Blurred Lines?
To illustrate how some of these misconceptions may influence the work of
social scientists, I will briefly examine Gay Seidman's essay “Blurred
Lines: Nonviolence in South Africa” (PS: Political Science and
Politics, June 2000). This is not meant to be a personal attack
on the work of Seidman. She is a respected scholar who has published
path-breaking work on social movement unionism in Brazil and South
Africa (Seidman 1994). Moreover, we agree on
many points in her essay. We agree that the anti-apartheid struggle in
South Africa stands as a monument to the power of nonviolent action in
challenging systems of injustice, exploitation, and oppression. We agree
that social scientists must not glorify the use of nonviolent action in
the anti-apartheid movement, or in any other predominantly nonviolent
struggle. We agree that social scientists should develop historically
nuanced and empirically accurate analyses of predominantly nonviolent
struggles. Nevertheless, since more and more social scientists are
beginning to study nonviolence, and since Seidman's essay may be
representative of some of the general biases that social scientists
bring to the table when turning their attention to the study of
nonviolence, it is hoped that by offering a constructive criticism of
these misconceptions, biases in the social scientific analysis of
nonviolence can be attenuated.
Passive Resistance
Seidman uses the term “passive resistance” to describe nonviolent
action (Seidman 2000, 161). This is a
misnomer. There is nothing passive or evasive about nonviolent
resistance, as it is an active and overt means for prosecuting
conflicts with opponents. While Mohandas Gandhi at first used the
term ‘passive resistance,’ he subsequently rejected the term due to
its inaccurate connotations. Similarly, Martin Luther King rejected
the term ‘passive resistance’ and used words such as ‘aggressive,’
‘militant,’ ‘confrontational,’ and ‘coercive’ to describe his
campaigns of nonviolent action. The term ‘passive resistance’ has
not been used by activists or scholars of nonviolent action for
decades, yet social scientists continue to use the term when
addressing nonviolent action. Like Gandhi and King, social
scientists should abandon the term ‘passive resistance’ and use the
more accurate and precise term ‘nonviolent action.’ This is not a
mere semantic distinction, but rather is critical to the
understanding of nonviolent resistance.
Of course, there is a class of actions that do not involve violence
and tend to be passive: everyday forms of resistance. These actions
are informal, undeclared, disguised forms of resistance by oppressed
individuals that do not require formal coordination or organization
(Scott 1985; 1987). In empirical
instances of contention, there is likely to be transgression across
everyday forms of resistance and methods of nonviolent action. But
clearly, everyday forms of resistance should be distinguished from
nonviolent action, and ‘passive resistance’ should not be confused
with nonviolent action.
Coercive Mobilization
Seidman suggests that mass campaigns of non-cooperation that occur in
non-democratic contexts may involve an ‘inherent sociological logic
of coercion’ (Seidman 2000, 166). To
support this assertion, Seidman correctly notes that township
activists sometimes created a situation of fear in which people knew
that they could not ignore calls for mass mobilization without
risking physical harm or perhaps death. But is coercive behavior
embedded in the sociological logic of campaigns of mass mobilization
and disruption in nondemocracies, or is it something that varies
across campaigns and contexts?
First, there are numerous examples of mass mobilization into
campaigns of nonviolent action in non-democracies that did not
involve coercive behavior, which suggests that mass mobilization
does not involve an ‘inherent sociological logic of coercion.’ The
‘people power’ movement in the Philippines and the challenges to
communist rule in Eastern Europe come to mind as examples where mass
mobilization occurred without coercion. Second, evidence from the
very case examined by Seidman suggests that coercion was not
inherent to mass mobilization, but rather it was something that
varied, depending on the consensus within the community and the
extent to which there was knowledge about the campaign throughout
the community. With regard to consumer boycotts, for example, when
the political loyalties of a community were sharply divided or when
the campaigns were not adequately publicized, coercion was more
likely to be used to enforce the consumer boycotts. However, when
there was solidarity within the community and people were well aware
that a consumer boycott was to be implemented and how long it was
supposed to last, then coercion was less likely to occur. Third, the
use of coercion to promote participation in mass campaigns in South
Africa varied across the type of non-cooperation that was
implemented. While consumer boycotts sometimes involved coercion in
order to promote mass mobilization, mass participation in rent
boycotts in South Africa did not involve coercive mobilization
(Seekings 2000, 179). Thus social
scientists should attempt to identify the contextual factors that
influence whether or not coercive mass mobilization occurs, such as
the tactic being implemented, the solidarity of the community, and
whether or not members of the community know that a mass campaign
has been called for, rather than assuming that coercion is an
inherent component of mass mobilization into nonviolent campaigns in
non-democratic contexts.
