the

basis for a peasant-military alliance
Before moving on to discuss the consolidation of self-defense in Tambo in the early
1990s, it is necessary to introduce the changes occurring at the national level at the
time, as these would have direct impact on developments at the local level. Municipal
elections in 1989 and general elections in 1990 served as the background for an
intense period of political activity in the entire country in the midst of an acute
economic crisis and the expansion of guerrilla war.

161
 The triumph of the DECAS over the Shining Path in the Apurímac river valley
reached the national arena when in November 1989 ‘Comandante Huayhuaco’ was
officially introduced in Lima at the Minister’s Council. President Alan García himself
donated 100 rifles to the DECAS, initiating by this action a national debate about the
arming of peasants as counter-subversive strategy. Public acknowledgement from the
government ran parallel to a change of direction within the armed forces initiated in
1989 concerning the armed conflict and counter-subversive strategy. Intelligence work
and psycho-social operations90 were behind the new strategy.
According to the CVR, it is in these areas of operations that the most important
advances were made, in order to gain popular support and to neutralize the guerrillas.
Selective repressive tactics are applied, thus reducing (not ending) human rights
violations. Military moves were followed by psycho-social operations and the
systematic organization of self-defense committees, thus reducing the possibilities for
a backlash of guerrilla activity in the areas under renewed military control (CVR
2003:Vol. II:285). The CVR makes a thorough analysis of the new counter-subversive
strategy, which is highly relevant for discussions on peasant self-defense and peasant-
state relations in this dissertation. There were several innovations in the new strategy
that deserve closer attention.91 First of all, the armed conflict was to be understood as
a comprehensive and systematic project, and not any longer as a purely militaristic
enterprise. Socio-political and economic aspects were thus to play an important role in
approaching the conflict. Secondly, support from the local population was identified
as a necessity in the counter-subversive strategy. To obtain support from local
populations, the strategy referred to a theory of political power, which identified three
sectors in a population: a favorable active minority, a neutral majority and an
oppositional minority:

“The technique of power consists in “having a favorable minority”. The

strategic problem in Countersubversion is then “to find that favorable minority
and organize it to mobilize the neutral majority against the oppositional
minority”. (p. 60)”. (from ME 41-7, cited in CVR 2003, Vol.II:287)

90
“Psycho-social operations” in parenthesis, is defined as the indoctrination of military personnel and
local population in order to secure their loyalty.; from CVR 2003, Vol. II.
91
The strategy was presented in a classified document entitled “Manual de Ejército Guerra no
Convencional Contrasubverción ME 41-7”, edited in Lima by the Ministry of Defense in June 1989
(CVR 2003, Vol. II).

162
From this basic argument, the new counter-subversive strategy went on to establish
new guidelines for behavior towards the local population, the reorganization of
intelligence work, the organization of regional counter-subversive fronts92, and
operational tactics and objectives. Intervention in “red zones” was to be carried out
gradually, with an initial expulsion of the oppositional minority in order to re-install
military and political control. This implied not only the re-establishment of a certain
level of “normality”, but also the installation of armed units capable of confronting the
subversives in order to make their comeback impossible. The last stage required the
elimination, by death or capture, of those leading military-political guerrilla units.
This would require, among other things, an effective judiciary that would not allow
the escape of any guerrilla leader. The strategy envisaged the end of intervention only
after reaching the impossibility of a comeback of guerrilla forces for a given area. A
period of consolidation and pacification would then follow, where the establishment
of civil defense committees, local government elections and the provision of basic
public services came to be important elements (CVR 2003, Vol.II:291).
The new counter-subversive strategy was developed and implemented by the
Peruvian armed forces since 1989, independently of the national government. It is in
the context of counter-subversive strategy that the basis for a peasant-military
alliance was being created. The military had finally come to acknowledge, that if it
was to win the war against the Shining Path, it needed the support of the local
population. In the countryside, this support implied the active participation of civil
defense committees. Recalling Centeno’s discussion on the legacy of total wars, it is
when the state needs the population that it cannot afford to exclude it (Centeno 2003).
This change in counter-subversive strategy set a whole new framework for peasant-
state relations during the final stages of the conflict and the reconstruction period that
followed.
A few years later the strategy was shared and openly endorsed by President
Fujimori, who put into effect a number of measures for its implementation across the
country, as I discuss below. When the government of President Fujimori took office in
1990, it faced three main challenges: hyperinflation, political violence, and economic
stagnation. The first two were considered major obstacles to economic development,

92
The new strategy re-organized previously existing military zones into five counter-subversive fronts
of operations in the country, with the clear objective of impeding the transfer of resources from the
Huallaga river valley (where the Shining Path obtained financial resources from drug traffickers) into
other areas of operations (CVR 2003).

163
with worse effect over the poorer sectors of society. Following a liberal doctrine, the
government’s first task was to achieve economic stabilization through the
implementation of a harsh structural adjustment programme, cutting down inflation
and the fiscal deficit, and reinserting the country into the international economic
community. A second step was the implementation of a “National Plan for
Pacification” with the objective of re-establishing political and legal stability in the
country (APOYO 1997). These two processes were complemented with a number of
structural reforms oriented to promote productivity, to generate employment and to
modernize public administration. The rationale behind the government’s programme
was that economic growth and investment would only be possible once the country
returned to a climate of economic and political stability. The pacification of the
country was therefore a main priority of the first Fujimori government.
The overall strategy for pacification was presented by the executive in
November 1991, in the form of a set of supreme decrees that would provide a legal
framework for the pacification plan. For the first time in 12 years of armed conflict,
Congress would openly discuss a strategy to end guerrilla war. The decrees caused
much controversy, and many were changed and some rejected by the legislative. A
few months later, Fujimori would refer to these “Pacification Decrees” as one of the
main justifications for his ‘self-coup’ of April 5 1992, when he announced the
inauguration of an “Emergency Government for National Reconstruction”. The
decrees dealt with a number of issues, from the National Intelligence System, to
reinstating peace and order in penitentiaries (Tapia 1997). The decrees of most
importance for the rural areas were the ones relating to the recognition and
legalization self-defense committees (discussed separately in this chapter), and the so-
called “Law of Regret”, by which guerrilla cadres could be reinserted in their
communities in return for renouncing armed struggle. Let us now recap the previous
discussion on self-defense and see the implications of the new counter-subversive
strategy and pacification plan at work in the local setting of Tambo.

Comandos Especiales and the consolidation of self-defense in Tambo

As previously mentioned, the Pichihuillcas presence in Tambo lasted for 15 days only,
and throughout 1990 the CDC organization was under constant harassment from
Shining Path guerrillas. Furthermore, SL had managed to establish a support base in
the community of Cceccra, located in between the town of Tambo and Huayao. SL

164
cells also operated from within the town of Tambo itself, although the CDCs did not
know this at the time. The impetus from Operación Halcón faded with the passage of
time and pressure from the Shining Path. By 1991, the CDCs called for the help of
their allies from the Apurímac river valley once again.
On September 15th 1991, a patrol of 53 Pichihuillcas arrived at the community
of Osno led by Comando General “Sombra” and assisted by Comandos Operativos
“Choque”, “Jaguar”, “Kipo”, and “Zorro.” The patrol went under the name of
Comandos Especiales, or “Special Commands”. From Osno, the patrol moved to all
communities in the district in order to reactivate the civil defense committees once
again. Based on the experience with Operación Halcón, this expedition had the
mandate to stay in Tambo for an entire year, in order to consolidate the CDCs and the
expulsion of the Shining Path from the district.93 This mission was not the sole
initiative of the Pichihuillcas, it was endorsed and authorized (and according to a key
informant, ordered) by military commander “Oscar” from Pichari, in the Apurímac
river valley.
According to my informants, the first task for the Comandos Especiales was to
“clean up” Tambo (hacer limpieza), to “take away the weed” (recoger la mala hierba)
of the Shining Path guerrillas from the district. This first phase lasted until mid
October, and ended with the seizing of Cceccra. This community had become a SL
support base, acting as collection and distribution point for resources to guerrilla units
at Razuhillca. Several SL political-military leaders were captured in Masinga,
Mahuayura, Acco, and Challhuamayo. In an act filled with both strategic and
symbolic meaning, the Comandos Especiales installed their headquarters in Cceccra,
where they stayed for the entire duration of their mission. According to Fumerton
(2002), the mission was fully funded by the DECAS from the rainforest, including
remuneration for all 53 members of the Comandos Especiales. This was possible due

93
Fumerton (2002) provides an excellent account of the Comandos Especiales presence in Tambo,
based largely on the testimony and records provided by Comando Zorro. The value of Fumerton’s
contribution lies in providing a historical account of a very volatile and intense period of the armed
conflict (1989-1993) in Tambo, based on primary sources. In this way, he ensures that the material
recorded by Zorro and possibly other Comandos Especiales is not lost to oblivion. Zorro was still in
Tambo at the time of my fieldwork, working for the municipality. He became also one of my key
informants, so it is no surprise that much of the information provided in this section is similar to that of
Fumerton’s. However, I have not gone into detailed descriptions of specific operations such as those
found in Fumerton’s book, to which the reader wishing to learn more is referred (particularly Chapter
5). Our works differ however, not only in the emphasis given to different periods (Fumerton on the
armed conflict; this dissertation on the reconstruction process), but also in our understanding of peasant
society and the interpretation we thus give to the historical processes we study.

165
to the relatively good income the DECAS obtained from its members, peasants
committed largely to coca leaf production.
Informants from Vicos and Huayao corroborate versions from other
informants participating in the Comandos Especiales about the methods used to
identify SL political-military leaders and supporters. Intelligence work prior to the
mission had resulted in lists with the names of those individuals involved with SL in
the various Tambo communities. So the Comandos Especiales did not have to search
blindly on arriving at Tambo, they had already identified targets.
It is unclear how exactly these lists came about. Informants from several
communities tell me that in spite of their low profile during the weak periods of self-
defense, the few active CDC members knew or had information about who was
involved with the Shining Path. But on their own, there was nothing they could do to
overtake these individuals. They were just waiting for the right moment to pass on the
information. Such a moment came with the arrival of the Pichihuillcas.
A second phase of the mission lasted from October 1991 until March 1992,
when self-defense reorganized on the basis of Comités de Base de Defensa Civil
Antisubversiva94 for each community and a district’s organization under the
supervision of the Pichihuillcas. A common district organization had been attempted
already in 1985, when Ccarhuapampa became Sede Central. This new attempt aimed
at improving strategic capacity and coordination in counter-subversive activities.
Another innovation was the creation of a Grupo Especial, that is, a patrol made up of
young men recruited from the peasant communities to be on constant alert and
vigilance in the district. The group was also based at Cceccra, and received instruction
from the Comandos Especiales, yet it had operational autonomy (Fumerton 2002).
Members of the grupo especial were also called rentados, because they received a
small remuneration – thus were “rented” – from the peasant communities themselves.
Each community had to pay for one rentado, with the exception of the smallest
communities, which could split the cost with others in a similar situation. Fumerton
reports that by 1997, the grupo especial had surpassed 30 rentados. Only two years
later, however, this number was reduced to 11, because the communities could not
collect more funds to cover the cost of having more rentados.

94
This was the name used to refer to the former CDCs in Tambo until the legal recognition of peasant
self-defense organisations introduced the term “CADs” – Comités de Autodefensa – in November
1991. To avoid confusion however, I will continue to refer to self-defense organizations existing prior
to November 1991 as CDCs.

166
 With the arrival of the Comandos Especiales, self-defense in Tambo was
originally organized in 14 bases (a number that would increase with time), one for
each community. Self-defense practices such as patrolling and search operations were
re-introduced. In some communities, such as Vicos, Challhuamayo and
Ccarhuapampa, even women participated in the patrols during the daytime, while men
kept watch at night. Informants confirm that soon after, former peasant authorities
started to emerge and registry books and community official stamps reappeared.

The “Law of Recognition of Self-Defense Committees” and its effects in

Tambo
It is while the Comandos Especiales were in Tambo that the “Law of Recognition of
Self-Defense Committees” (Legislative Decree No. 741) was passed on November
12th 1991. The importance of this law lies first of all in the recognition of existing
forms of peasant self-defense organizations, and secondly, in the explicit link between
these and the armed forces, although in a position of subordination to the political-
military command. The tacit support that individual military commanders had
occasionally demonstrated towards the CDCs during the 1980s had suddenly become
law. The CDCs were no longer obliged to appeal to moral values in their fight against
the Shining Path. With DL 741, they now had the law on their side and the legitimacy
that sprang from it. CAD legislation was in complete accordance with the new
counter-subversive strategy developed by the armed forces since 1989 (ref. above).
Given that peasant self-defense organizations had existed long before DL 741, and
that peasant ronderos had often found themselves left alone in the fight against SL,
while the military was hiding away in their trenches, it is not hard to imagine how the
new law was received in the countryside. This was simply great news.
In the eyes of CDC members and peasant families, their sacrifice and effort in
resisting the Shining Path had finally been acknowledged by the government.
Regardless of what this might imply in practice, this recognition made peasant efforts
equal to that of the military, as they were now being called to support the armed forces
to fight the Shining Path. Furthermore, the law also allowed the possession of
weapons by peasant organization for the purpose of self-defense. Besides the military
aspect of this dispensation, which provided much needed weapons to ill-equipped
peasant patrols, this was a clear signal of trust by the state / armed forces towards the

167
peasant population, who since colonial times been banned from the legal possession of
weapons.
The signal was loud and clear: in the context of Fujimori’s pacification plan,
DL 741 had established a peasant-state alliance in the fight against an identified
common enemy. The legalization of peasant self-defense organizations would have
far-reaching consequences involving not only future developments in the armed
conflict, but also a comprehensive redefinition of peasant-state relations in Peru. I
shall return to this later.
Against this background, it is no coincidence that the Comandos Especiales in
Tambo enjoyed extensive leverage and initiative in 1992, nor was it unlikely that they
would also be the target of new Shining Path attacks. From January 1992 onwards,
CDCs engaged once again in autonomous and mixed operations in search for Shining
Path guerrillas. This activity is reflected in the number of confrontations recorded for
1992 in the registries for the compensation issue: 10, compared to 4 during the
previous year. Confrontations left at least 20 dead and 15 injured among CDC
members in 1992 (ref. Table 6). On one particular occasion, in January 1992, a patrol
of the Grupo Especial came under attack from 50-60 guerrillas, who did not hesitate
to use dynamite against the group. Nine rentados died, two went missing and one
managed to escape. A few weeks later, on February 20 Tambo CDC headquarters in
Cceccra came under attack; and in spite of army support immediately arriving at the
scene, the guerrillas managed to escape leaving two dead (including a soldier) and 8
wounded. As a result of this attack, CDC Tambo – or rather, CAD Tambo, instructed
all their bases to purchase at least two firearms each, in order to be better able to
confront the guerrillas. This was done, once more, by collecting money within the
communities.
The town of Tambo itself was eventually seized by the Comandos Especiales
in March 1992, as it became clear that SL cadres were operating freely there with the
compliance of local merchants and shop-owners, who (according to peasants) would
rather pay quotas to the party than risk any repercussions. Several school teachers
were members of the local SL logistics unit. This operation expelled SL guerrillas
from Tambo, where the CDCs organized the urban population along the same pattern
of the CDCs in peasant communities, calling it CAD Zona Urbana. The well-off
merchant groups in the town did not approve of peasants involvement in the town’s
affairs, and discrimination and conflict were not rare. Informants say that town people

168
used to laugh at peasants parading in CDC events at the main plaza, but that after the
seizing of Tambo, the laughing stopped: “they fear us now, you see, don’t say
anything no more”. With the official recognition granted by DL 741, the CADs had
been officially institutionalized, thus becoming a powerful actor in the local scene,
both at the district and the community levels.

Tambo on its own

The time came when the Comandos Especiales completed their mission and had to
return to their base in Pichihuillca. This happened in September 1992, a few days after
the capture of Shining Path chairman Presidente Gonzalo. The news of his capture in
Lima, along with other members of the top leadership, was a source of celebration and
hope across the country. It symbolized the possibility of triumph over the guerrillas
and an end to the armed conflict. President Fujimori profited immensely from
Guzmán’s arrest in terms of political support, portraying the event as the result of the
pacification strategy implemented by his government. That this was not actually the
case did not seem to matter at the time.95 Earlier that year, on April 5, 1992, Fujimori
had dissolved the national parliament in what later came to be known as autogolpe, or
“self-coup”, and with the explicit support of the armed forces, intervened in those
public institutions that were “in need of reform”. The objective of the autogolpe, as it
was called by Fujimori, was to reorganize the institutional structure in order to face
the challenge that the fight against terrorism required. So, by the time the 28
Pichihuillcas remaining in Tambo left, victory over the Shining Path was within sight.
One commando, Zorro, did not return to the rainforest). He was asked by the district
Mayor and the governor to stay in Tambo and lead the Grupo Especial, a task he
accepted immediately and that proved extremely challenging (Fumerton 2002).
Less than a month after the Pichihuillcas had left Tambo, the district
experienced the worst incursion ever carried out by the Shining Path in the district. On
the night of October 10, 1992, approximately 100 guerrillas entered the community of
Huayao, and killed 53 people in their homes and also those trying to escape. The
guerrillas used dynamite, bombs, and machetes against the local population, while
setting their houses on fire. Zorro and his patrols were the first to arrive at the scene,

95
The capture of Abimael Guzmán was the result of intelligence work carried out by the national
police, DINCOTE (Dirección Nacional contra el Terrorismo), not by the military (Tapia 1997; CVR
2003).

169
after a few survivors reached his home in Cceccra to alert him. This massacre was the
first thing people talked to me about when I first arrived in Tambo and Huayao in
1999. The attack is also discussed by Fumerton (2002), and has been carefully
investigated in the CVR Report (CVR 2003, Vol. VII:225).
An attack of this magnitude a month after the capture of Presidente Gonzalo
was a cruel reminder that the Shining Path cadres were not willing to give up armed
struggle. The attack received national and international news coverage, and the
Shining Path were condemned for human rights abuses. The political-military
authorities sent humanitarian aid to Huayao, and the military base in Pichari sent
troops to safeguard the community and neighboring areas for three months. Even
President Fujimori himself visited Huayao and stayed overnight shortly after the
attack, in a symbolic act to challenge the guerrilla threat and to show solidarity with
the victims. Later, the community received various forms of support and assistance for
public works directly ordered by the president. Ironically, the end of armed conflict in
Tambo, and the start of the reconstruction period were marked by the bloodiest event
registered in the recent history of the district. It is not surprising then, that after such a
traumatic event the perceived threat of a potential Shining Path attack has been so
pervasive among the people of Tambo.

A LANDSCAPE FOR RECONSTRUCTION – TAMBO SINCE 1993

I finish this chapter with an overview of the district of Tambo as it emerged from the
armed conflict in 1993. This is the year when the phase of “reconstruction” proper
begins. At the national level, the country had a new constitution and a new political
scene. This was reflected at the local level in local elections and new municipal
governments. Economic recovery was under way, but would still take a few years
before it reached the countryside in the form of public investment. For the CADs
across the country, including Tambo, 1993 meant further institutionalization of self-
defense organizations, as a direct result of counter-subversive strategy, the national
pacification plan and related legislation.

Legalization and legitimacy of CADs in rural society

On November 11, 1992, Supreme Decree No. 077-92-DE approved the rules that
regulated the organization and functions of CADs, which had been recognized a year
earlier. The most immediate implication of DS 077 was the effective registration and

170
official recognition of independent CADs by their respective political-military
authorities. In Tambo, this process was undertaken by the new president of the
district’s CAD, Commando Zorro, who had been elected right after he concluded his
term as head of the Grupo Especial in March 1993. By February 1994 the Comité
Central de Autodefensa San Juan Bautista Tambo, La Mar had been officially
recognized and registered by the political-military command in Ayacucho, consisting
originally of 26 base committees organized into five zones (Resolution No. 1552-94
CCFFAA).
The number of base committees would increase with time, as the process of
return and reconstruction moved on. The official recognition of the district’s Central
Committee did not imply the automatic recognition of individual community CADs.
On the contrary, each community seeking status as CAD had to undergo the process
of registration to the military authorities. In spite of the apparent simple procedure this
involved (the requirements were relatively easy to collect: an application letter; copy
of the CAD’s act of constitution; list of CAD members with names, date of birth, ID
number and signature/digit print; and a sketch of the territorial unit), the process of
recognition of Tambo CADs occurred mostly between mid-1993 until mid-1998, and
some bases were still awaiting the official resolution at the time of my fieldwork.96
Besides the fact that bureaucratic procedures tend to be time-consuming, new CADs
were being formed as the process of return proceeded. This tells us about two aspects
of life in the countryside in the mid-1990s that are closely related to each other: the
need for security (either real or perceived), and the legitimacy of the CAD
organization in rural society.
The massacre in Huayao was the last major attack by the Shining Path in
Tambo. The increased need for security to prevent such horrors reinforced the view
that the only way to protect one’s family and community was through organization
and self-defense. This idea was already shared by most communities in Tambo; the
armed conflict had proven time and again that in the moment of truth, peasants could
only rely on themselves. In view of this, security became almost synonymous with

96
One may ask not only why the process took so long, but also why the process continued during a
time otherwise experienced as “peace”. The CVR Reports raises a similar issue when comparing the
numbers of CADs legally recognized in Peru between 1993 and 2000: from 4200 CADs with 235000
members, up to 8000 CADs with 500000 members respectively. The CVR suggests that this can be
explained by the inclusion of rondas campesinas from northern Peru in the CAD listings, and it
expresses disappointment at not being able to establish a good estimate of the number of CADs existing
today (CVR 2003,Vol. II:468).

171
CADs. For returning communities, it was inconceivable to return without having a
CAD, because the CAD was perceived as the guarantor of protection for the
community as well as the access to a network of support from other communities in
the event of need.
In Mallon’s terminology (Mallon 1995), the identification of security with the
CAD organization achieved communal hegemony in the district of Tambo. The
legitimacy that the CADs enjoyed in the district and in communities had much to
thank to the CAD legislation. Not only had the peasants’ contribution to ending the
armed conflict finally been recognized, but they were now being included and had
permanent contact with the local and regional political-military authorities. The local,
regional and national networks formed through the active implementation of CAD
legislation created a new space, a public sphere where peasants’ inclusion in a national
project (joint fight against terrorism, pacification, and reconstruction; see next
chapter) was being developed, shaped, and contested. Similarly at the local level in
Tambo, in the public sphere of peasant communities, the legitimacy that self-defense
organizations had prior to legislation had been reinforced or empowered by the new
laws. Therefore, the impact of the law of recognition upon issues of identity formation
and citizenship among CAD members and the peasant population in general cannot be
sufficiently emphasized. Moreover, the CADs of the 1990s strengthened their
legitimacy and prestige in the communities through their links with the state and its
representatives, the armed forces, becoming the link between state and community.97
This was a clear example of legality being “the ultimate basis for legitimacy” (Turner
1993).
Recalling a previous discussion in Chapter Two, the power of law relies not
only in reinforcement, but also on the ideals and visions it represents, By law, CAD
representatives and members were under the supervision of the military, either for
operations, instruction and/or support. Activities were organized in Ayacucho, Tambo
or Pichari, and the CAD organization became a large network for peasants in the
region. CAD members participated as well in a number of public events where the
peasant-military alliance was highlighted and the role of peasants as active fighters
against the Shining Path recognized. In speeches and public events, peasants were
referred to as “our rondero brothers” (nuestros hermanos ronderos); and it was not

97
In footnote 86, I commented the case of Guatemalan PACs as the embodiment of the state at the
frontier. A similar argument could be made for the Peruvian CADs of the 1990s.

172
unusual to hear CAD leaders call soldiers “our soldier brothers” either. The discourse
of the peasant-military alliance coming from the highest levels of government and the
armed forces was quickly adopted and adapted by the CADs and peasant
communities.
The peasant-military alliance manifested itself not only through discourse, but
also through the distribution of weapons from the army among CADs in the early
1990s. According to Starn (1996), 10,000 Winchester rifles were distributed across the
country starting in 1991 by political-military authorities and occasionally, even the
president himself. This was possible within the framework of the law of recognition of
CADs that allowed the possession of weapons by a peasant organization for the
purpose of self-defense (ref. previous chapter).
However, and in spite of the equality divulged through the discourse of the
peasant-military alliance, the relationship between CADs and the armed forces
remained an uneven one. The law clearly specified that the CADs were under the
supervision and control of military authorities, yet the style of applying supervision
and control could vary according to individual regional authorities (as shall be seen in
the case of compensation rights in Chapter Nine). In some cases, the military acted in
highly authoritarian ways. In others, it was more accessible and easy-going. A military
garrison was built in Tambo in 1987/88, and army troops were stationed there until
2000. In Tambo, the general impression is that “they worked well, we worked
together.” But after further scrutiny, criticisms arose, emphasizing the lack of
efficiency and courage of army soldiers during operations: how slow they were, and
clumsy, and nervous. In addition, the military of the mid-1990s was also portrayed by
peasants as demanding, always requesting to attend this or that. “And what did you
do?” I asked. Tenemos que ir nomás, qué vamos a hacer; “we just have to go, what
can we do.”
On the other hand, as noted by the CVR, the vertical nature of peasant-military
relations does not exclude tutelage (CVR 2003, Vol.II:464), and in some cases the
military has moved forward to assist and protect CAD members from civil/judicial
prosecution (sometimes wrongly). In addition, the military has often provided support
to peasant communities in the form of goods and services, such as food supplies,
transport, lodging or public works.
Difficulties would also arise within the communities. Contrary to the 1980s,
when CDCs existed as the community organization, the period of reconstruction saw

173
the revival of the peasant community organization parallel to the CAD organization.
How was this possible? With peace and the normalization of daily life in the
countryside, previous forms of peasant organization re-emerged. Important as security
and defense were, the CADs became a sectoral organization, in charge only of self-
defense activities but not of community governance. While the CAD existed within a
community and the CAD president was considered a community authority, the
position of community president was a different one, usually occupied by somebody
else.98 This parallel existence was not always easy, and some communities managed
the situation better than others. Initial friction as to who represents the community and
who is the maximum authority in a community dissipated towards the late 1990s, as a
result of the CADs reduced relevance and influence in a period of relative peace.

Return: New settlement and population patterns

The process of return started gradually in 1993. Families that had sought refuge in
places like Tambo, Ccarhuapampa, Huayao, Acco, Challhuamayo, Vicos, Mahuayura,
Osno, and Millpo started to return to their communities of origin by their own means,
usually joining efforts with other families. However, upon their return, the
communities did not take up the same settlement pattern as before the armed conflict,
which was spread, with the houses next to or in close proximity to their land plots.
The communities now wanted to live in an urban-like settlement, with houses next to
each other and concentrated in one strategic location in the community’s territory,
preferably next to the access road. The main reason given for this is security. By
living next to each other, peasants say, neighbors can help and they will not fall prey
to the Shining Path so easily in the event of an attack. Now the entire community can
be put on alert quickly, unlike before, when one could be killed at his home without
anyone knowing before it was too late.
However, this “urbanization of the countryside” (Stepputat 2001) is also
related to an increased interest on the part of the rural population in gaining access to
public services. The rationale behind this is that public services such as water or
electricity are more likely to reach all households if in close proximity to one another;
and similarly with other services, such as health, transport or simply information.
Since 1993, peasant villages have started to distribute space in an urban-like manner,

98
There are cases, however, when the same person holds both positions. It is actually not unusual,
particularly in those communities with few good or popular leaders.

174
with the school or casa communal (community house) at the centre, next to an open
area that functions as a plaza, and the houses around the plaza or along the road. Some
communities have even engaged the services of engineers and architects to draw a
map of the village identifying public and residential areas as well as avenues.
The plaza has both public and commercial functions. This open public and
physical space is used for community assemblies and CAD meetings, and hosts the
local market on market day. It is not unusual to find the local “shop” (a private home
where the owner sells a number of basic items such as matches, candlelights, sugar,
pens, notebooks, batteries, soft drinks) near the plaza or by the road. In those rare
cases where satellite telephones have been installed (by the national telephone
company), these are located at the shop. Community houses are a very popular request
among peasant communities, because of their multi-purpose utility. The module
provided by PAR is much preferred, because the many rooms can host a number of
public and community services such as a nursery, community kitchen, lodging for
visitors, a workshop or health worker’s office.
The National Census of Population and Housing 1993 was carried out on July
11 1993. The census included various demographic and social indicators, including
household composition, which have particular relevance for understanding population
patterns at the outset of the reconstruction period. According to the census, the district
of Tambo had 12.359 inhabitants, including estimates for omissions and the rainforest
population; the actual number of people counted that day was 11866 people.
Furthermore, the census registered in Tambo 49 centros poblados – CCPP (“centers
of population”) with inhabitants, and 14 CCPP without inhabitants.
These numbers alone signal that the return process was already under way. But
it would be wrong to assume that the relatively large number of places occupied once
again implied also the full return of their populations. Of the total number of houses
registered in the census (4300), 1518 were unused and/or uninhabited (about 34%).
This could be explained by the fact that many of the owners of these empty houses
were living somewhere within or outside the district; or that they had died. Most
likely, the houses had been abandoned at the time of the census because of the newly
concentrated settlement pattern described above. Another extreme interpretation could
be that Tambo was still missing a third of its population in 1993, either to temporary
or permanent displacement, death or other causes. A clear answer to this issue will be
reached once new statistical data is available.

175
 More revealing than the empty houses, is perhaps the fact that out of a total of
2823 registered households in the district, 39% of these had a female head of
household. In some CCPP this percentage goes as high as 67%, particularly in smaller
return communities. In the Andes, the common pattern is to have male headed
households. Female heads only occur in the case of widows, and the occasional single
mother (who usually lives with her parents/relatives, with her father or other male
relative being the head of the household). Maintaining the accuracy of this figure, it is
valid to ask to what extent the reconstruction process – at least at the community level
– has not been a female undertaking? This piece of information came too late in the
research, with the result that the gender dimension in the reconstruction process has
not been sufficiently addressed by the dissertation.
In Chapter Three I discussed the male bias in this project due to its entry point:
self-defense organizations, where membership is entirely male. The percentage of
female heads of household in Tambo in 1993 would support Theidon’s argument that
masculine narratives of the armed conflict have become hegemonic, effectively
marginalizing women’s experiences and interpretations (Theidon 2003). In this male-
dominated version of the events, women’s needs, role and contribution to the process
of reconstruction have been ignored and left aside. Such omission has unfortunately
been shared by both public and private actors involved in the reconstruction process,
and by researchers and practitioners alike (including me), with the result that an
important part of the overall picture has been missed. I hope to be able to make
amends for this absence in future work.

SUMMARY
In 1993, Tambo emerged from 10 years of armed conflict empowered with a new
institutional actor: the CADs. The communal hegemony of self-defense and the
legitimacy enjoyed by CADs in peasant communities, had been reinforced by the law
of recognition of CADs, which formalized the peasant-military alliance. The alliance
was the result of profound changes in counter-subversive strategy, most importantly,
the acknowledged need for the support of a local population that the state could not
longer afford to exclude. Representing the organized peasantry, the CADs became the
link between state and community; its role in rural society had been consolidated. The
experience of armed conflict and the peasant-state alliance had established a new basis
for peasant-state relations of the reconstruction period.

176
Chapter 8

RECONSTRUCTION AS SOCIAL POLICY

Wherever you traveled in Ayacucho in 1999, it was not difficult to spot boards along
the road announcing the execution of this or that development project by one of the
many public agencies working for rural development, reconstruction and poverty
alleviation. This gave an overall first impression that the government was indeed
actively engaged in the reconstruction efforts of the areas affected by the armed
conflict, as well as in fighting poverty and promoting sustainable development. Was
state presence in development programs as real as its advertising? Was there a specific
policy for the “areas affected by violence” in Peru in the 1990s? And if so, how was it
framed and implemented? Did it have any impact in Tambo?
The present chapter addresses these questions, by approaching the process of
reconstruction in Tambo linking it to national social policy. It will be argued that
through its implementation, the policy on reconstruction was first of all conceived as
social policy for the areas affected by violence, and not as a qualitatively different
type of endeavor. Such a conceptualization of the reconstruction effort determined the
type of activities to be implemented on the ground, as well as the practices involved,
which in many cases strengthened hierarchical and clientelistic patterns of social
relations between peasant communities and the state. However, social policy was not
alone in shaping the national policy on reconstruction; the public debate on internally
displaced peoples, and the peasant-state alliance set a framework for policy-making
and implementation. Indeed, the official discourse on the reconstruction period (born
as it was in the peasant-state alliance), emphasized the link between “reconstruction &
development.” In the context of reconstruction, the development arena became a new
space for interaction between the peasant population and state, a dimension of the
public sphere where citizenship could be claimed and exercised.
The chapter starts with a presentation of the national debate on internally
displaced people, which emerged after almost a decade of armed conflict, calling for
government involvement and support for those affected by the armed conflict. I
continue with a discussion of national social policy and implementation during the
Fujimori regime, in order to identify trends and practices that spread and influenced

177
the policy on reconstruction and the process itself. The remaining part of the chapter
analyzes the government agency specifically created to work for the benefit of IDPs
and others affected by the armed conflict: the Program for Support to the
Repopulation and Development of the Emergency Zones – PAR. Together with
FONCODES (Peru’s Social Investment Fund), these two were the most active public
agencies in the countryside during the reconstruction period, at least in terms of the
delivery of development projects. Although a thorough analysis of FONCODES will
not be possible in this dissertation, a comparison of PAR and FONCODES project
portfolios in Tambo will demonstrate how, in practice, the reconstruction policy for
the areas affected by violence was almost identical to the social policy designed for all
rural areas in general. This will provide an entry point for a discussion on
asistencialista practices, the so-called bias of infrastructure, and the contesting views
on what “reconstruction” entails for peasant and state actors. Experiences from Tambo
will illustrate how peasant citizens engaged with the state on the basis of the peasant-
state alliance, to exercise citizenship through the demand of development projects,
legitimated by a means of a discourse that linked development and reconstruction.

FROM “MIGRANTS” TO “IDPS”

As mentioned in the previous chapter, the new counter-subversive strategy had just
been implemented for a few months when the leader of the Shining Path, Abimael
Guzmán and his closest associates, were arrested. This achievement not only left SL
without military and political leadership, it also made an enormous impact on public
opinion, which could now see a ray of hope for an end to the armed conflict. What this
hope meant for the thousands of people displaced by the conflict, was the possibility
of returning to their communities of origin. I have already explained how the process
of return was initiated in Tambo by the initiative of its own population. What is
relevant in this context is that the repopulation of the countryside was perceived by the
government and the armed forces as a necessary measure in the pacification process.
As the armed forces gained control over territories previously accessed by SL, it was
important to have local communities organized in CADs to control the areas and alert
the military of any subversive activity (Francke 2001a). The local population and later
the returnees did not oppose this, and in many cases, they asked for the establishment
of military bases in the vicinity to improve the security of rural areas.

