RIGHTS OF REFUGE, RIGHTS OF WAR: SOCIAL CITIZENSHIP AFTER REFUGEE RESETTLEMENT By Breanne L. Grace A DISSERTATION Submitted to Michigan State University In partial fulfillment for the requirements for the degree of Sociology – Doctor of Philosophy 2013 ABSTRACT RIGHTS OF REFUGE, RIGHTS OF WAR: SOCIAL CITIZENSHIP AFTER REFUGEE RESETTLEMENT By Breanne L. Grace This dissertation examines the intersection of humanitarian aid and African states in constructing citizens from refugees. This dissertation contrasts two perspectives: first, how the Tanzanian government and humanitarian aid apparatus planned to deliver rights and construct new citizens through intra-African refugee resettlement; and second, the spaces and practices through which refugees sought and accessed the rights when the official resettlement plan failed. It illustrates how humanitarian aid becomes a refuge from, while ultimately co-constructing, neoliberal citizenship in Tanzania. Most studies of forced migration assume that legal citizenship produces social citizenship; that is, with resettlement comes the benefits of state belonging, or what Hannah Arendt referred to as “the right to have rights.” By mapping the social and geographic locations where refugees have sought rights, I illustrate how spaces of humanitarian aid like Kenyan refugee camps and warzones in Somalia provide rights that the Tanzanian state cannot or did not. The social locations in which individuals searched for or found rights varied greatly. Widows and young women with children often returned to refugee camps with gender mainstreaming programs that provided services and support. Young men’s language skills and ethnic designation as “safe Somalis” turned a warzone they had fled as children into a space of social mobility via work with humanitarian aid organizations and the Kenyan military. Others, who did not meet the criteria for labor in Somalia or preferential status in refugee camps, remained in Tanzania where they struggled to access rights via the market, but without the social and human capital connections necessary for finding work in the informal labor sector. By conflating legal and social citizenship, the humanitarian aid apparatus and the Tanzanian state failed to produce a long-term solution to refugee warehousing, one of the most central concerns to regional stability. In this manner, this dissertation explains why refugees-turnedcitizens would choose life in refugee camps or warzones over resettlement and citizenship in Tanzania and calls into question current resettlement policy. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS At Michigan State University, I have benefited from the resources and guidance of the African Studies Center, the Center for Gender in Global Context, and the Center for Advanced Study of International Development, as well as the strengths of the Sociology Department. I am deeply grateful to my committee members for their encouragement, their feedback, and their support. Stephanie Nawyn, my chair, has been exceptionally generous with her time, ideas, feedback, and mentoring. She has challenged me to think bigger, while encouraging me to follow the details of my work. I appreciate all of her professional and academic mentoring. Steve Gold has challenged me to see my work through new lenses and to approach my research from new perspectives. Rita Gallin has an exceptional gift for identifying the strengths of her students and encouraging them towards bigger and better projects; I benefited from her feedback and stories of her own research experiences. Since my first semester in the program, Soma Chaudhuri has gone above and beyond by providing me with extensive feedback on written work and research ideas. Laura Fair has challenged me to read across disciplines, to consider the historic roots of current events, and to be a good scholar and citizen. I am grateful for her mentoring, both form and informal. In addition to my committee members, I would also like to thank David Wiley for his mentoring. I benefited from Dave’s mentoring as both his research assistant and his teaching assistant, but also from his extensive knowledge of—and love for—all things African studies. I am particularly indebted to him for his mentoring in developing iv research proposals and for his advocacy when the Fulbright-Hays research grant was cancelled. At MSU I would also like to thank: John Metzler, Lisa Fruge, and James Pritchett in African Studies; Rob Glew, Andrea Allen, Helen Farr, and Lynn Lee in CASID; Ann Ferguson, Lisa Fine, and Amy Jamison in GENCEN; and Tammy Spangler in Sociology. Without the CASID/GENCEN FLAS Fellowship, I would not have been able to develop the language skills necessary to conduct my research without the support of the FLAS. MSU has an exceptionally strong Swahili program thanks to Deo Ngonyani and his patience and dedication to developing the program – I personally benefited from the program as a whole and his tutelage. Thanks also to the other Swahili teachers at MSU, including: Jonathan Choti; Lugiko Lugiko; Agnes Lusito; and Gulam Kabora. I would also like to thank the Department of Sociology for their support through the Harriette McAdoo and Jay Artis Fellowships for dissertation research and the College of International Studies and Programs for pre-dissertation support. My dissertation research would not have been possible without the pre-graduate school research support of the Fulbright IIE Fellowship. I would like to thank Diana Carvalho, formerly of the US Embassy in Tanzania, for all her programmatic support and friendship over the course of the Fulbright. At the Tanzanian Commission for Science and Technology, I would like to thank Mashahuri and Sylvia. At the University of Dar es Salaam, I would like to thank Drs. Mvungi, Mutembei, Senkoro, and Mbonile for their assistance with research affiliation, language development, and networking. Likewise, during my Fulbright research I was fortunate to have a strong network of other American Fulbrighters with whom to share ideas, including: Amy Nichols-Belo, Rachel Park Haws, v Ann Palaia, Lou Leonard, Iqbal Akhtar, Amy Jamison, Kristin Phillips, and Marita Eibl. A special thanks to Alisa Alano whose home became Fulbright Central. My dissertation research year unfortunately coincided with the 2011 congressional defunding of Title VI and Fulbright Hays. A special thank you to the Andrew Mellon Foundation for stepping in and funding the top Fulbright Hays candidates for that year, including me. IIE administered the Mellon Bailout of Fulbright Hays on very short notice; thank you to Pamela Jennings for making the program a success. I also received exceptional support in the day-to-day work of conducting research. In Dar I would like to thank Mzee Donald and Mama Vero for the amusing life lessons; Mzee Salah and Mama Mkomwa for their hospitality and generosity; Wazigula wa Somalia wote; Ken Hosea for his friendship and exceptional knowledge of Tanzanian research bureaucracy; Ingesa Ingesa and Fatima Neema for the Hill Park intellectual exchange; Tim and Annie for always keeping things funny; Happy Kikwa for her friendship, feedback, and willingness kuboreka pamoja; Wende Mponzi for her love of teaching Swahili; Agnes Lusito for the Bagamoyo adventures; Neema and Salaama for their hospitality in Upanga; and Janet Kiula for her friendship since UDSM. A special thanks to Nawanda Yahaya and Jamila Didi for their friendship and to Patrick and Hadija Kahemele for their generosity, support, and lots of memories. In Dar, I am fortunate to have a support network of American friends who have helped me adjust back to life in Bongo each visit and who have provided research support in vi various ways. Thanks to Jane Schueller and Gunnar and Mimi Coffman for their support, hospitality, and friendship over the years; Hally Mahler for always welcoming me back; Alisa Alano (somehow our paths always cross in Dar!); and R.C., S.C., and family for the great political discussions and research connections. In Chogo, thank you to all of the Somali Zigula refugees for sharing your experiences and insights. Thank you to the government officials who oversee the resettlement for their time, insights, and expertise. A special thanks to all of my research participants in non-governmental organizations, the government of Tanzania, the United Nations, or the Somali Zigula community. I am deeply indebted to each one of you for sharing your experiences, perspectives, time, and ideas. Finally, thank you to Ali and Sophia for their KiZigula and research support. Thank you to Silas for the motivation to finish. Josh, thank you for accompanying me on this great adventure. Nashukuru sana. vii TABLE OF CONTENTS LIST OF TABLES ............................................................................................................. X LIST OF FIGURES .......................................................................................................... XI INTRODUCTION .............................................................................................................. 1 INTRODUCTION TO RESETTLEMENT APPARATUS ............................................ 3 INTRODUCTION TO ZIGULA REFUGEES AND REFUGEE RESETTLEMENT IN TANZANIA .................................................................................................................... 4 LOCATION OF RESETTLEMENT AND OTHER PLACES OF NOTE .................... 6 CHAPTER ONE: THEORY ............................................................................................... 7 WHY SOCIAL CITIZENSHIP?..................................................................................... 9 THEORIES OF REFUGE............................................................................................. 13 STATE SUPREMACY............................................................................................. 13 NATURAL CITIZENS ............................................................................................. 17 OF STATE & AUTOCHTHON ............................................................................... 19 CHAPTER TWO: METHODS ......................................................................................... 21 APPROACH: CITIZENSHIP, POLITICAL ECONOMY, & ACTOR NETWORK THEORY ...................................................................................................................... 21 MY OWN POSITIONALITY ...................................................................................... 25 POPULATIONS ........................................................................................................... 30 RESETTLEMENT PERSONNEL............................................................................ 32 INTERVIEWS .............................................................................................................. 34 INTERVIEWS WITH REFUGEES ............................................................................. 34 SAMPLING .................................................................................................................. 35 UNHCR/GOVERNMENT OF TANZANIA/NGO OFFICIALS ................................. 37 DOCUMENT ANALYSIS ....................................................................................... 38 PARTICIPANT OBSERVATION ........................................................................... 38 ANALYSIS ............................................................................................................... 39 CHAPTER THREE: AUTOCHTHONY & CITIZENSHIP ............................................ 40 MODERN & AUTOCHTHONOUS ............................................................................ 41 ETHNICITY & CITIZENSHIP: SESAME CITIZENS AND RURAL RIGHTS ....... 42 SELF-FULFILLING PROPHECY ............................................................................... 51 RURAL RIGHTS IN A GLOBAL CONTEXT............................................................ 53 GLOBAL NETWORKS IN A PERIPHERAL PLACE ............................................... 55 CONCLUSION ............................................................................................................. 60 CHAPTER FOUR: THE PAPER STATE ........................................................................ 66 THE STATE AND ITS PRESENTATION OF SELF ................................................. 67 HOW THE STATE SAYS SOCIAL CITIZENSHIP WORKS IN TANZANIA......... 