‘Universalist’ Oppressors and Moral Conversion
Seidman maintains that, “… attempts to use passive resistance [i.e.,
nonviolent action] in South Africa demonstrate how deeply such
strategies rely on the oppressor's response—and illustrate the
limits of such a strategy when the oppressor rejects universalist
principles” (Seidman 2000, 161).
Furthermore, quoting Leo Kuper (1971),
Seidman suggests that for nonviolent action to succeed, it must
convert the views of the oppressors through extreme suffering (Seidman 2000, 162). A problem with these
assumptions is that they lead to post hoc explanations of
the outcomes of nonviolent struggles as a function of whether or not
the oppressor held ‘universalist’ views or whether or not the
oppressors were morally converted to the views of their opponents.
From this perspective, the characteristics of the challenge and the
dynamics of the interactions between challengers and the state
become superfluous to explanations of the outcome of the struggle
since the outcome is assumed to depend on the views of the
oppressors. But, is it possible, for example, that the nonviolent
campaign in South Africa in the 1950s failed and that the nonviolent
campaign in South Africa in the 1980s and 1990s succeeded in
contributing to political change due, at least in part, to the
characteristics of the challenges? The trajectories and outcomes of
challenges are determined by a variety of factors, some within and
some outside of the movement's control. But given the assumption
that the outcomes of nonviolent challenges depend on the views of
the oppressors and whether or not the oppressors are morally
converted to the views of the challengers, there is no reason to
examine movement characteristics such as organization and strategy
or even the broader political context such as international support
for the challenge or international pressure on the regime.
Regardless, South Africa was ruled by P. W. Botha and the
‘securocrat’ segment of the political elite for most of the
1980s—not exactly exemplars of universalist principles. Botha and
the securocrats implemented a ‘total strategy’ against perceived
enemies of the apartheid regime, and imposed two brutal states of
emergency within South Africa, the first from July 1985 to March
1986, and a second, more comprehensive one beginning in June 1986
(Price 1991). Botha was subsequently
replaced by F. W. De Klerk in 1989, but what was the likelihood that
the securocrat segment of the elite would have been dislodged at the
end of the 1980s by the ‘internationalist-reformers’ were it not for
sustained campaigns of nonviolent action? While elite divisions can
ultimately be traced back to longterm economic and political trends,
the proximate mechanism that exacerbated elite divisions and led to
the displacement of the securocrats was the antiapartheid challenge.
The dismantling of the apartheid state did not occur because
proponents of apartheid were converted to universalist principles,
it occurred because the anti-apartheid movement undermined the power
of the state (directly through strikes and noncooperation, and
indirectly by promoting capital flight and international sanctions),
diminished the government's capacity to control the political
situation, and made it clear that those who held racist (i.e.,
non-universalist) principles would not be able to hold office.