178
 Although the armed conflict had already been going on for over a decade, the
public debate had paid little attention to those potentially returning to repopulate the
countryside: those “migrants” from the highlands who left their homes because of the
conflict, and who later would be called internally displaced people, or IDPs This
group represents approximately 410,000 people, according to the National Board on
Displacement (MENADES), and up to 600,000 according to PAR and CEPRODEP
figures. As has been pointed out already, displacement from the highlands took place
gradually over the 1980s, with peak periods of occurrence in 1983/84 and 1987, the
same years of harshest political violence in the south-central Andes. The government
had not identified the internally displaced people as a distinctive group in need of
specific forms of assistance until 1993, when PAR was created. In the meantime,
religious groups of the Catholic Church, joined later by evangelical churches and a
few NGOs, had provided humanitarian assistance for the displaced in places of refuge,
particularly in larger cities such Ayacucho, Huancayo and Lima, or smaller cities,
such as Huanta. The vast majority of displaced peasants to urban areas were assisted
by relatives and/or people they knew from their own localities and who had migrated
before the violence. The living conditions of the internally displaced to urban areas
varied according to the resources each family had at their disposal, but for most cases,
the displaced had no other means of survival than their own labor force. They spoke
little or no Spanish, and were subject to discrimination and suspicion by the locals.
For most of the migrants, displacement meant starting (or continuing) a life of
poverty, only now in urban areas.
In the late 1980s an increasing although few number of NGOs started to work
with the internally displaced in the communities of refuge, focusing on humanitarian
assistance, productive activities and capacity-building, as well as advocacy work.
Stepputat and Sørensen (2001) give a good account of the introduction of the IDP-
concept in Peru in the early 1990s. At the time, the displaced peoples were referred to
under a variety of terms: migrants, compulsive migrants, forced migrants, refugees,
internal refugees.99 Writing about the NGO SEPAR in Huancayo, the authors explain
that “the aim of their advocacy was to achieve public recognition of the displaced
population as victims of violence” (Stepputat 2001). This advocacy work faced the
challenge of the diffused identity of these “migrants from zones of emergency”, as

99
In Tambo, the local term was retirados.

179
SEPAR had named them; a proper identity would “allow them to have a relatively
proper space at the local level, and to a lesser degree at the regional and national
level” (op.cit.: 778). This view was most likely shared by a number of NGOs active on
that field at the time.
Developments at the international level had relevance for the introduction of
the IDP concept in Peru as well. In the early 1990s the number of persons around the
world being forcibly displaced within their countries’ borders rose dramatically due to
civil wars. While refugees could turn to international law and institutional
mechanisms, the needs for protection and assistance of the internally displaced
became clear. An international debate about the normative framework for the
internally displaced developed among international organizations, NGOs and the UN
Commission on Human Rights. Work on what would eventually lead to the “Guiding
Principles for Internal Displacement” was initiated in this context (Sánchez-Garzoli
2003).100
The introduction and spread of the concept of IDP in Peru took place in the
period 1991-1993, parallel to international developments. According to Stepputat and
Sørensen (2001), the process started with “a national reading of the problem” [of
displacement] at an encounter organized by the Catholic Church with the participation
of NGOs and church-based organizations. A second encounter was organized in 1992,
where the Colombian and Central American experiences of conflict and displacement
were presented. By 1993, the IDP concept in the context of Peru had been endorsed
and adopted by the NGO sector, leading to the organization of MENADES (National
Board on Displacement) in 1994. Two years later, in 1996, the National Organization
of Internally Displaced Peoples, CONDECOREP, was founded.
What is an “internally displaced person”? According to the Guiding Principles,
“internally displaced persons are persons or groups of persons who have been forced
or obliged to flee or to leave their homes or places of habitual residence, in particular
as a result of or in order to avoid the effects of armed conflict, situations of
generalized violence, violations of human rights or natural or human-made disasters,
and who have not crossed an internationally recognized State border” (OCHA 1999).
Along with this definition came a number of rights and guarantees relevant to the

100
This task, which was developed in several stages following several UN mandates, was fulfilled by
the Representative of the Secretary-General on Internally Displaced Persons in 1998, with the
presentation and adoption of the Guiding Principles.

180
protection of people from forced displacement and to their protection and assistance
during displacement as well as during return or resettlement and reintegration. The
power of introducing this category in the national debate on displacement was the
identification of the displaced in Peru as a group in need of assistance, with needs and
entitlements specific to their status. Through this new concept, the “migrants from
emergency zones” could be identified as “internally displaced persons”, victims of an
armed conflict and thus entitled to specific protection and assistance from the
government.101 It was at this point that PAR – originally called Proyecto de Apoyo al
Repoblamiento – was created in October 1993. Let us now situate the establishment of
PAR and the development of a national policy on reconstruction, in the broader
context of social policy during the Fujimori regime, in order to identify its principles
and dynamics, as these would strongly influence the process of reconstruction.

SOCIAL POLICY DURING THE FUJIMORI REGIME102

We may recall from last chapter the economic stabilization and pacification that were
the prime challenges of the new Fujimori regime. The implementation of the
adjustment program implemented to achieve macro-economic objectives came at an
extremely high social cost. While thousands of people lost their jobs, the prices of
goods and services increased over night. Economic stability would not be viable
without social stability, so the government established a number of social programs
and projects directed at the poor (55% of the total population in 1991) in order to
compensate for the social cost of adjustment (Vásquez 2002). Since private
investment grew at a much lower pace than the one expected, and new jobs for the
unemployed were to be seen, the government created new social programs and
revamped old ones to meet the needs of the rising unemployed. For instance, soup
kitchens and the “glass of milk” programs were strengthened and a food support
program, PRONAA (Programa Nacional de Ayuda Alimentaria) was created in 1992
to meet increasing nutritional deficiencies among poor families. Peru’s social
investment fund, FONCODES, was created in 1991 to provide basic needs,
infrastructure and temporary employment. Specific programs within social sectors

101
The category would, of course, prove problematic at the moment of implementation, as will be
discussed later in the chapter.
102
“Social policy” is used here as in official Peruvian documentation, a term encompassing all
dimensions that might strengthen human capital, such as health, nutrition, education, transportation, and
basic needs infrastructure.

181
such as health, education and public administration were implemented under the
principle of universalism for the provision of social services. All these initiatives
implied an increase in social expenditure, which together with the economic
stabilization program and pacification, have been defined as the three basic elements
of Peru’s poverty reduction strategy in the Fujimori regime (MEF 1995).
The increase in social expenditure was explicitly stated as a necessary
condition in the government’s poverty strategy. According to numbers from INEI
(cited by Vásquez 2002), the government’s social expenditure per capita in 1991 was
USD 40.-, while in 1997 the same indicator was USD 117.-, per capita. Changes in
social expenditure however, envisaged more than amounts of investment, they
included also institutional and administrative measures. The most relevant in this
context is perhaps the creation of the Ministry of the Presidency in 1992, which
sought to improve institutional coordination among the agencies involved in poverty
alleviation. Having an umbrella structure, the ministry gathered all major agencies
operating in the areas of infrastructure, regional development and social development,
including FONCODES and PRONAA. Also, the Inter-Ministerial Committee for
Social Issues (CIAS) was re-established with the aim to analyze, coordinate and
formulate social policies at the sectoral levels. The CIAS consisted of members of the
Ministries of Presidency, Economy, Education, Health and Justice, and had as their
main task the development of a national social policy.
In 1996, the government presented its “Focalized Strategy for Poverty
Reduction 1996-2000”, based on the following principles (i) the importance of
investment in human capital (education, nutrition, and health), so that the poor could
take part on equal terms in the national development process; (ii) equal opportunity
for all Peruvians, in a society where the State promotes individual responsibility and
community participation; and (iii) the creation of incentives that would allow the poor
to improve their situation through increased productivity and income-generating
activities. The strategy was to be implemented through four public sectors: education,
health, justice and infrastructures for basic services (drinking water, sewage, and road
construction). The strategy had one specific objective: reducing extreme poverty by
half by the year 2000; that is, from a level of 19% in 1994 to a level under 10% in
2000. This implied the improvement of the quality of life of 2.2 million people. The
strategy focused on addressing extreme poverty, and used for the first time a tool
recently developed by FONCODES, the “Poverty Map of Peru”, which showed the

182
geographical distribution of poverty in the country. The map thus became a vital
instrument for investment and social expenditure programs, and helped to define the
nature of the interventions to be implemented in different parts of the country.
While extreme poverty was seen as a basically rural problem, non-extreme
poverty was basically considered an urban problem (APOYO 1997:13). Accordingly,
the high incidence of unfulfilled basic needs in the rural areas led to the
implementation of activities aimed at improving the quality of life and working
conditions of the population. As for the urban areas, the option was to re-activate the
economy in order to address employment and income problems. In other words, the
model stated that while rural poverty required an expansion of basic needs services,
urban poverty was related to the generation of employment. On the basis of this policy
choice, poverty reduction in rural areas came to be synonymous with basic needs
infrastructure.

“Direct democracy” as social policy implementation

What might have been initially conceived as a concerted action to reduce poverty
turned into a jungle of isolated initiatives by various public agencies based mainly
within the Ministry of the Presidency and PROMUDEH (Ministry for the Promotion
of Women and Human Development, see below). There was a lack of coordination,
integrity and focus, and weak or non-existent connections to local governments and
civil society (PCM/CIAS 2002). In spite of the poverty-oriented investments made,
these efforts were overshadowed by the fact that they neither strengthened the
capacities nor integrated the local population. How could this come about?
There is consensus among both Peruvian and international analysts that the
answer lies in the principle of so-called “direct democracy” which guided social
policy implementation during the Fujimori regime (Crabtree and Thomas 1999;
Crabtree 2001; Vásquez 2002; Huber 2003). According to that principle, local
government and institutions were an obstacle in the direct practice of democracy, as
they blocked the necessary contact between central government (and the President)
and the common citizen. The fact that any community or group of citizens could in
theory approach public agencies with their demands, and be served, was considered by
the regime to be a positive sign of direct democracy; the people asked and the state
provided. In the Peruvian setting, direct democracy implied a “demand-driven”
approach to development and the provision of public services. The state provided

183
according to demand.103 As critics have pointed out, the logic of direct democracy lent
itself to political manipulation, particularly by central government, and was actively
used to raise government support and secure alliances (Crabtree 1999, Tanaka 1999,
Huber 2003). According to this critique, the ultimate consequence of ‘direct
democracy’ was the atomization of society and the breakdown of institutions, because
the connection between central government and the individual (or group of
individuals), as opposed to an institutional set-up that guarantees a more or less
democratic access/delivery of state services, came to be the cornerstone of the
government’s support. I will return to this issue later in the chapter.
In brief then, social policy implementation during the Fujimori regime can be
characterized in the following manner (PCM 2002:16):

• Multiplicity of programs with similar target populations. The same target

population would have several “service providers”, with no coordination between
them. This implied the over-imposition of initiatives with a negative effect on the
efficient use of public resources.
• Sector-oriented and dis-articulated focus. Poverty reduction initiatives were not set
up in an integrated and articulated manner. Initiatives were seen in a sector-
oriented manner, not across sectors, as poverty itself is.
• Centralized management and deficient focalization. The existence of a poverty map
did not mean that all public agencies used it, on the contrary. Implementation
occurred on a demand-driven basis, and assistance did not always reach the ones
who needed it the most. The problems of filtration (resources went to parties other
than target groups) and repetition were common.
• No participation of local government. Since the programs were demand-driven,
they bypassed local government, leaving no chance for strategic planning and
coordination at the district or provincial levels.

According to (Francke 2001b), the creation of multiple public agencies and programs
to operate in the same sector was a presidential strategy in order to disaggregate
responsibility, many people with a bit of power each, who – by competing with each
other, could “get the job done”. This would articulate well with the authoritarian

103
This was of course not quite the case, as demands could be met only within a limited range of
options.

184
nature of the regime, refusing to share power with anyone. Velazco (2000) explains
the spread in social policy implementation by the need for the regime to strengthen
political support at the local level, to counterbalance limited support at the national
level. In order to secure local support, the regime de-concentrated (not the same as
“decentralized”) or distributed its responsibilities and resources for the provision of
goods and services to its regional or local offices, without actually transferring power
or allowing autonomous administration to local government. The presence of central
state would then reach all corners of the country at the local level, bypassing local
government and creating clientelistic relations with central government. Other
explanations of the Fujimori modus operandi in social policy go even further: the
hidden agenda of social policy was the re-election of the president, therefore the rise
of social expenditure and the emergency nature (asistencialista) of the initiatives,
oriented to secure supporters at the ballot box (PCM 2002). In the next section, I want
to illustrate how national social policy and implementation came to be expressed in
the areas affected by the armed conflict, giving rise to what I call the “discourse of
reconstruction and development”.

THE DISCOURSE OF RECONSTRUCTION AND DEVELOPMENT

Through documents accessed during fieldwork, and slogans displayed by a number of
public and private institutions, I had the opportunity to identify, somehow intuitively,
a link between reconstruction and development goals and discourses in Tambo and
Ayacucho in general from very early on. Yet one particular event conveyed the
existence of this discourse in post-conflict Ayacucho in a very eloquent manner,
“live” as it were. In March 1999, a well-placed parliamentarian from Fujimori’s
political party, Cambio-90, made an official visit to Tambo to celebrate the
International Women’s Day. The local Mother’s Club organization had sent out a call
to its members to join in a rally to meet this government representative; needless to
say, the participation of peasant women was compulsory. From very early on groups
of peasant women representing their respective communities arrived in Tambo to meet
the parliamentarian. Wanting to rally support for her party and the president, the
parliamentarian had informed the regional government of her visit and instructed that
the heads of all public agencies operating in Ayacucho should join her in this visit to
Tambo. When the delegation arrived, the district’s Mayor was impressed by the
number of chiefs and directors of public programs visiting Tambo at the same time.

185
 The discourse used in the formal greetings and addresses to the women (and
men) present, shared a common point of reference: the horrors of violence and armed
conflict, the suffering of the local population, and the peace now enjoyed “and
brought to the people by President Fujimori”. Accordingly, “the time of peace, return
and reconstruction had come”, and now, under the good leadership of the government,
development was being built. On the same line, development projects were coming to
Ayacucho and Tambo because the armed conflict had devastated these “long-
forgotten regions”, and “the government had seen and heard the plight of its
people.”104
The president of the regional government was most explicit in linking social
programs to the country’s president: “It is not me or this or that señor [while pointing
to other members of the delegation] who are helping you, what we bring to you is
because our President wants it like that, he wants you to have it!” The implicit
understanding of the good patron, helping loyal clients in the hour of need was not to
be mistaken. Therefore, in their welcoming addresses, both the district’s Mayor and
the woman president of the Mother’s Clubs thanked the government for
“remembering Tambo and its sacrifices” during the armed conflict; this was indeed a
place in great need, requiring the ample support of the state “to move ahead, away
from the suffering, backwardness and poverty” that the armed conflict had left behind.
Other interventions by local representatives also made active reference to the
link between armed conflict and poverty, reconstruction and development needs. For
both public agencies and the local population then, the armed conflict had become the
point of reference for the intervention of the state, regardless of the different
perceptions and experiences actors may have had about the conflict. The event was
not the appropriate setting for establishing whether or not President Fujimori had
brought peace, but one where both parties agreed – at least publicly – on an
interpretation of reality and the outlining of a vision. According to this interpretation,
Tambo had been the site of a violent conflict, and had a legitimate claim in requesting
the support of the state. The vision was that poverty and conflict would be substituted
by reconstruction and development. As we shall see, the crystallization or realization

104
This situation bears close resemblance to Nugent’s study of Chachapoyas in northern Peru during
the 1930s, where the local population appealed to citizenship rights [and modernity] to welcome the
intervention of the state as a means to end ‘isolation and backwardness’ and achieve ‘progress’ – in
today’s terms, development (Nugent 1998).

186
of this vision takes the form of specific development projects, that is, the concrete
delivery of basic needs infrastructure and public services to those deserving and/or
entitled to receive the support of the state, such as peasant citizens in Tambo. Behind
the discourse of reconstruction and development lay the idea of the worthy citizen,
made worthy by its sacrifice for the nation. Citizenship, as suggested by Mische
(1996), was serving as a bridge to unite very different visions of social relations: the
state as the great provider, the new source of patronage (Nugent 1994); and peasants
as citizens entitled to receive the attention of the state.
The public display of the reconstruction and development discourse in this
particular event reached its climax not after all those present were called to join in a
“Viva el presidente Fujimori!”, but when the parliamentarian opened the floor to hear
requests from peasant women representatives. “What does your community need? she
asked the audience, “what is it you most need, that you most want?” After some
ambivalence, one representative came forward and said that her community needed a
children’s nursery. Then, the parliamentarian addressed the directors of INFES
(Children and School Infrastructure Program) and PRONAA105, asking how they
could support this request. The directors informed first about the procedures, but
concluded that they would see that the nursery was built that year, by including it in
their project budgets. The parliamentarian asked for applause, and turning again to the
woman representative, she said Ves mamacita, ahí tienes tu guardería! (“You see,
little mother, there you got your nursery!”).
In this way she continued, heaping women’s requests for a school, utensils for
a community kitchen, a health post, latrines, and more, onto the laps of public agency
directors, who publicly agreed to support the requests immediately. The requests kept
coming as the women soon understood that they had the chance to formulate a
demand on behalf of their communities. The event concluded with a new round of
appeals so that President Fujimori would “not forget Tambo”. The women were then
invited to join in a public lunch and in the distribution of a sizeable donation of
second-hand clothes that the parliamentarian had brought along with her.
Although parliamentarian visits are definitely not the most common event in
the rural countryside, there are several points to be made from the above example.
One of them is the complete redundancy of institutions of local representation in the

105
The directors were sitting on the tribune, facing the audience, together with all the other public
authorities. This was really a “live” performance, with no possibility of avoiding the question.

187
framework of “direct democracy”. The requests presented to the public agencies in
that particular event had not been the result of consensus within the peasant
community (i.e. perhaps what the community needed most was something else, such
as drinking water), nor the result of a negotiated development plan for the district (i.e.
perhaps community “A” had many more small children than community “B”, and
needed a nursery more urgently). Yet this is one of the ways in which the principle of
“demand-driven” development in the Fujimori regime was interpreted: government
support came to those who asked for it; and those without a voice, for whatever
possible reason, would get nothing.
A second point is the importance of inter-personal relations in the access to
public support. The personal mediation of an influential state representative (in this
case, the parliamentarian) facilitated access to government support. Whatever existing
criteria for investment and disbursement there were already in place, were bypassed
by the personal intervention of a key government figure. Political gain and
manipulation were obvious in our case; yet “gains” were not only on the side of public
agencies. And this brings me to a third point to be made. The communities also gained
in a very specific manner: through the official commitment to the construction of a
nursery, a health post, latrines, and more. By actively engaging the state by means of
the reconstruction and development discourse, peasant communities actually managed
to profit from this clientelistic pattern of social relations. In the literature on
democracy and participation, clientelism has been stigmatized and dismissed as the
anti-thesis of citizenship (Auyero 2001). How are we to understand the relationship(s)
between peasant representatives and public agencies involved in development
projects? Peasants’ adoption of the official discourse of reconstruction and
development does not prevent their transformation of it, nor their use of it for their
own benefit, however narrow that benefit may be. Lazar suggests viewing clientelistic
practices as “the means by which citizens actually engage with the state, both
individually and collectively” (Lazar 2004:231)106. ,.
A fourth and final point that needs to be emphasized, is that the reconstruction
and development discourse springs from the peasant-military alliance. In the previous
chapter, I discussed the relationship of trust between peasant and state (armed forces)
highlighted in both discourse and practice. The reconstruction and development

106
I will return to the issue of clientelism in Chapter Ten.

188
discourse can then be seen as an attempt to continue this trust-relationship in “times of
peace”, while clearly defining the roles to be played by the state (provider, benefactor)
and the peasant population (beneficiaries, clients of development support). The
discourse of reconstruction and development provided a common discursive
framework (Roseberry 1994) for peasants and state to negotiate the terms of their
relationship. Embedded in this discourse is a claim to citizenship in Mische’s terms,
as “historically constructed appeals to values and rights” (Mische 1996), which allow
articulation, dialogue and conflict. The historical construction of citizenship as
articulated in the discourse of reconstruction and development is unmistakably clear:
the experience and participation of organized peasantry during the armed conflict, and
the peasant-state alliance. It could be argued then, that in the areas affected by the
armed conflict, a hegemonic discourse (Mallon 1994) had developed, one that allowed
alliances across different sectors of society through the “embodiment of a moral code
much of which represents the interests and sentiments of all classes.” (Genovese 1976,
cited by Guardino 1996). If hegemonic processes and common discursive frameworks
are approached “as state projects rather than state achievements” (Roseberry
1994:365), it is possible to see how the discourse of reconstruction and development
itself became an arena for struggle and contestation. The discourse was being
appropriated and adjusted by peasant citizens in order to articulate their demands to
the state. Let us now see how direct democracy and demand-driven development
played out in the reconstruction process through the specific intervention of PAR.

THE NATIONAL PROGRAM IN SUPPORT OF REPOPULATION

Given that social policy aimed towards poverty reduction through increased social
expenditure, it could be argue that the government did not need to implement a
specific program for “the areas affected by violence”, since these were the same as
those identified as “extremely poor” in the FONCODES poverty map, and were thus
also targets for public intervention. Why, then, was the Programme for Support to the
Repopulation and Development of the Emergency Zones (PAR) created in October
1993?
In the context of the pacification plan and the peasant-state alliance, the time
was ripe for the establishment of the first national public initiative in support of those
affected by political violence. Such an initiative was being demanded by NGOs
working with displaced people, organizations of the displaced people themselves, and

189
international organizations as well. As mentioned earlier, repopulation made sense
also from a military/pacification point of view. There are at least two ways of
approaching PAR’s intervention in the areas affected by armed conflict. One is
through its institutional development from creation in 1993 until the period of
reorganization in 2001; this would provide insight into the conceptualization and
implementation of the reconstruction effort over time. The other way is to focus on the
types of activities PAR supported, in order to identify the nature of its support. Both
approaches will be presented below, with references and experience of how the
various aspects played themselves out in the specific setting of Tambo.

Institutional development of PAR

According to an evaluation-study made for PAR prior to its reorganization in 2001,
PAR’s institutional development throughout the 1990s has undergone three phases
(Francke 2001b). The first phase encompasses “the establishment of the program 1993
– 1996”, which started with the creation of PAR as a project of the Office for
Emergency, Defense and Social Development within the National Development
Institute (INADE). The project’s purpose was to implement initiatives and actions “to
promote the return of the displaced population to their places of origin, generating
rural development with the active participation of the beneficiary communities,
providing improved living conditions and security, promoting productivity in farming
production as well as the diversification of their economies” (DS No. 073-93-PCM).
In spite of this broad objective, PAR had been established as a project within
an institution largely oriented towards the construction of large infrastructure projects
(INADE). Furthermore, INADE was within the umbrella structure of the Ministry of
the Presidency, mentioned earlier. With funding from UNDP, prospective studies and
a program strategy were developed during the first year, and a first Donor Roundtable
was organized.
In 1995, PAR acquired a higher status by becoming a program with its own
budget line, yet was still within INADE. That year, PAR worked on the basis of
operational plans oriented towards an integrated and focused approach to the IDP
situation; the activities however, showed a bias for infrastructural works. Zonal offices
were established in the departments of Ayacucho, Apurímac, Junín and Huancavelica,
and an Inter-Ministerial Coordination Committee for PAR was established to
coordinate and guide program activities. These concentrated on support for organized

190
return initiatives, coordinating activities with the returnees prior to and following the
return, and what was called “emergency assistance”, that is, the provision of goods
such as foods, blankets, tin roof planks, utensils, etc. that could answer to the
immediate needs of the resettled population upon arrival at the resettlement location.
The initial focus and support privileging the returnees created resentment
among other peasants who had not been displaced but stayed in their communities of
origin (comunidades resistentes). As they saw it, government assistance should be
provided to the resistant populations as well, not only to the returnees, because they
too lived in poverty. This resentment was also related to the fact that those who stayed
considered themselves to be the ones who had had to endure the hardships of the
conflict, as opposed to those who fled. Now it was the latter who were being
rewarded.
Another aspect of the same issue was the implicit association of
“displacement” with long distance: those groups displaced to larger cities were the
most articulate in demanding support for return initiatives, and therefore also the most
noticeable. The ones who went unnoticed were peasant families such as the ones of
Tambo, whose displacement had occurred mostly within district boundaries (ref.
Chapter Five). In the eyes of PAR, these families were not displaced people, and
therefore were not entitled to government assistance. An overview of all the projects
funded by PAR in the district of Tambo in the period 1994-1998 is presented in table
9. As can be see there and also from table 10, only 5 projects were funded in Tambo
during the first two years of operations of PAR (two of which were allocated to the
town of Tambo itself). School constructions in 1995 were allocated by PAR to two
returning communities, Polanco and Pampa Hermosa. The number of projects funded
would increase in the following phases of operations.
A second phase of “program consolidation” took place in 1996-1997. In July
1996, PAR became an autonomous agency within the Ministry of the Presidency,
independent of INADE, under the name of the National Program in Support of
Repopulation. Only 4 months later, with the creation of PROMUDEH (Ministry for
the Promotion of Women and Human Development), PAR was transferred to the new
ministry as a decentralized public agency under the name of “Program for Support to
the Repopulation and Development of the Emergency Zones”, its current name. The
transfer of PAR to PROMUDEH indicated also the merger of INADE’s “Program for
the Development of Emergency Zones” into PAR. All these changes implied the flow

191
 Table 9. Projects funded/executed by PAR in Tambo, 1994-1998.
Location Year Activity Beneficiaries Output reached Investment S/.
Pampaqocha-Osmo 94 Construction water reservoir 29 1 unit 26629
Tambo 94 Girl's school 120 3 classrooms 44766
Tambo 94 Construction drinking water system 180 1 system 43855
Pampa Hermosa 95 School construction 218 2 classrooms 61707
Polanco 95 School construction 120 2 classrooms 56351
Ccatupata 97 School construction 190 2 classrooms 49612
Ccescce 97 Construction drinking water system 135 1 system 10706
Huayao 97 Carpentry workshop 21 1 course 5067
Masinga 97 Construction water reservoir 560 1 unit 64210
Masinga 97 Workshop cultivation and irrigation management 28 1event 1200
Multi-communal 97 Strengthening community management 18 1 course 1378
Multi-communal 97 Reforestation ZAC Challhuamayo 400 240 has 35750
Pampa Hermosa 97 Construction drinking water system 165 1 system 18746
Panti/Yahuarcocha 97 Construction drinking water system 220 1 system 33413
Usmay-Chacco 97 Health post construction 150 1 unit 102965

192
Acco 98 Construction drinking water system 510 1 system 30270
Challhuamayo Alto 98 Construction drinking water system 420 1 system 17402
Challhuamayo Bajo 98 Multi-purpose community centre 470 1 unit 85731
Challhuamayo Bajo 98 Health post construction 300 1 unit 79385
Challhuamayo Bajo 98 Repairs and extension of school 200 4 classrooms 137508
Challhuamayo/Iquicha 98 Road construction 830 6.63 km 715168
Huayao 98 Support to micro-enterprise "Carpentry workshop 38 1 micro- enterprise 3000
Huayao"
Huayao 98 Multi-purpose community centre 357 1 unit 82116
Huayao/Usmay 98 Road construction 1600 18,02 km 997195
Multi-communal 98 Credit for investment animal husbandry 240 200 modules 102000
Multi-communal 98 Credit agricultural management 1000 48,5 has 50000
Multi-communal 98 Small animals raising 860 626 animals 15000
Multi-communal 98 Sheep farm ZAC Challhuamayo 450 4 modules 80000
Tambo 98 Roof tiles production 55 1 enterprise 42242
Union Minas 98 Construction drinking water system 290 1system 43896
Total 10174 3037268

Source: PAR Project Database 1999; by province and district.

193
of new resources into PAR’s budget, as well as the expansion of its activities to nine
new regions across the country. Not surprisingly then, the bulk of PAR activities and
investments have taken place since 1996/97, a trend related to increased resources
from both national allocations and international funding.
As stated in PAR’s Regulations of Organization & Functions, the program’s
“mission [was to] to establish the basic conditions for sustainable human development
of [i] populations affected by terrorist violence and [ii] those zones declared in
political, economic and social emergency, in order to contribute to the consolidation
of peace” (RS No. 023-97-PROMUDEH, my translation, my emphasis). In order to
accomplish its mission, the same document establishes the following objectives:

(a) To reactivate and develop the economic-productive base of the target

groups.
(b) To promote the betterment and expansion of basic social services for the
target groups.
(c) To recompose and strengthen the social organizations of the affected
communities.
(d) To promote the development process with a gender focus.

As can be seen from the texts above, PAR’s mission was inscribed in the
government’s social agenda, geared as it was towards sustainable human
development, the consolidation of peace, and the expansion of basic social services.
The consolidation phase saw a change towards a more focalized strategy of
intervention while expanding program activities. First, PAR identified specific
geographical areas called ZAC or Zonas de Acción Concentrada (Areas of
Concentrated Action) where integrated development projects would be implemented.
Second, it is at this stage that basic social infrastructure takes centre stage in program
activities. This includes housing, drinking water systems, schools, health posts, and
multi-purpose community houses. Productive inputs for agriculture, animal raising
and craftsmanship such as seeds, herds, workshops, tools and basic materials were
also provided. Receptive to the criticism received from the comunidades resistentes,
PAR refocused its target group to include all communities living in the areas affected
by violence. Also important to mention here is the agreement made with RENIEC, the
National Registry and Identification Authority, to facilitate the provision of identity

194
documents to those who had lost them or had never had them due to the armed
conflict. This was a first step in the identification and attempt to deal with non-
material consequences of war.

Table 10. PAR projects in Tambo, per year and annual investment, 1994-98.
No.
Year Projects Investment S/.
1994 3 115,250
1995 2 118,058
1996 0 0
1997 10 323,047
1998 15 2,480,913
Total 30 3,037,268
Source: PAR project database 1999, elaborated by author.

Table 11. FONCODES projects in Tambo, per year and annual 1993-98.
No.
Year Projects Investment S/.
1993 3 120,724
1994 5 554,648
1995 0 0
1996 4 232,727
1997 8 458,291
1998 12 528,585
Total 32 1,894,975
Source: FONCODES website: Project database 2004; elaborated by author.

This period saw a sharp increase in the number of projects funded by PAR in Tambo,
six of them projects of social infrastructure while the remaining four included
production-related activities and capacity-building/training (ref. table 9). In 1997,
ZAC Challhuamayo was created by a PAR initiative, to serve the peasant population
of seven communities in the northern part of the district. Although a ZAC committee
was formed to serve as a coordinating body for the potential beneficiary population, it
functioned more as a distribution point than as a co-management unit. Peasants from
the individual communities were little aware of the existence of ZAC Challhuamayo
and its functions, so little benefit could be drawn from the creation of a new entity.
They saw little point in thinly spreading limited resources among many communities,
instead of channeling them to fewer communities/people but in amounts that could

195
make a difference.107 PAR functionaries for their part, also became disenchanted with
the limited involvement of the local population.
According to Francke’s report (2001a), a period of “strategic changes” took
place in 1998-2000, with an increased focus on non-production-related components,
such as organizational and community capacity building (on topics such as
production, organizational development, human rights), and psycho-social assistance.
This re-orientation was in part a result of the success obtained by “PRODEV”, a PAR-
program implemented with funding and technical support from the European Union.
The target groups were now community leaders, women, youth, and children. To deal
with the new activities, PAR engaged in sub-contracting local NGOs with experience
in these fields. Also, the Lima Zonal Office was set up to work with IDPs who opted
to stay in the city; this work was basically oriented towards women. Finally, a
program for the orphan children of political violence was established in 1999, and a
number of support activities were initiated.
As Table 9 reveals, the shift towards non-production-related projects described
by Francke (2001a) cannot be observed from the project portfolio for Tambo in 1998.
On the contrary, all 15 projects involved social infrastructure, the largest ones (in
terms of investment) being two road construction projects: the road Challhuamayo-
Iquicha, and the road Huayao-Usmay. This is probably due to the time-gap between
the planning stage and the approval of projects. The road projects had been mediated
by the district’s Mayor, who considered their approval to be a personal political
achievement. Both projects were still under implementation while I did fieldwork in
Tambo, and they were indeed the pride of the local population. The projects meant an
extra income for local peasants who worked with the construction on a rotational
basis. These roads had been an on-going request by the local communities for
decades; but the armed conflict proved the necessity of their construction. As
explained in Chapter Five, the mountains north of Huayao had served as a corridor for
guerrilla forces on their way to/from the eastern rainforest. The road reduced the
relative isolation of the area in terms of security, while improving trade conditions. A
similar argument was valid for the road to Iquicha.

107
A woman from Ccatupata explained this in very descriptive manner. She had received one sheep
through ZAC Challhuamayo, within a production-related project to support animal raising. “But sheep
go in herds, not alone… what am I to do with just one sheep, all by itself poor thing, it will die.” Later
she explained that her one sheep was out to pasture with a neighbor’s herd, so the situation was not that
bad after all.

196
 Other prestigious projects in Tambo were the multi-purpose community
centers in Huayao and Challhuamayo. They were provided with a kitchen, office, a
large meeting room and other rooms that could be used as workshops and storage, as
well as necessary equipment and furniture. Their popularity stemmed more from the
symbolic meaning of the centers than their use in practice. The addition of a large
urban-like building to the rural landscape gave the recipient community increased
status as a place of size and importance. “It was nice to have” people said, even if it
was little used. In Huayao for instance, locals preferred to gather outdoors for the
community assembly, not indoors, because the cement walls made the building too
cold. In the event of rain however, the building was very convenient.
By comparison, FONCODES started its activities in Tambo a year earlier, in
1993, and initially, it surpassed the investment made by PAR in the district (see Table
11). Although in a number of projects the two agencies are very close, the amount of
investment made by PAR in Tambo almost doubled that of FONCODES by the end of
1998. That year, PAR and FONCODES alone had 27 development projects under
implementation in the district; if we consider that other public agencies also had
projects operating in Tambo, it is not difficult to argue for a substantive state
intervention in the lives of the local population through development projects.

Types of intervention by PAR

To fulfill its mission, PAR identified various types of intervention which were
implemented on a supply and demand basis, that is, according to direct requests from
communities from its area of operations. A letter of request had to be sent to the
regional PAR office, signed by community authorities, and listing the names of
beneficiary population. The allocation of resources to specific projects depended not
so much on planned strategy for the area, but on whether or not the community had
received PAR support previously, and the amount available for individual
districts/provinces. The persistence of community authorities’ appeals to PAR
officials and engineers, through visits and reminders (‘lobbying’ for their projects),
seemed also to play a role in whether or not a solicitud (letter of request) would move
forward or not. ‘Lobbying’ did not involve bribery (at least not to my knowledge), but
rather a personal relationship with public officials where sympathies, personal
commitment and friendships were mobilized; a sort of clientelist relationship.
Officials would be doing peasant communities a ‘favor’ by supporting individual

197
applications above others. Peasant representatives on the other hand, were highly
aware of the need ‘to beg’ for the favor: hay que rogarle, “we have to beg him”, they
used to say whenever they traveled to inquire about their project proposal.

Table 12. PAR projects in Tambo, per type and investment, 1994-98.

Type of project No. projects Investment S/.

Construction drinking water system 7 198,288
Construction water reservoir 2 90,839
Health posts construction 2 182,350
Multi-purpose community centre 2 167,847
Road construction 2 1’712,363
School construction/repairs 5 349,944
Productive activities 5 145,309
Credit 2 152,000
Reforestation 1 35,750
Training 2 2,578
Total 30 3’037,268

Source: PAR project database 1999, elaborated by author.

Table 13. FONCODES projects in Tambo, per type and investment, 1993-98.

Type of project - FONCODES

1993-98 No. projects Investment S/.
Construction drinking water system 10 428,590
Latrines 9 358,094
Irrigation 5 398,490
School construction (incl.1 nursery) 6 590,051
Infrastructure: Bridge 1 91,316
Training 1 28,434
Total 32 1’894,975
Source: FONCODES website: Project database 2004; elaborated by author.

The activities implemented by PAR can be grouped into four broad categories:
organized return, infrastructure, production-oriented investment, and consequences of
violence; all these include an array of specific types of activities. These will be
discussed in turn. Table 12 summarizes the types of projects implemented in Tambo in
1994-98 and the size of the investment involved. Table 13 presents the types of
projects supported by FONCODES between 1993 and 1998. As can be seen from the
tables, their project portfolios were very similar, both giving top priority to projects of

198
socio-economic infrastructure.108 This reflects the overall orientation of social policy
for rural areas during the Fujimori regime, which identified the problem of rural
poverty as one of basic needs infrastructure.