68 SECRET STATE, PUBLIC SERVICES ...................................................................... 69 viii HEALTH....................................................................................................................... 74 EDUCATION ............................................................................................................... 77 ELECTRICITY ............................................................................................................. 84 SECURITY ................................................................................................................... 90 SAFETY IN DAR ES SALAAM ................................................................................. 91 MOB JUSTICE ......................................................................................................... 92 SOURCES OF SECURITY IN BETWEEN ................................................................ 95 CONCLUSION ............................................................................................................. 96 CHAPTER FIVE: ZOMBIES, NINJAS, WIDOWS, & PATRIARCHS ......................... 99 NINJAS ....................................................................................................................... 101 HEALTHCARE IN DAR ES SALAAM ................................................................ 104 BRIBES................................................................................................................... 104 CONNECTIONS .................................................................................................... 107 THE LIMITATIONS OF PERFORMING CITIZENSHIP AND THE IMPORTANCE OF MONEY ................................................................................. 108 WIDOWS: REFUGEE CITIZENS ............................................................................. 111 MOTHERING IN A REFUGEE CAMP ................................................................ 112 ZOMBIES ................................................................................................................... 117 PATRIARCHS ............................................................................................................ 122 CONCLUSION ........................................................................................................... 125 CHAPTER SEVEN: KNOWLEDGE AS POWER/POWER AS KNOWLEDGE ........ 130 UJAMAA .................................................................................................................... 131 PRODUCING UNKNOWLEDGE ............................................................................. 136 TERRORISM AND CITIZENSHIP ........................................................................... 145 CONCLUSION ............................................................................................................... 149 THE ROAD TO HELL ............................................................................................... 150 APPENDICES ................................................................................................................ 157 APPENDIX A: REFUGEE INTERVIEW SCHEDULES ......................................... 158 EDUCATION ......................................................................................................... 160 HEALTH CARE ..................................................................................................... 161 WATER .................................................................................................................. 162 POLICE PROTECTION, SAFETY, AND SECURITY ........................................ 162 WORK .................................................................................................................... 163 APPENDIX B: INTERVIEW GUIDE: UNHCR, GOVERNMENT OF TANZANIA, REDESO PERSONNEL ............................................................................................. 165 REFERENCES ............................................................................................................... 168 ix LIST OF TABLES TABLE 1 - RESEARCH POPULATIONS ...................................................................... 30 TABLE 2 - ZIGULA REFUGEE RESEARCH POPULATIONS ................................... 31 TABLE 3 - RESETTLEMENT APPARATUS POPULATIONS .................................... 33 TABLE 4 - REFUGEE SAMPLING ................................................................................ 35 TABLE 5 – SAMPLING SCHEMA................................................................................. 36 x LIST OF FIGURES FIGURE 1 - MAP OF IMPORTANT ZIGULA LOCATIONS IN EAST AFRICA ......... 7 FIGURE 2 - MARSHALL’S THEORY OF SOCIAL CITIZENSHIP ………………...12 xi INTRODUCTION Why would someone choose to be a refugee again after receiving legal citizenship and resettlement? Refugee resettlement is understood as the solution to long-term refugee encampment, known as refugee warehousing. It is supposed to be a new start, an opportunity to work and grow, and what the UNHCR calls a “durable solution”: a final alternative to life as a refugee by rejoining the community of nations as a citizen (Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees 1992). Statelessness is ultimately defined in relationship to states and is understood as a social problem rectified through citizenship received through an individual relationship with a state by becoming part of society. States and statelessness are considered opposites, and we understand the latter through the norms of the former. In this dissertation, I argue that states and statelessness are not opposites, but mutually informing processes and entwined relationships. These relationships are defined through humanitarian aid structures: ultimately, we cannot understand the state until we understand statelessness and the construction of social citizenship for those who are supposed to be transitioning from stateless to a condition of living within a state, being reintroduced within the state – that is, being “state-ed,” or undergoing the social process of incorporation within the rights of a state. Understanding statelessness, then, requires understanding the state as more than a container, but recognizing that state belonging is inherently social. Interrogating statelessness requires that we call into question the things we attribute to states and state belonging. 1 Understanding the social relationship between states and statelessness has real implications for refugees, whose legal status and social categorization are constantly informed by this binary. In refugee resettlement, returning refugees to a system of states is supposed to offer a solution to refugee encampment; in practice, neo-liberal markets, moral economies, humanitarian aid structures, and entrepreneurial government employees filled the functions scholars normally attribute to a welfare state. But they did so unevenly. Meanwhile, as humanitarian aid workers planned social citizenship for resettled refugees in Tanzania, they did so using a framework inherited from colonial and national officials, both of which were founded upon stereotypes of African backwardness and incompatibility with modernity and development that provided both an expectation and excuse for failure. In an unexpected twist, these tropes, frameworks, and ideologies and economies of citizenship actually provided the perfect cover for regional terrorism. In the following pages I explore the boundaries of the relationship between states and statelessness by examining how refugees are assumed to transition from stateless to citizens from two perspectives. The first is the viewpoint of resettlement officials. I look at how they conceptualized, planned, modeled, constructed, implemented, and measured citizenship through the refugee resettlement at Chogo. I compare this perspective to the viewpoints of refugees and how they experienced the resettlement process and the locations they went when they struggled to access rights. Consequently, chapters are divided by perspective, in order to provide comprehensive descriptions of points throughout the resettlement process. Each chapter is proceeded by a brief introduction to describing if the perspective is from the vantage point of refugees or the humanitarian aid apparatus and, when necessary, connecting it to the larger context. 2 INTRODUCTION TO RESETTLEMENT APPARATUS Throughout this dissertation, I often refer to the “humanitarian aid apparatus”, by which I mean the organizations that implement humanitarian aid projects for refugees and their associated funders, subcontracting organizations, and the government offices that facilitate their work. This collection of organizations connects international funders with local refugee populations through policy and programming, effectively extending the purchasing power of donor funds into the lives of refugees. In other words, these organizations bridge the funding objectives of donors from the global North with the needs of those in the global South. It is important to note that these organizations, particularly the United Nations organizations, often work with national governments to design policy. These policies often emerge from or align with the donor objectives or philosophies and are also influenced by the identified needs of the host country. Thus this collection of organizations connects global interest and resources with local needs. However, many of the international non-governmental organizations within this apparatus also attempt to influence global interest through advocacy campaigns in the global media, in order to bring specific crisis or issues to the public’s awareness in order to raise funds by influencing donors. Tony Waters (2001) calls this “the CNN effect.” 3 INTRODUCTION TO ZIGULA REFUGEES AND REFUGEE RESETTLEMENT IN TANZANIA Due to their slave origins and occupancy of the most valued land in Somalia, the Zigula were frequent victims of state oppression and were designated as a highly vulnerable group at the onset of war in Somalia (Cassanelli 1995; Besteman 1999). In 2002, the Tanzanian parliament approved the Zigula for resettlement and citizenship based on their 1 “ethnic and cultural connections” to eastern Tanzania (Bunge la Tanzania 2003). Roughly 3,000 Zigula have received Tanzanian citizenship. As the first large scale third2 country resettlement within Africa, the Zigula resettlement marked a change in global response to humanitarian relief. 3 Historically, Tanzania participated in second-country resettlement, particularly during ujamaa socialism in the 1960s – 1980s, by resettling those fighting colonial regimes, particularly from Southern African. During structural adjustment in the 1980s – 1990s, Tanzania’s refugee policies shifted to hosting refugees only in camps, providing very few legal opportunities for local integration (Kweka 2007). The Zigula project is the first third-country resettlement program in Tanzania, resettling and providing local integration for those who were not first refugees in Tanzania. 1 The Zigula were taken to Somalia as slaves nearly 200 years ago, from what is now Tanzania. Tanzania is considered the Zigula homeland (Uzigulani). See (Besteman 1999) for more information. 