That is not to say that moral pressure was not operating in the
antiapartheid challenge, but it was not the only or the main type of
pressure; far more important than moral pressure was economic and
political pressure. Did white middle-class business people
desegregate their stores and pressure the state for political change
due to their sudden moral conversion to racial equality, or because
boycotts were driving them out of business? Did white capitalists
urge the government to reform because they were moved by the extreme
suffering of blacks engaged in nonviolent action, or because they
realized that endemic strikes and civil disobedience, along with
capital flight and international isolation, made economic growth
impossible? Seidman also refers to the struggle for national
liberation in India as a case where nonviolent action succeeded
because of the views of the oppressors (Seidman
2000, 161). In the case of the Indian independence
struggle, the attribution of ‘universalist’ views to the British is
questionable. British rulers hardly believed that Indians were their
equal. They viewed non-whites in a racist and exclusionary, rather
than in an universalist, manner. Seidman also suggests that
Britain's commitment to the Atlantic Charter contributed to the
success of the national liberation movement in India.4
Since Gandhi's campaign of nonviolent action
in India emerged in the 1920s and 1930s and the Atlantic
Charter was declared in 1941, it could be argued that the
national liberation movement in India was one of the factors
contributing to the declaration of the Atlantic Charter,
which contained a statement on the right of people to choose
their own form of government. By assuming that the Atlantic
Charter provided the opportunity for the Indian struggle to
succeed, without considering that the struggle in India and
in other colonies may have contributed to the formulation of
the Charter reflects a structural bias in the social
movement literature. That is, the study of how social
movements alter the political context and create
opportunities is woefully under-examined compared to the
study of how social movements respond to the
political context. See Goodwin and Jasper
1999.
But, if Britain was committed to
the Atlantic Charter, then why weren't they compelled to grant
independence to their other colonies in the 1940s as well?
A closer examination of the Indian struggle for national liberation
suggests that it worked because it made India ungovernable for the
British and it rendered Britain's military might useless. The Indian
struggle for national liberation succeeded, not because of the
humanitarian views of the British, but because the force of
nonviolent action undermined the power of British rule, showed that
Great Britain's rule in India was based on force rather than
legitimacy, reduced the justification for violent repression,
influenced reference publics in Great Britain, and illuminated the
futility of trying to violently repress a nationwide movement of
nonviolent action with military force (Dalton
1993; Sharp 1973). Claims that
the nonviolent struggle in India contributed to political change
because the British were soft, humanitarian, or universalist are
simply inaccurate.
Even if the British were less brutal or more universalist than the
‘typical’ oppressor, there are a number of historical cases where
nonviolent challenges worked against ruthless oppressors. Moreover,
nonviolent action worked not because the oppressor's views were
converted as a result of extreme suffering, but because it
undermined the oppressor's ability to rule and rendered their
repressive capacities ineffective. Nonviolent action, for example,
worked when it was implemented against the Nazis, undoubtedly one of
the most brutal regimes in recent history. Nonviolent protest
demonstrations by German wives against the imprisonment of their
Jewish husbands in Berlin led to their release. Nonviolent
resistance to Nazis in Norway, Finland, Denmark, the Netherlands,
Bulgaria, and Romania saved the lives of countless Jews. Nonviolent
resistance to Nazi occupation in Norway prevented the implementation
of a corporatist system. Non-cooperation in Denmark through tactics
such as work slowdowns and strikes severely hindered the German
effort to extract resources and exert control over the country.5
Generally, the Nazi military
machine was dumbfounded in the face of widespread nonviolent
resistance. B. H. Liddell Hart, a British military strategist who
interrogated Nazi generals after the war, found that “they were
experts in violence, and had been trained to deal with opponents who
used that method. But other forms of resistance baffled them … It
was a relief to them when resistance became violent, and when
non-violent forms were mixed with guerrilla action, thus making it
easier to combine drastic suppressive action against both at the
same time” (
Liddell Hart 1968, 205).
More recently, of course, nonviolent action worked with unprecedented
effectiveness against communist regimes—regimes that although were
no longer Stalinist, could not be characterized as soft or embracing
of universalist principles. The nonviolent Solidarity movement in
Poland seriously challenged the communist regime well before
Gorbachev implemented reforms. In fact, the Solidarity movement made
it clear to the more enlightened segments of the Soviet political
elite, like Gorbachev, that reforms had to be implemented. The
success of the Solidarity movement subsequently set the stage for
successful nonviolent challenges throughout the Soviet sphere, from
East Germany to Mongolia. The Soviet Union itself disintegrated in
the face of predominantly nonviolent secessionist movements from the
Baltic states to Central Asia.6
Violent exceptions, of course, include the revolution in
Romania and the separatist movement in
Chechnya.