Organized return
As mentioned in previous chapters, the internally displaced people initiated the
process of return to their communities of origin before the creation of PAR, and
continued increasingly to do so as the pacification process advanced. With the PAR,
the process of return lost its private, low-profile character and turned into a highly-
publicized, symbolic national event, with music and TV cameras to capture tears and
emotion. The first PAR-sponsored returns were organized in 1995, and continued until
year 2000. This was, again, a demand-driven activity as it was members of a given
community who had to request PAR’s assistance for the return. A minimum number
of families had to express their interest and commitment to return in order to access
support. PAR provided transportation, coordinated with health authorities to carry out
health controls and vaccines before departure, as well as with PRONAA, to receive
food for the journey (Francke 2001a). For the period 1994-2001, PAR supported 109
organized returns, involving a total of 21000 people. This is only a fraction of the
estimated total of returnees, which fluctuates between 200,000 and 320,000 people,
according to MENADES-CONDECOREP and PAR respectively109. PAR sponsored
returns did not take place in Tambo. As we recall from Chapter Five, displacement in
Tambo occurred to a large extent within community boundaries and to the rainforest;
this led to an earlier start to the return process than in other areas affected by the
armed conflict. Also, the relatively short distance involved in the return did not
qualify requirements for public support.
PAR measured the failure or success of the organized return on the basis of
whether people stayed permanently in their communities or not. From this
perspective, organized returns have failed because people went back to the cities soon
after (Coronel 1999). The situation however, is more nuanced than that. Del Pino
(2001) identifies a sector of the returnees as the “floating people”, or “people with two

108
It is worth noting that from 1999, FONCODES initiated support to production-related projects, in
the form of micro-businesses and credit. That year, FONCODES reached its highest number of projects
implemented in Tambo, a total of 16 projects across the district.
109
Recalling the numbers given for the internally displaced, it is estimated that about 50% of them have
returned to their communities of origin.

199
feet”, one in the city, one in the countryside. These are returnees who have multiple
residences, who experienced survival in a de-territorialized or itinerant manner, and
whose family members are dispersed. For him, the floating people behave thus
because they cannot see any net benefit to staying in the countryside, thus explaining
the emphasis given by the returnees to productive activities, in order to improve their
incomes and make their lives in the countryside a viable option.
Stepputat and Sørensen (2001) make the same observation about returnees
going back and forth between the cities and the rural communities, but they see it as
mobile livelihood practice. They argue that it is lack of urban development funds that
drove people to return to the rural areas, a lonely option to poverty in the city. And
contrary to Del Pino and Coronel, they question the focus on a “single-locality”
livelihood. Accordingly, “self-initiated mobile livelihood strategies embarked upon by
large numbers of people – strategies which to a large extent have secured their
survival in times of war as well as in deteriorating economic conditions – are totally
ignored in the state’s vision of future development” (Stepputat et. al. 2001:786). This
is an interesting line of argument that makes it even more difficult to assess the impact
and perhaps even the desirability of permanent return (Wiig 2005). From migration
studies, there is evidence on the compatibility of “double” or “mobile” livelihoods
which incorporate migration with community identity (Pærregaard 1997; Alber 1999).
In her study of refugee repatriation in Ethiopia, Hammond (2004) argues against
sedentarist positions which bind people’s identity to a single place, and that are deeply
engrained in humanitarian and development agencies working with refugees and
IDPs. Perhaps the ‘failure’ of the organized return effort is not so much in what people
do, but rather in the concepts and criteria used to measure ‘success’. Emplacement, the
process of place-making through everyday practices, is an innovative and creative
effort; that it occurs more out of need rather than choice (ibid.:212) should lead to a
re-direction (or rather, expansion) of humanitarian and development assistance to
support communities undergoing emplacement.
In Tambo it is possible to observe a pattern of “mobile livelihoods”,
accustomed as local peasants are to migrant work in the rainforests, which also
became an alternative place of refuge during the armed conflict. The experience of
places/communities such Ccarhuapampa, from the perspective of emplacement, could
be approached in a new light: the making of place and identity. This dimension of
return has until now remained untouched in the Peruvian context.

200
Infrastructure
The bulk of investment made by PAR has been in the area of social and economic
infrastructure. This includes schools, health posts, community centers, rural housing,
rural roads, water and sanitation, irrigation systems and small bridges. For example,
for the region of Ayacucho in the period 1994-2000, investment in infrastructure
amounts to 80.23%, while 16.59% had to be shared between all areas of intervention,
from psycho-social counseling to capacity-building and organized returns. According
to Francke (2001a), the focus on infrastructure found a natural context in the
reconstruction period, since much of previously existent infrastructure had been
destroyed by the war. The logic behind it was thus to re-establish the provision of
public services in the countryside. However, the provision of basic services is not
dependent on the existence of infrastructure alone, but also on coordination with
institutions in various social sectors, such as health and education. According to
Francke, an assessment of the impact of infrastructure has to include the elements of
usage and sustainability.
PAR has been highly criticized for its bias on infrastructure. Del Pino
(2001:100) points out that this bias relates to a static and physical perception of the
process of return, by which the permanent resettlement of the population depended on
the existence of basic urban infrastructure (such as water, schools, community
centers), instead of being linked to socio-economic conditions that promote local
development (such as productive inputs). For Huber et al. (2003:49), a focus on
infrastructure is considered a feature of the Fujimori regime, whereby “development”
was synonymous with “works” (obras, in Spanish) and priority was given to the
visibility of investments made. For Francke (2001a:37), the focus on infrastructure
obstructed an orientation of program activities towards what he considers to be the
main task of a social reconstruction program, namely, “the reconstruction of people
and the social and democratic fabric” of the communities affected by violence.
What about the beneficiary population? What do they think about the
provision of social services and infrastructural projects? All three authors mentioned
above have to admit that the beneficiaries are pleased with the investments made,
although for different reasons. One would be that the communities demand from a
public agency (such as PAR) what they believe they can get or what they know the
agency gives (Del Pino 2001). This would explain why the communities requested
projects for social infrastructure. In some cases the status associated with particular

201
projects could also play a motivating role, such as with multi-purpose community
centers. Del Pino also indicates that peasant communities in areas affected by violence
tend to perceive external assistance in terms of specific material improvements to their
living conditions. The ‘works’ of the Fujimori regime were thus received with high
rates of approval and support from the peasant population. Stepputat and Sørensen’s
(2001) study in the Huancayo area shows that basic social infrastructure plays a vital
role in making the idea of return attractive to potential returnees, particularly the
school, because families were not willing to give up the education of their children.
Del Pino has similar findings concerning the school as a vital public asset in the
Ayacucho area: even those communities with few children wanted a school, in order
to attract new families and secure the social continuity of community.
In the area of social infrastructure, in Tambo, PAR supported the construction
of 5 schools, 2 health posts and 7 drinking water systems, in addition to the roads to
Usmay and Iquicha. For the beneficiary population of these projects, there is no such
‘infrastructure bias’ in the reconstruction/development policy implemented by public
agencies such as PAR. On the contrary, they would have more of it, which is why
community authorities are constantly writing new petitions and reminding public
officials, whenever they have the chance, about their project proposals and needs.
In many conversations and interviews with my informants in Tambo, a specific
obra was considered a tangible sign of progress, a step towards development. The
school in particular, plays a vital role in the community’s perception of their future
and their chances of improving their situation through their children’s education.
Furthermore, it was interpreted as a sign of interest and concern by the government for
the well-being and progress of the community. Local authorities from those
communities with few or no development projects funded by the government
perceived their situation as ‘abandoned’, ‘forsaken’ or ‘forgotten’ by the state (Las
autoridades nos han olvidado, no se acuerdan de nosotros… no hay apoyo; peasant
from Ccarhuapampa). This perceived situation of abandonment or lack of interest by
the state was not only blamed on the state, but also related to the organization and
efficiency of community leaders. On several occasions, I heard peasants evaluating
themselves in comparison to other communities that had received some form of
government support: “They got that because they are well-organized, because their
authorities do their job, there they work well, that’s why” (Eso es porque están

202
organizados, porque sus autoridades si funcionan, ahí si trabajan bien, por eso;
peasant from Huayao commenting on Ccarhuapampa’s new electricity project).
Appeals for better community organization, cooperation and cohesion within
the community are often made in community assemblies of all sorts, not only by local
authorities, but also by regular members who not infrequently criticize their own
authorities for the absence of government or NGO support to the community. As the
argument goes, the state will hear those communities that are well-organized, because
their authorities will make themselves be heard. Support in the form of development
projects become thus the living proof that community authorities are doing their job.
Community authorities are therefore under heavy pressure from their own members to
prove their efficiency. On the other hand, as numerous as the petitions to the
government are the reports and explanations authorities have to give at community
assemblies about the slow process of application, or a negative response to a proposal.
A good community leader however, will manage to put the blame somewhere else in a
convincing manner, without losing hope: “Vamos a seguir, compañeros, hasta que
alguna autoridad nos haga caso” (“We’ll keep going, compañeros, until one authority
[public institution] listens to us”; peasant leader at a community assembly in Huicho-
Toccto).
If there is a ‘bias of infrastructure’ in reconstruction policy then, it should be
noted that it is not only the ‘service-provider’ that is biased, but also the client or
beneficiary population as well. Whether one likes it or not, there is a dialectic
relationship between the state as the grantor of public goods and a beneficiary
population who demand these services not only because that is what the state ‘sells’,
but because those goods are perceived as a sign of progress and integration, as
opposed to abandonment and oblivion (ref. Nugent 1998). I agree with Theidon when
she suggests that

“... a materialist reading of “public works” ignores the symbolic value that
infuses such projects. The right to demand such services and to see oneself as
deserving of them indicates a new sense of national integration and citizenship
on behalf of a traditionally marginalized sector of the population” (Theidon
2001:31).

203
The idea of progress embedded in projects of social infrastructure is so internalized in
peasant communities, that local authorities are accountable to their constituencies for
the lack of government (or NGO) support. Public works as signs of progress are
compatible with the discourse of reconstruction and development discussed earlier.
The discourse then nurtures itself from the existing reconstruction and social policies
under implementation, while feeding into policy the discursive elements that help
legitimate such policies. The emphasis on basic needs infrastructure in areas affected
by the armed conflict are thus legitimized in the discourse by both rural poverty and
the devastating effect of political violence. In areas such as Tambo where poverty is
widespread and basic public services as scarce as they were in the late 1990s (and still
are), I find it difficult to empathize with critics of infrastructure works per se. Rural
populations in areas affected by the armed conflict had many needs. Infrastructure
might not have been enough, but in the eyes of peasant communities, it was a good
way to start moving ‘away from oblivion’.

Production-oriented investment
The destruction brought about by the armed conflict also affected productive capital
such as arable land, animal herds, tools and economic infrastructure. PAR addressed
this situation by implementing projects to promote an improvement in production
capacity. This includes promotion of agricultural production (distribution of seeds,
tools, machinery, irrigation systems, training), livestock production (rotating funds for
sheep and llama herds, distribution of small animals, animal vaccination programs,
training), workshops for crafts production (workshop rooms, tools, inputs, training),
fishing farms and small mills. PAR tried to concentrate activities in this area through
the creation of ZACs, mentioned earlier, which were supposed to develop into
geographically bounded micro-economic “corridors” or centers. Production-oriented
investment has been the second largest area of intervention by PAR in the period
1994-2000, approximately 30% of total investment (see Appendix IV).
The success of these types of projects has been mixed. There have been
complaints about the bad quality of the distributed goods and inputs. These kinds of
projects are usually oriented towards the community as a whole, and the goods are
expected to be used in a communal manner. Public agencies (and NGOs too) still
believe in the communal and all-sharing nature of peasant communities, ignoring a
growing sense of individuality, particularly in relation to production and enterprise.

204
Communal enterprises are often difficult to get off the ground because “what is of all,
is nobody’s”, and management problems arise.110 In many cases the donated
workshops lie unused because the beneficiaries do not know how to use the
machinery, as in Challhuamayo. In other cases, production takes off, but it is the
quality control and marketing parts of the process that fail, due to the lack of know-
how. Concerning the ZACs, they faced problems of coordination and management.
In spite of mixed results, there is a real need for this type of projects. Del
Pino’s in-depth study of 6 communities in Ayacucho indicates that the “No. 1
demand” is namely support for production and income-generating activities (Del Pino
2001). Moreover, he argues that without improvements/investment in the productive
sector in order to secure the livelihoods of peasant families, the return and
reconstruction scheme will never be viable. Similarly, Velazco (2000) notes that in
spite of the large share of non-agricultural based income in the lives of peasant
families, their main demand is support for agriculture and livestock development,
which is perceived by peasants as the desirable economic base on which to sustain
their livelihoods. Due to the high incidence of poverty in the areas affected by
violence, I agree with Del Pino that support to production and income generating
activities should be the main focus of an integrated development strategy (and/or
poverty reduction strategy), also in the countryside. In Tambo, project support in this
program area actually exceeds that provided for schools only, if we include credit
schemes. In the communities I worked with, the demand for production-related
activities was mentioned, but usually after a few other demands for public works had
been listed.

Consequences of violence (Secuelas de la violencia)

The destruction brought about by armed conflict affected also the social and emotional
lives of people. The term ‘consequences of violence’ in PAR’s terminology, refers to
the negative effects of the armed conflict upon people and society, through the
dislocation of livelihoods, family disintegration, social isolation, the weakening of the
social fabric, psychological trauma, human rights violations, and more. These types of

110
The case with the Huayao fishing farm was tragic. This common property project became a constant
source of conflict within the community - until someone put an end to it by poisoning the fish. The
project was not funded by PAR, but had been a “gift” from the Ministry of the Presidency after the the
Shining Path incursion in October 1993 (ref. Chapter Seven).

205
effects are of long duration and have a cumulative character, which means that
although not as visible as destroyed buildings, they do have to be addressed properly.
An increased awareness of the importance of these consequences of violence
has occurred over the past few years in Peru, and work and demands for assistance to
deal with these issues have been initiated by support groups, religious organizations,
IDP organizations and NGOs. PAR neither acknowledged nor considered these
aspects during the first years of intervention (Francke 2001b). Only in 1997 did it
begin to address the consequences of violence through its agreement with RENIEC,
and later in 1999 with the implementation of new program areas.
The activities included in this area are promotion of citizenship (registration of
citizens with no identity papers, capacity-building in human rights), strengthening of
community organization (capacity-building on leadership, management, women’s
rights and gender issues, support for Mother’s Clubs, pilot projects in communal
justice administration), support for specially disadvantaged groups (children, specially
orphans, widows, and people with physical disadvantages), and psychological and
post-traumatic support. The inclusion of these issues in the PAR agenda revealed a
willingness to adjust and incorporate new issues that are relevant to its mission.
However, results in this area have also been mixed.
The project with RENIEC addressed the very pressing issue of those citizens
in rural areas who did not have the formal means with which to exercise their
citizenship: identity papers. Of the more than 700,000 people registered, almost
500,000 obtained their permanent identity papers through the program. Concerning
capacity-building initiatives, the quality of the workshops varied and the audience was
not always the ideal target group. In some places there has been a saturation of
capacity-building, as expressed in the following remarks by local peasants: “The
ladies are tired with so many capacities”, “the leaders don’t want to attend anymore”,
“are you going to capacitate us once more?” (Francke 2001a:23). By the end of 1998,
only one project in Tambo could be identified in the area of “capacity-building and
community management”.
The particular situation of widows and female headed-households in post-
conflict rural society is one that PAR did not consider when it started its operations.111

111
I do not know whether PAR employed data from the 1993 Population Census in its planning and
strategic work. As mentioned in Chapter Seven, 30% of the households in Tambo were headed by

206
The absence of the man as head of the household reduces the labor and income
capacity of a family. For instance, in the housing projects, PAR distributed doors,
windows and roofs to those who had finished setting up the walls for their houses in
time. Widows who did not get help from other community or family members could
not meet the requirement, unless they hired someone to do the work; they often could
not do this either because they did not have money. Therefore, very few widows
benefited with housing from PAR. Since 1999, PAR has become more aware of this
type of situation and sharpened its gender focus and women-orientation in capacity-
building and productive projects.

Assessing the PAR intervention

In 2001, PAR initiated a new era of operations, with a complete remake of its strategy
and areas of intervention, as a result of the reorganization of PROMUDEH and all of
its agencies and of internal evaluations112. It is not necessary here to make a full
presentation of PAR activities today, suffice it to say that PAR followed faithfully the
recommendations made by the evaluation teams, and has now moved away from
infrastructure projects. PAR’s main focus today has become the “consequences of
violence.” Up to 70% of PAR’s budget in 2003 was destined for this purpose.
Program operations are now based on pilot implementation of PAR’s own “National
Plan of Reparations [of Consequences] for People Affected by Political Violence”.
The plan includes 4 programs: “Citizenship and local management”, “Community
mental health”, “Ethnicity and gender equality”, and “Productive and economic
rehabilitation”. The focus is on capacity-building at the local level and in
strengthening local leadership and management. PAR also aimed at becoming the
implementing agency for the reparation plan presented by the Truth Commission in
August 2003, which bears great similarities with PAR’s National Plan mentioned
above.113
According to PAR data reviewed by Francke (2001a), the total amount of
investment made by the program for the period 1994 up to 2000 is calculated as USD

women at the time of the census; this could have also been the case for other districts strongly affected
by the armed conflict.
112
Two of these evaluations have been a prime source for this chapter, Del Pino (2001) and Francke
(2001a). Changes in PROMUDEH came as a result of the transitional period and regime change.
113
This prospect seems no longer feasible after the down-grading of PAR from an autonomous agency
to an execution unit within MINDES in December 2003, followed by substantive budgetary cuts in
2004. Another reason is that work with the CVRs proposal for an Integrated Reparations Plan is still in
the very early stages, lacking both political support and funds from central government.

207
74 million, mainly oriented towards poverty reduction in the areas affected by
violence. With the exception of the first year of operations, when activities were
funded mostly by international donors, the program has been funded mainly from the
national budget (an average of 70% a year), with donor contributions constituting on
average up to 30% of funds. This would indicate government support and involvement
in the program, and is in agreement with the overall trend of the Fujimori regime of
increased social expenditure as part of the poverty reduction strategy. Concerning the
management of the funds, project investment has been on the rise, from over 60% in
1997 to up to 80% in 2000, with a reverse trend for administrative costs. In short,
whatever funds available, these have been used mostly in investment and seem to be
reaching the target population. Table 14 gives an overview of the major investments
made by PAR in the period 1994-2000.
One way to assess the impact of PAR’s intervention (suggested in the Francke
Report) is to compare actual investment with the estimate made for the costs of
(physical) reconstruction at the start of the reconstruction period. The prospective
study for PAR made in 1994 estimated that the total cost of reconstruction of the 4 s
most affected by the armed conflict would be USD 750 million. This means that the
total investment made by PAR from 1994 until 2000 around the country corresponds
only to less than 10% of the estimated cost of reconstruction (of 4 departments).

Table 14. PAR investments, 1994-2000.

Orientation of PAR investment 1994-2000
Area of Outputs No. of No. of
intervention Communities beneficiaries
Return 109 organized returns 227 21,306
Housing 13,085 houses built/repaired 393 70,930
Education 1,222 school rooms 418 61,680
Health 62 health posts 62 40,340
255 drinking water systems 255 128,930
12 sewage systems 12 12,260
Citizenship 764,900 registered with no identity papers Across the country 764,900
920 capacity-building workshops on human 320 25,320
rights
Agriculture 155 km irrigation channels 65 33,900
Transport 213 km rural roads 63 24,900
Source: PAR website, accessed in September 2003.

208
Furthermore, comparing PAR’s total investment of USD 74 million with the amount
for social expenditure covered through all “poverty reduction programs” in the period
1995 – 2001114, it can be seen that PAR constitutes only a small fraction of the total
social investment budget. In 1995, social expenditure amounted to USD 178 million;
in 1997, it was approximately USD 400 million, and in 1999 it reached almost USD
450 million. In the year 2001, social expenditure was again USD 400 million (PCM
2002). According to Francke (2001a), what this actually indicates, is that not only
have the investments made by PAR been insufficient in the process of reconstruction,
but even worse, it has been inefficient in the sense that resources earmarked
“reconstruction” have been used to fund activities that could have been covered by
other public agencies operating in the social sector. The multiplicity of efforts has had
an adverse effect for areas affected by violence: neither were they sufficient, nor did
they address issues that only PAR had a mandate for, the consequences of violence.
An assessment of PAR’s intervention on the basis of its monetary investment,
as the one proposed above, seems to me problematic. First of all, the figures being
compared are not comparable without a disaggregation by region, in order to identify
the relative impact of investment across the country. Such exercise would possibly
show an unbalanced investment in rural and urban areas, in favor of urban areas due to
their larger populations. Unfortunately, this could not be carried out in this dissertation
due to a lack of data. Secondly, to make a comparison more meaningful, a
disaggregation by sector programs or agencies should be made, because ‘poverty
reduction programs’ in general can indeed include very different types of activities
from all sorts of sectors. As has been done here, comparing investments made by PAR
and FONCODES for one single district has demonstrated that in spite of the
infrastructural character of both programs, PAR intervention has been far more
outreaching – not only in terms of investment, but also in terms of outputs and the
expansion of basic needs infrastructure.
The argument that activities funded by PAR could have been covered by
another social program does not hold in the case of Tambo. Without PAR, and in spite
of Tambo being among the ‘very poor’ category on FONCODES map of poverty, the
district did not get priority support from the fund. Without PAR’s investment, the
district would actually have been worst off. In other words, there is no guarantee that

114
It is not clear whether PAR was included in this calculation or not. But the numbers are presented
for the purpose of comparison only, to see them in perspective.

209
without the existence of a program such as PAR, the same public funds would have
been allocated to the areas affected by violence.
A third issue concerning PAR intervention is the one related to the
conceptualization of ‘reconstruction’. Reconstruction policy during the Fujimori
regime, based as it was in national social policy, identified ‘reconstruction’ in terms of
“sustainable human development for the consolidation of peace” (ref. PAR mission
above). Of the four identified objectives, PAR focused mostly on the expansion of
basic needs services, and, in second place, the reactivation of the economic productive
base. Due to the authoritarian character of the Fujimori regime, and its abuse of power
to achieve political objectives, criticisms have been raised against the so-called “bias
of infrastructure” because it was considered a method of raising political support. As
part of this critique, it has been argued that reconstruction is not about buildings and
roads, but about “repairing the social fabric” of community and society. It is difficult
to argue against the importance of attending to the social and psychological damage
caused by the armed conflict; because they are indeed pressing issues in a post-
conflict situation. The historical and institutional development of PAR however,
demonstrates how the country was completely unprepared to deal with post-conflict
reconstruction, not to mention mental health in the early 1990s – even after more than
ten years of armed conflict.
The introduction of the concept of IDPs and the peasant-state alliance formed
an appropriate setting for the creation of PAR, which meant a public and official
acknowledgement of a social reality that had previously been ignored by the state and
society at large: the plight of the internally displaced people and of the thousands of
people living in the areas affected by political violence. On the part of the
beneficiaries, the work carried out by PAR in the areas affected by violence has led to
the awareness of their entitlements vis-à-vis the state as a provider of public services.
By directing their concrete demands to a state agency such as PAR, peasants and
others affected by the armed conflict exercise their right as citizens, to be assisted and
protected by the state to which they belong. The importance of a drinking water
system or a school for a particular community trying to move ahead towards an
imagined ideal of development is also a way to repair the social fabric that has been
damaged. People’s own perceptions of reconstruction, progress and development
cannot be dismissed simply because they do not coincide with ours, or what we think
they ought to be.

210
 The change of direction after the end of the Fujimori regime opened the
possibility to focus on the consequences of violence, with the implicit signal of the
end of the reconstruction period. The work of the Truth Commission and its Final
Report signaled the start of an era of ‘reconciliation’, where PAR had envisaged a role
for itself. However, this is not likely to happen. The dismantling of an institution such
as PAR, without at least replacing it with something else, implies a step backwards in
the public acknowledgement of Peru’s recent past of armed conflict. It might not be
the view from Lima, but it certainly is the one from those areas affected by the
conflict.

SUMMARY
In the case of Peru, the tasks of return and reconstruction in the post-conflict situation
were placed upon a specialized public agency, PAR. PAR’s mission was to promote
reconstruction and socially sustainable development/poverty reduction in the areas
affected by violence. Like other public agencies in the social sector working for
poverty reduction, PAR considered the problem of the rural areas to be the lack of
basic services. Immersed in the logic of “direct democracy” and “development =
works”, where visible results were expected from both the regime and the beneficiary
population, PAR set about fulfilling its mission by doing what other public agencies in
the social sector were doing: basic needs infrastructure. However, it managed as well
to adjust and change according to the demands of communities in the areas affected by
the armed conflict.
Reconstruction policy was accompanied by a discourse on reconstruction and
development, which built upon the experience of armed conflict among peasant
populations, and the role of the state a provider of peace, security and progress. In
this discourse, peasant citizens such as those in Tambo had a legitimate claim in
requesting the support of the state on the basis of their war experience. The discourse
supported a common vision where poverty and conflict would be substituted by
reconstruction and development. The crystallization or realization of such vision
would be manifested through concrete development projects, that is, the delivery of
basic needs infrastructure and public services to those deserving and/or entitled to
receive the support of the state. Reconstruction as social policy, and the discourse of
reconstruction and development can be then seen as integral and complementary parts
of the process of reconstruction in post-conflict Peru.

211
Chapter 9

DEFINING CITIZENSHIP: THE ISSUE OF COMPENSATION

RIGHTS FOR PEASANT RONDERO CASUALTIES

In 1999, while doing fieldwork in Tambo, I witnessed the development of an issue

which crystallized the relationships between citizenship, normative law and armed
conflict and reconstruction in singular manner: the issue of compensation rights for
peasant ronderos casualties of the armed conflict. In this chapter, I make a case for the
argument that peasant citizenship and identity in Tambo are defined by the peasant
contribution to victory over the Shining Path during the armed conflict. The conflict
and peasants participation in it, have become not only the point of reference for
demands for public goods and services and the discourse of reconstruction and
development (ref. previous chapter), but also the basis for self-definitions of identity
among the peasant population of areas affected by violence. The chapter starts with
the introduction of the issue of compensation rights in peasant communities in the
districts of Tambo and Santillana (in Huanta), and moves on to discuss a peasant
mobilization process which brought the issue forward to the national arena.115 The
chapter ends with a discussion of the trajectory of the issue at national level, and how
it was engaged by different actors at different stages (often being linked to other more
or less hidden agendas), transforming itself in the process.

THE COMPENSATION DECREES

On December 27 1998, the Supreme Decree 068-98-DE-S/G (to be referred to as DS
068) was published at the official Peruvian newspaper “El Peruano”, setting the
amounts of compensation benefits to be paid to peasant ronderos casualties of the
armed conflict, as established by the government 6 years earlier in DS 077. The timing
of its publication (between Christmas and New Year’s Day) probably contributed to
the fact that the decree went unnoticed by most peasants, politicians, NGOs and even
military personnel until February/March 1999. I learnt about it in February through a

115
As I followed this mobilization ‘from inside’, I will often use the first person plural, “we”, in the
chapter to describe the events taking place, particularly when referring to myself and a fellow collegue,
as we were both part of the ‘support team’.

212
colleague, while doing fieldwork in Tambo. We passed a copy of the official text to
the CAD Central Committees in the two districts where we worked, Tambo and
Santillana. The Central Committees could then prepare for the future implementation
of the decree, and the idea of making lists of potential beneficiaries was considered.
The committees asked if we would assist with this task, and we agreed. At the time,
the necessary requirements and procedures for access to the benefits were unknown.
What happened later took on a dynamic of its own. In Santillana, the news
spread quickly. As my colleague conducted interviews, widows, older men, orphans
of various ages, peasants from all backgrounds came forward to tell him their stories
and explain how they had lost their loved ones during the war and the hardships they
had had to endure ever since. Santillana peasants openly declared that they deserved
whatever benefits the state was to grant, because they considered themselves heroes of
war. Finally, the state had remembered its promise, they said. In Tambo, the Central
Committee was glad to hear the news as well, but decided to handle the issue with
care until they could get more information from military headquarters. In both places
the news was received with enthusiasm and a feeling that justice was finally being
done for the families of those who had lost their lives fighting back against the
Shining Path: the state had finally remembered them. Peasants in both Tambo and
Santillana informed us that the new law would benefit “thousands of families, so
many have died … this would be a great help for the thousands of families that had
been left in misery by the war.”
We could see that expectations were great among the peasant population, and
our concern immediately became whether the decree was able to fulfill these
expectations. A closer look at the text of the decree revealed to us its shortcomings.
First of all, the target group or beneficiaries identified by the decree were “members
of the Self-Defense Committees” (CADs), making direct reference to DS 077 article
10. By referring to DS 077 as a legal baseline, the decree set a starting date for the
cases eligible for compensation benefits: November 11 1992. All cases of ronderos
deaths or injuries prior to that date were outside the scope of the law, because for the
legal system, peasant self-defense organizations had only existed from the moment
they were officially recognized and regulated as CADs by DS 077 – in spite of DL
741’s preamble on the ongoing existence of self-defense committees.
Secondly, and also as a result of DS 077 as a legal baseline, death or injury at
the root of any compensation claim had to be the result of an enfrentamiento or

213
‘confrontation with terrorists’. In Peruvian military jargon, enfrentamiento refers to
active fighting between rival parties, usually produced as a result of planned military
action. This restriction on the distribution of benefits did not take into account the fact
that open confrontations were not the only type of violent encounters peasant ronderos
had with the guerrillas, many of which often resulted in death and injury as well (ref.
Chapter Seven). Peasant communities had been targets of numerous “incursions”,
attacks and assaults by the guerrillas. Incursions often occurred precisely as a result of
peasant organization, in order to eliminate peasant leaders and discouraged
organization. In other words, incursions by SL had as their objective to teach peasants
a lesson, as punishment for organizing themselves against the party.
DS 068 also established compensation to CAD members for any material
damage they might have suffered “as a consequence of their support to the armed
forces in the fight against subversion” (article 2). The three types of compensation
(death, injuries and material damages) were to be made as a lump sum payment after
application procedures were finished. Finally, it is worth noting the wording of the
text, where CAD members are referred to as “personnel” (as in “personnel with
temporary/permanent handicap”, or “relatives of personnel killed/dead”). The word
‘victim’ is not used in either the text of DS 068 nor in DS 077. By referring to peasant
ronderos as “personnel”, they were identified as active participants or combatants,
including them in the broader category of counter-subversive forces (which included
the Peruvian armed forces and the CADs). This use is consistent with the discourse
that sprang from the peasant-military alliance in the early 1990s (ref. Chapter seven).
In brief, DS 068 established that there would be compensation benefits for
peasant rondero casualties, as long as the events behind the claim had occurred after
November 11 1992, and as a result of a confrontation with the guerrillas. In other
words, compensation was to be given on the basis of active participation in self-
defense activities, for CAD members only, and in recognition for their “support to the
armed forces in the fight against subversion”. Praiseworthy as this recognition might
be, the established criteria overlooked the fact that peasant organization against
Shining Path started a decade before the official creation of the CADs. The historical
and public recognition of self-defense organizations present in DL 741 and DS 077,
and their promise of compensation, was being undermined by the very decree
established to implement it, DS 068.

214
 According to peasants in Tambo and Santillana, most deaths and injuries had
occurred before 1992. The law of recognition of CADs came at a time when the armed
conflict was in its final stages, and so the main bulk of casualties occurred before the
law took effect. Furthermore, by ignoring the occurrence of casualties in violent
situations other than confrontations, the decree excluded a large proportion of
ronderos who died during incursions, and that according to the peasants, was probably
larger in number than those that fell in active fighting.
When peasant leaders learned about the criteria for compensation claims, they
reacted with disbelief: What was the point of a law that would benefit no one?
According to them, most people had died before 1992, and most people had died
during incursions. Two journalists visited Tambo and Santillana to collect peasant
reactions to the decree. As journalists do, they wanted numbers, and asked how many
casualties there had been, how many people would benefit, and the like. “Many!”
replied peasants, “Thousands!”, “A lot of people!”. The truth of the matter is that no
one knew how many had been killed and under what circumstances. Private lists of
casualties had been recorded in a few communities or by some peasant leaders, but
based only on their direct knowledge of the events. There were no official registers
that had recorded local casualties, let alone categorized them by date, location or
circumstance surrounding their death or injury. Peasants insisted that the numbers
were large, that their account was right and that the law ignored the way things had
really happened. But how could this be proven? The registers of casualties and
potential beneficiaries offered an opportunity to address that question.

Designing a register for casualties of the armed conflict

Before setting out to do anything else, it was necessary to know exactly the extent of
the full application of the law. This became obvious after the encounter with
journalists, when neither the peasants nor us researchers had any ‘hard facts’ or
numbers to give. We needed a register of all ronderos dead and injured in all
confrontations with and during incursions by the Shining Path since the start of
peasant resistance, or even, since the start of the armed conflict in the particular
location. But how would this registration take place, how should it be organized? Our
main concern was the following: How to collect the most accurate information in a
manner accessible for peasants in Tambo and Santillana?

215
 In our discussions with the Central Committees, it became obvious that the
unit of registration had to be the peasant community, because community members
themselves were in a better position to recall their own history, and what happened
when, where and how. The registry would have to be an exercise of collective
memory, where all members of the community would contribute to provide the most
accurate information about the events and the casualties. This is why we suggested
that the filling in of the registries should take place during a community assembly,
with all community members present. Finally, to certify the veracity of the
information provided, the registry should be signed by the community authorities.116
As this was going on, the Tambo Central Committee had made some enquiries
at the military base in Ayacucho, and obtained a list of the documents requested for
the application for compensation benefits. The list included 14 documents to be
enclosed with the application, and 7 more for those who had received a positive
review on their initial application. Among other things, a person wishing to apply was
asked to provide a death certificate for the victim, a certificado del levantamiento del
cadáver (“certificate for the removal of the corpse”), a legal medical report on their
injuries, and evidence that they did not receive state pensions or were engaged in
commercial activities. Peasants laughed at the requirements: Where could any one
obtain such documents during the armed conflict? Not only had most acts of violence
taken place in areas often too remote for the authorities to reach, but most of all, there
were no such authorities at the time (ref. Chapters Six and Seven). This is how
application requirements became an issue of contention as well.
Taking all these considerations into account, my colleague and I prepared a
registry format to collect basic information about casualties of the armed conflict
(dead and injured) for the districts of Tambo and Santillana. We operated on the basis
of two broad categories for the type of incidents being reported, ‘confrontations’ and
‘incursions’. Table 15 summarizes the type of information requested in the format. As
designed, the registry format fulfilled two major (and practical) functions: First, to be
a primary source of information on casualties of the armed conflict (dead and injured)
as a result of confrontations and incursions with/by SL in all peasant communities for
the districts of Tambo and Santillana during 1981-1994; and second, to provide the

116
This procedure was very much in tune with decision-making practices among peasant communities,
which take place through community assemblies, and are registered and formalized in registry books.
See also Chapter Six for my discussion on “making things official”.

216
data needed to assess the full extent of the application of the DS 068, using Tambo
and Santillana as sample districts. Given the fact that the method chosen to fill in the
registers was the community assembly through an exercise of collective memory, the
registers fulfilled a third function, namely to reconstruct, at a very basic level, the
local histories of peasant communities through the period of violence.

Table 15. Description of information collected in the registry formats for rondero
casualties of the armed conflict.

Confrontations Incursions

Name of community, date of assembly

For each confrontation: For each incursion:

• Place, date & time • Place, date & time

• Name, origin, age, death certificate • Name, origin, age, death certificate issued
issued or not, & name of direct or not for all dead as result of the
beneficiary for all dead as result of the confrontation
confrontation

• Name, origin, age, type of injury,
certificate of health/other certifying
document issued or not for all injured as
a result of the confrontation
• Brief account of the events
• Name, origin, age, type of injury,
certificate of health/other certifying
document issued or not for all injured as a
result of the confrontation
• Brief account of the events

The Central Committees of Tambo and Santillana were in charge of conducting the
recollection of data. Sufficient copies of the register were donated by the local district
governments and distributed to all community leaders during self-defense assemblies.
Central committee leaders supported the process by visiting a large number of
communities to guide and assist with the filling up of forms. Within a month, all
communities had prepared their respective registers.