2 Third-Country Resettlement: Integration in a country other than that of first refuge (United Nations High Commission for Refugees 2010) 3 Second Country Resettlement: Integration in the first country of refuge (Ibid) 4 Yet, unlike other third-country resettlements that often attempt to integrate refugees directly into the host community, the Zigula resettled in Tanzania were housed in a guarded, camp-like compound (Chogo) until early 2010. Today, Chogo still lacks access to water, electricity, and jobs (United Nations Tanzania 2010). Prior to 2010, when the majority of Zigula refugees in Tanzania were granted citizenship, many had already left the designated resettlement site for Dar es Salaam; and when options were still limited, others began moving through East Africa or relocating to refugee camps looking for other opportunities. The refugee resettlement in Tanzania was the product of a UNHCR officer’s master’s thesis at Cornell. The UNHCR officer, Dan Van Lehman, viewed resettlement in Europe, Australia, and the United States as an undesirable solution to African refugee crises because it was not “culturally sensitive to the unique needs of Africans” (Van Lehman 1999:47). Van Lehman’s resettlement design based the Zigula resettlement on “tribal connections and ways of life” (1999:5), arguing that “African resettlement should address the culture needs of refugees according to their traditional cultural practices” (1999: 31). The UNHCR adopted Van Lehman’s model in 1999 and proposed it to the Tanzanian government in early 2000. The Tanzanian parliament accepted the model in 2002, resulting in the 2002 creation of the Chogo resettlement in Handeni district (Bunge la Tanzania 2003). From 2002 to 2010, Chogo acted as the Zigula resettlement site in Tanzania. Although officially a “resettlement”, Chogo was operated as a camp with a locked-down and gated perimeter, although without a UN presence. In 2010, when 5 official citizenship paper was completed, Chogo was opened and individuals were allowed to move freely as citizens. LOCATION OF RESETTLEMENT AND OTHER PLACES OF NOTE The refugee resettlement site, Chogo, is located in Handeni District in Tanga Region on the backside of Pangani Falls. The turn off for the road to Chogo is between Segerea and Mkata on the Moshi/Tanga Highway, beginning at Kibuku. From Kibuku, the dirt road towards the resettlement crosses through another village, also known as Chogo or Chogo Mzee (Old/Original Chogo), which was originally an ujamaa village. From there, the road continues to the resettlement. In addition to Chogo, figure one also shows the location of Kakuma, the refugee camp in Kenya where the Zigula lived prior to resettlement in Tanzania and where some continue to return (see chapter six). Kismayo, Somalia is also marked in figure one, and is the region town in Somalia closest to where the majority of the Somali Zigula lived prior to the war. Finally, Dar es Salaam, Tanzania’s economic capital is marked as many of the Zigula fled to Dar es Salaam in search of work after resettlement in Chogo. 6 Figure 1 - Map of Important Zigula Locations in East Africa 7 CHAPTER ONE: THEORY Refugee resettlement is supposed to be a “durable solution” to statelessness. That is, providing refugees with legal citizenship putatively provides an enduring solution to statelessness and the problem of long-term encampment, known in humanitarian relief as “refugee warehousing” (United Nations High Commission for Refugees 2010). Refugee resettlement is supposed to provide individuals with the “right to have rights”—legal citizenship is supposed to beget social citizenship. Citizenship is both a legal status and the experience of belonging, the former is described in the citizenship literature as legal citizenship while the latter is described as social citizenship, but the two are connected for naturalizing immigrants experiencing new social belonging through new legal belonging (Bloemraad, Korteweg, and Yurdakul 2008). Indeed, in early sociological work on citizenship and in line with modernist views of the state, social citizenship and legal citizenship are fused and understood as a single entity (Somers 2008). This is typified in Hannah Arendt’s famous axiom of the “right to have rights”: legal citizenship comes with the promise of social recognition and entitlements—what is known as “social citizenship” (Arendt 1994). While more recent scholarship on citizenship has challenged the one-to-one relationship between legal citizenship and social citizenship (Ong 1999, 2006b; Yuval-Davis 1997; Somers 1999), the scholarship on forced migration and practice of refugee resettlement continues to perpetuate the idea that legal citizenship provides a solution to statelessness through social citizenship. 8 WHY SOCIAL CITIZENSHIP? I define social citizenship as the experience of social rights and inclusion in society. Social citizenship is tied to the experience of social services that provide individuals with access to political, civil, and legal rights. Since the post-World War II era, scholars have theorized social citizenship as an entitlement stemming from the state via legal citizenship as a means of creating societal modicums of rights (Marshall 1964; Bulmer and Rees 1996). Social citizenship is facilitated by services like public education because literacy allows individuals to fully participate in society. For instance, voting is more accessible when individuals can read the candidates’ platforms understand the ballot, and engage in other aspects of the political process that necessitate literacy. In post-World War II Europe, social citizenship (in line with Marshall’s theory) largely emerged from the state. However, due to various global economic shifts and increasing privatization, services that once emerged as citizenship entitlements are increasingly privatized (Zizek 2011; Harvey 2006; Bauman 2010). In developing countries, particularly in African countries, the services that were provided by the state were largely eliminated through structural adjustment programs that sought to privatize or eliminate government services while opening or expanding the “free market” (Ferguson 1994, 2006; Escobar 1994). Like the privatization and neoliberal movement in the global North, in the South, these policy shifts changed the dynamics of social citizenship, transitioning entitlements and social citizenship rights to goods and services available only by purchase, making social citizenship rights part of “market citizenship” where services are derived not from the state, but through access to services via access to capital through labor markets (Brodie 1997). For example, in Tanzania, families must pay school 9 fees and purchase school uniforms before their children can attend school, thus those with access to financial resources have better access to education. Families may have to decide which of their children to send to school if they cannot afford to pay the fees for all children, thus creating hierarchies of access by gender, disability, age, or perceived longterm “investment”. Market citizenship illustrates the tension between state and economy in the provision of citizenship. In theorizing social citizenship, T.H. Marshall (1964) described social citizenship as a force that mediates the pressures of the economy and individuals’ needs for rights: social services encourage and enable civic and political rights by creating spaces not solely dictated by the economy. Theories of market citizenship are inherently linked to Marshall’s theory because they illustrate what happens when social services are no longer guaranteed by the state, but instead, are derived through the economy. Figure two illustrates the protective role social citizenship plays in Marshall’s theory, whereby the economy is diverted by the protection of the state through social services. In market citizenship, the state no longer acts as a protector by establishing a basic minimum of rights. Instead, the economy often goes hand and hand with the state, creating a market for rights once guaranteed. Examining social citizenship, its sources—be they state institutions, through economic markets, or by charitable or humanitarian organizations— and the gaps in the experience of social citizenship, illustrate how individuals are connected to society, where they gain the means to participate in social life, and the ways in which individuals become enfranchised as citizens. 10 Economy Social Citizenship Guarantees Access to Other Rights Figure 2 - Marshall's Theory of Social Citizenship 11 While the state tends to be the primary analytic category for studies of citizenship, Stephen Castles (2005) situates citizenship within a World Systems perspective, noting that there are hierarchies of citizenship within and between countries. Citizenship, Castles argues (2005), is not a single experience or process between state and citizen but a spectrum of social rights, conflict, and exclusion within and between states that could be rectified through transnational institutions. Transnational institutions have been theorized to have a liberatory effect by providing the discourse and expectation of human rights and the delivery mechanisms for rights enactment (Soysal 1994; Stephen Castles and Davidson 2000), yet Aihwa Ong (2006a) argues that the same transnational movements lead to the deterritorializing of rights. Through global economic markets, labor access becomes ethnicized, creating global classes that dictate, validate, 4 and distribute rights by market positionality (Ong 2006a, 2005, 2006b). While Ong often focuses on corporations and economic movements, her argument extends to 5 other “transnationalism from above” actors, including NGOs and transnational human rights groups, thus identifying multiple sources of citizenship beyond the limits of the state, but often in 6 negative or coercive terms (Ong 2006a; 2009). Structurally oriented theories of citizenship 4 Ong refers to this as latitudinal citizenship. Similarly, Jean and John Comaroff (2009) argue that ethnicity not only structures rights distribution, but is also a market commodity, providing economic resources for rights access. 5 (M. P. Smith and Guarnizo 1998; Portes, Guarnizo, and Haller 2002; Portes, Guarnizo, and Landolt 1999) 6 By coercive, I mean that Ong’s sources of citizenship tend to focus on only negative or limiting power or the structurally inhibitive applications of citizenship. Citizenship, in both Castles and Ong’s terms is expressed as structurally implemented, distributed, provided, withheld, exclusive 12 often conceptualize citizenship only in its limitations or coercive power; people, have very little opportunity to find rights elsewhere, to change the system, or to access rights elsewhere (Foucault and Gordon 1980). There is a small, but growing, literature on agentive citizenship acts. For instance, Jean and John Comaroff (2009) show how ethnicity is commoditized through cultural tourism and African craft markets, providing individuals with access to market citizenship by selling experiences related to identity. Likewise, Kamal Sadiq’s (2009) work on legal citizenship illustrates that legal citizenship, too, has an agentive side by illustrating what individuals do to purchase legal citizenship documents in order to migrate. Yet, there is little work that has explored the interface of the official, planned system of citizenship rights allocation that also considers what individuals do within this particular system and context of rights. Instead, citizenship is largely considered as all agency or all structure, little work has explored what individuals do within the context of specific structures or how structures inform individual action (Giddens 1979). THEORIES OF REFUGE STATE SUPREMACY The idea of refugees with citizenship or citizenship for refugees is contrary to most theories and studies of citizenship. Refugees, after all, tend to be defined as individuals explicitly outside of states and thus without citizenship. As Hannah Arendt argued, “[Refugees’] plight is not that they are not equal before the law, but that no law exists for them” (Arendt 1994). More recently, power; citizenship is not as something that individuals can find elsewhere, create, redefine, or recreate – positive power (Foucault and Gordon 1980) 13 Georgio Agamben (2000; 1995, 1998) argued that without the political sovereignty of the state, refugee status amounts to bare life, thus denying refugees rights within the camp. The status of refugees within these perspectives privileges the limitations of structure, effectively asserting that refugees, as citizenship-less, stateless beings, are defined solely by their status via the state and natural authority of the state, in what Liisa Malkki (1992) has critiqued as the assumed “natural order of things.” Instead, Malkki (1995) and Marc Sommers (2001) have illustrated that refugees often move beyond the limitations of the camp, establishing connections and engaging with the state to form legitimacy within the host nation state even as refugees. Malkki and Sommers’ work is consistent with the broader scholarship on citizenship—particularly work on social citizenship—that illustrates that rights are not guaranteed by the state alone but more often by individual positionality within the society and global economy, providing privileged access to social services through economic resources. Citizenship research has shown that individuals’ access to rights via social services and belonging can be challenged by a number of disparities, including: class, race