Moreover, in instances where violent action failed against
brutal oppressors lacking universalist views, nonviolent
action succeeded. The Shah of Iran did not hold
‘universalist’ beliefs and his regime was supported by a ruthless
military and internal security apparatus, SAVAK. Iran's two
underground armed guerrilla movements, the Fedayeen and the
Mujahhadin, were small and ineffective in challenging
the state. Their membership did not surpass 300 at their peak, and
they were infiltrated by the SAVAK. While there were armed battles
between military forces loyal to the Shah and soldiers who deserted
the regime immediately prior to the transfer of power, the Shah was
not toppled by an armed insurgency, but rather by an unarmed
insurrection whereby ordinary citizens engaged in nonviolent action,
such as protests demonstrations, strikes, boycotts, and civil
disobedience.7
See Shivers 1980; 1997. Also see Zunes
1994. Nonviolent action contributed to a
revolutionary outcome in Iran, which is defined
as a “transfer of state power from those who held it before
the start of multiple sovereignty to a new ruling coalition”
(Tilly 1993: 14). Of course,
the consolidation of the rule of the Ayatollahs
involved substantial violence and coercion.
Moral Logic
No assumptions that “nonviolent activists hold a higher moral ground”
or have the “sole proprietorship of the moral high ground” (Seidman 2000, 164) are necessary for
nonviolent action to work. The operation of nonviolent action does
not have to be based on any moral logic, hidden or otherwise. While
some major proponents of nonviolent action have been morally
committed to nonviolence, nonviolent action per se does not
require proponents or activists to be morally committed to
nonviolence, or hold any sort of ideological, religious, or
metaphysical beliefs.
Morality aside, there may be pragmatic reasons for
proponents of nonviolent action to encourage nonviolent discipline,
i.e., the strict adherence to nonviolent methods. While responding
to state violence with violence seems appropriate and justified to
most people, it permits the state, not the challenging group to
choose the means by which the conflict will be prosecuted. This
takes the comparative advantage away from the challengers and gives
it to the state, as the ability of governments to use violence
almost always exceeds the ability of challengers. In fact, violent
rebellion by challengers often strengthens regimes since it
justifies the government's use of violence in the name of ‘law and
order,’ ‘political stability,’ or a ‘stable business climate.’
Thus, nonviolent discipline is useful for very pragmatic reasons,
such as keeping the movement and reference publics focused on the
issues rather than on acts of violence, and attenuating fears that
reference publics may have about the challengers. The exposure of
state violence in contrast to the unarmed methods of the challengers
reveals that the state's rule is based on force, not legitimacy, and
this may lead to shifts in public and international opinion that
ultimately reshape the balance of power (Galtung
1989; Lakey 1973; Sharp 1973; Summy
1994). What is the likelihood that the United States
Congress, during the Cold War, would have passed sanctions against
South Africa if the challenge to apartheid occurred primarily
through an armed insurgency? What is the likelihood that American
churches and universities would have imposed sanctions and divested
if the challenge to apartheid was primarily armed and violent?
Sustained nonviolent resistance in the face of violent repression may
invoke a dynamic whereby the suppression of unarmed protesters
merely fuels the determination of the activists, catalyzes the
support of reference publics, and reduces the effectiveness of
further violent repression. This dynamic has been variously referred
to as “political jiu-jitsu,” the “paradox of repression,” and the
“critical dynamic.”8
According to
Sharp (1973), political
jiujitsu refers to the dynamic by which a sustained
nonviolent challenge in the face of repression highlights
the stark brutality of the regime, produces dissension
within the government, and mobilizes support for the
challengers among the general population, the regime's usual
supporters, and third parties that would not have occurred
during the course of a violent challenge. In effect, the use
of violent repression against persistent nonviolent
challenges rebounds against the states’ sources of strength.