Limitations of the registers

As has been mentioned above, the registers collected very basic information about the
casualties of the armed conflict (dead and injured) caused by the Shining Path, for the
purpose of ascertaining the extent of the implementation of the compensation decrees.
Yet the armed conflict had at least two parties, SL on one side, and the Peruvian

217
armed forces on the other, and both parties had caused civilian casualties. Collecting
data about the casualties caused by the Shining Path would only give an incomplete
picture of the conflict. The decree was a government initiative, administered by the
Ministry of Defense, and the socio-political climate in Ayacucho (and Peru in general)
was not ready for an open confrontation with the state about compensation rights for
casualties caused by the military.
Peasant leaders I talked to seemed to understand quite well that there was still
a long way to go before one could even consider compensation from the military.
Furthermore, not everyone was ready to talk about their experiences with the armed
forces. It was one thing was to share this information with the researcher in an
interview context, but quite another to register a public claim against the military.
Apprehension and fear was not unfounded, after all Ayacucho in 1999 was still in a
state of emergency, under the control of a political-military authority. For similar
reasons the registers did not included the missing (desaparecidos), that is, those
people that were never seen again after being arrested by the military or abducted by
Shining Path. Therefore we opted to concentrate on registering those casualties caused
by the Shining Path, leaving unregistered those caused by the military as well as the
missing117. A comparison of numbers of casualties registered by the CVR and those
collected through the compensation registries has already been presented in Chapter
Six.
Another issue concerns the veracity of the information registered. It could be
argued that collecting the information at the community level, through an assembly,
was no guarantee for a truthful account of the events, and that the information might
even be distorted in order to provide a biased narrative of the events. However, our
direct presence in the collection process would not necessarily avoid this potential
bias. Assemblies are the decision-making bodies in peasant communities, and in most
communities these function as open channels of discussion. Without ignoring the
existence of conflicts at the community level, and the prevalence of communal
hegemonies (Mallon 1995), there is no apparent reason not to trust the veracity of the
information. The results themselves, which point in the direction of the limited extent
of the law, could be said to signal this trust-worthiness (ref. Chapter Six).

117
This was a necessary task for the process of truth-finding and reconciliation, and has been
thoroughly done by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. The CVR registers are part of the CVR
Final Report.

218
 A final observation to be made is that the registers include casualties occurring
within their territorial jurisdiction only, and not the dead or injured among community
members fallen in other areas (in which case they were registered in the hosting
community, where the event took place), in other districts, or other regions, such as
the rainforest lowlands.

Data collected in the registers

A total number of 28 registers for Tambo and 26 for Santillana were completed, and
the initial systematization of the data gave us a glimpse of the comprehensive task
ahead. The wealth of information obtained had by far exceeded our expectations, and
we were fascinated by the detailed accounts we were privy to. My colleague and I
analyzed the data and presented the results in a document entitled “The State and
Peasant Self-Defense. Social debt and reparation for the counter-subversive struggle”
(Antesana and García-Godos 1999). Tables 16-18 consolidate the results concerning
the number of casualties of the armed conflict caused by SL. In the district of Tambo,
the number of casualties caused by the Shining Path was 349 deaths and 65 injured. In
Santillana, the numbers were 342 deaths and 21 injured. Table 17 presents the
distribution of casualties before and after November 11 1992 in confrontations only.
In the district of Santillana, the number of deaths in confrontations reached a total of
140, while in Tambo the number was 85. These numbers however, were far below the
total number of registered casualties. In both districts, over 98% of deaths had
occurred before November 1992. The data obtained certified what peasants in Tambo
and Santillana had argued all the time: most casualties fell before 1992 and mainly as
a result of incursions by SL. The criteria established in the decree were so narrow, that
less than 2% of the total amount of casualties would benefit from compensation
benefits. And this would only happen if the applicants managed to collect all the
documents required.

LEGITIMATING COMPENSATION: CITIZENSHIP AND ARMED CONFLICT

While the registration was taking place, the question arose about what exactly was to
be done with the data that was being collected. The initial purpose had been to
ascertain the extent of the compensation decrees in terms of its application. The CADs
Central Committees and the district mayors, as well as my colleague and I soon
realized that the data could be useful in bringing attention to the issue of peasant

219
resistance and the marginalized situation peasant families find themselves in today as
a consequence of the armed conflict. In the words of peasant leaders: “We have to tell
the authorities so that they could do something about it”.

Table 16. Total number of registered casualties in confrontations

and incursions in the districts of Tambo and Santillana.

Number of Victims
incidents
Dead % Injured %
Tambo 1984-93
Confrontations 49 85 24 29 45
Incursions 86 264 76 36 55
Total 349 65
Santillana 1982-94
Confrontations 39 140 41 14 67
Incursions 36 202 59 7 33
Total 342 21

Source: Registro de Víctimas por la Subversión - Comités Distritales de Autodefensa de

Tambo y Santillana 1999.

There were a variety of options to do just that, such as approaching the media, letters
to the authorities or to the press, meetings with national authorities. My colleague
argued that the issue was of national relevance, and as such it had to be dealt with at
the national public arena. Peasant leaders agreed; no one would bother to listen if the
issue remained within Tambo and Santillana. For the CADs it was obvious that the
data had to be mediated or passed on to the authorities to make them aware of the
limited extent of the compensation law. The district mayors for their part identified
easily with the issue, for various reasons. The peasant population constituted the larger
group in their constituencies and the local CADs still played an important role in the
social life of the districts. Furthermore, the mayors wished to attract central
government’s attention to the situation and needs of their respective districts, and
taking a public campaign to Lima could facilitate resources and political support. As
for me, the ‘supporting researcher’, the main issue was national recognition for the
peasant contribution in winning the armed conflict. When my colleague (who had
previous experience in the world of politics) suggested presenting the data in Lima to
the highest authorities in government, everyone cheered: “Lima of course, that was the
right thing to do!”. The idea of going to Lima with peasant demands and an alternative

220
Table 17. Beneficiaries of compensation rights according to DS 077 y DS 068, in relation to
number of casualties in confrontations only.

1982/84 - 10 November 1992 11 November 1992 - 1994 Total

Dead % Injured % Dead % Injured % Dead Injured

Santillana 134 95.72 13 92 6 4.28 1 8 140 14

Tambo 81 95.30 29 100 4 4.70 0 0 85 29

Source: Registro de Víctimas por la Subversión - Comités Distritales de Autodefensa de Tambo y Santillana 1999.

Table 18. Beneficiaries of compensation rights according to DS 077 y DS 068, in relation to

number of casualties in confrontations AND incursions.

1982/84 - 10 November 1992 11 November 1992 – 1994 Total

Dead % Injured % Dead % Injured % Dead Injured

Santillana 336 98.25 20 95.24 6 1.75 1 4.76 342 21

Tambo 345 98.85 65 100 4 1.15 0 0 349 65

Source: Registro de Víctimas por la Subversión - Comités Distritales de Autodefensa de Tambo y Santillana 1999.

221
for change filled everyone with a dose of enthusiasm, excitement and certain
astonishment – was this really going to happen?
The strategy chosen was to send a delegation of peasant ronderos from Tambo
and Santillana to Lima to raise the issue at the national level, through contacts with the
national media, authorities and institutions. The delegations would be composed of
both current and former rondero leaders and commandos, community representatives,
women’s organizations, specially invited rondero leaders from the Apurímac River
Valley, and representatives from the municipalities. All in all, about 35 people from
each district.
The Central Committees engaged in the process of setting up the delegations,
while the mayors took charge of the practical preparations for the journey, raising
funds and mobilizing contacts in Lima to secure accommodation and transport. My
colleague set about formulating the program for the visit, which was going to last 4
days. Through his large network of contacts, he approached the media, set up
meetings with the government, the Congress, and a number of national institutions.
My main contribution was in systematizing and analyzing the data. Once this was
done, we prepared a document presenting the results of the registries, and peasant
demands on the basis of the analysis. We all had tasks to fulfill, and in preparing the
stage for the campaign in Lima, we jointly experienced, participated and witnessed the
interaction between local and national politics from within.

Peasant-military relations behind the scene

The CADs district committees of Tambo and Santillana were in charge of setting up
the delegations, and used their networks to contact those peasant leaders they thought
ought to join in the campaign. The main criteria was a role of active leadership in
peasant self-defense, independent of age and origin, so leaders from all parts of
Tambo and Santillana were called in to participate. Two “historic leaders” from the
Apurímac river valley were also invited, to bare witness to the important role they had
played in the defeat of the Shining Path in Tambo; one accepted the invitation,
Antonio Cárdenas. As a sign of gender awareness, two women leaders from each of
the districts were invited. Although most invited ronderos expressed interest and
enthusiasm in joining the delegation, the difficulties for the district committees in
setting these up lay not so much with their own constituencies, but with actors outside
their control, as I explain below.

222
 Both in Tambo and Santillana, CAD leaders had opted to keep local military
authorities informed about their activities, as they saw no point in trying to conceal
something that in their opinion was neither illegal nor subversive. Rather, it was the
opposite, they argued, they were going to make the government aware of an issue that
would better benefit those the government was already prepared to support. Trying to
hide anything from the military was not an option for these CADs. The CADs
mobilization however, was received differently in different military quarters. The
Santillana CAD president was proud to declare that the local garrison chief expressed
his full support of the mobilization, “It was a just cause”, he had said. In Tambo, the
picture was completely the opposite.
Tambo was the site of a military garrison which fell under the jurisdiction of
Pichari Military Quarters in the Apurímac river valley. The garrison chief simply said
that he had to report this to his superiors. Tambo CAD leaders were then called to
Pichari to report on their activities, where the message was clear enough: “Self-
defense committees are not to be involved in politics!” The CAD leaders were ordered
to abandon their plans of going to Lima with any sort of claim. Yet in the monthly
CAD meeting at Ayacucho Military Headquarters (a higher level than Pichari), the
same CAD leaders received an ambiguous support from the head of CAD affairs. In
spite of these confusing signals from the military, preparations for the trip to Lima
went ahead, although a feeling of uncertainty characterized the last few days. The
situation reached a critical point when an order from Pichari arrived on the day of
departure, prohibiting all ronderos from the district of Tambo from leaving their
jurisdiction. As far as military quarters in Pichari were concerned, the peasant
mobilization to Lima was cancelled.
This latest development caused total disruption in the Tambo delegation,
whose members were now uncertain about whether to go or not, fearing the
consequences. The CAD president (a local school teacher) was cautious and was
undecided about the new situation. A firmer grip over the situation was taken by the
Mayor of Tambo, who argued fiercely for the benefits of the initiative. In the end, they
reached an agreement: each participant was to decide for him/herself, if they wanted
to take the chance; no one should feel obliged or forced to join. It was a difficult
choice, but 35 ronderos from Tambo chose to make the long trip to Lima in spite of
the Pichari order. As the Mayor said next morning when they arrived: “We almost
didn’t make it, we were just about to stay!”

223
 While this was going on in Tambo, my colleague, who was in charge of setting
up the program in Lima, was informed that the member of the Congress who was
going to support the initiative “would not be able to receive” the delegation, because
the timing was “inadequate”118. This was the same parliamentarian who had visited
Tambo on occasion of the International Women’s Day (ref. previous chapter). On
further investigation, it turned out that information about the mobilization had reached
Lima military headquarters, and “rumor has it that they are coming to attack the
government” she said. Being from the government’s own party, this parliamentarian
suddenly did not want to be connected with the mobilization, and suggested
postponing everything until “things have settled down”. But peasant delegations from
Tambo and Santillana were already on their way to Lima. We would just have to go
ahead without the parliamentarian’s support.

Peasant ronderos in Lima – or how contribution makes us citizens

Once in Lima, the drama of the last few days turned into optimism and anticipation.
Through his many networks and contacts, my colleague had managed to set up a
program that included central government authorities, ministries and agencies, to be
accompanied by full media coverage. In fact, his knowledge of the public relations
system within the government proved highly instrumental for the development and
success of the mobilization119.
The program during those four days in Lima, was full of official visits and
meetings with top officials from the Presidential Office, the Human Rights
Commission at the National Congress, the Ministry of Agriculture, the Ministry of
Women’s Affairs and Human Development, the National Program in Support of
Repopulation and Zones of Emergency, the Ministry of the Presidency, the Ministry
of Defense, the High Command of the Armed Forces, the Ministry of Energy and
Mining, and the USA Embassy. However, the highlights of the mobilization were the
meeting with the National Ombudsman Office, and a joint press conference with the
Human Rights Commission at the National Congress. The delivery of the document
bearing peasant demands to the Office of the Presidency, at the Presidential Palace,
was for many peasants, the most exciting moment of the mobilization. In the

118
This was the same parliamentarian who had visited Tambo in March 1999 to rally support for the
government.
119
Peasant ronderos (as well as I) were so impressed by the number of doors that were opened to us
that they started to call him “the key man”, because he “opened doors”.

224
following, I will elaborate on the approach taken by the CADs and municipal
authorities from Tambo and Santillana in meeting central government officials,
ministers and the national press.
The approach chosen by the delegations was not one of antagonism and open
confrontation, but one of “dialogue”, a term used by peasant leaders on every
occasion. Accordingly, ronderos had come to Lima to express their views on the
compensation law in order to make the authorities aware of the problem (para que
tomen conciencia) and to seek a solution on the basis of this dialogue. In the CADs
terminology, “dialogue” refers to an exchange of ideas between implicitly equal
parties, an act whereby it is possible to mediate information and opinions in both
directions. The CADs intention with the trip to Lima was precisely to engage into
dialogue with the government and other national authorities about a single issue,
compensation rights. What made peasants believe that the state would listen to them?
Moreover, what made them believe that they could address the state as equals? Could
this be explained in terms of citizenship?
The principle of equality in a dialogue with the state is surprising because of
the subordinate position of Andean peasants in Peruvian society. But what remains
true for peasants in general is not necessarily true for peasant organizations, such as
the CADs. As explained in previous chapters, the peasant-state alliance initiated by
the military since 1989 and formalized by the Fujimori government for the defeat of
the Shining Path in 19901 was built upon the inclusion of the peasantry into counter-
subversive strategy. Through the CADs, peasants in the areas affected by violence
became both an ally and target of attention from the state, that is, a beneficiary target
group for many public social programs.
I would argue that it was with this identity, the identity of “equally-worthy
ally” that the CADs approached the highest authorities to remind them of their
alliance, and of the commitments and promises made to them. In other words, peasant
citizenship was being exercised not simply because “all citizens have rights and
duties”, but because this particular group of citizens had defended their livelihoods
and the state in a situation of armed conflict, and it was this participation in the
conflict that entitled them to make legitimate use of their right to demand the attention
of the state.
This strategy of dialogue chosen by the peasant delegations showed as well the
limits of inclusion and equality. While the law had recognized CADs existence and

225
functions, the law had also included them within a system of military hierarchy and
administration that was at times problematic. This explains why, in mobilizing for
compensation rights, the CADs were reticent to openly confront or attack the
government. For peasants, the government and the military were the same thing, they
both were the state. It had been the government of Fujimori that gave CADs their legal
recognition in 1991. Although it had taken almost eight years to follow up on the
compensation rights for CAD members, peasants considered that the government had
finally taken a first step in the right direction, and the CADs did not want to miss this
opportunity by openly opposing to it. The question was how far to go with their
demands. CAD representatives had to find a balance between the perceived legitimacy
of their claims and the actual possibilities for negotiation. In this sense, Taylor and
Wilson’s remark on citizenship as the organization of subordinate inclusion is rather
poignant (Taylor and Wilson 2004:160): CAD representatives experienced citizenship
as an entitlement for their participation in the armed conflict on the side of the state,
but were acutely aware of their subordinate position in the arena of national politics.
The state was indeed to be engaged and contested, but not openly opposed. I will
return to this in the next section.
The CADs delegations had been supported throughout by their respective
district municipalities, and both mayors from Tambo and Santillana were present in
Lima. The combination of CAD-local government interests is another important
feature of the approach chosen in this mobilization. Using the compensation rights
issue as a flagship, both CADs and municipalities wanted to bring attention to the
uncompleted tasks of reconstruction in their own districts. Reconstruction was
perceived not only in terms of re-constructing the countryside in physical terms to the
same levels as it had been before the conflict. As discussed in the previous chapter,
reconstruction was now linked to the discourse and goals of “development”. The
discourse of reconstruction and development had also been adopted by the
municipalities. In fact, Tambo’s slogan in 1999 was “Return, reconstruction…
development”.
The development and reconstruction needs of their own districts were thus an
issue where both the CAD organization and local governments could meet and support
each other. Documents presented to the authorities not only dealt with the
compensation rights; indeed, a large number of the documents presented to the various
public agencies and ministries were memoriales, formal petitions on behalf of their

226
constituencies for specific development projects and assistance. According to CAD
representatives and the municipal authorities it was the experience of armed conflict
and the need for reconstruction that gave legitimacy to their demands. This was the
main argument; all documents started with this background, and they all were signed
by both the district mayors and the CAD presidents, in representation of the peasant
population.
Throughout those four days in Lima, the mobilization received ample coverage
by the media, particularly from newspapers, but also from national TV. Special
reports highlighting the arbitrariness of compensation decrees and the situation of
abandonment in which the areas affected by violence were to be found, made
headlines. Media coverage made the peasant delegations interesting guests to be
received by public officials and TV presenters, and several doors were opened by
publicity. Unfortunately, fresh news became old rather quickly, so once the
delegations left Lima, interest in the ronderos and their claims faded again. Luckily
for the CADs, the issue did not suffer the same fate in the agendas of other political
actors, as shall be seen later.

ASSESSING THE COMPENSATION RIGHTS MOBILIZATION

For the peasant delegations, the mobilization to Lima was a complete success. They
had managed to put their issue on the national agenda and to talk directly to ministers,
high-ranking officials and parliamentarians about compensations rights. The district
mayors were equally positive in their assessment of this experience, but also because
of the many contacts they had managed to establish with central government as a
result of it. In one sense, it could be said that the ones that benefited the most, or more
directly from the mobilization, were the local governments.

Local government reaching up to central government

As mentioned earlier, political power during the Fujimori regime was volatile and
dependent upon one’s relation to central government, particularly to the president’s
own circle of associates. Through the principle of direct democracy, the regime aimed
at inhibiting local allegiances that could be used against the government, while
connecting the wider sectors of the population directly with central government
through the provision of public services. This created a situation where contacts with
central government were vital for local governments’ viability and survival. Those

227
municipalities with mayors from Fujimori’s party were to benefit the most in terms of
central government funds. For others, such as Tambo and Santillana, the situation was
rather grim. The mobilization to Lima was therefore instrumental for the district
mayors in establishing direct contacts with central government and bringing attention
to their districts. For instance, as a direct result of their meeting with the Minister of
Energy, the electrification project for Ccarhuapampa in Tambo saw the light, literally
speaking, after years of waiting. Similarly, the meeting at the Ministry of the
Presidency produced the immediate shipment of a large allotment of foods and goods
to the districts to be distributed by the mayors.
The creation of direct contacts between local and central government in such a
political environment as the Fujimori regime can easily be defined as
(neo)clientelism120, in spite of the good intentions that municipal authorities may or
may not have. The regime was in constant need of allies around the country, and
showing good will to remote constituencies was expected to produce political support.
The mayors of Tambo and Santillana were very conscious about these expectations,
and did not consider them problematic to relate to them in an instrumentalist or
strategic manner. What mattered for local governments was to improve their leverage
vis-à-vis their local populations, and if this was achieved through the establishment of
clientelistic ties with central government, so be it. The logic “development = works”
was being reproduced at the local government level as well, and how the discourse of
reconstruction and development was actively used by mayors to make a legitimate
claim to central government on behalf of their constituencies, who after all, had born
the consequences of the armed conflict. In this case, as in the case of peasant
communities reaching out to public agencies, the patron was once again, the central
state.

Mobilization and identity in the CADs

The impact of the mobilization upon the CADs in general, and the ones in Tambo and
Santillana in particular, could not be as easily assessed as for local governments,
mainly because of the nature of their demands. However, what could be observed
immediately was the effect the experience itself had among the participants in terms
of identity-building and leadership. This had been an identity-building exercise across

120
Neoclientelism is discussed in more detail in Chapter Ten.

228
communities, as most peasants could identify with the issue of compensation rights.
The issue had raised ronderos awareness of their identity as ronderos and “heroes of
war”; and it was this participation that, according to them, made them citizens. From
their perspective, they had contributed to winning the armed conflict, to defending
themselves and the state, so surely they deserved the attention and reward of the state.
What the issue of compensation rights had done was to elevate the experience of
armed conflict away from its focus on suffering and destruction to one of entitlements,
rights and citizenship. Ronderos demanded compensation not because of their
particular suffering, but because of their participation in achieving victory over the
Shining Path. What we were witnessing then was the appropriation of citizenship by a
subordinate group on the basis of their contribution to society. Peasants and CAD
members made a claim to citizenship by reference to their own participation in the
armed conflict as allies of the state. Self-defense was a risky enterprise, dangerous and
uncertain; but in the present, that past of suffering and sacrifice was being re-
interpreted in terms of victory and inclusion. As far as peasant CADs were concerned,
the country and the state were in debt to them. From their point of view, the least they
deserved was public recognition of their contribution; and the compensation rights
crystallized this claim.
This socially and historically constructed interpretation of citizenship by a
subordinate group is based on a requirement that was not asked of or offered by other
citizens: a proof of ‘worthiness’ in the form of a contribution to community, society
and/or the nation-state. Something similar could be observed in Cutervo in northern
Peru, where the practice of citizenship was strongly related to the rondero identity: “It
is only through participation [in the ronda and community life], conceived as a duty
and a right, that a peasant becomes rondero, and by doing so, he/she becomes a
citizen” (García-Godos 1996:131). In their definition of citizenship, Cutervo ronderos
emphasized not the many rights of citizens, but their duties to the community. It was
the fulfillment of these duties that entitled them to whatever rights they had achieved,
and that made their claims to the state legitimate. The peasant contribution in Cutervo
was providing for its own protection and justice administration within the community
jurisdiction. In Tambo, it was having to fight against the Shining Path guerrillas. The
question that immediately arises is: How does this implicit requirement come about?
Is it the nation-state that ‘puts a price’ on citizenship? Or is it peasants who must
prove themselves ‘worthy’ of citizenship?

229
 In my view, the answer lies in the dynamics of power relations within a given
relational setting. Following Somers’s argument that “citizenship identities are
investigated by looking at actors’ places in their relational settings” (Somers
1993:595), one should try to identify the place of peasant ronderos in their own
relational settings. In the socio-economic hierarchy of Peru, Andean peasants are at
the lower end of the scale. Indeed, formal peasant citizenship is a relatively new
practice. As has been noted previously, the Peruvian peasant population remained
disenfranchised until 1980. Afterwards, the armed conflict blocked a process of
gradual participation in electoral processes in the affected areas, which was not
normalized until the 1990s. While demands and claims for inclusion and citizenship in
previous decades could be made in terms of justice, fairness, and/or legal processes
with no major effect, this time peasants could support their claims with a trump card:
their contribution in the victory against the Shining Path. In the context of
reconstruction, and embedded in the discourse of reconstruction and development,
there could not be a clearer sign of allegiance to the nation-state; and peasant CADs
were prepared to use this argument for all it was worth. “At issue were not
expectations of charity or paternal beneficence, but demands for legitimate rights.”
(Somers 1993:609; highlighted in the original).
Peasants in Tambo are painfully aware of their position of subordination in the
Peruvian social hierarchy. De la Cadena (2000) argues that in Peru, education and the
disguise of racism under the veil of cultural differences, render legitimate a
hierarchical system of discrimination against indigenous populations. The peasant
interpretation of citizenship on the basis of contribution, could then be seen to fulfill a
role similar to that of education among subordinate groups in Peru: a way of
escalating the social hierarchy and reaching out to be included. By linking citizenship
to contribution, this historically constructed appeal has the potential to reshape and
redefine social relations between peasants and the nation-state (Mische 1996).

Different citizens, different demands, different compensations

Citizenship and entitlements on the basis of contribution to society was not to be left
uncontested. The criticism came from an unexpected source, the middle-class urban
population in the city of Ayacucho. I registered a number of opinions from this sector
of the population that were highly critical of awarding compensation to peasant
ronderos. Their argument was that it was unfair to compensate peasants only, since

230
almost everyone in the region, also in the cities, had suffered the effects of the armed
conflict. Others argued that peasants themselves were and supported terrorists, so they
deserved nothing at all.
When I tried to explain the ronderos point of view, I often received the same
answer “We were here, we know how it was”. The contrasting views and experiences
of the armed conflict surprised me, because Ayacucho lies surrounded by rural
districts and peasant communities, and I had expected that city dwellers knew “what
was really going on” in the countryside during the conflict. More than trying to
ascertain who was telling ‘the truth’ (as a matter of speaking), I became more aware of
the fact that the views and experiences of armed conflict depended on the situation
and role of various actors during the conflict, as well as on their ideological and socio-
economic position. All these aspects determined what was to be seen and what
remained “unseen” and therefore declared “non-existent” or “false” in the context of
armed conflict. This blindness and detachment of elite sectors of the population
towards the drama and trauma of the armed conflict, also in nearby centers, is one of
the major observations of the CVR Final Report, which questions the viability of the
Peruvian nation-building project.
One aspect that was not considered at the time, but which denotes not only the
limited scope of the benefits envisaged by the compensation decrees, but also the
variable and malleable meaning of citizenship (Mische 1996), is the content of the
benefits themselves. While the decrees offered a one time lump-sum payment in
compensation for the death, injury and material damages of peasant ronderos, the
benefits awarded to the enlisted members of the armed forces by far surpassed those
granted to CAD personnel. A compilation of legislation applicable to victims of
terrorism prepared by the Human Rights Department at the Ombudsman Office in
Peru compares existing benefits targeted at different groups of victims (armed forces,
CAD members, public servants, and civil population) (Defensoría del Pueblo 2002).
Seven types of benefits were identified: exceptional compensation (one-time lump-
sum), handicap pension, pension for widow(er) and/or children, material damages,
housing adjudication, rank promotion, and reserved vacancies at public universities.
Table 19 summarizes the types of benefits identified for different groups of
casualties. While members of the armed forces and public service are provided with a
lump-sum payment and pensions, plus other benefits such as housing, higher rank, or
university vacancies, peasant ronderos are entitled only to a lump-sum payment,

231
which according to 2002 rates, was also below the rates established for enlisted armed
forces (although higher than the one for public servants). Ironically, it seems that the
lower the social and economic status of the potential beneficiary, the more limited the
compensation benefit was.

Table 19. Summary of benefits for victims of terrorism.

Type of Armed forces/ CAD Public Civil

Benefit Police members servants population
Lump-sum Yes Yes Yes No
payment
Handicap Yes No Yes No
pension
Pension to Yes No Yes No
closest family
Material No Yes No Yes
damages
Housing Yes No No No
adjudication
Rank Yes No No No
promotion
University No No Yes No
vacancies
Source: Comparative chart of benefits for victims of terrorism; in Defensoría del Pueblo
(2002): Compedio de Legislación para Víctimas del Terrorismo (p. 106-108).

As indicated above, these differences in compensation benefits were not considered in

the mobilization of 1999, simply because of lack of knowledge of other existing
frameworks. It is difficult to assess today whether the unequal and discriminatory
character of compensation benefits for different groups of citizens would have become
an issue in the demand for compensation rights in 1999, given the conciliatory tone
adopted by CAD representatives vis-à-vis central government and the military. In
spite of the discourse of equality and inclusion, there seems to be an implicit
consensus in Peruvian society about the value of life and contribution of peasant
ronderos, one which is much lower than that of an army soldier or a public servant.
Although compensation rights crystallized citizenship on the basis of contribution for
peasant citizens, their limited scope reproduced the subordinate position of peasant
citizens in Peruvian society. In other words, recognition and compensation was
granted by the state, but not in equal terms as with other groups of citizens. Even in

232
terms of compensation, peasants remained second-class citizens. I will return to this
issue in Chapter Eleven.
Back to the CADs, the mobilization provided a unifying experience on the
basis of a rondero identity and an awareness of citizenship on the basis of contribution
to society. The issue of compensation rights was from then on one to be followed up,
enquired upon, and hoped for in Tambo and Santillana. The issue created great
expectations among the peasant population. Little did they know that in the world of
politics, things take time, a long time, and that the mobilization had just been one of
the first steps towards the realization of the compensation commitment.

THE COMPENSATION RIGHTS ISSUE ON ITS OWN: A LONG AND LONELY JOURNEY
Once the mobilization was over, the issue of compensation rights was left in the hands
of the authorities approached by peasant ronderos. All one could do now was to wait,
and try to follow up on any sign of activity concerning the issue, either in political or
media circles. On May 26 1999, a law proposal was presented to the Peruvian
Congress by the same parliamentarian who did not want to host the delegations during
the mobilization. Proposal No. 4833 gathered all the elements suggested by the CADs
delegations, and given that this parliamentarian belonged to the ranks of the
government, there was certain optimism about its prospects. A related proposal to
reward those “historical leaders” of peasant self-defense committees still alive was
presented a few weeks later by the same parliamentarian. Both proposals were
dispatched for review at various Congress Committees, including Human Rights and
Pacification, and National Defense, Internal Order and Intelligence. Both proposals
were rejected in the first round of reviews on the grounds that the National Congress
cannot intervene in cases that have financial implications. The projects were filed on
August 6 1999.
In the military, the demands from Tambo and Santillana had been taken up by
the “Commission for acknowledgement of compensation payments for CAD
members”, which had been formed earlier within the High Command of the Armed
Forces for the purpose of compensation benefits. On August 5 1999, through Supreme
Decree No. 040 (DS No. 040-DE/CCFFAA-D1/PERS), the High Command
incorporated in its body of administrative regulations all procedures related to the
acknowledgement and disbursement of compensation rights for CAD members
according to DS 068. But more importantly, DS 040 had reduced the number of

233
application requirements requested for compensation benefits from 14 to 7 in the case
of deaths, 8 for injuries and 4 for material damages. Whether there is a link between
the filing of the law proposals in Congress and the official reduction of the application
requirements from the military, I do not know. What can be said is that the
compensation rights issue had managed to permeate and found certain resonance
within state institutions during the first few months after the mobilization.
The issue then entered a dormant stage until it was taken up again by the
National Ombudsman Office in November 2000, as a direct result of the
compensation rights mobilization. On the basis of the petition (memorial) and the
document we had prepared for the meeting with the Ombudsman on that occasion (El
Estado y la Autodefensa Campesina…), the office had initiated a case to investigate
the issue of compensation benefits for CAD members. The conclusions were
presented in Report No. 54 (Informe Defensorial No. 54: La indemnización a los
miembros de los comités de autodefensa y rondas campesinas víctimas del
terrorismo), and in Resolution No. 55-DP-2000, dated November 8th, 2000. The
report made reference to two other petitions made by beneficiaries of compensation
benefits in November 1999 and May 2000, one of them including peasant families
from Tambo. To understand the meaning of this development, we need to know what
the Office of the Ombudsman is and does.
The Ombudsman is an autonomous public institution in charge of protecting
constitutional and fundamental rights of persons and communities in Peru. One of its
areas of competence is to investigate and make statements on issues that affect civil
rights, the rule of law and institutional democracy. It also supervises the proper
functioning of public administration in regards to the general public. As part of its
mission, the Ombudsman can give recommendations to all branches of state power, in
order to find a resolution to particular issues. The Office of the Ombudsman is a
young but highly respected institution in Peru, and has shown throughout the years the
highest scores of credibility and trust in Peruvian public opinion. For these reasons,
the open support of this institution to the issue of compensation rights was very
important.
The most important point in both the report and the resolution from the
Ombudsman’s Office, was the “acknowledgement of the CAD contribution in
combating terrorism and restoring peace and order in the nation”. It was then
recommended to the National Congress to develop law proposals that would recognize

234
the contribution made by CADs and rondas campesinas in combating terrorism since
1982, while extending the parameters set for compensation benefits to all ronderos
casualties of war after 1982, during both confrontations and incursions, and
reformulating the requirements necessary to achieve those benefits.
To the Ministry of Defense, the Ombudsman recommended monitoring/
ensuring the effective processing of applications for compensation benefits as well for
the provision of necessary financial resources. A recommendation was also made to
the Ministry of Women’s Affairs and Human Development to include and give special
attention to ronderos casualties of war and their families in their programs. Besides
government instances, the report and the resolution were sent to the so-called Mesa de
Dialogo y Concertación (Roundtable for Dialogue and Conciliation), which had been
established in Peru in September/October 2000 as a result of the constitutional crisis
caused by the fall of the Fujimori regime. The roundtable was formed by
representatives of all political parties, civil society and the Church, and was the
driving force of the transition period until the installation of a new democratically
elected government in July 2001.
With the country undergoing a political crisis and transition, it is not surprising
that the issue of compensation benefits entered, once more, into a dormant stage. The
issue was re-addressed by a law proposal from one of the most prominent
parliamentarians from Perú Posible, the party leading the new government. Proposal
No. 1230, presented in November 2001, made direct reference to the report and
resolutions of the Ombudsman the previous year, and included the CADs demands in
an overall initiative for casualties of terrorism since 1980, that is CAD members, the
military, and police personnel. Furthermore, it suggested the creation of a unified
national registry of casualties of war, which until then did not exist121. This initiative
was later followed by two other proposals presented in March and May 2002, the first
one for CAD members only, and the second for all types of casualties of war.
It is worth noting that these proposals started to open up the definition of
“victim of terrorism” and “victim of war”, to include not only those caused by the
Shining Path guerrillas, but also those caused by the Peruvian armed forces. This
showed a general openness in the political environment in regards to the previous

121
What existed at that time were partial registers from human rights organizations and other civil
society organizations, with no common standards of registration. Not even the Ministry of Defense had
a complete registry, as proved by the Office of the Ombudsman when it requested the Ministry to
provide such information for the purpose of the investigation on compensation rights.

235
Fujimori regime. In May 2003, the three proposals were jointly reviewed and
approved by the Human Rights Commission at the National Congress. The now joint
proposal still awaits the review of several other Congress commissions, before it can
even reach the level of congressional approval.
The issue of compensation rights for CAD casualties of the armed conflict
made national headlines in 2003, due to a revival of guerrilla activity by a splint group
of the Shining Path between June and August that year. The events took place mainly
in Sivia, in the lowland rainforests of the Apurímac river valley. Several ronderos
were killed in the attacks, and municipal authorities from the districts involved
promptly seized the opportunity to raise the issue of compensation benefits to central
government once more. It then became known that by August 2003, and since the
publication of DS 068 in December 1998, only 30 ronderos had received
compensation: 21 for death and 9 for injuries (La-República 2003). The majority of
the applications had been dismissed by military authorities mainly due to incomplete
documentation, or because the casualty had occurred prior to the formal registration of
the CAD on the military registries (in spite of the casualty occurring after November
1992!).
The current Minister of Defense traveled to the district of Sivia himself to
forward compensation benefits to the widows of two ronderos killed in the recent
attacks, and announced a new empadronamiento or registration of all active CAD
members around the country, as well as the start of a dialogue with CAD
representatives to re-incorporate these in a new counter-subversive strategy. Although
this gave renewed attention to the issue of compensation benefits, the issue was then
closely related to a broader discussion of the role of CADs in rural society: Should
they continue to exist, be dismantled, or changed? By September 2004, only 55
compensations had been granted, 42 for deaths and 13 for injuries; no information is
available on compensation for material damages (Ministry of Defense website 2004).
Another development which has promoted the issue of compensation benefits
through incorporation into a larger agenda is the presentation of the Final Report of
the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (CVR) in August 2003. The CVR was
created in 2001 by the transition government of President Paniagua, and supported
later by elected President Toledo. The CVR’s mission and its report brought the
violent memories of armed conflict into the national agenda, and the confrontation
with this past and its victims had a great impact in Peruvian society. The debate

236
surrounding the Final Report and its recommendations was fierce, with competing
views on what the conflict was, and what it did and meant for various sectors of
society.
The report concludes with the need for a National Plan of Reparations, making
no distinction between those fallen into the hands of guerrilla groups or armed forces,
nor as to whether one participated as a combatant (such as CAD members) or not. In
that sense, the Report values all human life, and recommends reparation to all groups
of victims. As of June 2005, the Presidential Office was still reviewing the report and
its recommendations, and if the Plan of Reparation is approved and implemented, it
could mean the realization of the demands made by peasant ronderos concerning
compensation rights. This could mean success through the inclusion of peasant
demands in a larger and just agenda; but it could also mean the end of an issue
drowned in a sea of just causes. This will be the topic of Chapter Eleven.

SUMMARY
The peasant mobilization for the issue of compensation rights can be seen as an
exercise of collective identity construction, by which the experience of armed conflict
was reshaped away from its focus on suffering and destruction to one of entitlements,
rights and citizenship. This chapter has argued that peasant citizenship and identity in
Tambo are defined by the peasant contribution to victory over the Shining Path during
the armed conflict in Peru. The socially and historically constructed interpretation of
citizenship in terms of contribution to community and the nation-state brings
legitimacy to peasant claims and demands for the attention of the state. This
interpretation is consistent with the discourse of reconstruction and development,
where the reference point is also the recent experience of armed conflict. Oddly
enough, one of the legacies of the armed conflict is the new meaning of peasant
citizenship.