and ethnicity, gender, immigration status, sexuality, and the ability to negotiate these constraints through economic markets and labor (Marshall 2009; Mamdani 1996; Benhabib and Resnik 2009; Smith 2006; Luibhéid 2005; Sassen 2007; Ong 2006b)(Marshall 2009; Mamdani 1996; Benhabib and Resnik 2009; R. C. Smith 2006; Luibhéid 2005; Sassen 2007; Ong 2006d). This literature asserts that membership within a state does not determine access to social citizenship; instead, positionality determines access to rights through economic markets. Refugees, however, are rarely elite or wealthy. Unlike Ong’s “parachuting” executives, refugees seldom have access to economic capital that would allow them to purchase the services of 14 citizenship. Refugee status—while often conceptualized as limited and limiting—also comes with unique access to humanitarian relief and development institutions that provide social services. In refugee camps and resettlements, the rights and services that comprise social citizenship are provided through NGOs at the will of the state; the availability or quality of services provided, however, are generally decided by NGOs or donors that often operate at the whim of the state. Stephanie Nawyn (2012) has illustrated this point in US refugee resettlement, by showing how refugee resettlement organizations are required to provide employment placement services for newly arrived refugees, effectively linking the notion of employment (and thus labor) to citizenship and discursively shaping refugees as worthy of citizenship through their potential economic contributions to society. This subcontracting of rights and services previously provided by the state, has been referred to as “government-by-NGO” or “transnational governmentality,” taking the distribution of services that form the basis of social citizenship from government to NGO control (Ferguson 2006; Gupta and Ferguson 2002; Harvey 2006). While Malkki and Sommers have emphasized the agentive capacity of refugees, even within the context of the camp, theorizing about the infrastructure of the camp continues to reflect the cold, stateless, rightless, concentration camp-like arena Agamben describes. Yet, international development and humanitarian organizations go to great lengths to provide medical care, food supplies, access to water and sanitation, education, and employment-training activities in refugee camps, ultimately establishing a baseline of social citizenship akin to global notions of human rights (Soysal 1994). Refugees have the added “bonus” of being a particularly visible vulnerable population within the international community. Numerous celebrities have “taken up the plight 15 of refugees” over the past few years; Angelina Jolie now frequents Côte d’Ivoirian refugee camps, George Clooney hangs out in Darfur, and Ben Affleck and Matt Damon visit the Congo. As an event or population becomes newsworthy, funding increases as international awareness increases, but funding can disappear equally as quickly if the event falls out of the Western public’s view or interest (Waters 2001). This dynamic makes the experience of services in refugee camps uneven, but with a guaranteed minimum. Some groups, like women, children, the disabled, the sick (with high profile diseases like AIDS or malaria), or particular ethnic groups, are often the target of services provided through periods of extra funding, international foundations, or specialized programming (Malkki 1995). While these types of funding have been written about in terms of bio-power (Ong 1995), they can also be understood in terms of global assemblages of citizenship, where international humanitarian apparatuses provide the “weak” with the “strongest” forms of access to citizenship (V. K. Nguyen 2004; V.-K. Nguyen 2010). Outside of refugee camps, the implementations of services that form social citizenship are less intentional. In the neoliberal model, while NGOs may implement and recommend programming, funding and funding priorities for programming originate externally, similarly to refugee camps, bit without a guaranteed minimum of rights (Landau 2008). Human rights discourse, while present, lacks the enforcement mechanism present in refugee camps, thus guaranteeing no minimum set rights. Instead, the economy plays the major role in allocating rights; making citizenship an experience of what James Ferguson has called “the ups and downs of modernity” whereby some citizens, through their access to wealth or status have greater access than others have, creating a relational experience of relative rights (Ferguson 2006). Like Vinh-Kim Nguyen (2010) has described with AIDS patients, when rights are implemented through neoliberal 16 development and humanitarian regimes those without economic means or social capital can gain access to particular rights because of and through their lessened status. The downs become the means for the ups, in Ferguson’s terms. Thus in Ngyuen’s research, AIDs patients receive access to medication, nutrition assistance, and access to development programs because of their diseased status while those with other or lesser needs such cannot access cheaper interventions because their conditions lack international publicity because they are not considered “bad 7 enough” (Nguyen 2004). Does access to social citizenship function like this for refugees—does the lowered status of stateless-ness actually provide better access to the rights of social citizenship? NATURAL CITIZENS Unlike other third-country resettlement programs, the Zigula resettlement in Tanzania was not initiated because of Tanzania’s ability to provide services, although like other resettlement countries it explicitly contracted with UNHCR to do so and received funding to implement the resettlement (United Nations High Commission for Refugees 2010). The Tanzanian government’s reasoning for providing the Zigula with resettlement opportunities compound these questions. In 2002, when announcing the Zigula from Somalia would be the first refugee population given “third country” resettlement in Tanzania (the resettling of refugees not housed 7 The idea of certain “bad” illnesses leading to increased rights parallels citizenship discourse in refugee resettlement and aid. International management staff often talked about atrocities or certain diseases as “sexy”. It was “sexy” to do high profile work, because that was where the money was and programs could be developed in the wake of atrocity. Bad equaled sexy, but only certain kinds of “bad”. Darfur, for instance, was sexy; Afghanistan was not (terrorists are not sexy). The Lost Boys of Sudan were sexy, Iraqi refugees were not. Genocide was sexy; ethnic conflict was not. Money, publicity, notoriety, visibility, and sympathy were all sexy; association with terrorism, long-term conflict, “savagery”, “backwardness”, fear, US involvement in war, and religious extremism were not sexy. There were good kinds of “bad” that were sexy, sellable, marketable forms atrocity. 17 in local camps), the Tanzanian parliament cited “ethnic connections to their homeland in Tanzania” (Bunge la Tanzania 2003). The Zigula resettlement and citizenship in Tanzania were based on “autochthony”, or indigenousness based on land of origin (Silverstein 2005). Scholars have critiqued and used “autochthony” to illustrate who belongs within particular sovereign spaces and why individuals belong to particular parts of land based on primordial claims to place, forms of farming, authority, and power (Ceuppens and P. Geschiere 2005). Recent work on autochthony has focused on the contrasting relationship between global and local, stranger and local (Mbembe 2002; Mbembé 2001; Ceuppens and P. Geschiere 2005; P. Geschiere and Nyamnjoh 2000; Peter Geschiere 2009) and in the reimagining and reinterpretation of the nation state during conflict by re-inscribing national origins with ethnic origins (Malkki 1995b). When announcing the Zigula resettlement in Tanzania, the Tanzanian Government insinuated that the Zigula, as an ethnically “local” population, would be “natural” Tanzanian citizens (Bunge la Tanzania 2003:283). Ideas of autochthony structured the creation of the resettlement, from the idea of the “appropriate” location for the Zigula to receive citizenship to the design and implementation of programs and services in resettlement (Van Lehman 1999). Ideas of rights and services were described and framed in relation to “tradition”, “ethnicity”, “origin”, “natural”, “African”, and even “tribe”, not as qualities of the state or as the work of the government (Van Lehman 1999: 24). In these descriptions and justifications, the functions of social citizenship—how people were assumed to belong and to access social services—were described in terms of “traditional” Zigula customs and their availability within rural Handeni, not in relation to the state, but an essentialist 18 claim to rights based on ethnicity or “tribe” (Van Lehman 199:71). In other words, despite living outside of Tanzania for 200 years, the resettlement assumed that Handeni social and ethnic networks, and notions about traditional skill or tradition would provide the Zigula with the means to access social rights at the same rate as (non-Somali refugee) Zigula living within Handeni. Autochthony and the institutions of ethnicity (e.g.: dance societies, ukoo, “traditional elders”) were understood as the primordial means and delivery mechanisms of social citizenship within an ethnic community and thus the institutions of rights after resettlement. OF STATE & AUTOCHTHON The Zigula resettlement is situated against two paradigms of social citizenship: an understanding of rights as derived from the nation-state à la Agamben and Arendt or in opposition to the state through transnational citizenship put forth by Ong and Castles, and an autochthonous origin of rights derived from primordial ethnicity used by the Government of Tanzania to justify the resettlement. But how—and where—do the Zigula acquire rights, identify belonging, and make claims on citizenship? What resources are available to refugees that are not available to Tanzanian citizens and how does this relate to camp and resettlement funding and the decision making process for refugees-turned-citizens? How do refugees use situational or flexible identities to obtain citizenship rights? Liisa Malkki (1995) and Marc Sommers (2001) have illustrated how refugees in Tanzania use elastic identities to negotiate refugee status; but do refugees, like Ong’s elite, use spaces of neoliberalism, like refugee camps, for social citizenship? Do they use ethnic identities to make claims of the state (as the state used ethnic identities to justify resettlement), or do they use ethnic communities to maximize rights and entitlements? Do remittances from family members 19 abroad provide the means for accessing transnational citizenship? How do refugees understand social citizenship and where do they locate the sources of social belonging? How do refugee understandings of citizenship differ from the design and intention of citizenship of the UNHCR and Government of Tanzania? Likewise, how do the numerous actors involved in the implementation of the resettlement understand citizenship and their role in resettlement? 