This dynamic has been observed in a variety of empirical
contexts. According to Smithey and Kurtz
(1999), the paradox of repression refers
to the dynamic by which efforts to violently repress
nonviolent challenges backfires and leads to increased
support for the challengers, as occurred in the Soviet Bloc
between 1988 and 1991. According to McAdam (1999), the critical dynamic of
the civil rights movement in the American South in the 1950s
and 1960s was that the challengers broadened the conflict by
inducing local and state authorities to disrupt public order
by violently repressing the nonviolent challenge. The result
was third party intervention by the federal government, the
sustaining of activist commitment, the generation of public
sympathy, and the mobilization of financial
support.
In South Africa, the sustained campaign of
nonviolent action in the face of repression had the effect of
“eroding the state's capacity and will to govern through
repression…. In the meantime, the capacity and will of black South
Africans to reject their continued domination grew more quickly”
(
Marx 1992, 162). Significantly, this
dynamic has absolutely nothing to do with what assumptions the
proponents of nonviolent action hold about the ‘moral purity’ of
nonviolence. The dynamic may operate even when the proponents of
nonviolent action are as Machiavellian as the targets of their
dissent.
In South Africa, for example, numerous UDF-affiliated street and area
committees attempted to make a clear distinction between the
nonviolence and accountability of ‘people power’ and the
undisciplined violent action of ‘ultramilitant’ youth, and promoted
highly organized forms of contention that would not lead to
unnecessary violence. ‘People's courts’ were organized to maintain
order and justice within the townships and to promote nonviolent
discipline, as violence threatened the support that had been
cultivated among South Africa's churches, whites, and the
international community (Marx 1992; Price 1991; Seekings
2000). The calls for nonviolent discipline were not based
on principled nonviolent action; i.e., those calling for nonviolent
action were not concerned that violence would ‘sully’ their
struggle. The calls were based on pragmatic nonviolent action; i.e.,
the realization that they could generate greater pressure against
the state through methods of nonviolent action than through methods
of violence.
I suspect that some of the misconceptions that social scientists have
about nonviolent action are that nonviolent action is principled
nonviolence, or that those promoting nonviolent struggle adhere to
principled nonviolence. Scholars of nonviolent action, however, have
traditionally made clear distinctions between principled and
pragmatic nonviolent action. Those who practice principled
nonviolent action view nonviolence as a way of life and assume that
violence is inherently wrong. Those who practice pragmatic
nonviolent action view nonviolent action as efficacious or
convenient for attaining their goal in a given context, and do not
reject the possibility that violent action may be a practical means
for alleviating oppression under some conditions. Thus, methods of
nonviolent action are used without any objection to violence in
principle. Most campaigns of nonviolent action (including the
struggle in South Africa) are pragmatic rather than principled. Yet
when mainstream social scientists turn their attention to nonviolent
action they fail to distinguish between principled and pragmatic
nonviolence, or make (hidden?) assumptions that it is principled
nonviolent action. A more nuanced understanding of struggles
implementing nonviolent action must recognize the difference between
pragmatic and principled nonviolent action.
Blurred Vision?