237
Chapter 10

THE UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES OF NEOCLIENTELISM:

ELECTORAL BEHAVIOR AND PEASANT CITIZENSHIP IN
TAMBO

On October 11 1998, municipal elections were conducted in all districts and provinces
of Peru to elect local authorities (mayors and municipal councils) for the next three
years. A number of irregularities had taken place in many jurisdictions around the
country, particularly in those areas under state of emergency, such as most provinces
in the department of Ayacucho. In other cases, the number of voters participating in
the electoral act had not reached the 50% of registered voters necessary to validate the
electoral process. In both circumstances, Peruvian law calls for a new round of
elections known as “complementary elections” to give citizens a new opportunity to
elect their local governments. In the district of Tambo only 49,94% of registered and
entitled voters had attended the 1998 elections, giving the National Electoral Jury
grounds for declaring the elections void and for calling for complementary elections
due on July 4 1999. This decision was greeted by the local population, since
irregularities prior to and during election day had been observed, yet dismissed by the
electoral authorities as unfounded. By April 1999, the district was getting ready to
start the run up towards municipal elections anew.
Municipal elections as a formal democratic practice were reinstated in the
areas affected by the armed conflict first in 1993, during the reconstruction period, as
part of the normalization of socio-economic and political life. For most of the 1980s,
local elections had not been held due to a continuing state of emergency. Through the
complementary elections of 1999 in Tambo, I was able to observe local politics,
political practices and political thinking in the midst of the reconstruction process in
post-conflict Peru. Clientelistic relations could be observed as well, yet of a far more
complex and nuanced nature than the one often portrayed by the national media,
according to which peasant votes were/are an easy bargain. In the case of Tambo, the
former so-called ‘clients’ had acquired a negotiating capacity and political awareness

238
that allowed them the appropriation and recreation of citizenship and active
participation in the electoral process. How could this be explained?
Tanaka (1999) introduced the concept of ‘neo-clientelism’ to refer to a new
type of relationship between the popular sectors and the state in Peru, which differs
from traditional clientelism in that the citizenry have a higher awareness of the
political context. Accordingly, state resources are accepted only because they are
desired and needed, out of a dynamic of exchange rather than loyalty (Tanaka 1999).
He argues that political support for President Fujimori cannot be explained by
manipulation, because this support is conditional and selective (Tanaka 1998). Neo-
clientelistic patterns have thus risen out of need. Most studies of clientelism are based
on a consideration of these practices as something deviant that ought not to be there.
Lazar (2004) instead, argues for a normalization of clientelistic ties as part of local
politics, an attempt by ‘clients’, or people, to personalize an otherwise impersonal
relationship with the state and its representatives through the establishment of contacts
and personal commitments. She further indicates the collective element of clientelism,
one where collective gain replaces individual/personal gain. I suggest combining
Lazar’s normalized and collective elements of clientelism with Tanaka’s notion of
‘neo-clientelism’ as a new relationship between popular sectors and the state, in order
to see how they play out in local politics. How does a personalized relationship
between popular sectors and the state, influence or affect local politics?
From a neo-clientelistic perspective, local politics can be understood as the
arena where subordinate groups can compete for the allocation of limited public
resources. Local patrons and clients can appeal to links with central government in
order to gain popular support; as noted by Guardino (1996:11), “elections in particular
tie[d] local political legitimation to that of the national government.” However, is neo-
clientelism enough to support local patrons? Does the experience of armed conflict
affect electoral behavior at all? This chapter attempts to provide answers to these
questions through the case-study of local elections in Tambo in 1999. In the first and
second sections I present the events taking place prior to, and during, the
complementary municipal elections in Tambo, on July 4 1999. These will illustrate the
mechanisms and logic behind political and electoral behavior in rural society during
the reconstruction process. The final part of the chapter offers an interpretation of the
events in the context of citizenship, neo-clientelism and armed conflict.

239
WHY THE MAYOR DID NOT RUN FOR RE-ELECTION
On May 5 1999, the current Mayor of the district of Tambo arrived in Lima by bus
from the highland city of Ayacucho to register himself as a candidate for the local
municipal elections. He had been the district Mayor since 1996, and he was confident
that running for a second term in the complementary elections would pose no
problems at all, due to the widespread support he could presume to enjoy throughout
the district. He had not wished to participate in the municipal elections the previous
year, but encouraged his brother to do so instead, including members of the Mayor’s
team in the new candidate list. However, his brother’s list did not manage to gather
public support and obtained only 255 votes (7% of valid votes). The Mayor had
changed his mind since then and wanted to run for a second term. The Mayor knew
that he had local enemies and that feelings ran high against him and his easy-going
style of doing business, but he dismissed the criticism as jealousy and envy from town
people, who even looked down on him – according to him – for his dark Andean
complexion: “because I am an Indian, a campesino” he used to said.
In an election context that type of attitude could only play in his favor, he
thought, because it polarized allegiances between peasants and town people, between
rural and urban, between blanquiñosos and campesinos (‘whitish’ and peasants). He
was born in the peasant community of Masinga, the son of a prosperous peasant who
had later acquired land in the rainforests of the Apurímac river valley, producing
coffee and fruits. However, the family fortune was lost with the outbreak of violence
in Tambo in the earlier 1980s, as most local businesses were affected by restrictions in
transport and communications, sabotaged by Shining Path guerrillas and coercive
measures from the military (ref. Chapters Five and Six).
He considered himself to be a good mayor. He had managed to get funding
from state agencies and NGOs for a number of projects in the rural areas, particularly
rural roads and bridges. He was on good terms with important people in public offices
(including the Commander in Chief of the military garrison in Tambo) and knew the
heads of local NGOs personally; he always remembered to invite them all to public
events in the district. Furthermore, he had recently supported and acted as co-leader of
a broad-based peasant mobilization to request the expansion of compensation benefits
for peasant ronderos victims of guerrilla war (ref. previous chapter).

240
 Throughout the mobilization, he had the opportunity to meet with general
directors of public institutions, ministers, presidential advisors, and parliamentarians.
He had always made clear that the mobilization was not to attack the government, but
to bring to its attention aspects that had been ignored. It was important to keep these
lines of contact open, so that central government would remember Tambo in the
future. In fact, he returned to Tambo with donations made by the Office of the
Presidency; this was a good sign. He had invested both municipal and private funds in
facilitating the mobilization, as well as his own contact network, not to mention
dedicating lots of time, effort and commitment, to what he considered to be a worthy
cause. With the local peasantry behind him, the road leading to a second term seemed
secure.
His leading role in the mobilization for compensation rights was the main
reason why he had not had the time to register his candidature for the municipal
elections earlier. Instead, he waited until the mobilization was over and only upon his
return to Tambo – just a week before the registration deadline, did he start the process
of collecting the necessary signatures that would support his candidacy. According to
the electoral law, in order to participate in municipal elections, independent candidates
(those not belonging to a registered and formal political party) had to present a list of
supporters equivalent to at least 2.5% of the total number of voters registered by the
National Identity Register for any given municipality.
In the case of Tambo, with a total population of almost 16000 people, the
official number of entitled voters was 9392. This meant that each candidate needed at
least 235 supporters to register a candidacy, all correctly certified by name, signature
and identity number entered in the candidate registration papers. To be considered
valid, the list of supporters has to be unique for a particular candidate, and any
name/signature identified in other candidates’ lists (or even for the previous electoral
process, which was annulled) would be disqualified. Therefore, it is common practice
among candidates-to-be to collect as many supporter signatures as possible, since a
great number of non-valid signatures can be expected. The Mayor of Tambo had taken
his precautions as well, and collected more than double the signatures needed, just in
case. He had distributed the lists for collection among his co-workers at the
municipality, who in turn entrusted the lists to peasant leaders and allies. Within a few
days, the lists were complete and the Mayor could make the trip to Lima just in time
to register his candidacy.

241
 After the unavoidable long hours of waiting for the validation process to take
place at the National Electoral Office in Lima, the Mayor was eager to complete the
formalities and return to Tambo to initiate his electoral campaign. But then the
unexpected happened: only 170 signatures had been validated, the rest had been
discarded, meaning that he could not run for office in the upcoming elections. In his
eyes, not even losing the election could be compared to the shame of not being able to
register as a candidate. How could more than 300 signatures be null and void? How
could this be explained? What was he going to tell his team back in Tambo? The
devastating news was perhaps the most frustrating moment in his life.
Shocking as the news was, the Mayor had only himself to thank for this
unexpected turn of events. Sure enough, the support lists had been distributed among
people he trusted, who had in turn passed them on to other supporters. However, the
aim of this distribution was not to do a door-to-door collection of signatures among
supporters around the district, but simply to fill up the lists with names, numbers and
signatures taken from various available sources. The intention was “to do the job
quickly, nicely and easily”, because “everyone [other candidates] does the same”. The
Mayor was aware of this, took his chances, and lost. What surprised him the most was
not that the electoral authorities had rejected signatures on his lists, but that so few had
been approved. “The job” had obviously not been done properly – and he blamed
himself for not supervising it more closely (!). The consolation he received from one
of his personal advisers was that “he had not been careful enough”.122
For a few weeks I thought that the mystery of what had happened was
clarified: the explanation was “a sloppy job” on the part of the Mayor’s team. During
the electoral campaign however, I realized that there were other factors at work. The
Mayor’s public image of himself as a benevolent and all-inclusive local authority was
not in touch with the way the peasant population experienced his administration. True
enough, he had brought some projects to the countryside in favor of the communities
(such as the road to Iquicha and the road to Usmay; ref. Chapter Eight), not to mention

122
The sensitive character of the information confronted me with difficult ethical questions of a
personal and professional nature. I felt rather naïve and disappointed when I learnt about this, which
was after the Mayor had failed in his attempt to register his candidacy. Fortunately for Tambo, the
scheme no longer posed a threat to the electoral process. I have no evidence that other candidates used
the same methods in the district, but to judge from the increasing number of scandals involving fraud
with the signature lists among both national and local candidates in the past years in Peru, it would not
surprise me that this was actually the case. I have obtained the norw former mayor’s permission to write
about this, since he retired from political life after this episode.

242
the mobilization to Lima. But according to most of my informants, his “empty
promises” far surpassed the projects initiated and implemented.
Time after time he had said yes to all sorts of petitions, creating expectations
that could not be fulfilled. Not only had this caused frustration and disappointment
among peasants, but in many cases also unnecessary delays in application processes
and procedures forwarded by community leaders in relation to other public and private
agencies. As my informants said, people could take a negative answer, but not an
eternal “Yes!” that was never consolidated. The open, ‘cool’ and friendly attitude of
the Mayor did not fit with his avoidance of explanations and the postponement of
decisions and works. Peasants understood that there were budgetary cuts and priorities
imposed by higher instances. What they could not accept was the Mayor’s belief that
he could get away with everything, that people would not complain or take action, and
that they could be cheated so easily. The supporters’ lists were considered to be an
once-in-a-lifetime chance to teach him a lesson, and to hold him accountable for his
deeds. So the very people that the Mayor thought would blindly support him, taught
him a lesson by making “the job” a lousy one, and succeeded in doing just that. This
is why the Mayor did not run for election.
One of the principles of good governance that is so much in fashion among
development agencies today is accountability. In a democratic regime, the people have
the right to hold their authorities accountable for their acts through participatory
practices, such as assemblies or feed-back mechanisms. What is interesting in the case
just presented is that accountability is applied in a democratic electoral process
(formalized, legalized) through informal, illegal means (fraud with signatures) by
citizens with political agency (highly aware of the consequence of their act in political
terms). The recourse to shady practices in electoral processes is nothing new; but for
those who do not consider peasant populations as political agents, this example proves
them wrong. We are thus in the presence of what Scott (1990) calls “infrapolitics”, an
elementary form of politics which is the reality of informal leaderships and subaltern
groups, where the logic of disguise is used in a low-profile, undeclared resistance to
dominant groups. The peasant constituency did not risk engaging in open
confrontation with the Mayor, but they did want to make him accountable for his
municipal administration. Elementary as they may be, infrapolitics are “the building
block for more institutionalized political action” (Scott 1990), as will be seen in the
next section.

243
NEW AND OLD CONTESTANTS
Back in Tambo, the news spread quickly: the Mayor had decided not to participate in
the elections “due to private reasons”. Not even his opponents could believe this, and
all sorts of rumors began to circulate in an effort to uncover the mystery. Some said
that he was seriously ill, others that his wife threatened to leave him if he continued in
politics, and others argued that he had finally understood that he could not run against
the official party candidate. Most conversations on the subject usually ended with a
question, porqué será, no?, why could it be so? After the initial shock, district life
continued as usual, and soon people were turning their attention to the running
candidates and their programs, while the Mayor started to get ready for the final stage
of his administration and the transition to a newly-elected leadership.
The lists participating in this electoral round were not all the same as in the
previous year. While in 1998, seven lists participated, in 1999 the number was
reduced by one, and many changes had occurred both within and between lists. Three
of the original lists had dissolved while two new ones were formed. The head of one
of the dissolved groups had been recruited to lead the official government’s list, an
offer that he could not refuse, in spite of the bitterness left behind among his team
members. The number 2 in the government’s opposition list opted to form his own
list, taking half the team with him; this was one of the new lists in 1999, while the
other new list came into the race completely anew. In general, there was relative ease
in jumping from one list to the other within a year. Let us have a closer look at the
lists participating in the complementary elections of 1999 in Tambo.
With the current Mayor out of the way, all seemed to agree that the strongest
candidate was that of Vamos Vecino (VV), President Fujimori’s political
‘independent’ movement for municipal elections. This candidate had been expected to
be the strongest opponent to the current Mayor, due not only to political, but also to
family rivalries. The candidate was brother-in-law to the Mayor, and they had legal
battle pending about the inheritance of properties and land. For these reasons, it was
speculated locally that the VV-candidate had used his influence in Lima to block the
current Mayor’s participation in the elections, a rumor favored by the Mayor himself.
Furthermore, the way the candidate had been recruited had been far from
democratic. Tambo’s VV committee had elected as its candidate a teacher who was
also head of the district’s CAD organization, a position from which he had recently
resigned in order to fully commit himself to the electoral campaign. In fact, he

244
resigned just days after his return from Lima with the compensation rights
mobilization. He was certain that his participation in the mobilization would enhance
his popularity as a candidate. Unfortunately for him, when the time came to register
the list in the city of Ayacucho, the VV-Ayacucho office overruled the decision made
at the local chapter, and registered another list instead, with a different candidate and
members. Nonetheless, the Tambo VV-candidate counted on the political support of
the provincial Mayor of La Mar, also a VV Mayor.
In general, VV candidates across the country could rely on indirect yet very
real support from the central government, which was interested in expanding its
influence through the local governments with the intention of securing support for the
general presidential elections in April 2000. Local VV candidates did not shy away
from making this connection explicit however, trying to gain local support by
championing their allegiance to central government as a guarantee for future
investments and the flow of money from various state agencies. To attract voters, they
not only had access to the image of President Fujimori, but also to goods and
resources administered through central government agencies, such as food and kitchen
supplies from national food programs, clothes from international aid donations, cars
and transport facilities from regional governments, advertising materials and printing
services from public offices, and more. VV candidates, including the one in Tambo,
enjoyed the support of a broad national network that all other candidates could only
dream of. All possible opportunities were used to make the connection between the
local VV candidate and President Fujimori explicit, attempting to equate support for
the local candidate with loyalty to the president.
The other one candidate that belonged to a national ‘independent’ political
organization was that of Somos Perú (SP). At the national level, this group
represented the opposition to Fujimori’s government, considering itself as an
alternative to an authoritarian and centralized rule. Although the movement was very
strong in Lima, in the provinces the story was a different one. Any group positioning
itself in opposition to Fujimori’s Vamos Vecino, had to confront a huge electoral
machine. And in Tambo, with a local population inclined to Fujimori for consolidating
the peasant-military alliance, open oppositional discourse against the president had
little appeal. Somos Perú in Ayacucho was partly aware of this, and formed an
alliance with a local NGO in an attempt to maximize peasant support through the
loyalty and esteem this NGO enjoyed in the communities. In fact, the second

245
candidate on their list was a well-respected social worker in the district. In spite of this
alliance, people could not overlook the fact that the SP candidate for mayor was the
son of the richest entrepreneur in Tambo, a well-off family that did not hide its disdain
for peasants in spite of their seemingly changing attitudes in public. According to my
informants, the list did not want to include peasants because “they [peasants] were
good for nothing”, ignoring the fact that the list actually did include an evangelist
peasant leader (although only in fourth place, making it very unlikely that he would
get elected at all).
MIDA (Movimiento Independiente de Desarrollo Agrario) was led by a young
agronomy student from town who focused on promoting agricultural development,
technology and higher education in the district. MIDA had achieved third place in the
1998 elections, and thus expected to do better this time. His supporters included small
traders and entrepreneurs, truck drivers, suppliers, and people connected one way or
the other to trade of agricultural products at the local level. He also appealed to the
young people, particularly those from the town of Tambo. But his young age made
him an easy target for his contenders, who liked to characterize him as both
inexperienced and irresponsible. The campaign against him went on questioning his
desirability on moral, personal grounds, and pamphlets circulated all over Tambo
picturing him at a drunken party, and accusing him of having abandoned an ex-
girlfriend after she became pregnant with his child. Furthermore, the fact that he still
lived in his parents’ house was interpreted as a sign of immaturity, living as it was “at
the expense of his poor father”.
Three of the running lists were led by local teachers, all of them well-
appreciated in the district. The group Rickchariy Tambo was led by the former number
2 in the Somos Perú list. After the limited success SP achieved in 1998 in Tambo, this
candidate decided to form his own group. His selection of team members proved
satisfactory in the elections, including as he had two peasant leaders, the one the vice-
president of the districts self-defense committees organization, the other, the female
vice-president of the Mothers’ Club organization (a widespread and strong women
organization). The candidate for PAS (Perú Acción Solidaria) was also a teacher, and
claimed the advantage of experience because he had been Mayor of Tambo until 1995.
He based his campaign on criticism of the current administration, claiming that the
district had gone backwards in regards to its development and economic progress
during his absence.

246
 The last teacher-candidate was not affiliated to an independent list, but to a
political party, Acción Popular (AP), the only formal political party participating in
the Tambo complementary elections. AP had not participated in the elections in 1998,
and so it was a newcomer in the run for local government. The local AP chapter was
almost dissolved and had been more or less inactive for many years, so the initiative to
join the electoral process had not come from within the party group, but from external
actors. On May 2 1999, a general assembly took place in Ccarhuapampa, with the
participation of members from 18 peasant communities and the local AP leadership, to
constitute a new political group to represent the local peasantry. Ccarhuapampa was
perhaps the most influential community in Tambo due to its record of peasant self-
defense against the Shining Path and its leadership in peasant affairs. Its proximity to
the town of Tambo played also an important role. The community (or any other
peasant community for that matter) had never participated in municipal elections with
a list of its own, as politics were considered a private matter that, taken at the
community level, could create internal divisions. However, a group of peasant leaders
in the community considered the complementary elections as a window of opportunity
to strengthen peasant presence at the level of local government, and decided to
participate in the elections with a list of their own. As mentioned, the community did
not have direct experience of a formal electoral campaign, and some of the founders
of the new group, called Alianza Campesina (AC; Peasant Alliance) suggested making
up for this absence by building up an alliance with people or even a political party that
had this knowledge.
There was also another reason for preferring a formal political party as an ally,
a more pragmatic reason. While independent lists had to struggle with the collection
of signatures supporting their candidature, formal parties could waive this
requirement; and with so little time left for the registration deadline (May 5), this
seemed the most feasible option. After much consideration, the choice fell for Acción
Popular (AP) who in spite of its inactivity, had an institutional apparatus and practical
experience in political affairs, and was one of the traditional parties that still remained
in the political arena. This is how AP was invited by peasant leaders from
Ccarhuapampa to join forces with a peasant-based alternative for the complementary
elections. The assembly of constitution took place only days before the registration
deadline, and the young teacher was invited to join in as the candidate for mayor. This
choice was not random either, since the teacher – in spite of his relative young age

247
(27) – had experience as a member in the district council during the former municipal
administration. Although having to register as Acción Popular, it was agreed by the
assembly that the group’s campaign name would be Alianza Campesina con Acción
Popular (AC with AP; AC-AP), to make explicit whose initiative and list it originally
was.
I asked the founders of AC-AP if they really believed that they could win the
election. Their answer was clear: Their goal was to win the municipal government not
necessarily in this election, but to get there sometime within the next 5-10 years. Until
now peasants had remained on the margin in regards to formal politics, they
explained, and a great number of candidates had promised much and delivered
nothing when they took office. Every candidate wanted peasant votes, but forgot about
them soon after the election was over. By participating in this election, peasant leaders
could build up experience and accumulate the much-needed knowledge to position
themselves as a strong political force in the district. In their view, “this election was
an experiment, a first step – but who knows, maybe we could win”.
A few days before the election, I learned that supporters of the AC-AP lists
had been actively involved in “collecting” signatures for the Mayor’s list, aware of the
risk involved in doing “a bad job”. The process of spoiling a former patron’s
candidacy while setting up their own took place at the same time. The move from
infrapolitics to open, formal politics by using both formal/legal and informal/illegal
means seemed not to be either foreign or difficult for this particular group of peasant
leaders. On the contrary, both processes seemed uncomfortably complementary to
each other (at least for this researcher). The setting up of the new list, as well as the
plot set up to blockade the mayor’s candidacy indicate highly strategic political
thinking. The move to exercise formal political agency was taking place in
Ccarhuapampa.
Although there is no immediacy in the process (or necessity for that matter),
the next step or level after infrapolitics is the open realm of formalized politics (Scott
1990). Local elections offered a legitimate setting for contestation and struggle, where
competition for local government could mediate a number of demands from the
peasant population. While in infrapolitics resistance occurs in disguise, in local
politics open confrontation is accepted and legitimated by the rules regulating
electoral processes. One of the rules is that the vote is secret; and in peasant society,
political adherence is considered a private matter. The legitimacy of the electoral

248
process granted by the law and the state combined with the privacy of the voting act,
to make possible the formal participation of a peasant candidate list in local elections
in Tambo that year. This time, peasants were not participating only as voters, but also
as candidates. This was a relatively new development in the practice of citizenship
among the peasant population in the district.

DECISIONS, DECISIONS: ELECTORAL CAMPAIGN IN A RURAL DISTRICT

Electoral campaigns always involve all sorts of methods and strategies, and so did the
one in Tambo. In a small place like Tambo, following up the elections turned into a
colorful and intriguing experience. There were rumors everywhere, but also parties
and entertainment sponsored by the competing lists, marches and caravans, free food
and drink. Throughout June 1999, the district was in a state of euphoria comparable
only to carnival, and there were no indications as to which candidate would win. As
mentioned earlier, it was VV that had the largest electoral machinery, visiting most of
the communities and promising to bring in central government money for future
investments if they were elected. They brought along food and gifts such as T-shirts
and school backpacks for children to be distributed wherever they went. The rich
trader leading the opposition party SP installed a large color TV in its headquarters
office at the main plaza so that supporters could watch freely all day long. He also
organized a parade with human-sized Disney figures to attract attention, distributing
sweets and candy; the crowd following the parade was mainly composed by children.
The other groups did not count on the resources these two candidates had, so a
combination of public events with the community visits was chosen. Small gifts such
as matches, candle lights, pocket calendars and pamphlets were distributed. These
candidates invested their meager incomes in funding their campaigns. Alianza
Campesina however, collected 50 cents per person in the 18 supporting communities
to raise money for the campaign.123 Later, AC-AP’s candidate received support from
an unexpected sponsor: the current Mayor of Tambo.
Prevented from running for re-election, the Mayor identified himself best with
the peasant list, as he thought of himself as one of them. Both because of personal
sympathy for AC-AP founders and the possibility of a future role as advisor to the

123
It is unlikely that this particular collection was compulsory, due to its purpose of funding a political
candidate list. In other cases previously mentioned in the dissertation, such as the purchase of weapons
or funding the CADs patrulla especial, contribution has been compulsory for all community members.

249
candidate if elected, the Mayor contributed with printing services, small donations,
and by lending out the municipality car now and then. AC-AP received the support
gracefully, but making sure to distance itself from the Mayor for the purpose of the
campaign. For the Mayor this seemed a coherent and careful attitude, so he kept a low
profile, wishing not to spoil the possibility of playing a future role in the district’s
public life.
As expected, the campaign intensified as elections day drew closer. The
uncertainty as to what list would win exasperated mainly the VV-candidate, who was
accountable for the list’s success or failure not only to his local supporters, but also to
the regional and national VV organization. Such was the pressure for him to win, that
two days before the election a team of government officials from Ayacucho arrived in
Ccarhuapampa to organize a public meeting in support of VV. Community leaders
questioned this visit, and as a heated discussion developed, the visitors lost their
tempers and threatened to stop the newly initiated electrification project – which was
funded by the regional government – unless everyone in Ccarhuapampa voted for VV.
In spite of the shock, the unwelcome visitors were thrown out of the community and
the episode was soon to be known all over the district. The night before the election,
when campaigning was not allowed, a VV truck was observed in the communities of
Huayao, Osno and Cceccra distributing t-shirts and food. Again, the news spread fast,
but VV dismissed all accusations of unlawful practices as mere slander.

Elections day
Elections day started early, and the town of Tambo filled up with local people and
visitors from outside the district. The Office of the Ombudsman had sent a group of
election observers, as rumors had reached Ayacucho that an attempt at fraud was
being staged in Tambo. It was said that VV was distributing small pamphlets inside
those buildings where voting was taking place, and that peasant voters had stamped
the VV symbol in their arms so that they would not forget which symbol/list they had
to mark on the ballot. Suspicion was rife, and it intensified as the day went by.
However, there was still no clear indication as to who would win.
A number of people I talked to, most of them peasants from the communities I
worked with, said that they voted for VV not out of support for the local candidate,
but because it was President Fujimori’s party. The President had brought peace back
to the countryside and supported the reconstruction process; thus voting for Fujimori

250
was to vote for continued peace and prosperity. I asked if it was true what was said
about the gifts distributed by the candidates, particularly VV. “Of course – they
laughed – everybody does that!” To my question as to whether they accepted the gifts,
one of my informants replied: “But of course! If someone wants to give me
something, whatever, even some matches, I have to accept, I cannot offend him by
saying no, I just say “yes, yes my friend” and off they go, happy, because they have
done their job, get a new voter.” “But will you vote for the one who gave you the
gift?” I asked. “Maybe, maybe not – but who am I to reject him?”
The president of a peasant community I knew well was uncertain about whom
to vote for until the very last minute. On the one hand, he felt that he ought to vote for
VV since it was Fujimori’s party; on the other hand, the NGO allied to SP was the one
that had supported their return to the community in the mid-1990s and still run several
projects in the community. He had previously assured me that he would vote for VV,
but on elections day he was not sure because the NGO “had done so much for us”. I
met him two hours later; he said that he had done the honorable thing and voted for
SP, as a way to demonstrate his gratefulness to the NGO.
At VV headquarters in the main plaza, a public kitchen had been set up to
distribute free lunch for peasant supporters, since “it was most likely that they had
walked large distances to come and vote, and this was a way of acknowledging their
effort”, as it was explained to me by the organizer. The kitchen was installed at the
back of the building, to avoid possible complaints of illegal electoral campaigning.
There I met a group of peasants that I had met earlier that day, and who had not voted
for the VV-list (or at least that is what they told me). I asked what they were doing
there, and they simply replied, a smile on their faces: “Well, there’s free food… and
the vote is secret, isn’t it?”
Finally, I asked peasants supporting Fujimori’s VV list why they did not vote
for the peasant list, AC-AP. Some said that they did not know the candidates well, as
they had only visited their communities once. Others said that the AC-AP list was new
and unknown, representative only of the western part of the district. One peasant
leader said that he would not vote for AC-AP because of the link with Acción
Popular. I asked what he had against AP, and he said: “You see, it was because of
them [AP] that the tucos [the Shining Path guerrillas] came”. I asked him to explain
something that for him seemed so obvious: “Violence and all that came in the 1980s
when AP was in government, right? Before AP there were no tucos, so they brought

251
the chaos – they can’t be trusted, you know, they are responsible, how can I vote for
the ones who brought all the violence?” And he went on: “That is why I like Fujimori,
he brought peace, and then we could return to our community and now we live there,
quietly [tranquilos]. That is why I will vote for Fujimori for president, because if he
goes, the tucos will come back, and we don’t want that.” Although we might disagree
with it, the clarity and inner logic of the argument was unbeatable. This explanation
was common across Tambo: Fujimori meant peace, return and reconstruction.124
Seven years after the armed conflict was declared officially over, the memory of
displacement and violence still had a very present effect, and a clear implication for
the future.

MAKING SENSE OF ELECTION RESULTS

The election results were announced that night and made official a few days later.
Unsurprisingly for most people, Vamos Vecino had won the elections with 30% of the
valid votes, followed by MIDA, with 25.8%, PAS with 20% and Alianza Campesina
with 15.6%. Somos Perú and Rikchariy Tambo obtained 5.6% and 2.2% respectively.
As many as 13.6% of the votes given had been declared void (either because they had
been spoiled or inappropriately marked), while almost 4% had been blank. All in all,
only 52.86% of the entitled voters in the district of Tambo had participated in the
complementary election (barely 2.5% more than the previous year), while 47.13% of
Tambo citizens had opted not to vote. How could we interpret these results? And how
to explain this low turn-up of voters in a country where elections are a civic duty ruled
and sanctioned by law?125
Let us start with the second question first, that is, explaining the low turnout on
elections day. I can only attempt to formulate general answers to this issue, due to
limited information available on the subject. As has been mentioned before, the
population in Tambo is highly mobile, commuting between the city of Ayacucho and
the rainforest of the Apurímac river valley for seasonal labor migration, so many
voters might have had difficulties traveling back to Tambo in time for the elections.

124
Degregori, Coronel and Del Pino (1999) use the term as fujimorismo popular or ‘popular
fujimorismo’, to describe popular political support to the Fujimori regime. Popular fujimorismo is
based, they argue, on a sense of inclusion, recognition and personal merit, deeply combined with
clientelism and authoritarianism.
125
In Peru, participation in both presidential and municipal elections is compulsory, and those not
voting are penalized with a relative high fine (approximately USD 40.- in 1999) and the temporary
blocking of the national identity card until the fine has been paid.

252
Sex disaggregated data on electoral participation is not available from official sources,
so we have no evidence to support a sex-biased explanation, that is, that women’s
participation in elections is lower than that of men. The National Identity Office in
charge of registering entitled voters initiated a highly publicized campaign in
collaboration with PAR, to provide provisional identity documents for those without
IDs, either because of loss or because they had never had one. However, provisional
documents had to be exchanged for the official ID prior to the election. Many people
complained that the official documents had not arrived in time for the elections, while
the National Identity Office maintained that people did not follow the process well
enough, with the end result being that thousands of newly issued IDs had not been
collected by their owners. Part of reason for the absenteeism might lie here. Finally,
there is always the possibility that the National Identity Office included in its registers
much higher numbers of voters than the ones actually living in Tambo; this could have
been the case if people had settled for good in other parts of the country, or died.
In regards to the first question, how to make sense of the election results, it can
be observed that in spite of wining the elections, Vamos Vecino had obtained only
13% of the total number of entitled voters, a humble percentage in a district where
President Fujimori received otherwise ample support.126 By this measure, Alianza
Campesina had not come out that bad, managing as it did – a complete newcomer – to
get the support of 7% of the entitled voter population in Tambo. Given the great
differences in resources available to these two lists, it can be argued that the role of
gifts and favors by self-appointed and wannabe patrons has been widely exaggerated
in the analysis of political behavior and local politics. A gift or a promise as a one-
time event is not enough to build up loyalties, in spite of the temporary sympathy the
beneficiary of the token might develop for the sponsor.
As this case in Tambo demonstrates, the appeal a particular local candidate
may have due to his/her connection to central government seems to have been
overestimated as well. The patron-client model for explaining local politics can only
work in closely controlled groups where the ‘client’s have limited choices and where
the chances of being discovered acting in a ‘disloyal’ manner are great. In the
hacienda system prevalent in Tambo until mid-century, it was still possible to talk

126
This was demonstrated by an overwhelming support for Fujimori at the presidential elections in
April 2000, when the president obtained 68% of the valid votes in the first round of elections, and 83%
on the second round. In these elections, the turn-up had risen to 62% of entitled voters in Tambo.

253
about close patron-client relationships, as the economic and social welfare of
individual peasants and entire communities were highly dependent on the good (or
bad) will of the hacienda owner. At that time, the hacienda owner did not need to rely
on the political support of his so-called peasant clients, since the majority of these
were illiterate and thus disenfranchised. Political support groups at the local level
were easier to control by patrons due to the close social and economic ties linking
various groups.
The situation had changed greatly since the 1960s, and the rural population no
longer depends on local patrons to support their livelihoods. These former patrons left
the scene or lost their vitality and influence with the advent of a much more powerful
and ever-expanding patron: the state. State presence in Tambo before 1960 was of a
different nature than in the following periods. Until the 1960s, the state bureaucracy
was largely regionalized and controlled by local power groups. The military reformist
government of general Velasco starting in 1968 meant the end of the aristocratic
republic and its main ally, the landed oligarchy of the countryside.127 The reform
process taking place in Peru at the time involved changes to various aspects of social,
economic and political life, including land tenure and production practices, education,
social organization and mobilization strategies. The impact of these top-down reforms
on local communities should not be underestimated, for if anything, the reforms made
the state more effectively present as a provider of goods and services.
The new representatives of this state formed part of a public bureaucracy often
foreign to the local alliances and loyalties, thus bypassing and neutralizing the
influence of former local patrons. Unfortunately for Ayacucho and other areas later
affected by guerrilla war, the new face of the state changed quite dramatically with the
transition to formal democracy in the 1980s. As the initial violence developed into a
fully-fledged armed conflict, public institutions and civil authorities representing the
state were replaced by military authorities who were inclined, more often than not, to
suspect the political orientation of the rural population, as we have seen in previous
chapters. For better or for worse, state presence in the areas affected by violence was
mediated through the military. It would thus be inaccurate to say that the state was
‘absent’ from areas such as Ayacucho, Apurímac or Huancavelica during the armed
conflict. In the context of armed conflict, the military (representing the state) became

127
See among others Lowenthal 1975, McClintock et al. 1983, Matos Mar 1980, Cotler 1995, Kruijt
1994.

254
the new ‘patron’ in the countryside, one to be feared and respected, but not ignored
(ref. Chapter Six).
The period of reconstruction that started in 1993 did not imply the
displacement of the main patron (the state), only a change of face. The role and
presence of the state in the reconstruction period was enhanced through the extensive
network of public agencies and investment in the areas affected by the armed conflict
through sectoral initiatives (health, education, transport, agriculture), specialized state
agencies (such as PAR, FONCODES, see Chapter Eight); and regional government
institutions involved in development projects. The military played an important role in
the reconstruction process as well, mediating information about state programs and
services. In spite of its unwillingness to let go control over the local peasantry by
means of close monitoring of the self-defense committees, these have gained more
room to maneuver and a certain degree of independence, mainly due to the restoration
of communal authorities within peasant communities. Self-defense committees are
today part of the communal organization, not above, but below or within the
community structure, and cannot operate on their own as they did during the armed
conflict.
Although the provision of goods and services for development and
reconstruction has turned the central state into the major patron in the countryside, two
observations have to be made. First of all, the degree of control over the so-called
clients is very limited, since the kind of kinship and dependency ties linking classical
patron-client relations are not there anymore – or at least not for peasants (in the case
of public servants, the case might be different). There is no way to guarantee broad
peasant support in electoral processes, in spite of investments made to influence the
vote. Nor is the recourse to material threats (as with Ccarhuapampa’s electrification
project) of great effect either. Secondly, although it may certainly be the most
powerful, the state is not the only patron. Today, the peasant and poor rural/urban
population in Tambo (like many others in the countryside) can ‘shop around’ as it
were, for patrons willing to sponsor projects and activities for the benefit of the
community, such as former politicians, rich entrepreneurs, NGOs and political parties.
Furthermore, the state has many faces, and public agencies compete against each other
for the delivery of services.
The highly authoritarian and personalized style of government of President
Fujimori (and his followers) set up a government structure that reinforced his image as

255
patron and benefactor, as guarantor of the public good, peace and prosperity, through
the discourse of reconstruction and development, spreading principles such as
inclusion, participation and citizenship. The unexpected result is that people started to
believe in this, appropriating this discourse and recreating it on their own terms. A
peasant man who was present in Ccarhuapampa at the time when state officials
threatened to stop the newly initiated electrification process was deeply infuriated by
the episode. In his view, it was not only unacceptable behavior, but also naive to use
such threats “because if they do so, we can complain, we can go to the Ombudsman
and get the matter done, give him a lesson – don’t we have the right to do so?” With
all the limitations of the system, the fact is that it can be done.
The discourse of reconstruction and development that sprang from the peasant-
state alliance is not only being used by the state, but also by the other actors active in
the relational setting of reconstruction, such as NGOs, community-based
organizations, and want-to-be patrons. The role of the NGOs is an interesting one,
because they compete with the state for more or less the same ‘clients’. Through
community work, NGOs develop close ties and loyalties with their beneficiary
communities. Yet their level of control is also limited, since there are many NGOs
competing to provide services and expand their area of operations, and communities
can also ‘shop around’ for projects. In the case of wannabe patrons, particularly those
who operate in local politics, their political power depends heavily on the support they
receive from their constituencies, and are fully accountable for their acts at the ballot
box. ‘Treacherous’ behavior on the part of the clients makes therefore sense in a
situation where the client has nothing to lose and much to win.
It would be erroneous however, to assume that the offer of services from the
state, NGOs and self-appointed patrons fully cover the demands of the rural
population in areas affected by the armed conflict. There is still much to be done as
regards social and economic development in places like Tambo. Furthermore, to be
able to ‘shop around’, a community needs to have leadership, contacts, knowledge of
how the system works, and these types of resources are unevenly distributed between
communities and in different parts of the country.128 My argument however, is that
neo-clientelism has unintentionally contributed to reinforce and expand the
negotiating capacity and political awareness of previously marginalized groups in

128
See also my discussion about development projects as proof of the efficiency of local authorities and
well-organized communities in Chapter Eight.