20 CHAPTER TWO: METHODS In order to study citizenship from the view of the resettlement apparatus and refugees as one coherent process, I use Actor Network Theory (ANT) as a methodological approach that provides insight into larger global processes through the actions and ideas of individuals. Actor Network Theory, to paraphrase Bruno Latour (Latour 1993), encourages the researcher to follow social processes as research processes, moving between actors, ideas, and objects that are inscribed with meaning. In this way, it allows me to study citizenship from the perspective of the humanitarian aid apparatus, policy makers, and the implementation of the resettlement as well as the refugees who were the target of the resettlement. I combine ANT with Donna Haraway’s (1988) situated knowledges (SK) in order to emphasize that the ANT approach is not simply a chain of ideas that ultimately result in policy outcomes, but experiences at the individual level that are informed by power relations. After reviewing the SK/ANT approach, I review the specific methods I employed throughout my research in order to get at the views, ideas, and processes of citizenship. APPROACH: CITIZENSHIP, POLITICAL ECONOMY, & ACTOR NETWORK THEORY I am interested in the contrast between intended design of social citizenship and the experience of social citizenship after refugee resettlement. I look at the resettlement of Somali Zigula refugees in Tanzania through the series of practices and decisions that illustrate how citizens are constructed and created from refugees. In doing so, I focus on the assemblages of power from individual refugees through the global apparatus of humanitarian aid. I draw on Callon and Latour’s observations about the benefits of actor-network-theory (ANT). While there have been debates about whether ANT is a theory, as it self-describes, or a method, I use it as a framework 21 to understand the nature of social life and the ways in which agency is distributed among human beings who act—intentionally or unintentionally—and actants—things that rest between people and power (Latour 1993). The latter draws attention to the centrality of non-human objects of research like reports, evaluation materials, and categories for understanding human experiences. Donald MacKenzie (2009) calls this material sociology and Timothy Mitchell (2002) has shown the centrality of “things” like reports and maps in the creation of analytic categories that form the abstractions that inform academic thought (i.e., the economy). Larry Busch and Arunas Juska (1997) have illustrated how actor network theory can be situated within a political economy perspective: “[In thinking about political economy through actor network theory] we may rejoin the micro and the macro, and identify points of entry into networks and of political action, as well” (Busch and Juska 1997:705). Network perspectives wed the macro and the micro; instead of segregating macro-processes and micro-recipients, actor network theory connects the two showing how, “relationships between and among humans as well as non-human elements (knowledge, technological artifacts, living organisms) that make production, processing and distribution of commodities possible. Yet despite its focus on relationship building and extension, the actor network approach remains firmly within the realm of traditional political economy; it sees the process of extension of production networks proceeding simultaneously with the process of production and distribution of wealth, status, and power among actors engaged in the [production]” (Ibid:689). More than simply examining the process of production, I am concerned with understanding the unique positionalities of actors throughout the production process. I situate the ANT networks 22 within a perspective of situated knowledges (SK) in order to understand what Callon and Latour mean when they say, “a macro actor is a micro actor sitting on many black boxes” (Callon and 8 Latour 1981:286). Opening black boxes, in my case the infrastructure of humanitarian aid, reveals the novel configurations of humans, ideas, discourses, and things, illustrating the power relationships in producing citizens from refugees and the resources provided by state, development actors, and refugees themselves. By combining ANT with SK, I want to emphasize not only the configurations of power, but also the perspectives of power, technologies, and development and aid that elide traditional political economy approaches. In order to do this, I partner structural perspectives of the process of constructing a social citizen with actor-centered perspectives of the citizenship processes. As Callon and Caliskan (2005) have done with the creation of an economic actor, I ask how refugees and citizens are made by new arrangements of technologies, bodies, and spaces. In other words, I am looking at agencement, the arrangement of what Latour defines as agency plus assemblage. Following Donna Haraway’s (1988) situated knowledge model, I emphasize that different perspectives of this process are present at various points throughout the construction process, providing insight into the experience of citizenship through partialities. High-level international UN staff may 8 While I use Situated Knowledges (SK) here, I recognize that there are a number of actororiented theories that I could have drawn from. Notably, Norman Long’s actor oriented approach(es) (Arce and Norman Long 2000; N. Long 2001; N. Long and A. Long 1992; N. Long 1997). While my understanding of development relations is informed by Long, I want to remove my micro-analysis only from the “local” or “recipient” level, to examine how individuals within the policy and implementation levels, too, experience the implementation of development and citizenship policy and conceptualize their own role within the apparatus. The recognition of varying social positions and thus social perspectives is central to Donna Haraway’s Situated Knowledges and emphasizes not only divergent perspectives, but relationships of power that emerge from such perspectives (77). Ultimately, this allows me to see not only how citizenship is experienced, but also produced throughout the resettlement apparatus by numerous actors. 23 have very different views of the Zigula resettlement than the secretaries working within the resettlement, the refugees experiencing daily life in Chogo, or the Tanzanian parliamentarians debating the reasons why the Zigula should be granted citizenship in the first place. Through people’s everyday lives, I believe we can gain insight into the arrangement of various services and rights that form social citizenship; the ways in which individuals navigate complex systems of rights and the ways in which power is exercised in the citizen-creating process. By interrogating individual positionalities throughout the resettlement, such as refugees, aid workers, government employees, and bureaucrats, I illustrate how citizenship is perceived differently, planned, designed through policy, measured, evaluated, implemented on a daily basis, experienced and accessed…and the alternative locations individuals go for help when the official apparatus fails. Combining ANT and SK provides a particular perspective: citizenship is both experienced and produced through global structures of aid and through alternative sources that may operate in opposition to or in tandem with formal citizenship structures. Through refugee resettlement, the international humanitarian aid community and the Government of Tanzania attempted to create and produce a particular kind and form of citizen. This is reflected in UNHCR, NGO and Government of Tanzania reports, evaluations, evaluation tools and design, measures, policy statements, and the location, space, and facilities used in resettlement. For instance, a non-ANT research perspective would view policy documents, reports, and evaluations as products or directorates of the resettlement authorities. An ANT approach looks at the same documents and sees not simply guides or products of the resettlement, but an active thing (actant) that shapes the 24 resettlement and citizenship process and can be used to explore the nature of power within the resettlement. Indeed, as chapters one and seven explore, reports and tropes both fundamentally shaped the resettlement process and the citizenship design. Using an ANT approach ultimately illustrates how the divergent constructions of citizenship and rights and the uneven nature of power informed the Zigula resettlement. By recognizing the partial perspectives of actors throughout the resettlement and the connections that move between individuals and levels of analysis, I illustrate the social processes that create a citizen from a refugee in neoliberal Tanzania. Or, more accurately, the number of different processes that target specific populations through the citizenship process. MY OWN POSITIONALITY My own positionality often reflects the relationship between the humanitarian aid apparatus and the refugee populations they purportedly serve. My experience working with the Zigula began in 2004 in southern California. I had just graduated from college, where I studied abroad in Tanzania and began learning Swahili, and I applied for a job working in refugee resettlement because the position listed an explicit interest in someone with basic Swahili skills. I was hired just as the first Somali Zigula (known as Somali Bantu in the US) began arriving in California. I worked with the Somali Zigula community in southern California for two years before transferring within the same humanitarian aid organization to their office in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania working with other East African refugee populations. My time with the organization in Dar es Salaam was short lived. In retrospect, many of the institutional challenges that I address in this dissertation were present in my work in Dar es 25 Salaam: refugees were often discussed as passive victims without agency or intelligence, the social distance between aid workers and those they purported to help was vast, and there was a identifiable tension between expatriot and Tanzanian staff members that was exacerbated by structural power relations within the aid organization. After only a few months I received a Fulbright Fellowship and eagerly left the organization to begin my own research. My Fulbright research focused on the Somali Zigula resettlement at Chogo and transnational family issues between those in Tanzania and their loved ones in the US. This research was facilitated by connections that I made working in the US; my former clients in San Diego put me in touch with their loved ones across East Africa. During this time I conducted interviews, improved my Swahili, began learning KiZigula (the language of the Somali Zigula), and I started creating research relationships that would facilitate my future research. Upon completion of my dissertation research in late 2012, I had spent eight years working with the Somali Zigula community as a whole, six of which in Tanzania. Over these six years, I developed relationships within the Somali Zigula community that would ultimately allow me to do the research for this dissertation. Even during times when I was in the United States, I kept in close contact with those in Tanzania by phone calls and extended Zigula family networks in the US. I heard about marriages, births, deaths, diseases, jobs, harvests, and daily life. In 2007, while I was living in Tanzania, I realized that news about me travelled through these networks, too. My brother suffered a brain aneurysm in United States and while I found out from my own family by phone, only 24 hours later the Zigula community in Dar es Salaam had heard through their own family networks in the US. Later I realized that the Zigula 26 in Tanzania often asked their family members in the US about me as they slowly allowed me access to the community. Was I a spy? Was it safe to talk to me? Why didn’t I have children? They asked questions about culture, why I was still in school (as a woman over thirty), and what all of this research was supposed to lead to. The ability to check up on me gave me a unique positionality within the community: slowly I was welcomed into the Tanzania Zigula community on the recommendation of those in the US. It was through these connections that I was ultimately able to develop the relationships and credibility that facilitated my dissertation research. This social capital, however, did not (and does not) erase the fact that I am very much a foreigner. I am a white, educated, married woman without children. Physically, I stood out as I conducted research and the refugees created elaborate stories for their friends and neighbors to hide why I wanted to talk to them and not others living in the same community. The very topic of my research threatened their ability to hide their status as refugees. Ultimately a shared story developed: I was there to learn KiZigula, a language local to Tanzania that allowed the refugees to hide their status as foreigners. My whiteness not only marked me as foreign, but drew unwanted attention to those I was with – foreigners rarely frequented the refugees’ neighborhood any my physical presence was a risk. But individuals and the community understood this risk as part of a larger process—telling their stories and describing their daily struggles—and couching an explanation for my presence within a characteristic that defined them as local (language), not only hid their status as refugees, but also reinforced their Tanzanian identities. It also provided me with the opportunity to continue to learn KiZigula. 