Are the lines between violence and nonviolence blurred—in the case of
the anti-apartheid movement in South Africa—or in any other
challenge that involves nonviolent action? We can look at this from
two points of view: that of observers and that of parties to the
conflict. With regard to observers, Seidman writes “… a careful
observer of South Africa's anti-apartheid resistance will find it
difficult to draw bright lines between violent and nonviolent
strategies during the uprisings of the 1980s” (Seidman 2000, 165). I disagree. In fact, a careful
observer of the anti-apartheid movement—or any other
challenge—should be able to do just that: provide nominal and
operational definitions of violent and nonviolent action, apply them
to empirical cases, and differentiate between various forms of
contentious activities. There is a long and distinguished tradition
in the social sciences that does exactly this (e.g., Ackerman and Kruegler 1994; Gurr 1993; McAdam
1999; Taylor and Jodice 1983;
Tilly 1978). Clearly distinguishing
between various forms of contention is not a simplification of
history, it is a clarification of history. Of course, empirical
instances of political contention are rarely pure; i.e., they rarely
involve one and only one strategy of resistance. Instead they
transgress between institutional politics and non-institutional
politics, and they transgress between everyday forms of resistance,
nonviolent action, and violence. Nevertheless, conceptually
it is necessary for the careful observer to clearly distinguish
different types of resistance in order to better understand the
dynamics of contention.
From the point of view of the parties to the conflict Seidman writes,
“… it must also be recognized that, just as security police insisted
on blurring the line between different kinds of antiapartheid
resistance, most activists over the years viewed violent and
nonviolent strategies as more intertwined and complementary than
contradictory” (Seidman 2000, 165). Did
security forces respond to nonviolent challenges with force because
their vision was blurred, or because those giving the orders clearly
realized that nonviolent action represented a serious threat to the
interests of the regime? Referring to the intensified repression
imposed during a state of emergency, American theologian Walter
Wink, who was in South Africa in 1986, states “in an eloquent
tribute to the power of nonviolence, the government has decided, in
effect, to treat nonviolence as the equivalent of violence” (Wink 1987, 79).
Does this ‘blurred vision’ on the part of activists influence the
dynamics of nonviolent action? The literature on nonviolent action
suggests that nonviolent struggles can succeed regardless of the
views of the activists. Those who implement nonviolent action may
not even be aware that they are implementing a particular class of
methods. Wink interviewed participants in the anti-apartheid
movement in South Africa in 1986. He writes, “What we found most
surprising is that a great many of the people simply do not know how
to name their actual experiences with nonviolence” (Wink 1987, 4). When asked about methods of
nonviolent action, a common response of participants was “‘We tried
that [nonviolent action] for fifty years and it didn't work.
Sharpeville in 1960 proved to us that violence is the only way
left’” (Wink 1987, 4). Yet, when Wink
pressed them to identify the tactics that were most effective in
challenging the state over the past two years,
they
produced a remarkably long list of nonviolent actions: labor
strikes, slowdowns, sit-downs, stoppages, and stayaways; bus
boycotts, consumer boycotts, and school boycotts; funeral
demonstrations; noncooperation with government appointed
functionaries; non-payment of rent; violation of government
bans on peaceful meetings; defiance of segregation orders on
beaches and restaurants, theaters, and hotels; and the
shunning of black police and soldiers. This amounts to what
is probably the largest grassroots eruption of diverse
nonviolent strategies in a single struggle in human history!
Yet these students, and many others we interviewed, both
black and white, failed to identify these tactics as
nonviolent and even bridled at the word (Wink 1987, 4).
The point being that
those who implement methods of nonviolent action may not recognize
them as ‘methods of nonviolent action’ or they may believe that
violent methods and nonviolent methods are intertwined and
complementary. Nonviolent methods can work regardless of whether or
not activists make the sharp distinctions between violent and
nonviolent action that careful observers can.
9
As another example of the allegedly blurred lines between violence
and nonviolence, Seidman notes that the ANC helped to coordinate
mass protests in the 1980s and funneled resources to trade unions,
student groups, and civic associations (Seidman
2000, 165). But is this a reflection of the ANC's blurred
vision concerning violence and nonviolence, or is it an indication
that by the 1980s the ANC clearly perceived that nonviolent tactics
were more effective than violent ones in undermining state power and
that their time, energy, and resources would be better spent on
nonviolent action rather than guerrilla warfare?