256
society, by means of the explicit relation established between state and citizen. Lazar’s
suggestion to stop demonizing clientelistic practices, and rather approach them as part
and parcel of local politics seem to resonate well with this case. In doing so,
subordinate groups are experimenting and exercising the rights that formal
membership in society has given them, using the same discourse and practices
introduced by the new patrons to their own favor. Neo-clientelistic practices can thus
be seen as a sort of ‘learning process’ available to subordinate and popular sectors of
the population willing to join in the arena of formal politics. There is still a long way
to go before peasants in Tambo will be participating fully in formal politics in Peru,
but as this case has shown, they are already on their way.

SUMMARY
The Tambo municipal elections in 1999 provide a good example of local politics in
post-conflict Peru. To fully understand the dynamics of local politics and its
implications for the exercise of political agency, the linkages to national politics and
hegemonic discourses should be identified. The concept of neo-clientelism captures
the apparent contradiction existing between politically aware citizens and their
political support to the patron-state. By appealing to connections with the central state
and the many resources it can provide, local actors can strengthen their constituencies
– but only to a certain extent. As much as neo-clientelism may raise local support, it
also trains and reinforces the negotiating capacities of local actors, who might use the
experience to enter the arena of local politics on their own. Former ‘clients’ thus
become political agents. These are the unintended consequences of neo-clientelism.

257
Chapter 11

VICTIM OR ACTOR - DOES IT MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE WHAT

REPARATIONS ARE FOR?

Throughout this dissertation I have aimed to demonstrate how armed conflict affected
the lives of people in a single district, and how they re-emerged as political agents in
the context of reconstruction. Although the issue of peasant participation in the armed
conflict and victory over the Shining Path started to emerge in academic circles in
Peru in the 1990s (Coronel and Loayza 1992; Degregori et al. 1996), the political and
historical dimensions of such participation did not receive much public attention
before 1999, when the issue of compensation rights for peasant ronderos casualties
became a public and explicit demand that the state provide for those who had fallen at
the hands of the Shining Path. As has been seen in Chapter Nine, the issue was taken
to the highest levels of central government, and initiated a process where various
public actors called for the need to recognize the peasant contribution to ending the
armed conflict.
Much has happened since then. After the collapse of the Fujimori regime in
2000, while attempting a third-term reelection, different sectors of civil society,
particularly human rights groups, called for the need to assess the past and to allocate
responsibilities for the many abuses and human rights violations that Peruvian citizens
had been subjected to since the start of the armed conflict. The transition government
established a Truth and Reconciliation Commission (CVR – Comisión de la Verdad y
Reconciliación) in 2001, composed of 12 commissioners who were prestigious and
well-respected members of academia, human rights organizations, the church(es), and
even a former army general. In August 2003, the CVR delivered its Final Report,
which included the events and factual information, as well as a sound analysis of the
armed conflict in Peru in the period 1980-2000.
The mandate of the CVR included a proposal for reparations. This was
developed in the “Comprehensive Plan for Reparations” (PIR – Plan Integral de
Reparaciones), which accompanies the report. This final chapter readdresses the issue
of compensation for peasant ronderos casualties of the armed conflict, in light of the
alternative reparation plan presented by the CVR in 2003. As will be recalled from

258
Chapter Nine, current legislation awards compensation to casualties on the basis of
peasant participation as ‘personnel’, that is, as active participants, as actors. Proposed
reparation by the CVR is based on the treatment of the same casualties as ‘victims’.
Although including rondero demands into a broader category or platform of
victim reparations offers some advantages, I will argue that such treatment bypasses
the element of political and historical recognition for peasant participation in the
victory against the Shining Path, an issue that has been a core argument in this
dissertation. Such recognition deals more with the construction of collective memory,
the competing narratives of the history of the conflict, and the development of
citizenship than with the individual need for economic compensation. The question is
then: are reparations for victims the best way to deal with the recognition of the
peasant rondero contribution? This is a difficult question to answer because peasant
ronderos were indeed victims, but also armed actors.
The chapter starts with the proposals made by the CVR in the Comprehensive
Reparation Plan presented as part of its Final Report (CVR 2003). I then compare the
current legislation and the proposed reparation plan, in order to discuss the
implications the CVR proposal has for peasant rondero casualties of the armed
conflict. This chapter differs from the previous ones in that it is not based on primary
data from fieldwork in Tambo, but on secondary sources (mainly the CVR report) and
the analysis of texts. However, the analysis is based on the empirical material
presented in the dissertation.

COMPENSATION RIGHTS IN THE ERA OF RECONCILIATION: A REPARATIONS

PROPOSAL

On August 28 2003, the Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission delivered its
Final Report to the national legislative and executive powers, a solid nine-volume
document that rounded up the work by the Commission. The CVR was created in
2001 by the transition government of President Paniagua, and was later supported by
elected President Toledo, with the mission of

“clarifying the process and facts occurred, as well as the corresponding

responsibilities, not only of those who executed them but also who ordered or
tolerated them, while at the same, time it proposes initiatives to strengthen
peace and reconciliation among all Peruvians” (CVR website; English text).

259
The period to be investigated was 1980-2000, focusing on violations from both
terrorists groups and state agents as well. To fulfill its mission, the CVR had the
following objectives:

“a) Analyzing the context, political, social and cultural conditions and
behaviors which contributed to the situation of violence, both from the State
and from society.
b) Contributing with the administration of justice, when it corresponds, so that
it can clarify the crimes and violations to human rights committed both by
terrorist organizations and State agents.
c) Trying to determine the whereabouts, identification and situation of victims
and, as possible, to determine the corresponding responsibilities. The
Commission does not substitute for the Judiciary or the Prosecutor’s Office,
because it does not have jurisdictional functions.
d) Making moral and material redress proposals for victims or their relatives.
e) Recommending the reforms it deems convenient as a preventive measure so
that no similar experiences are repeated. Recommending also any measures
necessary to guarantee [ ].” (CVR website, English text; incomplete in the
original)

Debates about the CVR’s mission and later, its Final Report, brought the violent
memories of the armed conflict back into the national agenda. There were points of
disagreement about the nature and extent of the mission, the scope of its objectives,
even about the need for this enterprise at all. The debate around the Final Report and
its recommendations was and is still fierce. The CVR mission and objectives called
not only for a clarification of “the truth” and the historical record, but also for an
analysis of the causes, context and consequences of the conflict. In other words, it
called for an interpretation of the history of the armed conflict. It also had the
mandate to investigate human rights violations and identify those accountable, in
order to initiate (not the CVR itself, but the judiciary) criminal prosecutions. Finally, it
envisaged the need for reparations, a way to redress the needs of the victims.
On this basis, the CVR set up to conduct its work guided by three basic
principles, the same ones that permeate throughout the Final Report: Truth, Justice,

260
and Reconciliation. These principles are vital to understanding the logic of the
reparation plan proposed by the CVR and must be discussed here. According to the
CVR, truth is an account which is “trustworthy, ethically articulated, scientifically
supported, inter-subjectively contrasted, presented as narrative interpretation,
empathically concerned, and subject to constant improvement” (CVR 2003, Vol. I, p.
32).129 The most important aspects of this definition for our analysis include its ethical
orientation, and its awareness of narrative interpretation; I will return to this later.
In regards to justice, this is considered above all an ethical principle that
“expresses an ideal human coexistence in which fundamental rights […] are respected
and constitutionally guaranteed”. Justice encompasses moral, judicial, reparatory and
socio-political dimensions:

“The clarification of the truth and the moral sanction to those responsible; the
judicial sanction to those guilty, free from any arbitrariness; the reparation of
victims and the proposal of institutional reform are ways of expressing the
ethical principle of justice that the CVR has adopted and proposes to the
country with the aim of re-establishing the essential linkages for citizen
coexistence. It is, in other words, a proposal for national reconciliation that we
offer here.” (Vol. I, p. 36; emphasis is mine)

Justice is then, at the basis of the project of reconciliation suggested by the CVR, who
defines reconciliation as,

“the setting up of a process to re-establish and re-found the fundamental

linkages among Peruvians… […] the process of reconciliation is made
possible, and necessary, by the discovery of truth about what happened those
years… as well as by the reparatory and sanctioning action of justice” (Vol. I,
p. 37).

For the CVR, there is then a clear link between justice – understood both in a
retributive and a reparatory sense, and reconciliation. Justice is considered as both a

129
The original Spanish text reads as follows: “La CVR entiendo por “verdad” el relato fidedigno,
éticamente articulado, científicament respaldado, contrastado intersubjetivamente, hilvanado en
términos narrativos, afectivamente concernido y perfectible, sobre lo ocurrido en el país en los veinte
años considerados por su mandato.” Unless otherwise stated, all translations are mine.

261
necessary condition for and the result of reconciliation. It is this conceptualization of
justice that lies behind the CVR’s view of reparations:

“Reparation is an act of justice – individually and collective – and a duty to

rebuild that which has been harmed. […] Reparations are thus understood as
instruments of reconciliation, with a view to closing the grave imbalance
created by the conflict and to assert a new social pact.” (Vol. IX, p. 21)

For the CVR, reparations find their legitimacy on both moral and legal grounds.
Accordingly, there is a “moral duty to provide victims and their heirs with tangible
proof of support and aid, so that together with the application of justice, give back to
those who lost much, the trust to be seen in a different manner” (Vol. IX, p. 141).
Legally, the CVR rests its case on international human rights law (since Peru is a
signatory party to many of the relevant conventions) and the National Constitution of
1993. The CVR argues though, that as valid as such legitimacy might be,
reconciliation and reparation cannot be achieved without political will. The CVR
proposes therefore the development of an explicit national policy on reparations,
“combining through a comprehensive plan, individual and collective, symbolic and
material forms of compensation” (Vol. IX, p. 144). It further argues that the
establishment of the CVR itself is proof of the political commitment of the state to
restore the dignity and to repair the suffering of those affected by violence, in
particular the victims of the conflict.
The Comprehensive Reparation Plan (PIR) proposed by the CVR is presented
in Volume IX of the Final Report, and has as its general objective “to repair and
compensate for the violation of human rights as well as for the social, moral and
material losses or damages suffered by the victims as a result of the internal armed
conflict.” (Vol. IX, p. 147) More specifically, this includes:

• The acknowledgement of the status of victim for those who suffered human rights
violations, in order to re-establish their civil rights and to contribute to the
rebuilding of civic trust.
• To contribute to the moral, mental and physical recovery of surviving victims of
human rights violations, as well as of the relatives of the dead and disappeared.

262
• To compensate for economic and social damages of people, families and
communities affected by the conflict.

Who is, then, a “victim” according to the CVR? For the CVR, a victim is “all those
people or groups of people that due to or because of the internal armed conflict lived
in the country between May 1980 and November 2000, that have suffered acts or
omissions that violate norms of international human rights law.” (Vol. IX, p. 149)
These include: forced disappearances, kidnappings, extrajudicial executions, murder,
internal displacement, arbitrary arrests and violations of due process, forced draft,
torture, sexual violation, and injuries, lesions or death from attacks in violation of
international humanitarian law.
The status of “victim of violation” is not dependent on who the perpetrator
might be130 or whether or not this has been identified. Nor is it dependent on the
relationship that might exist or have existed between victim and perpetrator.
Furthermore, the status of “victim of violation” is completely independent of the
previous conduct the victim has shown: “all persons who have suffered a human rights
violation can be compensated with disregard to the legality or morality of his/her
personal actions.” This principle applies even to guerrilla members, as long as the
violation did not occur during combat or confrontation, in which case the status of
“victim of violation” does not apply, because “these people took up arms against the
democratic regime and as such confronted the legal and legitimate repression that law
grants to the State.” (Vol. IX, p. 150)
The reverse applies to members of the armed forces, police, and CAD
members, for whom the status of “victim of violation” applies even in situations of
active combat or confrontation against the guerrillas, because “these people were
damaged as consequence of the legal and legitimate act of defending the democratic
regime and deserve the acknowledgement and respect of State and society.” (Vol. IX,
p. 150)
The concept of “beneficiary” is closely linked to “victim”, and it refers to the
person(s) who will receive some form of benefit from the PIR, either symbolic and/or
material, individual and/or collective. Relatives of the dead and missing are included

130
This is the case of the compensation decrees, where compensation is offered for rondero casualties
at the hands of Shining Path guerrillas during confrontations, but not for those killed by the Peruvian
armed forces.

263
in this concept. The CVR identifies two types of beneficiaries: individuals and
collectives. The importance of this differentiation lies in the possibility it holds for
individual and collective reparation. Collective beneficiaries include peasant and
native communities, and settlements (centros poblados) collectively affected by the
armed conflict through scorched-earth strategies, forced displacement, destruction of
local institutions, loss of local private and public infrastructure (such as land, cattle,
houses; community houses, community services).
As a main rule, the PIR excludes from reparation all those who might have
received other forms of compensation from the State, in order to avoid duplicity of
compensation. In the case of CAD members, the PIR further suggests the abolishment
of the compensation decrees to avoid duplicity of benefits; and that for all other
purposes, CAD members ought to be included as beneficiaries of the reparation plan.
To address the needs of victims and beneficiaries, the Reparations Plan actually
proposes six different and complementary programs, which include a number of
measures that are designed for different purposes and target beneficiaries. These are

1. Program for Symbolic Reparations

2. Program for Reparations on Health
3. Program for Reparations on Education
4. Program for the Restoration of Civil Rights
5. Program for Economic Reparations
6. Program for Collective Reparations

It is the Program for Economic Reparations which has received most attention from
the media and the general public, even when the PIR is designed as a comprehensive
plan where the individual programs are complementary to each other. In their
treatment of ronderos as victims, the activities of all programs can be said to address
different aspects of their needs and situation, such as mental health, adult education,
and community support. It is however, the Program for Economic Reparations that
addresses the issue of compensation for victims of violations in somehow similar
terms to that of the compensation decrees discussed in Chapter Nine. Economic
reparations are proposed in the form of pension and/or compensation, and in the form
of services, directed to specific groups of victims, as we can see from the list below:

264
• Economic Reparation as pensions and/or compensation
Measure 1: For the relatives of the dead and disappeared
Measure 2: For the permanent physically and/or mentally disabled, partially or
totally
Measure 3: For the unduly imprisoned
Measure 4: For victims of sexual violation
Measure 5: For children born as a result of sexual violation
• Economic Reparation as services

No specific mention of peasant ronderos casualties of the armed conflict is made

because their dead and injured are included in the universe of victims and
beneficiaries. The expanded definition of “victim of violation” which includes
Peruvian armed forces, police and CAD members in combat or in confrontation with
guerrillas, allows the identification of CAD casualties as victims and beneficiaries,
making them entitled to receive reparation in various ways, on equal terms with other
victims and beneficiaries.
The Program of Symbolic Reparations includes a specific recognition of
“social leaders and civil authorities” who assumed leadership roles “directly
confronting the logic of militarization and promoting the defense of human rights.”
(Vol. IX, p. 164) This measure includes local mayors, other civil authorities, leaders,
“as well as many of CAD members (as long as they were not involved in human rights
violations).” No specific recognition to CAD members’ contribution to victory “over
subversive aggression” is proposed, as it is the case for members of the armed forces
and the police. (Vol. IX, p. 165)

COMPENSATION OR REPARATIONS – A CHOICE?

Before I embark on the comparison of the CVR’s Reparation Plan with the
compensation decrees, it will be useful to recall the main features of the current
legislation (ref. Chapter Nine). Compensation benefits for CAD members casualties of
the armed conflict (or their families) are to be granted to those who have suffered
death, injuries and/or material damages as long as these (i) were caused by the Shining
Path guerrillas, (ii) occurred during confrontations, and (iii) occurred after November
11 1992. In this legislation, CAD members are defined as “personnel” supporting the
armed forces in counter-subversive strategy. The term “victim” is not used in the text

265
of the compensation decrees. It should also be recalled the great differences existing
between different types of benefits on offer for different groups of citizens. Let us
now compare the proposed reparations plan and the compensation decrees, and their
implications for peasant rondero casualties, on the basis of four aspects: the
contextual origin of the initiative, the basis for the benefit, actual implementation; and
what I refer to as the historical dimension, that is, the historical interpretation implicit
in each of the two approaches. These aspects are discussed in turn.

Context of origin
The compensation decrees originated in a context of internal armed conflict, where a
peasant-military alliance was consolidated as part of a counter-subversive strategy.
The promise or offer of compensation in the early 1990s can be seen as part of the
bargain between the state and the peasant population for their active support. The fact
that the implementation of a compensation scheme would take 7-8 years is indicative
of the limited importance of the issue within the military and central government. The
timing of DS 068’s release in 1998/99 could suggest some political interest on the part
of central government to use the compensation issue to secure the support of an
already supportive sector of the population, peasant ronderos. What central
government did not expect was an engaged peasantry aware of the limited scope of the
scheme, and asking for a serious recognition of their contribution in the victory over
the Shining Path.
The CVR and its Reparation Plan sprang from a transitional government that
wanted to position itself as the opposite of the previous regime: democratic, inclusive,
transparent, and respectful of the rule of law and human rights, whereas the Fujimori
regime was characterized as authoritarian, exclusionary, and corrupt. The period to be
investigated by the CVR included not only the main bulk of the armed conflict, but
also the entire period of the Fujimori regime. The concepts of truth, justice and
reconciliation were the guiding principles in an exploration of the armed conflict and
human rights violations in Peru. In the critical light of human rights, even peasant self-
defense in the form of rondas campesinas and CADs came under scrutiny. Neither the
new government nor the CVR had to live up to any early alliance with peasant
organizations. On the contrary, such alliances were either ignored or simply explained
as impositions by previous regimes over the rural population. A moral commitment

266
was thus established with the victims of the armed conflict in general, not with any
particular group active in the conflict.

Basis of the benefit

While the compensation decrees grant benefits for casualties on the basis of CAD
members’ active participation or contribution to counter-subversive activity, the
CVR’s reparation plan proposed to grant reparation on the basis of violations
committed against the individual “victim of violation”. The compensation decrees
identify CAD members as active personnel, combatants, in service; it is this active
status that entitles them to compensation (in spite of the many limitations). For the
CVR, the beneficiaries of reparations are all those victims of violations and/or their
relatives who suffered human rights violations, independent of any previous behavior
or belief, as long a human right was violated. What is being compensated through the
PIR’s economic reparation is not personal active participation or contribution of any
kind, but personal loss in the armed conflict. This equality between suffering and
sacrifice is praise-worthy in ethical terms, because the principle of equal value of all
human life must not tolerate differences. Furthermore, by awarding reparations on the
basis of violations instead of the social status of the beneficiary, the PIR overcomes
the problem of preferential treatment among potential beneficiaries: a violation is the
same independent of whether the victim is a peasant rondero, an army soldier, a
senderista, or a public servant.
However, reparation for suffering is not the same as recognizing active
contribution. While the positive effect of including military and CAD casualties in the
universe of “victims” is that they become entitled to reparation benefits, the legal
figure of “victims of violations” strips peasant ronderos of the active role they played
during the armed conflict in support of the state. The focus shifts from agency,
participation and contribution, towards victimization, passivity, and suffering. By
assuming the role of victims, the experiences of those affected by the armed conflict
are homogenized and de-contextualized. The passive role assigned to “victims of
violations” hides at best the active contribution of sectors of the population to end the
armed conflict, and at worst, the agency of the actors. Peasant ronderos were both
victims and actors. In my view, the attempt to create empathy for and among victims
should not deprive these of their agency – for better or for worse.

267
Implementation
A main issue for the implementation of compensation schemes and reparation plans is
that of financing. In Peru funding has been very limited, and the PIR has yet to be
approved and to have a budget line. This issue receives much attention, but will not be
discussed here. More relevant in this context is the implication of practical
implementation of compensation/reparations at the national and local levels. The
implementation of DS 068 has been far from efficient, and has turned into a long and
cumbersome process. In spite of the limitations discussed in Chapter Nine, the
application criteria are clear. At the community level, the application and potential
success of accessing compensation is considered to be a legitimate cause, given the
sense of recognition for contribution attached to compensation benefits. The payment
of reparation as victims offers the possibility of reparation to larger numbers of
beneficiaries, which is positive. In both cases, a certain level of unrest rooted in old
animosities and memories of the armed conflict is to be expected. In the case of
reparations however, both a rondero and a former guerrilla may be entitled to receive
reparation if they are both categorized as “victims of violation”. Such a situation can
be easily experienced as unjust by the local community (“Why should our enemy be
compensated?”). This particular aspect of implementation will be a test for the
development of a culture of reconciliation and human rights in Peru.

Historical dimension
If peasant ronderos casualties of the armed conflict were victims and not actors, what
place do they have in the official history of the conflict? A relatively recent book on
contemporary Peruvian history, written by two rather progressive historians, dedicates
four lines to the mention of the CADs and rondas campesinas, “among the thousands
of Peruvians that fiercely opposed terror in various ways” (Contreras and Cueto
1999).
The CVR Final Report itself dedicates only 26 pages to presenting the CADs
as one of the armed actors in the conflict, contrasting right from the start the positive
(“their irrefutable contribution to the military defeat of the Shining Path and therefore,
to the re-establishment of peace”) with the negative (“their attitude during war, their
subordination to the armed forces, [and] their stubbornness in not giving back their
weapons.” (Vol. II, p. 449) It seems as if the CADs subordination to the armed forces
is to be blamed on the CADs themselves, instead of being analyzed in the context of

268
counter-subversive strategy of the late 1980s and early 1990s. More importantly, the
emphasis on subordination tends to overshadow the element of agency exercised by
peasant self-defense organizations.
While peasant ronderos identify themselves as the “winners of the war”, this
victory is also claimed by former President Fujimori and the Peruvian armed forces.
Rightly enough, the CVR did not engage the question of identifying “winners of war”,
yet their project of reconciliation as the establishment of a new social pact renders
necessary the recognition of those sectors of the population, that in spite of their
position of subordination and discrimination, contributed to the victory over the
Shining Path. While the armed forces and the police were duty-bound to defend the
democratic regime (in spite of our evaluation of how they did it), peasants could have
fled or openly joined the guerrillas, as many actually did. But a large number of them
chose otherwise: they organized in self-defense groups to defend themselves and their
communities as best they could. In spite of the authoritarian character of their
relationship with the military, peasants joined forces to chase the Shining Path away
from the countryside. Without romanticizing the CADs, we have to ask the following
question: Why and how did the Peruvian State win the war over the Shining Path?
Was this a result of the capture of the party’s leadership in September 1992? As the
CVR Final Report itself concludes, by 1992 the armed conflict was already in its final
stages, mainly because of the widespread rejection of local populations in joining and
supporting the guerrillas. In the rural countryside, self-defense organizations not only
impeded the advancement of guerrillas, but also led to their expulsion from large areas
(Fumerton 2002).
Indigenous peasant populations in Peru have a long and painful history of
subordination and discrimination. Time and again they have participated in national
politics through localized social conflict, including armed conflict, but only
occasionally have they enjoyed the fruits of victory (Husson 1992; Mallon 1995;
Méndez 2001; ref. Chapter Four). In the recent armed conflict, they had to prove their
loyalty to the nation-state in a manner not expected from other citizens: by actively
fighting back against the guerrillas. In the name of their own survival, community, and
nation, peasant self-defense organizations contributed to the victory and peace
Peruvians now enjoy and take for granted. What is at stake then is the history of this
victory, and whose history it is. For peasant ronderos, it is them who won the war,

269
they are the heroes in this victory, and that is why they deserve the recognition of the
state. The category “victims of violation” overlooks these nuances.

THE CHALLENGE OF RECOGNITION

The justification of economic reparations is based on an acknowledgement of the
damage and suffering experienced by the victims of the internal armed conflict.
According to the CVR, economic reparation symbolizes the effort and
acknowledgement of this suffering, and contributes to the initiation of a new social
pact based on human rights and the rule of law. It is also argued that economic
reparations show respect for the victims as individuals, by providing the opportunity
for people to decide independently about their own needs for subsistence and social
reproduction:

“In the Peruvian case, the need to compensate economically is more pressing
due to the fact that the victims were largely from the most impoverished and
excluded sectors of society, and that the effects of violence have severely
limited their own and their families capacity to support themselves.” (Vol. IX,
p. 189)

The PIR finds its justification and establishes its programmatic objectives through the
notion of “victim of violation”, which is based on an acknowledgement of suffering,
damage, and exposure to degrading experiences. Rightly enough, the notion of victim
captures a dimension of the internal armed conflict which has been insufficiently
addressed. Many peasant ronderos are indeed victims of violations, and their families
will hopefully one day obtain the reparation they duly deserve.
As the comparison above has shown, the reparation plan proposed by the CVR
homogenizes the universe of victims, so that they are considered equally worthy of
attention on the basis of their suffering. Discriminatory practices such as the ones
enforced by different legal frameworks for different groups of citizens would no
longer be applicable if an overall policy on reparations for the victims of the armed
conflict is established. However, this is not the same as recognizing contribution –
even if that contribution led to the death, injury and/or material damage for an
individual. In this sense, the compensation decrees are equally limiting, because in
spite of openly recognizing contribution, this is directly related to specific losses, such

270
as death, injury and material damage. This is why compensation, contribution,
reparation and victimization get entangled as definitional and operational categories in
the legal and human rights language often used to convey the situation and interests of
the people affected by the armed conflict. In order to truly recognize the contribution
of specific sectors of the population, we need to consider contribution as a separate
concept to victimization and loss. Neither the reparations plan nor the compensation
decrees do that.
Since reparations are the crystallization of recognition, it is paramount to be
clear about what it is that we recognize. In the case of peasant ronderos, the options
are between recognizing suffering and recognizing contribution. These options ought
not to be mutually exclusive. Reparations may suffice to recognize suffering, but are
not enough to recognize contribution. The historical and political recognition of
peasant rondero men and women is paramount exactly because they belong to “the
most impoverished and excluded sectors of society”. By focusing on reparations as
victims, the contribution made by peasants to the nation-state is in danger of being
forgotten. If the goal of reconciliation is “to reach a new social pact”, as the CVR
suggests, this will not be reached unless we also recognize the active contribution of
thousands of peasants across Peru, those second-class citizens that made peace
possible. If the efforts they made during the internal armed conflict of the 1980s have
not made them worthy of a place in national history, then little else will ever do.

SUMMARY
Are victim reparations the best way to deal with the recognition of the peasant
rondero contribution to end the armed conflict? For better or for worse, peasant
ronderos were both victims and (armed) actors in the conflict. The inclusion of
rondero demands into a broader platform of victim reparations bypasses the element
of political and historical recognition of peasant participation in the victory against the
Shining Path guerrilla. If the aim of current national reconciliation efforts is to
establish a new social pact in post-conflict Peru, there is a need to pay due attention to
the object of recognition; victimization or contribution. The historical implications of
this are too great to be ignored.

271
Chapter 12

CONCLUSIONS: ARMED CONFLICT, RECONSTRUCTION AND

PEASANT CITIZENSHIP

What does the internal armed conflict in Peru tell us about the relations between
subaltern groups and the state? In the introductory chapter, I argued for an analysis of
armed conflict that is sensitive to processes of state-formation taking place while the
conflict goes on, or as a result of it. If there ever is a situation that makes the presence
of the state be felt in the everyday life of citizens, it is the experience of armed
conflict. Conflict reshapes and redefines the nature of the relations between citizens
and state. In this dissertation, I have explored why and how those changes have
occurred, and how they manifest themselves in the lives of peasant citizens in Peru.
Noting the capricious combination of the return to democracy with the start of
guerrilla war in Peru, I asked how liberal democracy can coexist with a constant state
of emergency. On the one hand, a new government was trying to establish democratic
rule by proclaiming rights and freedoms, while on the other, it had to restrain the same
rights it championed in large parts of the country, affecting the lives of thousands of
citizens to counter a fierce Maoist guerrilla. The complexity of this challenge has
forever marked Peruvian history and politics. The imprint left on the people directly
affected by the armed conflict is not disputed, but the historical interpretation of the
conflict itself and the actors involved remains a highly contested issue.
This case-study of armed conflict and reconstruction ‘from below’, that is,
from the perspective of peasant citizens, has important implications that can deepen
our understanding of similar processes in countries undergoing internal armed conflict
and post-conflict reconstruction. The most immediate implications concern the study
of armed conflict, internal displacement and post-conflict reconstruction. Furthermore,
the case has implications for the role of law in society, the study of citizenship among
subaltern groups, and last but not least, issues of historical interpretation and the
legacy of armed conflict. Although these issues are closely interrelated, I discuss them
separately in the following pages.

272
IMPLICATIONS FOR THE STUDY OF ARMED CONFLICTS

Armed conflict and state-formation

The literature on processes of state-formation in Latin America (which has inspired
much of my writing) is rich in empirical studies about the links between local
communities and national governments, between popular political cultures and
hegemonic processes (ref. Chapters One and Two). However, and in spite of much of
that literature focusing on armed revolutions and popular protests in the post-colonial
and republican eras, the move towards the application of these historical and
theoretical insights to the study of contemporary armed conflicts has been rather slow.
The explicit link between armed conflict (or more specifically, wars) and state-
formation has been approached by the “war-making, state-making” literature (Davis
2003) pioneered by Tilly (1990) and Mann (1988), and centers on nation-states and
conventional armies. Combining the advances of Latin American research on
“everyday forms of state formation” (Joseph and Nugent 1994; Mallon 1995) with this
literature can provide a fresh outlook to the study of armed conflicts and state-
formation.
Practices of state formation at the local level are not an exclusive feature of
times of peace, but can constitute an integral part of armed conflict either through
specific forms of interaction (both progressive and repressive) between state and
citizens, or through the emergence of institutions connecting or representing the state
in the conflict area, including irregular armies (I will return to this later).
In the case of Tambo, the state was present in the conflict area through the
military, who raided the entire district in search for guerrillas among the peasant
population. The repressive methods employed against peasants left no doubt about the
power of the state, and what it required and expected from the local population; blind
loyalty and silent compliance. Either spontaneously organized by the local population,
or enforced by the military, peasant self-defense organizations provided peasants with
protection from the attacks of Shining Path guerrillas, but also from the military’s
suspicion and repression. Moreover, the committees also fulfilled another function,
that of community governance, a very important one given the fact that traditional
community structures had dissolved as a result of the armed conflict. If institutions are
organizational and symbolic practices that operate within networks of structures,
discourses and binding relationships (Somers 1993), then the spread of CDCs across

273
the district, their introduction as a marker of time (“life before and after
organization”), and their authority and legitimacy to pardon and reinsert “the
repentant” back into community life (those “compromised” by the Shining Path) point
towards an initial institutionalization of the CDCs in the countryside.
Part of the authority and legitimacy of the CDCs resided in its role as link
between community and state, between local peasants and the military. During the
armed conflict in Guatemala, self-defense patrols (PACs) were established by the
military in villages as a way to control the local population and counter-attack the
guerrillas. Stepputat (2001) identifies the PACs as “the embodiment of the state at the
frontier”. In Guatemala, the element of imposition played a stronger role and PACs
were under strict supervision by the Guatemalan military for many years; in Peru,
CDCs were much left on their on after an initial period of organization. However, a
similar argument could be made about the CDCs: By taking sides against the Shining
Path, the existence of the CDCs implied the presence of the state within peasant
communities. Practices of self-defense can thus be re-interpreted as everyday forms of
state-formation in the context of armed conflict in Peru.
Based on the above observations, it is possible to advance Centeno’s
distinction between (external) total and limited wars (ref. Chapter Two), by addressing
the aspect of regional scale. For the country as a whole, the internal armed conflict in
Peru could be defined as a limited war; for those regions where the conflict actually
took place, at the centre of the conflict, the effects were those of a total war. The
relevance of Centeno’s distinction lies not in the extent of damage caused, but mainly
in the institutional legacy of war. It is therefore possible to argue the existence of
“internal total wars”, that is, armed conflicts occurring within the territorial
boundaries of the state, usually concentrated in specific regions, but with effects
similar to those of external total wars, both in terms of material damage and
institutional legacy. The advantage of this concept lies in capturing the aspect of the
institutional legacy of war.

Armed conflict, identity and context

The highly volatile contexts of armed conflicts make allegiances and actions fluid and
ever-changing, adapting to new situations and perceived dangers. The existence of
clearly defined groups or actors in a given conflict may facilitate analysis of the kind
“who did what to whom”. Desirable as they may be, such clear cut definitions of

274
identity and loyalty ignore the fact that in armed conflicts people often have to switch
sides in order to survive.
The data from Tambo clearly indicate that in spite the existence of the CDC
organization throughout the 1980s, the strength of the organization and its
defensive/offensive capacity fluctuated greatly according to national trends in counter-
subversive strategy. Following a period of initiative and strict organization in the mid-
1980s, came a time of disorganization, when the CDCs were weak and the Shining
Path moved in and out of the area as it pleased. In such a context, the peasant strategy
was not one of open confrontation, but rather of ‘turning a blind eye’ in order to
survive, trusting no one. In a constant climate of fear, individual allegiances had to
adjust or be kept hidden in order to avoid reprisal from Shining Path or raise the
suspicion of the military.
Therefore, it cannot be said that all peasants in Tambo were senderistas all the
time, or that they were all “patriot peasant soldiers” all the time. Instead of trying to
fix a single meaning to the identity of the subject, our analysis should start by
contextualizing identities and social interaction. Localized and historical
contextualization is all the more important in the study of armed conflict precisely
because the results of interaction during armed conflict are often morally and
politically charged. How to explain that a CDC member hid a Shining Path guerrilla in
his house? How to explain that montoneros raided neighboring communities? How to
explain the massacre in Huayao in 1992? Questions of this kind might defy
explanation, but a deep understanding of the context and the dynamics surrounding a
particular situation will be a step in the right direction.