27 But often the criteria that made me socially different went beyond the physical. For instance, as a married woman without children, I was often viewed as a strange outsider. Research participants—especially men—sometimes openly questioned my virility, my sexuality, and my ethics (what kind of person doesn’t like children?) before interviews. I became accustomed to this inquiry, explaining that it was important to me to finish school before starting a family. I would sometimes joke that, like children, completing school required time, dedication, and a certain gestational period: my dissertation would be my first child and then other children could follow. The Zigula in California often acted as cultural brokers, coming to my defense by claiming that life is expensive in the US and education is required before youth and young adults (vijana) can become full adults. Many of my participants pointed out that, within the Zigula community, this made me exceptionally strange—a child in an adult’s body. During one interview, a woman pointed out that we were roughly the same age—in our mid-30s—yet, she was already a grandmother (she had a child at 14 and her daughter had a child at 15) and I was still a child myself. This strange social position required yet another layer of social intervention on my behalf from the Zigula community in San Diego. But it also created an entry point for discussions about life trajectories and the economics of becoming an adult. Research participants often returned to these discussions during formal interviews in order to describe the social and financial costs of simply living and to juxtapose the costs of living in refugee camps, the resettlement, or in Dar es Salaam. In interviews these forms of difference—racial, national, economic and life course—created opportunities for discussing forms of inequality and rights access within the Zigula community and in contrast to the broader Tanzania population. 28 My previous experience working in refugee resettlement and in humanitarian relief in Tanzania also helped me establish relationships within the humanitarian aid community. From my previous work in Tanzania, I had connections and contacts within government bureaucracies, the United Nations, and NGOs. These connections helped me establish contact with individuals in charge of Chogo activities in various organizations and my work experience gave me credibility; during interviews, officials often remarked, “you know how it is.” My own positionality was situated within the tension of my research question. As someone who used to work in humanitarian aid, I understood the bureaucracy and challenges of working within the humanitarian aid apparatus. But as someone who has spent years working in the Zigula community and studying the challenges of the resettlement for refugees, I recognized disconnect between the challenges refugees actually faced and the way the humanitarian aid apparatus framed resettlement needs. Throughout this dissertation I attempt to provide the perspective of each group. Each chapter begins with a brief synopsis of the perspective that it provides with the intention of situating these two perspectives in dialogue. 29 POPULATIONS Populations Refugees In Tanzania living in the Original Chogo Resettlement In Tanzania living in Urban Dar es Salaam United Nations Resettlement Officials in Tanzania Tanzania UNHCR Staff • International Staff Tanzanian Government Officials NGO Officials Parliamentarians & High Ranking Ministry Staff REDESO Director Dar es Salaam Tanzania UNHCR Staff Government Employees who • Local Staff oversee & implement refugee programs, Dar es Salaam With Tanzanian Citizenship Living in Kenyan Refugee Camps With Tanzanian Citizenship Moving Throughout East Africa Table 1 - Research Populations Camp Director at Chogo Staff at Chogo REDESO Camp Director Chogo REDESO Camp Social Workers, Secretaries, Teachers, Drivers In order to examine how the Zigula resettlement was designed, funded, implemented, and experienced, I examine the perspectives of the resettlement officials from the UNHCR, Government of Tanzania, and NGOs, and the Zigula refugees. I have identified three levels of officials from the UNHCR, Government of Tanzania, and NGOs and four Zigula refugee populations to examine by location. The particular positionalities within each location will be further discussed in the methods section. In addition to refugee populations, I also examine various bureaucratic perspectives located throughout the humanitarian aid apparatus. 30 Zigula Refugees Refugee Location Population Description Chogo –Original Resettlement Have Citizenship Have selected to stay in Chogo. Primarily farmers, have citizenship, men have access to land Dar es Salaam Have Citizenship Moved to Dar es Salaam at Various Points, have citizenship; various jobs, access to global markets Move throughout East Africa Have Citizenship Highly mobile or have selected to stay in a country other than Tanzania, but have citizenship Refugee Camps Have Citizenship Have Tanzanian citizenship, chose to return to Kenyan refugee camps Table 2 - Zigula Refugee Research Populations The Somali Zigula refugees pose some unique research challenges. As table one and table two illustrate, some of the Zigula populations I interviewed are part of extremely mobile populations. Their mobility is not coincidental, but provides insights into strategies for rights acquisition. Migration shapes this experience and how and where the Zigula seek services. This assumes not that Zigula refugees necessarily leave Tanzania because they are in search of rights, but asks where individuals find rights regardless of state. While the Zigula claim to be returning to refugee camps for “refugee citizenship”, I am more interested what rights they claim in the refugee camp, how these rights are justified (by refugee status, by paying, because of diseased illness or other embodied status), and how individuals contrast this experience to rights acquisition at other points in their lives than in whether or not “refugee citizenship” is the primary impetus for relocation. Likewise, for those living in Tanzania—either Chogo or Dar es Salaam—I am interested in where they claim rights on a daily basis, what enables these claims, and how this contrasts to similar claims made throughout their life course. 31 RESETTLEMENT PERSONNEL The Somali Zigula resettlement in Chogo was a large undertaking involving several organizations. Sociological work on migration often focuses on the institutions that facilitate or follow migration (See: Levitt 2001; Fitzgerald 2008; R. C. Smith 2006), taking the institutional perspective as a monolithic entity. I, too, am interested in how institutions shape the migration experience, in this case how institutions like the United Nations or the Tanzanian NGO REDESO shape the enactment, distribution, and creation of citizenship rights for Zigula refugees in Tanzania. Interviewing individuals working throughout the resettlement process provides insight into how citizenship was constructed from various vantage points throughout the resettlement and how individual actors within the humanitarian aid apparatus understood and implemented citizenship programming for Chogo. These perspectives, together with the official reports produced by the organizations, provide insight into how citizenship is produced, how rights were intended to be acquired, and illustrate the design or structure of citizenship. 32 Resettlement Apparatus Personnel Level Policy Level Organization Government: Parliamentarians UN: International UN Staff; High Ranking Local UN staff International Community: International Funders, Foreign Governments Branches such as US Bureau of Population, Refugees and Migration; USAID Description of Level Individuals involved in designing and funding resettlement including parliamentarians and international UN staff Government: Ministry Staff, Management Level Daily Implementation UN: Program officers, Program Managers International Community: Local Program Assistants Local NGO: Director, Program Managers and Designers Government: Staff like teachers, Secretaries, Camp Director UN & International Community: none Local NGO: Staff members like secretaries, drivers, nurses, teachers Individuals who oversaw the implementation of policy, designed programs for Chogo. Those who worked “on the ground” including teachers, nurses, drivers, secretaries, and others involved in daily work Table 3 - Resettlement Apparatus Populations Research that considers multiple levels of analysis and multiple positionalities requires multiple methods to capture the various perspectives and experiences throughout the project (Reinharz 1992:197). Just as I understand positionality within the resettlement apparatus to be informed by a unique social perspective, I understand methods, too, to provide a particular lens or insight into the process of constructing citizens. Thus, I use multiple methods to capture the multiple perspectives and positionalities within this project. 33 INTERVIEWS A semi-structured interview schedule will allow me to compare interviews across populations and the flexibility to ask follow up questions about particular views, understandings, experiences, and perspectives (K. M. DeWalt and B. R. DeWalt 2001:127). I used on schedule for refugees and one for officials of various levels. Interviews with various resettlement actors will allow me to understand individual perspectives of the resettlement, from the planning and implementation to the experience of resettlement. I used an interview guide to ensure that a set list of topics are covered, including: health care, education, water, work, what rights people can identify that they have, what rights they want, and to compare and contrast the rights they have experienced at various social locations in their lifetime. For the practitioners and planners, the same items will be addressed in terms of planned access and resettlement design, objectives, measures, evaluation, and implementation. INTERVIEWS WITH REFUGEES During my first two weeks in Tanzania, I developed and tested using a “card-matrix exercise” to begin interviews with Zigula refugees. Cards with pictures representing health care (hospital), education (school), and water (faucet/well). I also asked individuals about work, but without an accompanying card so that it would not be defined as only formal or manual labor, but would be inclusive of other forms of work (housework, childrearing, day labor, etc.). Using this system allowed me to guide discussions and allowed individuals to explicitly know all of the topics that were to be covered. It also helped facilitate conversations about personal, specific, and daily actions, such as where that specific individual government of Tanzania water on a daily basis. 