As noted by Seidman, anti-apartheid activists drew on the songs,
symbols, and slogans of the ANC's armed struggle to construct
identities and promote solidarity and mobilization (Seidman 2000, 165). This included, for
example, the toyi-toyi, a dance imitating the physical
training of guerrilla insurgents, and the carrying of mock wooden
AK-47s. However, as suggested above, those who organize or
participate in nonviolent campaigns are not required to make any
moral pledges or renounce all things related to violence, and
adhering to the rhetoric of armed rebellion must not be confused
with implementing violent action. A toyi-toyi dancing, mock
AK-47 toting thug who marches in protest demonstrations and
participates in boycotts is engaging in acts of nonviolent
action.10
Smuts and Westcott (1991) correctly list
toyi-toyi dancing as one of the methods of
nonviolent action implemented by anti-apartheid
activists in their book, The Purple Shall Govern: A
South African A to Z of Nonviolent Action.
An avowed pacifist who gets caught up in the heat of the moment and
participates in the ‘necklacing’ of an alleged apartheid
collaborator is engaging in violent action. Rhetoric must be
distinguished from action.
11 When
George W. Bush announced air strikes against Afghanistan on
October 7, 2001, he proclaimed “We're a peaceful nation.”
Does his peaceful rhetoric make his actions less
violent?
In any challenge, activists draw on
existing cultures of resistance. The use of nonviolent action does
not require the creation of an entirely new culture of resistance—if
it were possible to do so—nor does it require activists to reject
all forms of violence. Whether or not ‘nonviolence’ is identified by
name as a method of struggle by activists, social scientists should
be able to differentiate nonviolent action from violent action.
Certainly social scientists are capable of distinguishing between
violent rhetoric and
nonviolent action.
Conclusion
Let me reiterate that the purpose of this essay is not to attack
Seidman's work, but to raise issues that social scientists should be
aware of when studying struggles that implement nonviolent action,
particularly in non-democratic contexts. Seidman is correct in
suggesting that proponents of nonviolent action—as well as those who
have traditionally studied nonviolent action (e.g., see Sørenson 1992)—need to be aware of their ‘hidden
assumptions.’ But social scientists need to be aware of the ‘hidden
assumptions’ and misconceptions about nonviolent action that may bias
their analyses as well.
Nor do I mean to marginalize or belittle the role of violence in the
antiapartheid struggle, but rather to help clarify thinking about the
role of nonviolent action. The anti-apartheid movement certainly had its
share of violence, including the necklacing of alleged regime
collaborators, instances of coercive mass mobilization, gun battles with
security forces, and the acts of sabotage by the ANC (not to mention the
brutal state violence and terrorism). Scholars will continue to study
and uncover information about the anti-apartheid movement. While we are
aware of the important symbolic role that the armed struggle played in
the mobilization of the challenge to apartheid, we still know little
about the underground networks, the roles of guerrillas, how the ANC
funneled resources to the unarmed urban insurrection, and how the threat
of violence influenced the calculations on both sides of the struggle
(but see the insightful work of Seekings 2000
and Seidman 2001). Nevertheless, those who
label as ‘revisionist’ studies of the anti-apartheid movement that
emphasize the role of nonviolent action most likely do so from a
position that has misconceptions about nonviolent action.
Empirically, political contention is transgressive and there are rarely
cases of purely nonviolent struggle, especially in non-democratic
contexts. Yet, this should not prevent social scientists from attempting
to disentangle and understand the impact of different strategies and
tactics of contention. Social scientists do not have to idealize
nonviolence or make the (faulty) assumption that the anti-apartheid
movement in South Africa followed a similar logic to the America civil
rights movement in order to analyze the crucial role of nonviolent
action in the toppling of apartheid. But they do have to understand what
nonviolent action is and how it operates.
In the end, the goals of Gay Seidman and myself are the same: the
dispassionate social scientific analysis of nonviolence. Seidman is
correct in pointing out that social scientists must clearly understand
the limits of nonviolent resistance. But social scientists must clearly
understand its potential as well. In doing so, the power of nonviolence
will not be glorified. Nor will it be underestimated.