Civilian populations and their role in armed conflicts

According to Davis (2003), there has in the last decades been a fundamental
transformation in what is generally conceived as war and the types of coercive
violence exercised by states and citizens. One important aspect of this transformation
is the growing number of “irregular armed forces” (defined as “those coercive actors
and institutions … outside the conventional category of uniformed standing armed
forces fighting external aggressors in the name of national sovereignty” (Davis
2003:32), involved in war-making and armed conflicts around the world. Irregular
forces thus include an array of organized armed actors such as paramilitary groups,
police, vigilantes, guerrillas, and militias. Another aspect of the transformation

275
suggested above is the increasing predominance of “low intensity conflicts” (van
Creveld 1991), which bear similarities to Centeno’s “limited wars” (Centeno 2003).
The occurrence of low intensity conflicts and the presence of irregular armed
forces are among the reasons why it is becoming increasingly difficult to apply clear-
cut dichotomies such as military/civilian and combatant/non combatant to the study of
contemporary armed conflicts. The armed conflict in Peru is a case in point.
Formed by peasant civilians, the CDCs engaged in practices of self-defense
that are difficult to define as purely civilian or entirely militaristic; they are a
combination of both. The participation of the rural population in counter-subversive
strategy in Peru was opposed by politicians, academics and human rights activists
alike, on the grounds that this was putting innocent civilians in the line of fire. For the
rural population themselves, particularly during the 1980s, this was less a matter of
choice than of need: to protect themselves from both the Shining Path and the
military. In the 1990s, once the peasant-state alliance had been established and
legalized, the participation of rural peasants in the CADs became most of all a
counter-subversive activity supervised by the military. With victory and the law on
their side, tensions between CADs and the military decreased (but did not disappear).
A first issue to be addressed is the actual involvement of civilians in counter-
subversive operations. On normative grounds, and supported by human rights
discourse and international humanitarian law, the act of war is solely confined to
conventional armed and security forces. Historically, it is valid to question whether
the Peruvian state could have declared victory over the Shining Path guerrilla without
the support and involvement of the peasant civilian population. The empirical
evidence indicates that this victory was achieved first of all in the countryside. Indeed,
by the time the police and intelligence services captured the Shining Path’s top
leadership in September 1992, the guerrillas had already been expelled from most of
the Andean region due to the participation of CDCs/CADs (CVR 2003).
Unfortunately, this answer defies prevalent paradigms about armed conflicts,
according to which civilians are not to be involved (except as victims of war). One of
the basic duties of the state is to provide for the security of their citizens; what
happens if the state is unable to do that? And who protects citizens when the state
turns against them?
In retrospect, it is easy to provide normative solutions to the dilemmas posed
by armed conflicts, but these can only work for the future, as preventive mechanisms.

276
The urgency and immediacy of such dilemmas for the people affected by armed
conflict cannot await normative debates. In Peru, many peasants took matters into
their own hands in order to survive. The case of the Peruvian CDCs is a historically
contingent outcome and cannot be used as a tool-kit solution for all internal armed
conflicts. The lesson to be learned, however, is that mobilizing popular support and
legitimacy for the counter-subversive strategy, and widespread rejection of the
guerrilla project among the majority of the population, are vital elements in
confronting guerrilla warfare.
A second issue is the legal implications of civilians’ involvement in armed
conflict on the side of the state. If the boundaries between categories such as
combatants/non-combatants, military/civilians, personnel/civilians are blurred, is it
still possible to draw the line between “irregular” and “conventional” armed forces?
Beyond the question of whether CADs are “irregular” forces or not, the relevance of
this issue lies in the legal protection, rights and entitlements that some members enjoy
because of their position in one category while others are excluded. The issue of
compensation benefits illustrates this well. CAD members, casualties of the armed
conflict, identified by law as “personnel”, are entitled to certain compensation benefits
on the basis of the legal recognition of CADs in 1991/92; this implies that casualties
prior to this legislation are not entitled to any form of compensation. Moreover,
military personnel (members of the conventional army), killed or injured during the
same armed conflict, enjoyed a number of social benefits right from the beginning of
the conflict because they were indeed military personnel.
Seen from below, the case of the internal conflict in Peru reveals the many
complexities and paradoxes in the study of contemporary armed conflicts, as well as
“the need to rethink the connection between new and old wars, society and armed
forces, policing and war-making, civilian and military, law and force.” (Pereira
2003:394)

IMPLICATIONS FOR THE STUDY OF INTERNAL DISPLACEMENT

The prevailing view on internal displacement, particularly among international aid
organizations and public agencies, is based on two assumptions: that displacement
occurs between two points, from place A to place B; and that the distance between
these two places is great. Displaced people thus seek refuge in distant places escaping
violence in areas affected by armed conflict. The practical and policy implication of

277
this assessment is that assistance to the IDPs is to be provided in these distant places
of refuge, such as cities or larger urban centers. As the displacement process in Tambo
demonstrates, these assumptions should not be taken for granted. First of all,
processes of displacement should not be considered in terms of a single movement
from A to B, occurring at a single moment in time, but rather as an itinerary that is
largely contingent on the resources available to people on the move, the conflict
situation, and the prospects people perceive they have to secure a livelihood for
themselves and their families. Mostly individual family members, but also entire
families, moved from place to place in an attempt to secure a livelihood, eventually
settling down at a place considered viable (given the circumstances), usually where
they had friends and family to help them and share the burden of displacement.
Second, the assumption that people move to distant places (and particularly
cities) can have life-threatening consequences for those on the move. Humanitarian
assistance might be provided only in those places where the presence of IDPs is highly
visible, while overlooking IDPs that have not “traveled that far”. In Tambo, most
people moved to neighboring communities, or to the rainforests of the Apurímac river
valley. The armed conflict reached the district early in the 1980s, but widespread
violence was not experienced before 1983/84, when the armed forces entered the
scene and carried out their repressive counter-subversive strategy – first among the
western communities, then on the mid-eastern part of the district. In both cases, the
result was a massive exodus from the highlands and down to the valleys and to the
town of Tambo. While some communities were forced to relocate by the military,
others did so voluntarily for security reasons, and for relatively short periods of time.
Although some people moved also outside the district, to Ayacucho, Huanta, the
eastern rainforests and even Lima, the majority of the displaced in Tambo moved to
neighboring communities which became centers of refuge, or “communities of
resistance”. By the end of the conflict in the 1990s, 31 out of 49 communities had
been completely abandoned. This number was even higher during the first year of the
conflict, when informants recall that as few as 8 resistant communities were left in the
district. In any case, displacement in Tambo occurred mainly within the boundaries of
the district.
Confined to the territorial boundaries of the district, the plight of Tambo
retirados remained unseen, invisible, non existent to the rest of the country. Most
certainly the military knew, as they had a base in the district; but they provided little

278
more than plastic sheets to serve as tents for displaced families. Whatever aid the
Catholic Church managed to provide, it concentrated around the city of Ayacucho.
NGOs were not as numerous then as they are today, and journalists were banned from
the area after the Ucchuraccay incident. It will never be known how many children
died in 1984 as a result of the chickenpox epidemic in Ccarhuapampa, or how many
lives were lost to hunger and malnutrition in Huayao. Hopefully, in today’s
information society, man-made humanitarian disasters of this kind will be avoided.131
The concept of IDP has proved useful in identifying people “caught within
borders” (Brookings 1999), but this should not imply a link between distance within
national borders and degree of emergency. Indeed, internal displacement can occur
within the boundaries of lower jurisdictions such as districts or isolated provinces, and
emergency situations can emerge a short distance from places of origin; ignoring this
can have devastating consequences.

IMPLICATIONS FOR THE STUDY OF POST-CONFLICT RECONSTRUCTION

Once an armed conflict has been settled, a phase usually referred to as “post-conflict
reconstruction” ensues, with the overall aim of re-constructing that which has been
destroyed. There are many ways of defining post-conflict reconstruction, some
focusing on the physical rebuilding of infrastructure (narrow definition), others aiming
to repair the “social fabric” of society and seeking “reconciliation” (broad definition).
In this dissertation, I have opted to view reconstruction as a social process, contingent
and dynamic, and as a period, to denote the period after the official closure of the
armed conflict. Processes of reconstruction can include a number of actors, such as
NGOs or grassroots organizations, international agencies, and national governments.
Usually, the responsibility to lead the reconstruction efforts falls on national
governments; the way these efforts are conducted vary greatly, depending both on
policy options and socio-economic and political contexts.
One particular issue regarding “post-conflict reconstruction” is whether it
really is or ought to be “post-conflict”. Is it really the case that states and people start
“reconstructing” their lives after the conflict is over – and not before? And why should
one wait or postpone reconstruction, when there are pressing needs now? The case of

131
In Guatemala, the Historical Clarification Commission documented 1933 cases of “death on account
of forced displacement” , which was identified as a serious human rights violation within the context of
the Guatemalan armed conflict (Baillet 2002). One can only wonder how many people have fallen
victim to that violation during the armed conflict in Peru.

279
Peru can provide interesting lessons about the role of national governments in
processes of reconstruction. In Peru, the state’s response to the areas affected by
violence and the plight of internally displaced peoples was a belated one. More than
12 years had passed since the start of the conflict by the time the first specialized
public agency was established to support the affected populations, PAR. As was
shown in Chapter Eight, PAR assumed its role as the promoter of social policy in the
affected areas, giving emphasis to basic needs infrastructure. For this reason, I argued
that the reconstruction effort of the Fujimori regime should be understood as social
policy. PAR was not alone in implementing social policy in the areas affected by
violence; a number of public agencies operated there as well, all under the principles
of “direct democracy” and “demand-driven development”. What this actually meant in
practical implementation terms was a lack of coordination between agencies operating
in the same areas, and the bypassing of local governments. In “direct democracy”, the
contact between national government (i.e. the president), and the community was to
be direct and open, without interference, and directly channeled through public
development agencies.
The first observation to be made on the Peruvian case, is the importance of a
national agency to oversee (and maybe also implement) reconstruction efforts. In spite
of its many limitations, PAR was successful in securing funding for project
implementation in areas affected by violence. As shown in Chapter Eight, in spite of
the presence of other public agencies operating in the district, it was PAR whose
financial investment was largest in Tambo. Furthermore, the creation of PAR meant
the inclusion of the issue of reconstruction in the national development agenda. It was
an acknowledgement of the responsibility of the state towards the people and areas
affected by the armed conflict. Finally, PAR served also as an identifiable and
coordinating body for international cooperation agencies interested in supporting the
reconstruction effort. In Guatemala, “reconstruction” was not the specific mandate of
a single public agency; instead, the field was covered by a variety of ad-hoc sectoral
agencies that were to deal with different aspects of post-conflict reconstruction. The
result has been far from satisfactory, as agencies tended to close down and reappear
with new mandates. Lack of continuity and coherence has been a major problem in the
post-conflict reconstruction of Guatemala (Baillet 2002).
A second observation concerns the political dimension of the reconstruction
process. National policies of reconstruction are more than simply lists of material

280
projects and objectives to be reached; they carry within them political messages and
visions of what it is to be achieved and why. Furthermore, national policies do not
limit themselves to official documents and data sheets, but are accompanied by
discourses that seek to legitimate policy choices and courses of action. In the case of
Peru, the discourse of inclusion introduced by the state to reinforce the peasant-state
alliance in the final stages of the armed conflict developed into “the discourse of
reconstruction and development” of the reconstruction period. In this discourse, armed
conflict meets social policy: what is the state going to do for and in the areas affected
by violence? The implicit premise in this question is that the state should do
something for those affected by the conflict. National and international factors
combined to call for state intervention in the affected areas. I have argued, however,
that the main explanatory factor for public intervention in the reconstruction effort lies
in the state’s need to respond to, and secure the continuation of the peasant-state
alliance.
In the smelting together of reconstruction efforts with development goals, one
can see not only an interpretation of reality but also the outlining of a vision. Thus,
places such as Tambo had a legitimate claim in requesting the support of the state
because they had been the site of a violent conflict. This vision of development as an
alternative to poverty and conflict was to be realized through the reconstruction effort,
or more specifically through development projects. In this manner, practice supported
discourse. The state was identified as the benefactor and provider of goods and
services, aware of the demands of its local populations who were not only poor, but
who had endured a violent conflict and supported the state against a common enemy.
By helping to legitimate state policies and peasants’ demands, the discourse also
redefined relations between the state and peasant citizens; it redefined citizenship (I
will return to this later).
A third observation about reconstruction processes springs from their political
dimension: if reconstruction implies political processes, then there is also the
possibility to politicize the process, that is, to use the process to obtain political gains
or rewards. For beneficiary populations it might be difficult to disassociate
implemented projects from the public agency or the government that implements
them, that is, the package from the sender. This is perhaps inevitable. Yet efforts
should be made to avoid (direct or indirect) patronage and clientelistic relations in the
name of reconstruction. Indeed, the Fujimori regime has much to account for in terms

281
of the use of public resources to raise political support under the banner of
reconstruction.
A final observation concerns the end of the reconstruction process: when does
reconstruction end and “normal life” begin? It is not the periodization of national
histories that are of importance here, but the implications that the end of an era has for
social practice and entitlements. Are IDPs entitled to public support after 15 years in
the city? Can a peasant community still return after 20 years away? Are armed conflict
and self-defense passeés as issues of public interest? Reconstructing lives and
communities is a long term process, taking usually much longer than international
cooperation and public agencies would like (Hammond 2004). Resolving this issue
will necessarily entail historical and political contestation.

THE ROLE OF LAW IN SOCIETY

One of the main arguments in this dissertation has been that the power of law relies
not only on its enforcement, but also on the ideals and discourses it endorses. Indeed,
the empowering effects of normative law (legal institutions and discourses) proposed
by Somers (1994) could be observed at work in Tambo, in at least two instances: First,
in the legalization and institutionalization of CADs, and second, in the mobilization
for compensation rights.
In the first instance, the change in the counter-subversive strategy of the late
1980s/early 1990s was manifested through legal means: the law of recognition of
CADs. The recognition and legalization of peasant self-defense through CAD
legislation implied the actual incorporation of thousands of peasant citizens into a
network of social relations directly connected to the state. The individual CAD
member became not only part of his(/her) community self-defense organization, but a
participant of a larger organization directly linked to the state. In this network, the
active participation of the population in self-defense was encouraged through a
discourse of inclusion: “the army and peasants together fighting against a common
enemy”. In the second instance, a legal instrument (the compensation decree) served
as a point of departure for the development of an issue that mobilized peasants from
two districts to demand the expansion of the law. These demands were taken up at the
highest levels of government, and found resonance among different social actors, both
at the local and national levels. CAD representatives welcomed the initiative, and

282
aware of its limitations demanded changes through legal means. A dialogue of this
nature and scope would have been impossible back in the 1980s.
In the first instance, legal changes were followed by actual implementation or
enforcement of the law through the military structure. In the second instance,
enforcement has been rather slow and unsatisfactory. The cases of Tambo and CAD
legislation support Somers’ argument of the empowering effects of normative law.
The dismissal of changes in the law simply because of deficiencies in law
enforcement does not hold. If legality is the ultimate basis for legitimacy (Turner
1991), it is easy to understand why the codification of social relations in law has
become one of the most dynamic fields of contestation around the world (Hansen and
Stepputat 2001). The issue is no longer whether the legal system is an effective means
to social change, but rather how to elaborate or promote laws that can advance a
progressive agenda.

IMPLICATIONS FOR THE STUDY OF CITIZENSHIP AMONG SUBALTERN GROUPS

According to Nugent’s non-oppositional approach to state-society relations, the
dialectical character of state-society relations implies that the relation between state
and citizens is reciprocal (if not necessarily symmetrical) and mutually reinforcing
(Nugent 1994; ref. Chapter Two). Earlier in this chapter, I argued for an analysis of
armed conflict that is sensitive to processes of state formation, by focusing on
everyday forms of state formation, which also occur in situations of armed conflict.
While processes of state-formation address the ways in which the state reproduces
itself and is re-created in the lives of its citizens, going in the opposite direction is the
construction of citizenship: how is the idea of “citizen” conceptualized, how is it
reproduced, and what are meaningful forms of interaction between citizen and state. In
a way, state-formation and the construction of citizenship are two sides of the same
coin.
This dissertation has focused on the citizenship side of the coin. I wanted to
approach state-society relations from the point of view of subaltern groups; not just
any subaltern group, but Andean peasants in Peru. My guiding question has been: how
has the armed conflict affected peasant communities and their relation to the nation-
state? In answering this question I have employed a concept of citizenship that is
based on the following premises: citizenship as socially constructed and historical
contingent; citizenship refers to social membership; and citizenship involves both

283
meaning and practice. To apply these premises to my analysis I found Mische’s
analytical distinction between citizenship as meaning and as practice quite useful.
Mische (1996) suggests differentiating between socially and historically
constructed claims, narratives and values embedded in a given notion of “citizenship”,
and the specific set of practices or forms of interaction that render that notion
meaningful. She further suggests that the current appeal to notions of citizenship lies
not only in its potential to bridge or mediate between different emergent projects and
identities, but also in the “potential dynamism of such appeals in reshaping
relationships between state, societal and economic actors.” (ibid.: 157-8) The reason
why this is so lies in the implication that alternative notions of what citizenship “is”
can coexist among various actors, each filling the notion with different meaning yet
endorsing it in order to participate in contestation and negotiation for a variety of
projects and agendas.
How has the distinction between citizenship as meaning and practice been
applied in the dissertation? How has it helped understand the construction of
citizenship upon subaltern groups? This study of peasant-state relations during and
after armed conflict demonstrates that the distinction is indeed an effective analytical
tool, but that the relationship between meaning and practices of citizenship are much
more interconnected and mutually reinforcing than I originally envisaged.
To initiate my approach to citizenship, I opted to follow Mische’s advice to
identify the “kinds of social practices between state and societal actors [that] might
make citizenship meaningful” (Mische 1996:135). I opted to investigate self-defense
practices during the armed conflict, and participation in development projects, claim-
making, and participation in electoral processes during the reconstruction period
because those were the most intensive fields of interaction between peasant citizens
and the state. It was first through (or after) the analysis of citizenship as practice(s)
that I arrived at an understanding of citizenship as meaning among peasants in Tambo,
and could observe how meaning and practice were mutually reinforcing.
In Chapters Six and Seven, I focused on self-defense organizations, arguing
that they fulfilled functions of community defense and community governance. I
sought to explain how the context of armed conflict influenced social practice. During
the 1980s, the state was represented by the armed forces, and engaged a repressive,
ambivalent and authoritarian relationship with the peasant population. This has
already been discussed above. Later, changes in the official counter-subversive

284
strategy had profound implications that went beyond the field of military operations,
leading to the establishment of the peasant-state alliance. It has been my argument that
the alliance changed the terms of peasant-state relations from then on.
The national policy on reconstruction was guided by the same principles as
social policy in general, “direct democracy” and “demand-driven development” (ref.
above and Chapter Eight). Because these principles aimed to establish a direct line of
contact between citizens/community and central government, I considered
participation in public development projects as a practice of citizenship. Furthermore,
through this particular practice, I observed how the discourse of reconstruction and
development has been appropriated by the peasant population in order to formulate
their demands to central government. Today, peasants consider themselves entitled to
forward local needs and demands, and that it is the state’s duty to address them. In the
discourse of reconstruction and development, their endurance of the armed conflict
legitimates peasant demands.
According to Somers (1993), when the citizen sees as his/her right to make
claims to the nation-state as members of the polity, then we are in the presence of
citizenship – as practice, agency and identity. Claim-making processes are also a
practice of citizenship. Chapter Nine provides a good illustration of the construction,
framing and content of citizenship among peasants in Tambo. The issue of
compensation rights for peasant ronderos casualties of the armed conflict illustrates
the complexity and the challenges of peasant citizenship. In presenting their demands
for compensation and claiming their citizenship rights, peasant ronderos legitimated
their claims on the basis of their own active participation in the armed conflict as
allies of the state. It was this contribution to the nation-state that made them citizens,
and thus entitled them to receive the attention of the state. In the process of claim-
making, the experience of armed conflict was re-interpreted away from its focus on
suffering and destruction to one of entitlements, rights and citizenship.
Participation in electoral processes is the formal way of defining democracy,
and I consider it to be another practice of citizenship. As discussed in Chapter Ten,
peasants in Tambo are entering the electoral arena and are aware of their limitations,
but also of their potential. Peasant lists are establishing alliances with actors more
experienced in the world of politics, and peasant voters are not as easily recruited or
threatened as once thought. Not even the central government, the greatest patron of
the reconstruction period, could secure broad peasant support in local elections. If we

285
take the argument even further, this could be interpreted as an indication of the
disintegration of clientelistic relations in rural Peru; but this remains to be seen. In the
meanwhile, the logic of defense, and the perceived danger of a return to violence
influence electoral behavior and political preferences; also here the armed conflict
serves as a point of reference for social practice.
As can be observed, in all these instances of citizenship as practice, the point
of reference is the experience of armed conflict, and more explicitly, the participation
or active contribution of the peasant population in the conflict on the side of the state.
In other words, peasant citizenship has been claimed and exercised not simply because
“all citizens have rights and duties”, but because this particular group of citizens had
defended their livelihoods and the state in a situation of armed conflict. It was this
participation in the conflict that entitled them to make legitimate use of their right to
demand the attention of the state. Such is the socially and historically constructed
interpretation of citizenship among peasants in Tambo, and possibly also in the other
areas affected by the armed conflict, where the local population organized in self-
defense committees.
This is, I believe, the most important argument of the dissertation, that the
appropriation of citizenship by subordinate groups is framed on the basis of their
contribution to the nation-state. I have asked why it is that subordinate groups need to
legitimate their citizenship rights with contribution, in contrast to other sectors of the
population who take their rights for granted. It is precisely because of their position of
subordination in society that it becomes vital for subordinate groups to substantiate
their demands with legitimate and/or irrefutable arguments. In the case of peasant
ronderos in Peru, such argument is their specific contribution to the victory over the
Shining Path during the recent armed conflict.

The limits of peasant citizenship

It is worth noting that the legitimacy of peasant claims and demands on the state on
the basis of their contribution is also present in the discourse of reconstruction and
development. The discourse of reconstruction and development has proved to be a
powerful one which can be used to frame and legitimate a variety of demands from
different sectors of society. The discourse emphasizes the endurance of the armed
conflict as the reason why rural areas affected by violence need and deserve the
attention of the state. Behind this discourse of reconstruction and development lay the

286
idea of “worthy peasant citizens”, made worthy by their sacrifice for the nation.
Citizenship is thus serving as a bridge to unite very different visions of social relations
(Mische 1996): the state as the great provider, the new source of patronage (Nugent
1994); and peasants as citizens entitled to receive the attention of the state. Similarly,
the predominant narrative among peasant communities in the reconstruction period is
one that pictures peasant ronderos as “heroes of war”; they did the job of the state,
they chased the Shining Path out of the countryside, they deserve recognition and
reward. Both the discourse of reconstruction and development and the narrative of the
peasant-hero sustain the idea of the “worthy peasant citizen”; and they both reinforce
or feed into current practices of peasant-state relations, such as the ones discussed
above. I will therefore argue that the notion of peasant citizenship in terms of
contribution has become a common discursive framework, a common language for
talking about social relationships in a system of domination. Indeed, “what hegemony
constructs, then is not a shared ideology but a common material and meaningful
framework for living through, talking about, and acting upon social orders
characterized by domination.” (Roseberry 1994:361; ref. Chapter Two)
This is the paradox of this newly proclaimed peasant citizenship: the result of a
brutal armed conflict, it is legitimated by the conflict itself. Would peasants and the
areas affected by violence be entitled to the attention of the state, without the
experience of armed conflict? In other words, what are the limits of inclusion? Does
the conditionality of contribution reveal the subordinate character of peasant
citizenship? In spite of the legitimacy of citizenship claims on the basis of
contribution, the fact remains that peasant citizens are still a subordinate group in
Peruvian society, with limited means to influence the national agenda. This
subordinate position is even present in those initiatives formulated to recognize their
active contribution, such as the compensation decrees. Why is it that the widow and
children of an army soldier killed during the armed conflict are entitled to a pension,
granted with no questions asked, while the widow and children of a peasant rondero
receive only a one-time lump-sum, and only if her husband was killed after 1992?
Even when the compensation decrees recognize contribution and offer benefits,
peasant citizens do not receive equal treatment in relation to others. What sense does it
then make to claim citizenship and exercise it when subordination and poverty remain
the conditions of existence for peasant populations?

287
 Let us consider the alternative: to remain excluded from social membership in
the nation-state. As far as the data from Tambo indicates, social exclusion is the last
thing peasant citizens want, as shown by their active engagement in development
projects and electoral and claim-making practices. Limited as the notion of peasant
citizenship in terms of contribution might be, “it functions simultaneously as a claim
to rights, a call for participation and a carrier for competing social projects.” (Mische
1996:158)

THE CHALLENGE(S) OF HISTORICAL INTERPRETATION: PEASANT SELF-DEFENSE AND

THE LEGACY OF THE ARMED CONFLICT

When years ago I enthusiastically endorsed Mallon’s approach to reconstruct political

histories from below (Mallon 1995), little did I know of the challenge(s) ahead,
methodologically and ethically. Given the contested nature of history-making, doing
research on the experiences of subaltern groups becomes more than an academic
enterprise. For this author at least, it becomes a moral obligation. Until the Peruvian
Truth and Reconciliation Commission (CVR) was established in 2001, the armed
conflict in general remained the interest of a few national and international academic
researchers, several NGOs (particularly those in the field of human rights) and at least
one public agency. The issue of peasant self-defense was pioneered by works of Del
Pino and Coronel in the early 1990s, followed by Degregori and Starn. Since the late
1990s, a number of new works have appeared illuminating several aspects of the
armed conflict.132 The CVR put the debate about the armed conflict on the national
political agenda, where contested views meet and contend. In this national debate,
whose voices are speaking louder, and whose are being neglected? And what are the
terms of engagement?
It is not surprising that former presidents, the armed forces and political parties
dominate the debate. The rare participation of CAD representatives is usually depicted
in the form of protests against accusations of human rights violations, as with the
improvised protest of peasant ronderos from the district of Quinua during the delivery
of the CVR Final Report in Ayacucho. Such an unrepresentative image provided by
national media of “militarized, semi-brutalized peasants from the Andes interested
only in clearing up their names” could not be farther from reality, yet it is one fed by

132
See for example the volume edited by Stern (1998), and various articles in Degregori (ed.) (2003),
and Wilson (ed.) (1999).

288
deep-rooted prejudice and discrimination against the peasant population. When the
official history of the internal armed conflict in Peru is written, what place will civil
defense committees have in the narrative? Will they have any place at all? In the
current post-CVR context, the contribution of political histories from below lies in
supporting and critically assessing the official history in the making.133
Both the re-construction of political history from below and the making of
official histories face a great challenge: How to formulate the past without letting the
present influence our view of it. This is an impossible task, particularly in relation to
issues or histories where there is a clear ‘winner’ and a clear ‘loser’, such as in armed
conflicts and war. In the case of Peru, where the state and its peasant allies could
declare both a political and military victory over the Shining Path guerrillas, the past
is being re-interpreted through the lens of this victory. Does it mean that “what really
happened” will never be known? Not necessarily; but it means that one needs to pay
even more attention to the dynamics and logic of the conflict, and to the temporal and
spatial differentiation of the processes under study. Contextualization becomes vital.
Work by the CVR has created great expectations in the areas affected by
violence, such as Tambo. There is great dissatisfaction concerning the slowness of the
implementation of the CVR recommendations, particularly the reparations program.
During my last visit to Tambo some of my informants speculated about the use of
their testimonies to the CVR: “Perhaps they themselves have taken the story and are
now claiming reparation?” Fortunately, such suspicion is not generalized, but it gives
an indication of the disillusion with the truth-telling effort. Other informants
commented that they were better off with Fujimori: “Then there were obras [works],
today the state has forgotten us.” This informant was partly right: the state has
forgotten the CADs. As the CVR report states, self-defense committees “are an uneasy
issue for everyone.” (Vol. II, p. 449) I disagree with this statement, because it implies
that “everyone” is actually thinking about it, when the opposite has been the case.
The state’s attitude towards the CADs since 2000 has been more one of
indifference than rejection, as if they were to disappear by themselves with the passing
of time. In many rural communities across Peru this has indeed been the case. Yet in
Tambo, as in the eastern rainforests and in Huanta, they continue to operate as part of
the community organization. District and provincial CAD networks still function, now

133
Works on this line have been advanced by authors such as Coronel, Degregori, Del Pino, Fumerton,
and Theidon.

289
independent of the military. Ronderos in these networks argue for a continuation of
self-defense organizations on the basis of future dangers: it is better to be prepared for
potential attacks, instead of falling prey to guerrillas as they did in the 1980s. Is this
sense of danger real?
As I mentioned in Chapter Nine, a number of Shining Path attacks occurred in
2003; and it is known that a few guerrilla cells are still operative in the rainforests of
Ayacucho. Some have “visited” the northeastern communities of Tambo. CAD
representatives in Tambo, and others with them, argue that their existence is
recognized by law (DS 077), and that they have the right to continue their operations.
Some analysts suggest transforming self-defense committees into some form of rural
police, and point to the transitory nature of the organization indicated in DS 077.
However, the government has not taken a stand on the issue. CAD critics, on their
part, point to the dangers of militarization in the countryside and the handling of
weapons by civilians; the first has yet to be seen, the second ignores the poor quality
and relatively low number of weapons possessed by self-defense organizations. After
all, we are not in the presence of anything like the paramilitary groups in Colombia or
the former PACs of Guatemala. At issue is the role of civilians and irregular forces in
armed conflict (now post-conflict); this was discussed earlier. No one seems to
remember, however, that armed conflict and peasant self-defense are deeply engraved
in the personal histories and identities of Andean peasants; this memory cannot be
erased.
Potential links between self-defense committees and drug-trafficking have
been speculated on. I believe these to be exaggerated, but should be taken seriously. In
2003, CAD representatives were discussing the consequences of coca-leaf eradication
programs in the eastern rainforests. The argument was that this is an integral part of
peasants’ income (ref. Chapter Four), and that the implementation of such eradication
programs should be rejected. A call for a joint effort in defense of coca-leaf
production was made by the regional representatives. It is difficult to ascertain the
influence of drug-trafficking in such argumentation. In the 1980s, civil defense
committees in the Apurímac river valley invested their coca-based income in fighting
the Shining Path (Del Pino 1996). Would they use this income now to fight the state? I
doubt it. Were this to happen, it would most certainly overshadow all past contribution
made by peasant self-defense organizations; such a development would be a gift to
CAD critics.

290
 In the current post-CVR context, the debate about the follow-up of the CVR
recommendations centers on the judicial processing of perpetrators of human rights
violations, and the establishment of a reparations program. In Chapter Eleven, I
argued for the need to differentiate between recognition of contribution from
recognition of suffering/violation. As discussed earlier, rondero demands for
compensation are not based on their particular suffering, but on their participation in
achieving victory over the Shining Path. This participation is the basis for peasant
citizenship.
In ethical terms, armed conflicts and wars have no winners; we all are losers.
In historical and political terms this is not the case. The problem with internal armed
conflicts such as the one in Peru, where the struggle for the countryside was carried
out by peasant self-defense organizations, is that it is very hard to identify particular
events and heroes; there are no clear battles led by identified army generals neatly
kept in the military record. What we are left with is the memory of the conflict and the
struggle, and, in a few instances, written records of self-defense. There is no way
around the fact that human rights were violated also by self-defense organizations, and
those responsible should be made accountable. Similarly, there is no getting around
the fact that without peasant self-defense, the victory over the Shining Path could not
have been achieved. It is precisely because this contribution to community and nation
originated from such a subaltern group as Andean peasants that it is in danger of being
neglected. I hope that this dissertation will help to ensure the recollection of the high
price peasants have to pay to become citizens in their own country.

291
(Del Pino 1992)(Coronel and Loayza 1992).
Bartra (1987), (Bartra 1987)
Burneo and Eyde (1986) (Burneo and Eyde 1986)
Guardino, (1996), (Guardino 1996)
Knight (1986), (Knight 1986)
Gilbert and Nugent (eds) (1994). (Joseph and Nugent 1994)
Bonilla (1978), (Bonilla 1978)
Burga and Galindo (1981), (Burga and Flores Galindo 1981)
Mallon (1983), (Mallon 1995)
Manrique (1987), (Manrique 1987)
Nugent (1997), (Nugent 1997)
Thurner (1997). (Thurner 1997)
Evans et al. (1985) (Evans, Rueschemeyer et al. 1985)
Stepan (1978), (Stepan 1978)
Bates (1982), (Bates 1982)
Wade (1990) (Wade 1990)
Brewer and Styles (1980) (Brewer and Styles 1980)
Herrup (1987), (Herrup 1987)
Degregori and andreas 1991 (Degregori, Andreas et al. 1991)
Fumerton 2001 (Fumerton 2001)
Poole and Rénique 1991 (Poole and Renique 1991)
Starn 1995; (Starn 1995; Starn 1995; Starn, Degregori et al. 1995)
Strong 1992. (Strong 1992)
Fumerton 2001, 2002; (Fumerton 2001)
Starn 1995, 1996; (Starn 1996)
Portocarrero 1991.(Portocarrero 1991)
Lowenthal 1975, (Lowenthal 1976)
McClintock et al. 1983, (McClintock and Lowenthal 1983)
Matos Mar 1980, (Matos Mar 1980)
Cotler 1986, (Cotler 1986)
Kruijt 1994. (Kruijt 1994)
Stepputat (Stepputat 2004)
Stern (1998), (Stern 1998)
Wilson (1999). (Wilson 1999)
Del Pino 1998 (Del Pino 1998)
García-Godos (1996). (García-Godos 1996)
Giddens 1982, 1987; (Giddens 1982) (Giddens 1987)
Therborn 1977; (Therborn 1977)
Turner 1986 (Turner 1986)
Poole 1995, 1997, (Poole 1995; Poole 1997)
Howard-Malverde 1997; (Howard-Malverde 1997)
Nugent 1994, 1995, 1997; (Nugent 1994; Nugent 1995)
Starn 1999; (Starn 1999)
De la Cadena 2000; (De la Cadena 2000)
Smith 1989; (Smith 1989)
Larson & Harris 1995; (Larson, Harris et al. 1995)
Seligman 1995; (Seligman 1995)Urban and Sherzer 1991 (Urban and Sherzer 1991)
Carol Smith1990 (Smith 1990)
Carol Smith 1990 (Smith 1990)
SHIMIZU (SHIMIZU, VALENCIA ET AL. 2003)
GITLITZ AND ROJAS (GITLITZ AND ROJAS 1983)
Degregori, Coronel and Del Pino (1999) (Degregori, Coronel et al. 1999)
Block, Anton (Blok 1974)

292
REFERENCES

A.D.L.P (1840). Ministerio de Hacienda: 10 Enero 1840. Exonerando del pago de

contribución al distrito de Tambo por un mes. Legislación del siglo XIX en el Perú.

Agger, B. (1991). "Critical Theory, Poststructuralism, Postmodernism: Their Sociological

Relevance." Annual Review of Sociology 17: 105-131.

Alber, E. (1999). Migración ó Movilidad en Huayopampa. Nuevos temas y tendencias en la

discusión sobre la comunidad campesina en los Andes. Lima, Instituto de Estudios
Peruanos.

Albó, X. (1987). From MNRistas to Kataristas to Katari. Resistance, rebellion, and

consciousness in the Andean peasant world - 18th to 20th centuries. S. J. Stern.
Madison, Wisconsin University Press.

Álvarez, E. (1999). Efectos económicos del sector ilícito de drogas en el Perú. El Perú de
Fujimori: 1990-1998. J. Crabtree and J. Thomas. Lima, Universidad del Pacífico e
Instituto de Estudios Peruanos: 181-215.

Anderson, B. (1983). Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of

Nationalism. London, Verso.

Antesana, J. and J. García-Godos (1999). El Estado y la Autodefensa Campesina. Deuda

Social y Reinvindicación de la Lucha Contrasubversiva, Comités Distritales de
Autodefensa de Tambo y Santillana.

Antze, P. and M. Lambek (1996). Introduction: Forecasting Memory. Tense Past. Cultural
Essays in Trauma and Memory. P. Antze and M. Lambek. New York and London,
Routledge.

APOYO (1997). Perú - Agenda Social 1990-2000. Lima.

Assadourian, C. S. (1982). El Sistema de la Economía Colonial: Mercado interno, regiones y

espacio econónomico. Lima, Instituto de Estudios Peruanos.

Auyero, J. (2001). Poor People's Politics: Peronist Survival Networks and the Legacy of Evita.
Durham and London, Duke University Press.

Baillet, C. (2002). Between Conflict & Consensus: Conciliating Land Reform in Guatemala.
Doctoral Dissertation. Faculty of Law, University of Oslo. Oslo.

Bartra, R. (1987). La Jaula de la Melancolía: Identidad y metamorfosis del mexicano. Ciudad

de Mexico, Grijalbo.