34 While it helped me to guide conversations, it also provided informants with the space to say what they wanted about the topic and to make connections between topics (Pretty 1995:85). Interview schedules are available in Appendix A. SAMPLING Interviews Chogo War cohort Women 5 War Cohort Men 5 Somalia Cohort Women 5 Somalia Cohort Men 5 Total 20 DSM 5 5 5 5 20 Mobile Camp 0 5 0 2 1 5 5 2 6 14 10 16 17 60 Total 15 Table 4 - Refugee Sampling The War Cohort includes individuals who have experienced war for most of their adult lives. They would have left Somalia at around age 15 (in 1992 - born in 1978) or would have grown up in refugee camps. This population includes people aged 18 to 33 years. The Somalia Cohort, individuals 34 and older, who would have left Somalia at age 16 or older, would likely have started families in Somalia before they would have been forced to flee and would have experience negotiating social services on their own before the war. This research was primarily conducted in Dar es Salaam and Chogo, Tanzania. Interviews with individuals moving between East African countries and those going to/coming from refugee camps were conducted in Tanzania, as individuals pass through the country or returned to visit, 35 or by phone in some of the cases of the young Zigula men who left for Somalia in the middle of my time in Tanzania. Conducting interviews in Kakuma Refugee Camp was untenable due to the South Sudan Peace Agreement that caused violence in and around the camp during my time conducting research. Instead of going Kenya to conduct interviews, I interviewed individuals who normally live within the refugee camp or move throughout Kenya as they return to Tanzania for weddings, funerals, celebrations, or to visit family. Sample Type Use Insight Provided Extreme Case Identify those moving between countries/ Camps By positionality including gender, age, class, geographic location, family type Provide variant perspective; insight into alternatives Through social networks to identify additional cases Identify individuals outside of other sampling criteria Maximum Variation Chain/ Snowball Range of view points, social & geo locations and positions, migration paths Mixed Purposive – Allows comparison across variation, triangulation of perspectives of 9 social citizenship. Table 5 - Sampling Schema The mobile populations create sampling challenges, which I will minimize through a multiplepurposive sampling. In order to ensure inclusion of those who move between locations, I used extreme case sampling. This strategy provided insight into alternative locations of social citizenship outside of the Tanzanian state accessible by refugees-turned-citizens. Additionally, I intentionally sought out a broad range of positionalities, to diversify my sample. While some of these criteria (age, gender, location) are built into my interview strategy, I was 9 Patton, M. Q. (1990). Qualitative evaluation and research methods (2nd ed.). Newbury Park, CA: Sage Publications. 36 also intention in seeking Zigula outside of my immediate social networks by working with the Somali Zigula Community Organization. I also worked with a research assistant to plan and conduct interviews in order to reach non-Swahili speaking refugees. This allowed me a broader access to refugees by age (older refugees more likely to use KiZigula), geography (rural, more likely to favor KiZigula), and social class (those with most education in Italian mission schools more likely to speak Swahili, interact with Swahili speakers on a daily basis). The Somali Zigula Community Organization also allowed me access to their internal records documenting all of the Zigula who received Tanzanian citizenship and their current location with other basic biographical and family information, for sampling purposes. Finally, I worked with my contacts to identify future research participants and others that would not otherwise be known to me. This included providing me with contact information for individuals who had relocated to Somalia or refugee camps in Kenya. UNHCR/GOVERNMENT OF TANZANIA/NGO OFFICIALS Using reports and parliamentary notes, I identified the officials who were in charge of the resettlement. Some of these individuals I knew from my previous work, others I worked to meet by setting up meetings and working through official channels, while still others I met or arranged meetings through mutual contacts. I focused on the NGO called REDESO, which was subcontracted to provide all social services and “social integration” within Chogo. I will focus on three levels of officials in the UNHCR, Government of Tanzania, NGO: (1) Policy – Parliamentarians, Government of Tanzania Ministers, International UNHCR Staff, NGO Directors; (2) Managers - UNHCR local staff, Government of Tanzania Program Officers, NGO Management; (3) Daily Implementation – 37 Government of Tanzania Resettlement Manager and NGO staff members who did daily implementation work like nurses, drivers, secretaries, and teachers. The interviews conducted with these resettlement officials will be contrasted with the reports, publications, and documents that were produced through the UNHCR and Government of Tanzania about the resettlement. The document analysis section will discuss this is more detail, but the table below provides a basic overview of the relationship between interviews with resettlement officials and the document analysis. DOCUMENT ANALYSIS I reviewed all UNHCR reports and evaluations on Chogo that I could gain access to as well as all Government of Tanzania reports and parliamentary records. As chapter seven discusses, the UNHCR-Tanzania did not have copies of or maintain a database of previous reports or memos. Most of the documents I used, I accessed through the East Africana Room at the University of Dar es Salaam (UDSM) or via the UNHCR’s online archive. Historical documents from Ujamaa that I use in chapter seven were accessed online at Forced Migration Online (http://forcedmigration.org) via their online archive. Archives of Tanzanian parliamentary notes are available online at (http://www.parliament.go.tz/) and additional notes on the proceedings were accessed at the National Library in Tanzania (Maktaba Kuu) where REDESO’s notes and reports were also available in the NGO section. PARTICIPANT OBSERVATION By observing what individuals do on a daily basis and the social networks and institutions they draw upon for inclusion and rights, I am able to compare what individuals say about social citizenship with what I observed. By staying in Chogo and making daily visits to the Zigula 38 community in Dar es Salaam, I have unique perspective of social citizenship in daily life. I have spent six of the past ten years living in Tanzania and in contact with the Zigula community. Consequently, I have a significant number of contacts that I was able to draw upon in order to “incorporate” me into community events. In many ways this is nothing new, I often participate in the Zigula community when I am lucky enough to be in Dar es Salaam. Having long established strong relationships within the Zigula community, I have already built rapport with the community. ANALYSIS All documents, field notes, and interview transcripts will be analyzed using Nvivo software using an iterative coding scheme. As I conducted interviews, focus groups, participant observations, I kept extensive field notes. After each day of research and subsequent open coding of the materials, I wrote a brief memo highlighting important points covered in interviews and focus groups or observed through fieldwork. These memos were used later in developing a more focused coding scheme and final codes (Emerson, Fretz, and Shaw 1995:147). From my daily notes, I wrote monthly reports for Stephanie Nawyn. This served to update her on my data collection while also forcing me to engage with the data I had collected. Finally, all names used within this dissertation are pseudonyms. 39 CHAPTER THREE: AUTOCHTHONY & CITIZENSHIP This chapter provides an introduction to the creation of the Zigula resettlement at Chogo. Through analysis of United Nations documents, a photo exhibit, and the original resettlement design, the goal of this chapter is to provide the reader with insight into how the resettlement apparatus viewed the process of creating citizens from refugees. Reading reports of Chogo is akin to reading a choose-your-own-adventure novel: the story of the resettlement changes according to what you read. In early UNHCR reports, Chogo is imagined as a “modern African village” and the official plan for Chogo calls for paved roads, electricity, and a clinic with a four-wheel drive ambulance, and productive farmers who sell their crops at regional markets for profit inhabit the resettlement. Yet in later UNHCR reports and the photo exhibit celebrating the completion of the resettlement, Chogo is far from a modern village; in fact, it is the anti-modern village. Described as an explicitly Zigula village, the services of social citizenship are shown as emerging through traditional knowledge and an authentic identity that renders amenities like water access, healthcare, electricity, or access to economic markets useless. In the master’s thesis that was used for the eventual resettlement plan, the resettlement is described in “culturally appropriate” terms where social citizenship materializes not out of state services, but out of ethnic connections and tradition. In the final reports on Chogo, the resettlement is presented as some sort of village archetype, providing a resettlement for those without the capacity to engage in modern, global economies. 40 These disparate views of the resettlement and the rights of resettlement are hard to reconcile and, like a create-your-own-adventure-novel, the reports lead to very different stories about the nature and outcomes of Tanzanian citizenship. This chapter investigates the tension between the idea of citizenship originating from the state through service access and rights originating from ethnicity. I argue that this tension between models is more than a material disconnect in the resettlement implementation: the tension is fundamentally ontological and reflects, in Barbara Harrell-Bond and Guglielmo Verdirame’s words (2005), “Janus-faced humanitarianism” through the two different ontologies of citizenship employed in the planning of the Chogo resettlement: modernist and autochthonous. MODERN & AUTOCHTHONOUS Generally, resettlement has been understood using a modernist model of citizenship whereby rights are derived through state services and citizenship is a contract between individuals and the state (United Nations High Commission for Refugees 2011). Indeed, this is Hannah Arendt’s “right to have rights”: legal citizenship grants social citizenship (Arendt 1994). But, in the autochthonous model, the “right to have rights” comes not from the state, but from ethnicity situated within its “natural environment” (Ceuppens and P. Geschiere 2005). Refugee resettlement and naturalization provides unique insight into how rights and citizenship are constructed within a given state as the state is forced to explicitly enumerate citizenship rights and the relationship between citizens and the state through resettlement design. In the Chogo model, the involvement of the United Nations provides insight not only into the relationship between citizens and the state, but citizens and humanitarian aid regimes. How are rights understood in relationship to development? How do resettlement models situate the relationship 41 between individuals and economies, particularly in conceptualizing market citizenship? And finally, what mechanisms lead to social belonging and social rights? ETHNICITY & CITIZENSHIP: SESAME CITIZENS AND RURAL RIGHTS In a parliamentary presentation of the Zigula resettlement at Chogo, the Deputy Minister of Homeland/Internal Affairs (Naibu Waziri ya Mambo ya Ndani ya Nchi), answering questions about why the Zigula, and not Rwandan, Burundian, or other Somali refugees received citizenship, declared: I have already confirmed [the Zigula claims] of ethnicity and they are who they say they th are: Zigula people [that have been living in Somalia since the 18 century]. It is for this reason [ethnicity] that they have come to Tanzania and that we are giving them citizenship and resettlement, not for any other reason. (Bunge la Tanzania 2003:section20) The location of the resettlement (Handeni), the forms of work allowed in the resettlement (farming), and the types of seeds the Zigula were given to farm (maize, sesame) all correspond with Tanzanian stereotypes about Zigula ethnicity and the Zigula as a rural population. In the final report on the resettlement, the UNHCR and government of Tanzania describe using these essentialist and stereotypical characteristics of ethnicity as ethno-indicators to design, implement, measure, and justify the resettlement. This process and the outcomes of consolidating ethnicity into an epistemologically useful measure is visible in UNHCR documents produced about the resettlement. In the UNHCR report entitled, “Finding a Home on Ancestral Land”, Zigula citizenship is linked not only by ethnicity, but also by an ethnicized version of rurality. The 42 Zigula—and the practice of being Zigula—is described without temporality: the Zigula in 18 th th th st century Tanzania, 19 and 20 century Somalia, and after resettlement in 21 century Tanzania are defined and described by unchanging traits of culture, language, and practice. From farming techniques and practice, to family structure, cuisine, and child rearing, being Zigula is presented as one stagnant practice. The UNHCR description of the Zigula frames Zigula ritual and practice as fully defined by rural life: from the construction and style of housing, to the farming of sesame, maize, bananas, and sorghum, and cultural practices like dance rituals and art, the Zigula are described as unchanging and untouched by non-Zigula ideas of “modern life” (United Nations Tanzania 2010:3). The success of the resettlement was marked, then, by the continued employment of Zigulaness. As evidence of these claims, the report contains pictures featured in a photo exhibit on the Zigula - photos that exemplify the imagery of timeless, rural Zigulaness. For instance, in one picture a young Zigula woman crouches in front of her house. The photo’s caption declares the style and decoration of the house as quintessentially Zigula: the same type and style of housing as the Tanzanian Zigula build, the same as the Zigula built in Somalia, and the same style of housing their shared ancestors built in Tanzania 200 years ago. The house is decorated with mud paintings of symbols, pictures, and sayings and the caption declares these decorations timeless and unchanging, emphasizing that housing is part of broader Zigula culture that is defined by and dependent on rural life through style, design, and decoration (United Nations Tanzania 2010:6). 