Bates, R. H. (1982). Markets and States in Tropical Africa. Berkeley, University of California
Press.

Blok, A. (1974). The Mafia of a Sicilian Village, 19860-1960. A Study of Violent Peasant
Entrepreneurs, Harper & Row.

Bloland, H. G. (1995). "Postmodernism and higher education." The Journal of Higher

Education 66(5): 521-559.

293
Blom Hansen, T. and F. Stepputat (2001). Introduction. States of Imagination. States of
Imagination. Ethnographic Explorations of the Postcolonial State. T. B. Hansen and F.
Stepputat. Durham, Duke University Press.

Bonilla, H. (1978). "The War of the Pacific and the National and Colonial Problem in Peru."
Past and Present Nov.: 92-118.

Brading, D., Ed. (1980). Caudillo and Peasant in the Mexican Revolution. Cambridge and
New York, Cambridge University Press.

Brewer, J. and J. Styles, Eds. (1980). An Ungovernable People. New Brunswick, NJ, Rutgers
University Press.

Burga, M. and A. Flores Galindo (1981). Apogeo y Crisis de la República Aristocrática. Lima,
Rikchay Peru.

Burneo, J. and M. Eyde (1986). Ronda Campesina y Defensa Civil. Cuadro Comparativo.
Lima, Servicios Educativos Rurales.

CEPS (1999). Diagnóstico Socioeconómico de las Comunidades Campesinas del Distrito de

Tambo, Provincia de La Mar - Departamento de Ayacucho. Lima, CEPS.

Centeno, M. A. (2003). Limited Wars and Limited States. Irregular Armed Forces and their
Role in Politics and State Formation. D. E. Davis and A. W. Pereira. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.

Contreras, C. and M. Cueto (1999). Historia del Perú Contemporáneo. Lima, Red para el
Desarrollo de las Ciencias Sociales en el Perú.

Coronel, J. (1999). Balance del proceso de desplazamiento por violencia política en el Perú,
1980-1997. Perú: El Problema Agrario en Debate. SEPIA VII. V. Ágreda, A. Diez
and M. Glave. Lima, SEPIA.

Coronel, J. and C. Loayza (1992). Violencia política: Formas de respuesta comunera en

Ayacucho. Perú: El problema agrario en debate / SEPIA IV. C. I. Degregori, J.
Escobal and B. Marticorena. Lima, SEPIA.

Cotler, J. (1986). Military Interventions and 'Transfer of Power to Civilians' in Peru.

Transitions from Authoritarian Rule: Latin America. G. O'Donnell, P. Schmitter and
L. Whitehead. Baltimore, John Hopkins University.

Crabtree, J. (2001). "The Collapse of Fujimorismo: Authoritarianism and its Limits." Bulletin
of Latin American Research 20(3): 287-303.

Crabtree, J. and J. Thomas, Eds. (1999). El Perú de Fujimori. Lima, Universidad del Pacífico
& IEP.

Creswell, J. W. (1998). Qualitative Inquiry and Research Design. Choosing Among Five
Traditions. Thousand Oaks, Sage.

CVR (2003). Informe Final de la Comisión de la Verdad y la Reconciliación. Lima.

CVR website: http://www.cverdad.org.pe/

De la Cadena, M. (2000). Indigenous Mestizos. The Politics of Race and Culture in Cuzco,
Peru, 1919-1991. Durham, Duke University Press.

294
Defensoría del Pueblo (2002). Compendio de Legislación para las Víctimas del Terrorismo.
Lima, Defensoría del Pueblo.

Degregori, C. I. (1985). Sendero Luminoso: I. Los hondos y mortales desencuentros. II. Lucha
armada y utopía autoritaria. Documentos de Trabajo 4 y 6, Lima, IEP.

Degregori, C. I. (1990). Ayacucho 1969-1979: El Surgimiento de Sendero Luminoso. Lima,

IEP.

Degregori, C. I. (1991). "How Difficult It Is To Be God. Ideology and political violence in

Sendero Luminoso." Critique of Anthropology 11(3): 233-250.

Degregori, C. I. (1991). Jóvenes y campesinos ante la violencia política: Ayacucho 1980-

1983. Poder y Violencia en los Andes. H. Urbano. Cuzco, Centro de Estudios
Regionales Andinos Bartolomé de Las Casas.

Degregori, C. I. (1992). Campesinado andino y violencia: Balance de una década de estudios.

Perú: El problema agrario en debate / SEPIA IV. C. I. Degregori, J. Escobal and B.
Marticorena. Lima, SEPIA.

Degregori, C. I. (1996). Cosechando tempestades: Las rondas campesinas y la derrota de

Sendero Luminoso en Ayacucho. Las Rondas Campesinas y la Derrota de Sendero
Luminoso. C. I. Degregori, J. Coronel, P. Del Pino and O. Starn. Lima, Instituto de
Estudios Peruanos.

Degregori, C. I., C. Andreas, et al. (1991). "Fatal Attraction. Peru's Shining Path." NACLA
Report on the Americas XXIV(4): 9-39.

Degregori, C. I., J. Coronel, et al. (1999). Gobierno, Ciudadanía y Democracia: una

perspectiva regional. El Perú de Fujimori. J. Crabtree and J. Thomas. Lima,
Universidad del Pacífico & Instituto de Estudios Peruanos.

Del Pino, P. (1992). Los campesinos en la guerra. O de como la gente comienza a ponerce
macho. Perú: El problema agrario en debate / SEPIA IV. C. I. Degregori, J. Escobal
and B. Marticorena. Lima, SEPIA.

Del Pino, P. (1996). Tiempos de Guerra y de Dioses: Ronderos, evángelicos y senderistas en

el valle del Río Apurímac. Las Rondas Campesinas y la Derrota de Sendero
Luminoso. C. I. Degregori, J. Coronel, P. Del Pino and O. Starn. Lima, Instituto de
Estudios Peruanos: 117-188.

Del Pino, P. (1998). Family, Culture and "Revolution": Everday Life with Sendero Luminoso.
Shining and Other Paths.War and Society in Peru, 1980-1995. S. J. Stern. Durham,
Duke University Press.

Del Pino, P. (2001). Evaluación de los Procesos de Retorno de Comunidades Desplazadas por
la Violencia Política. Informe Final. Lima, PAR.

Del Pino, P. (2003). Uchuraccay: Memoria y representación de la violencia política en los

Andes. Jamás tan cerca arremetió lo lejos. Memoria y violencia política en el Perú. C.
I. Degregori. Lima, IEP.

Eckstein, S. E. and T. P. Wickham-Crowley (2003). Struggles for Justice in Latin America.

What Justice? Whose Justice? Fighting for Fairness in Latin America. S. E. Eckstein
and T. P. Wickham-Crowley. Berkeley and Los Angeles, University of California
Press.

295
Evans, P., D. Rueschemeyer, et al., Eds. (1985). Bringing the State Back In. Cambridge,
Cambridge University Press.

Falla, R. (1992). Masacres de la Selva: Ixcan, Guatemala, 1975-1982. Guatemala, Universidad

de San Carlos de Guatemala.

Fals Borda, O. (1992). Social Movements and Political Power in Latin America. The Making
of Social Movements in Latin America. Identity, Strategy and Democracy. A. Escobar
and S. E. Alvarez. Boulder, Westview Press.

Foucault, M. (1980). Power/Knowledge.

Francke, P. (2001a). La Experiencia del PAR. Lecciones para Redefinir la Estrategia de

Intervención Estatal en Poblaciones Afectadas por la Violencia Política. Lima, PAR.

Francke, P. (2001b). Políticas sociales: Balance y propuestas. Documentos de Trabajo.

Departamento de Economía, Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú. Lima.

FONCODES website: http://www.foncodes.gob.pe/

Fumerton, M. (2001). "Rondas Campesinas in the Peruvian Civil War: Peasant Self-defense
Organisations in Ayacucho." Bulletin of Latin American Research 20(4): 470-497.

Fumerton, M. (2002). From Victims to Heroes. Peasant counter-rebellion and Civil War in
Ayacucho, Peru, 1980-2000. Amsterdam, Rozenberg.

Galdo, V. (1992). Ayacucho: Conflicto y Pobreza. Historia regional (siglos XVI-XIX).

Ayacucho, Universidad Nacional San Cristóbal de Huamanga.

García-Godos, J. (1996). Defending Ourselves, Asserting Our Rights: The rondas campesinas
of Cutervo, in the Peruvian Andes. Department of Human Geography. Oslo,
University of Oslo: 153.

García-Godos, J. (1998). The Production of Knowledge about Culture and Society: The Case
of "Andean Studies". Essay. Oslo.

Giddens, A. (1982). Profiles and Citiques ans Social Theory. London, Macmillan.

Giddens, A. (1987). A Contemporary Critique of Historical Materialism. Vol 2: Nation-State

and Violence. Berkeley, CA, University of California Press.

Gitlitz, J. and T. Rojas (1983). "Peasant Vigilante Committees in Northern Peru." Journal of
Latin American Studies 15(1): 163-97.

Gorriti, G. (1999). The Shining Path. A History of the Millenarian War in Peru. Chapel Hill
and London, University of North Carolina Press.

Green, L. (1995). Living in a State of Fear. Fieldwork under Fire. Contemporary Studies of
Violence and Survival. C. Nordstrom and A. Robben. Berkeley, University of
California Press.

Guardino, P. (1996). Peasants, Politics and the Formation of Mexico's National State.
Guerrero, 1800-1857. Stanford, CA, Stanford University Press.

Hammond, L. C. (2004). This Place Will Become Home. Ithaca and London, Cornell
University Press.

296
Herrup, C. (1987). The Common Peace. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

Howard-Malverde, R., Ed. (1997). Creating Context in Andean Cultures. Oxford, Oxford
University Press.

Huber, L., Ed. (2003). Ayacucho. Centralismo y Desentralización. Lima, Instituto de Estudios
Peruanos.

Husson, P. (1992). De la Guerra a la Rebelion (Huanta, siglo XIX). Cuzco, Centro de Estudios
Regionales Andinos Bartolomé de Las Casas & IFEA.

INEI website: http://www.inei.gob.pe/

Jelin, E. (2003). Memorias y Luchas Políticas. Jamás tan cerca arremetió lo lejos. Memoria y
violencia política en el Perú. C. I. Degregori. Lima, Instituto de Estudios Peruanos.

Joseph, G. M. and D. Nugent, Eds. (1994). Everday Forms of State Formation. Durham, Duke
University Press.

Kapsoli, W. (1977). Los Movimientos Campesinos en el Perú. Lima, Ediciones Atusparia.

Kirk, R. (1991). The Decade of Chaqwa: Peru's internal refugees. Washington DC, U.S:
Committee for Refugees.

Kirmayer, L. J. (1996). Landscapes of Memory: Trauma, Narrative, and Dissociation. Tense

Past. Cultural Essays in Trauma and Memory. P. Antze and M. Lambek. New York
and London, Routledge.

Knight, A. (1986). The Mexican Revolution (2 vols). Cambridge and New York, Cambridge
University Press.

Kohli, A. and V. Shue (1994). State power and social forces: on political contention and
accommodation in the Third World. State and Power and Social Forces. Domination
and Transformation in the Third World. J. S. Migdal, A. Kohli and V. Shue.
Cambridge, UK, Cambridge University Press: 293-326.

Korn, D. A. (1999). Exodus within Borders: An Introduction to the Crisis of Internal

Displacement. Washington, D.C., Brookings Institution Press.

Kruijt, D. (1994). Revolution by Decree. Amsterdam, Thela Publishers.

La-República (2003). Piden indemnizar a ronderos desde 1984. La República. Lima, 11

agosto.

Larson, B. (1995). Andean Communities, Political Cultures, and Markets: The Changing
Contours of a Field. Ethnicity, Markets and Migration in the Andes. At the Crossroads
of History and Anthropology. B. Larson, O. Harris and E. Tandeter. Durham and
London, Duke University Press: 5-53.

Larson, B., O. Harris, et al., Eds. (1995). Ethnicity, Markets and Migration in the Andes. At
the Crossroads of History and Anthropology. . and London,. Durham and London,
Duke University Press.

Lazar, S. (2004). "Personalist Politics, Clientelism and Citizenship: Local Elections in El Alto,
Bolivia." Bulletin of Latin American Research 23(2): 228-243.

297
Lowenthal, A., Ed. (1976). The Peruvian Experiment. Continuity and Change under Military
Rule. Princeton, Princeton University Press.

Mallon, F. E. (1994). "The Promise and Dilemma of Subaltern Studies: Perspectives from
Latin America." The American Historical Review 99(5): 1491-1515.

Mallon, F. E. (1995). Peasant and Nation. The Making of Postcolonial Mexico and Peru.
Berkeley, University of California Press.

Manrique, N. (1987). Mercado Interno y Región: La sierra central, 1820-1930. Lima, DESCO.

Marshall, T. H. (1964). Citizenship and Social Class. Class, Citizenship, and Social
Development. T. H. Marshall. New York, Doubleday.

Matos Mar, J. M. M. (1980). La Reforma Agraria en el Perú. Lima, Instituto de Estudios

Peruanos.

McClintock, C. and A. Lowenthal, Eds. (1983). The Peruvian Experiment Reconsidered.

Princeton, Princeton University Press.

MEF (1995). Estabilización, reformas economicas y programas sociales en el Perú. Lima,

Ministerio de Economía y Finanzas.

Méndez, C. (1991). Los campesinos, la independencia y la iniciación de la República. El caso

de los iquichanos realistas: Ayacucho 1825-1828. Poder y Violencia en los Andes. H.
Urbano. Cuzco, Centro de Estudios Regionales Andinos Bartolomé de Las Casas.

Méndez, C. (2001). "The Power of Naming, or the Construction of Ethnic and National
Identities in Peru: Myth, History, and the Iquichanos." Past and Present 171(May):
127-160.

Merry, S. E. (1997). Legal Pluralism and Transnational Culture: The Ka Ho'okolokolonui

Kanaka Maoli Tribunal, Hawai'i, 1993. Human rights, Culture and Context:
Anthropological Perspectives. R. Wilson. London, Pluto Press.

Ministerio de Transportes y Comunicaciones website:

http://www.mtc.gob.pe/portal/itramites.htm

Mische, A. (1996). Projecting Democracy: The Formation of Citizenship across Yout

Networks in Brazil. Citizenship, Identity and Social History. C. Tilly. Cambridge,
Cambridge University Press. International Review of Social History. Supplement
3.

Nugent, D. (1994). "Building the State, Making the Nation: The Bases and Limits of State
Centralization in "Modern" Peru." American Anthropologist 96(2): 333-369.

Nugent, D. (1995). Structuring the Consciousness of Resistance: State Power, Regional

Conflict, and Political Culture in Contemporary Peru. Articulating Hidden Histories:
Exploring the Influence of Eric R. Wolf. J. Schneider and R. Rapp. Berkeley,
University of California Press.

Nugent, D. (1997). Modernity at the Edge of Empire. State, Individual and Nation in the
Northern Peruvian Andes, 1885-1935. Stanford, CA, Stanford University Press.

Nugent, D. (1998). "The Morality of Modernity and the Travails of Tradition." Critique of
Anthropology 18(1):7-33.

298
Nugent, D. (2001). Before History and Prior to Politics: Time, Space and Territory in the
Modern Peruvian Nation-Sate. States of Imagination. Ethnographic Explorations of
the Postcolonial State. T. Blom Hansen and F. Stepputat. Durham, Duke University
Press.

OCHA (1999). Guiding Principles on Internal Displacement.

Ortner, S. (1995). "Resistance and the Problem of Ethnographic Refusal." Comparative

Studies in Society and History 37(1):173-193.

PAR website: http://www.mimdes.gob.pe/par/index.htm

PCM/CIAS (2002). Bases para la Estrategia de Superación de la Pobreza y Oportunidades

Económicas para los Pobres. Lima, Presidencia del Consejo de Ministros, Comisión
Interministerial de Asuntos Sociales, Secretaría Técnica.

PETT (2003). Directorio de Comunidades Campesinas Reconocidad y Tituladas. Ayacucho,

Ministerio de Agricultura, Dirección General Agraria Ayacucho.

Pachano, S., Ed. (2003). Ciudadanía e Identidad. Quito, FLACSO.

Poole, D., Ed. (1995). Unruly order. Violence, power, and cultural identity in the high
provinces of southern Peru. Boulder, Westview Press.

Poole, D. (1997). Vision, Race and Modernity. Princeton, Princeton University Press.

Poole, D. and G. Renique (1991). "The New Chroniclers of Peru: US Scholars and their
'Shining Path' of Peasant Rebellion." Bulletin of Latin American Research 10(2): 133-
191.

Poole, D. and G. Rénique (1992). Peru. Time of Fear. London, Latin America Bureau.

Portocarrero, G. (1991). Coyuntura social e imaginario popular: Los sacaojos. Poder y

Violencia en los Andes. H. Urbano. Cuzco, Centro de Estudios Regionales Andinos
Bartolomé de Las Casas.

PromPerú website: http://www.peru.info/peru.asp

Pærregaard, K. (1997). Linking Separate Worlds. Urban migrants and rural lives in Peru.
Oxford and New York, Berg.

Roseberry, W. (1994). Hegemony and the Language of Contention. Everday Forms of State
Formation. Joseph, G. M. and D. Nugent, Eds. Durham, Duke University Press.

Rostworowski, M. (1988). Historia del Tahuantinsuyu. Lima, Instituto de Estudios Peruanos.

Rueschemeyer, D., E. H. Stephens, et al., Eds. (1992). Capitalist Development and

Democracy. Chicago, University of Chicago Press.

Salomon, F. (1982). "Andean ethnology in the 1970s. A restrospective." Latin American

Research Review XVII(2): 75-128.

Salomon, F. (1985). "The historical development of Andean ethnology." Mountain Research

and Development 5(1): 79-98.

299
Sánchez-Garzoli, G. (2003). The Guiding Principles on Internal Displacement: Their Use and
Application in the Americas. International Seminar: Experiences of Displaced
Populations in Colombia, Guatemala, El Salvador and Peru. March 26-27, Lima,
Peru.

Sayer, D. (1994). Everyday Forms of State Formation: Some Dissident Remarks on

"Hegemony". Everday Forms of State Formation. Joseph, G. M. and D. Nugent, Eds.
Durham, Duke University Press.

Scheper-Hughes, N. (1995). "The Primacy of the Ethical: Propositions for a Militant

Anthropology." Current Anthropology 36(3): 409-440.

Scott, J. (1990). Domination and the Arts of Resistance. Hidden Transcripts. New Haven and
London, Yale University Press.

Seligman, L. J. (1995). Between Reform and Revolution. Political Struggles in the Peruvian
Andes, 1969-1991. Stanford, CA, California University Press.

SER (1993). Rondas, Leyes y Autonomía. Lima, Servicios Educativos Rurales.

Shimizu, T., A. Valencia, et al. (2003). El Desplazamiento y la Integración de la Economía

Rural al Mercado: Los Casos de Ayacucho, Perú. Chiba, IDE-JETRO.

Smith, C. A. (1990). Failed Nationalist Movements in Nineteenth-Century Guatemala: A

Parable for the Third World. Nationalist Ideologies and the Production of National
Cultures. R. G. Fox. Washington DC, American Anthropological Association.

Smith, C. A. (1990). Introduction: Social Relations in Guatemala over Time and Space.
Guatemalan Indians and the State: 1540-1988. C. A. Smith. Austin, University of
Texas Press.

Smith, G. (1989). Livelihood and Resistance. Peasants and the Politics of Land in Peru.
Berkeley, University of California Press.

Somers, M. R. (1993). "Citizenship and the Place of the Public Sphere: Law, Community, and
Political Culture in the Transition to Democracy." American Sociological Review
58(5): 587-620.

Somers, M. R. and G. D. Gibson (1994). Reclaiming the Epistemological "Other": Narrative

and the Social Constitution of Identity. Social Theory and the Politics of Identity. C.
Calhoun. Oxford, UK and Cambridge, USA, Blackwell.

Stake, R. (1995). The Art of Case Study Research. Thousand Oaks, CA, Sage.

Starn, O. (1991). "Missing the Revolution: Anthropologists and the War in Peru." Cultural
Anthropology 6(1): 63-91.

Starn, O. (1993). Hablan los Ronderos. La búsqueda por la paz en los Andes. Lima, Instituto
de Estudios Peruanos.

Starn, O. (1995). "Maoism in the Andes: The Communist Party of Peru-Shining Path and the
Refusal of History." Journal of Latin American Studies 27(2): 399-421.

Starn, O. (1995). "To Revolt against the Revolution: War and Resistance in Peru's Andes."
Cultural Anthropology 10(4): 547-580.

300
Starn, O. (1996). Senderos inesperados: Las rondas campesinas de la sierra sur central. Las
Rondas Campesinas y la Derrota de Sendero Luminoso. C. I. Degregori, J. Coronel, P.
Del Pino and O. Starn. Lima, Instituto de Estudios Peruanos.

Starn, O. (1999). Nightwatch. The Politics of Protest in the Andes. Durham, Duke University
Press.

Starn, O., C. I. Degregori, et al., Eds. (1995). The Peru Reader. History, Culture, Politics.
Durham and London, Duke University Press.

Stepan, A. (1978). The State and Society: Peru in Comparative Perspective. Princeton,
Princeton University Press.

Stepputat, F. (2001). Urbanizing the Countryside: Armed Conflict, State Formation, and the
Politics of Place in Contemporary Guatemala. States of Imagination. Ethnographic
Explorations of the Postcolonial State. T. Blom Hansen and F. Stepputat. Durham,
Duke University Press.

Stepputat, F. (2004). "Marching for Progress: Rituals of Citizenship, State and Belonging in a
High Andes District." Bulletin of Latin American Research 23(2): 244-259.

Stepputat, F. a. S., Ninna Nyberg (2001). "The rise and fall of the 'Internally Displaced
People' in the Central Peruvian Andes." Development and Change 32(4): 769-791.

Stern, S. J. (1982). Peru's Indian Peoples and the Challenge of Spanish Conquest - Huamanga
to 1640. Madison, Wisconsin University Press.

Stern, S. J. (1987). New approaches to the studdy of peasant reballion and consciousness:
Implications of the Andean experience. Resistance, rebellion, and consciousness in
the Andean peasant world - 18th to 20th centuries. S. J. Stern. Madison, Wisconsin
University Press.

Stern, S. J., Ed. (1998). Shining and Other Paths. War and Society in Peru, 1980-1995.
Durham and London, Duke University Press.

Strong, S. (1992). Sendero Luminoso. El Movimiento Subversivo Mas Letal del Mundo.
Lima, Peru Reporting.

Tanaka, M. (1998). Los Espejismos de la Democracia. El colapso del sistema de partidos en el

Perú. Lima, Instituto de Estudios Peruanos.

Tanaka, M. (1999). Del movimientismo a la media-política: cambios en las relaciones entre la

sociedad y la política en el Perú de Fujimori. El Perú de Fujimori. J. Crabtree and J.
Thomas. Lima, Universidad del Pacífico & IEP.

Tapia, C. (1997). Las Fuerzas Armadas y Sendero Luminoso. Dos estrategias y un final. Lima,
Instituto de Estudios Peruanos.

Taylor, L. and F. Wilson (2004). "The Messiness of Everyday Life: Exploring Key Themes in
Latin American Citizenship Studies. Introduction." Bulletin of Latin American
Research 23(2): 154-164.

Thagaard, T. (2002). Systematikk og Innlevelse. En innføring i kvalitativ metode. Oslo,

Fagbokforlaget.

Theidon, K. (2001). "Terror's Talk: Fieldwork and War." Dialectical Anthropology 26: 19-35.

301
Theidon, K. (2003). "Disarming the Subject: Remembering War and Imagining Citizenship in
Peru." Cultural Critique 54, no 1: 67-87.

Theidon, K. (2003). "La Micropolítica de la Reconciliación: Practicando la Justicia en

Comunidades Rurales Ayacuchanas." Revista Allpanchis 60(Número Especial sobre
Justicai Comunitaria en los Andes): 113-142.

Therborn, G. (1977). "The Rule of Capita and the Rise of Democracy." New Left
Review(103): 3-41.

Thurner, M. (1997). From Two Republics to One Divided. Contradictions of Postcolonial

Nationmaking in Andean Peru. Durham, Duke University Press.

Tilly, C. (1990). Coercion, Capital, and the European States, AD 990-1992. Cambridge,
Mass., Blackwell.

Tilly, C. (1996). Citizenship, Identity and Social History. Citizenship, Identity and Social
History. C. Tilly. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. International Review of
Social History. Supplement 3.

Tilly, C. (1996). The Emergence of Citizenship in France and Elsewhere. Citizenship, Identity
and Social History. C. Tilly. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. International
Review of Social History Supplement 3.

Turner, B. S. (1986). Citizenship and Capitalism. London, Allen and Unwin.

Turner, B. S. (1993). Outline of a Theory of Human Rights. Citizenship and Social Theory. B.
S. Turner. London, Sage Publications.

Urban, G. and J. Sherzer (1991). Nation-States and Indians in Latin America. Austin,
University of Texas Press.

Vásquez, E. (2002). La eficacia de los programas sociales frente a las demandas de los pobres
extremos. Los Desafíos de la Lucha Contra la Pobreza Extrema en el Peru. Enrique
Vásquez et al. Lima, Universidad del Pacífico.

Velazco, J. (2000). Pobreza y Política Públicas: El caso de las poblaciones rurales afectadas
por la violencia política en la sierra peruana. Manuscript. Lima.

Vílchez, A. (1961). Ensayo Monográfico de la Provincia de La Mar. Lima: Empresa Editorial

Rimac.

Wade, R. (1990). Governing the Market: Economic Theory and the Role of Government in
East Asian Industrialization. Princeton, Princeton University Press.

Wiig, H. (2005). Traditional Cooperation and Modernization in Peruvian Communities.

Department of Economics. Oslo, University of Oslo.

Wilson, F., Ed. (1999). Violencia y Espacio Social. Estudios sobre Conflicto y Recuperación.
Lima, Roskilde University and Universidad Nacional del Centro del Perú.

Wilson, R. (1997). Human rights, Culture and Context: An Introduction. Human rights,
Culture and Context: Anthropological Perspectives. R. Wilson. London, Pluto Press.

302
APPENDICES

APPENDIX I: List of main informants during fieldwork in Tambo, 1999

Pseudonyms are used only when directly referred to in the text of the dissertation.
Those interviewed also in 2003 are marked with (*).

• Former president CAD Ccarhuapampa: “Leoncio”

• Local authority, Ccarhuapampa
• Former president, Ccarhuapampa *
• Local authority, Huayao: “Guillermo” *
• Local authority Huayao: “Fernando”
• Former president CAD Huayao: “Marcos” *
• Former secretary CAD Huayao
• Former president CAD Huayao*
• Teacher, Huayao*
• Former commando & president CAD Tambo central committee *
• President CAD Tambo central committee, until mid-1999 *
• Member of CAD Tambo central committee
• President CAD Tambo central committee, since mid-1999 *
• Former CAD Tambo commando & head of Patrulla Especial *
• Former president of CAD Ccatupata: “Pablo” *
• Vice-president CC, Ccatupata *
• Local authority, Ccatupata
• Treasurer CC, Ccatupata
• President CC Ccatupata
• Acco, former CAD president: “Luis”
• Local authority, former CAD president, Vicos
• President CC Huisca
• Challhuamayo Baja President CC
• President CC Tanahuasi
• Local authority CC Patapata
• President CC Paccha
• Member of district council
• Teacher, former municipal candidate
• Mayor of Tambo *
• AC-AP municipal candidate

303
APPENDIX II: Database from the registries of the compensation rights issue collected in the District of Tambo in 1999:
Autonomous and mixed operations, including date, location, casualties by Shining Path and additional information.

Autonomous operations
Date Location CDC members Seized weapons People rescued Captures Dead guerrillas
Dead Injured
1984 dec. Huayao – Patapata Grenades 3
1984 dec. Silgueroccasa – Callejon mines
1984 dec. 20 Huayao – Yanaccocha 2 3
1984 dec.10 Huayao – Laracancha 1 2
1985 … Chalhuamayo - Razuhuilca 2 0
1985 feb. 12 Tinyas – Yanaorcco grenades, ammunition 1
1985 mar. Moya 1
1985 mar. Huito - Toccto 1
1985 mar. 10 Yantachicca
1985 mar. 28 Acco 2
1985 mar. 30 Pucahuacco 0 1 5
1986 may Huayao – Patapata 3 1
1987 may Chalhuamayo - Ccatupata 5 weapons 5
1987 nov. Toccto 1
1988 may 20 Churulla 2
1991 dec. Ccarhuacc 1
1991 dec. Choccetacce bombs, dynamite, grenades 5
1991 nov. 02 Ccarhuacc 1
1991 oct. Saccsamarca shotgun, others 3
1992 jan. 09 Razuhuilca 3 9
1992 jan. 26 Toccto – Apacheta 9
1992 feb. 20 Cceccra* 1 1 FAL, others 4
1992 mar. Cerro Avanzada
1992 nov. 26 Razuhuilca- Yuraccmachay 2 G3, shotgun, ammunition 3 17
1993 feb. 03 Yahuarccocha 3 8
Total: 25 operations 23 13 36 32
* Attack to CAD base, soldier support: 1 dead, 7 injured.

304
Mixed Operations
Date Location CDC members Seized weapons People rescued Captures Dead guerrillas
Dead Injured
1984 dec. 20 Ccarhuacc – Razuhuilca 35
1984 dec. 25 Huayao – Yanaccocha 1
1985 … Yanaorcco 2
1985 aug. 01 Vicos – Yanaorcco 3
1985 feb. 05 Moroccocha - Chamboyoc 3
1985 feb. 25 Razuhuilca - Atoshuaycco
1987(?) … Chalhuamayo - Yanaorcco 73
1987 … Chalhuamayo - Lima Lima 5
1987 aug. 03 Chupanhuilca - Carselhuyacco 1 1 1
1987 mar. 25 Moroccocha ammunition 2
1989 … Huito – Molinuyoc dynamite 2
1992 jan. 07 Ccarccacha 3 3
1992 feb. 14 Cceccra 1 1
1992 mar. Ccarapa* 1 others 23
1992 mar. 22 Razuhuilca - Ccarccacha 1 1
1994 feb. 05 Moroccocha 1
1998 feb. 21-23 Ccenamonte** various weapons 9
Total: 17 operations (including one in 1998) 41 4 1 95 40
(?) The year of this operation is unclear. It was originally recorded for 1987, although later some informants recall the same event occurring in 1985,
not in 1987. The original record is kept.
* Dead soldiers, 1 injured.
** 1 injured soldier.

305
APPENDIX III: Database from the registries of the compensation rights issue collected in the District of Tambo in 1999:
Confrontations and Incursions – incidents and casualties caused by Shining Path, by community and year, Tambo 1981-1994.
Confrontations 1983 1984 1985 1986 1987 1988 1989 1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 TOTAL
Comunity # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I
Acco 1 1 0 1 1 1 2 2 1
Barrio Qanansayoq 0 0 0
Barrio TupacAmaru 0 0 0
Ccarhuapampa 0 0 0
Ccatupata 0 0 0
Ccescce 0 0 0
Chalhuamayo Alta 1 1 3 1 1 3
Chalhuamayo Baja 0 0 0
Huayao 0 0 0
Huisca 1 1 1 1 0
Huito-Toccto 0 0 0
Mahuayura 1 4 1 1 4 1
Masinga 0 0 0
Millpo 0 0 0
Moya 0 0 0
Osno Bajo 0 0 0
Pampa Hermosa 1 2 0 1 2 0
Pariahuanca 0 0 0
Patapata 1 2 0 1 2 0
Qeqra 0 0 0
Santa Rosa 0 0 0
Tanahuasi 0 0 0
Tapuna 0 0 0
Tinyas 1 1 2 1 9 5 2 10 7
Vicos 0 0 0
Yantayanta 0 0 0
Yuraq Yacu 0 0 0
Total 0 0 0 3 4 5 3 11 5 2 6 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 9 22 12
#: Number of incidents D: Number of dead casualties I: Number of injured casualties

306
Incursions 1981-83 1984 1985 1986 1987 1988 1989 1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 TOTAL
Comunity # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I # D I
Cercado de
Tambo 1 1 0 1 0 1 1 1 0 3 2 1
Acco 2 2 0 3 4 0 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 0 8 9 0
Barrio
Qanansayo 1 3 0 1 3 0
Barrio Tupac
Amaru 1 1 1 1 1 1
Ccarhuapampa 1 5 0 3 6 0 2 9 1 1 2 0 1 27 3 1 4 1 1 3 0 10 56 5
Ccatupata 1 4 0 1 4 0
Ccescce 1 1 0 1 1 0
Chalhuamayo
Alta 1 3 0 1 3 0 2 6 0
Chalhuamayo
Baja 4 9 4 3 7 0 1 1 0 1 4 0 1 1 1 10 22 5
Huayao 1 1 0 2 12 4 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 2 0 1 48 9 7 65 13
Huisca 0 0 0
Huito-Toccto 0 0 0
Mahuayura 1 6 1 1 6 1
Masinga 1 1 0 1 1 0
Millpo 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 2 0 1 2 0 1 1 0 5 7 0
Moya 2 3 0 1 3 0 3 6 0
Osno Bajo 2 2 0 2 14 0 1 2 0 5 18 0
Pampa
Hermosa 0 0 0
Pariahuanca 2 2 0 2 2 0
Patapata 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 2 0 3 4 0
Qeqra 1 1 0 3 5 0 1 1 0 3 6 1 8 13 1
Santa Rosa 1 1 1 1 1 1
Tanahuasi 1 2 0 1 2 0
Tapuna 1 3 0 1 3 0
Tinyas 1 2 0 1 3 0 2 5 0
Vicos 2 2 0 2 8 4 1 1 0 1 2 1 1 8 2 7 21 7
Yantayanta 2 5 1 2 5 1
Yuraq Yacu 1 2 0 1 2 0
TOTAL 1 1 0 25 45 5 9 33 10 7 12 0 9 21 2 8 15 0 4 31 3 14 43 4 6 11 3 3 52 9 1 1 0 0 0 0 87 265 36
#: Number of incidents D: Number of dead casualties I: Number of injured casualties

307
APPENDIX IV: Overview of PAR Investment 1994-2000

INVERSIÓN PAR 1994-2000

Inversión global por toda fuente de financiamiento: US$ 74 millones orientados
principalmente a la lucha contra la pobreza. Esta suma representa el 10% de la demanda
existente, calculada en US$ 750 millones. (Translation: Total investment by all funding
sources: US$ 74 million directed mainly to combat poverty. This amount represents 10% of
the existing need, calculated in US$ 750 million.)

Source: PAR website; accessed October 2003.

308
ACRONYMS

AC-AP Alianza Campesina con Acción Popular

APRA Alianza Popular Revolucionaria Americana
CAD Comité de Autodefensa
CC Comunidad Campesina
CDC Comité de Defensa Civil
CEPRODEP Centro de Promoción y Desarrollo Poblacional
CODEAC Coordinadora de Desarrollo y Apoyo Comunal
CONDECOREP Coordinadora Nacional de Desplazados y Comunidades en
Reconstrucción del Perú
CVR Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación
DECAS Defensa Civil Anti-subversiva
DEVIDA Comisión Nacional para el Desarrollo y Vida Sin Drogas
DINCOTE Dirección Nacional contra el Terrorismo
FONCODES Fondo Nacional de Compesación y Desarrollo Social
INADE Instituto Nacional de DesarrolloNational Development Institute
INEI Instituto Nacional de Estadística e Informática
INFES Instituto Nacional de Infraestructura Educativa y de Salud
MENADES Mesa Nacional sobre Desplazamiento
NGO Non-governamental organization
PAR Programa de Apoyo al Repoblamiento y Desarrollo de Zonas de
Emergencia
PCM Presidencia del Concejo de Ministros
PCP SL Partido Comunista del Perú Sendero Luminoso
PETT Programa Especial de Titulación de Tierras
PROMUDEH Ministerio de Promoción de la Mujer y del Desarrollo Humano
PRONAA Programa Nacional de Asistencia Alimentaria
RENIEC Registro Nacional de Identificación y Estado Civil
SL Sendero Luminoso – the Shining Path
SP Somos Perú
UNDP Uniter Nations Development Programme
VRA Valle del Río Apurímac
VV Vamos Vecino

309