43 This theme, unchanging Zigulaness despite distance, time, and locality, drives many of the images in the report as well as the resettlement apparatus discourse about the resettlement. The images from the report on Chogo decorate parts of the UNHCR offices in Dar es Salaam. After a meeting with UNHCR staff in their offices in Dar es Salaam, an ex-patriot staff member pointed out one of the images from the report that was framed, matted, and hung on the wall, deep inside the guarded and gated UNHCR office compound. The image, a generic picture of a farmer in the Chogo resettlement, could have been taken in any rural setting. But to the UNHCR staff member, the picture illustrated the link between national citizenship and ethnicity. As we stood in the hall, she proudly deconstructed the picture for me, pointing out how the image represented the entire Chogo resettlement. She waxed poetic about the ancestors of former slaves returning to their country of origin unchanged and untainted by life in diaspora: their culture was carried and maintained wholly and completely and it allowed them to return to Tanzania and assimilate back into the same rural, subsistence farming their ancestors practiced more than 200 years ago. How wonderful!—she argued—that the Zigula could return “home.” Implicit in her ramblings was that rural Africa had not changed in 200 years nor had rural Africans, and the Zigula were evidence of this. To the UNHCR staff, the Zigula resettlement showed that Africans did not need expensive resettlement and extensive services in the US, Australia, or Europe, they simply needed a hoe and some land in rural Africa. As we stood in the halls of the UNHCR compound with its high walls, electric fences, video cameras, and doors that required swipe cards to enter and depart, I was struck by the contrast of the Africa that she described for the refugees and the Africa where she lived and worked. As she described life in Africa as ‘simple’, it occurred to me that her life, the UNHCR officer’s daily 44 existence, was far from simple. On a daily basis her work allowed her access to the same kinds of resources that she explicitly denied others. As the UN denied the need for government services for the refugees, it consumed extensive resources through government infrastructure like water pipes, the electricity parastatal, and the police force while overlooking the privilege of back up generators, water tanks, and private security. As she stood there, describing the efficacy of subsistence farming and growing increasingly emotional over the beauty of individuals returning to their “natural state” and the simplicity of Africa, I interrupted and asked her if she had ever been to Chogo. Once, she answered, but only for a few hours; she didn’t find life there very agreeable. She straightened the picture on the wall and swiped us into a deeper layer of the compound. The automatic doors facilitated by the generator outside. Like the image on the wall in the UNHCR compound, the images put forth in the report are tropes of rural African life: women walking on dirt roads carrying buckets of water and bananas on their heads; smiling farmers harvesting crops; African men dressed in animal skins with bows and arrows dancing and fighting; and idyllic green hills dotted by the occasional red-clay houses with thatched roofs. The images in the report celebrate the simplicity of a place without electricity, running water, or the assistance of “outside technologies;” emphasizing that simplicity is akin to ethnicity - or, in the words of the report, the simplicity of a rural resettlement is akin to the “life of the Zigula tribe” (United Nations Tanzania 2010:12). There is no mention of the hardships of the resettlement from a lack of clean, running water or a reliable water source, the basis of the entire economy of subsistence agriculture, a lack of electricity and services like health care, or the lack of governance structures. Instead, this construction of rural 45 Africa resonates in the minds of ex-patriots—of foreigners willing to think about life in rural Africa, but unwilling to actually face the realities of rural life. Nowhere in the report, photo exhibits, or during my time with the UN was it mentioned that more than forty people starved to death in the resettlement during the first year. No one documented the ongoing threat of food and water insecurity in Chogo. No one discussed food, shelter, or work as a right – no rights were discussed. Instead, these things were supposed to come from ethnicity and know-how attributed to resettlement location. When I expressed concerns about the status of the refugees in Chogo, all resources and paucities were attributed to the Zigula: when there was enough to eat, it was because the Zigula were decent farmers who were returned to their “native” land. When famine struck, the aid workers lamented Zigula laziness and lack of ingenuity and technology in the resettlement, as though the Zigula chose the resources they had to work with. The resettlement itself was always framed as a simple, yet sufficient solution for simple people; what the resettled refugees did with it determined their own destiny. But more than insinuating that a Zigula way of life is a simple, rural way of life, in a photography exhibit celebrating the release of the UNHCR report on the resettlement, services like electricity, piped water, and paved roads were described as an affront to and antithetical to being Zigula. Pictures of Zigula families sitting around fires and carrying firewood noted Chogo’s lack of electricity and described Chogo as an “authentic Zigula village.” The alternative—a life style with electricity—is presented as an anomaly. In one photo, a young man in Chogo poses with a small generator he purchased as a business in the resettlement. This young 46 man, the caption argued, was exceptional: not only did he create his own access to electricity, but he created a cell phone charging business for the resettlement, earning money from other residents’ lack of electricity and “backwards” lifestyle. As the young man provided a much-needed service to his community, he also profited from, what the UN perceived to be, others’ slow advancement or lack of development. The presumption is that the Zigula are backwards and not in need of things like electricity: those token few who do are exceptional in their modernity and adaptation to technological life and economic markets. Likewise, services were not the responsibility of the government or of the UN; services, in this case electricity, are obtainable through the initiative of individuals. During a 2003 visit to the resettlement with United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees Ruud Lubbers, the Tanzanian Minister of Homeland Affairs, Rhamadhan Omar Mapuri, when addressing the Zigula refugees, described the resettlement plan this way: Because of your blood links, we have treated you specially. Unlike normal refugees, we have given you land – your land. You should use this land and treat it like gold. We are looking after you now with land [and you should use it because] you need to be independent so you will be less of a burden on the host community. (United Nations Tanzania 2003). Independence, or self-sufficiency was to be based on land and land alone. A lack of services marked a lack of development, ingenuity, or capacity—of the Zigula, not of the resettlement design. No where in the photo exhibit or report was it mentioned how the young man obtained the capital to purchase a generator (remittances from abroad), the existing uses of technology in 47 Chogo (cell phones) that were obviously not present 200 years ago, and the underlying tension between the kind of life the Zigula were actually living and the life presented and idealized in reports and the photo exhibit. The reports and photo exhibits celebrate a certain way of life as an inseparable component of ethnicity. This way of life—a rural, village life without the trappings of technology or state services—defines the criteria for citizenship within the resettlement. The report and photo exhibit emphasize that Zigula citizenship and belonging emerged not from the institutions of the state—even though the state granted them legal belonging—but from a particular ethnicity within its “proper” environment: the Zigula in rural Handeni. All other services were expected to come from the land. Houses were to be built from the trees cleared through the resettlement process and local clay from each family’s resettlement plot. Families, through male heads of household, were given plots of land to farm and sesame seeds to plant, cultivate, and harvest. Yet houses take time to build, landed needed to be cleared (by hand), then planted, cultivated, and harvested before crops could be consumed or sold. No provisions were made for the time between the resettlement and the emergence of homes and farms. The expectation, as UNHCR officials repeated (often and endlessly), was an “end of dependency” and dropping several thousand refugees off in un-cleared forest to farm and create livelihoods ended dependency by returning the Zigula back to their “natural environment.” Assistance, from the state, UN, or NGOs was unnatural. But returning individuals to a lifestyle— or an outsider-conceptualized version of a lifestyle—their ancestors practiced 200 years ago, returned the Zigula to some higher, natural state of citizenship: autochthony. From the 48 resettlement design, parliamentary approval, UN funding, and government of Tanzania implementation, Zigula citizenship was directed by a particular idea of ethnicity, its relationship to a certain environment, and its role in daily life and social inclusion. By presenting the Zigula as part of a larger ethnic and cultural identity associated with backwardness and village life, autochthony transformed citizenship from a relationship with a state to a relationship to land, environment, culture, and the trappings of rural life. Unlike the vast literature on autochthony in Africa, Zigula autochthony implied not a social positionality that determines access to resources through indigeneity, but a social positionality of marginality and exclusion because of indigeneity. Instead of providing privileged access to resources because of some sort of “authentic” or valid belonging, the Zigula form of autochthony employed in the resettlement excused the government and humanitarian aid organizations from the responsibility for or provisioning of services. Being indigenous in Chogo provided not preferential access to resources, but an assumption that resources were unnecessary. Social citizenship services were replaced by stereotypes of a simple, rural life. Government services like electricity, health care, education, among others, were not provided to those in the resettlement, but reserved for those who contribute to economic markets. Like the young man with his generator, most of the Zigula resettled in Chogo lived very different lives from the imagery the UN presented in reports and photos. The young man with the generator had a market for cell phone charging because most individuals in Chogo owned cell phones. Everyone I interviewed—100 per cent of my participants—discussed how they wanted electricity and the ways in which they believed it would transform their lives – from daily 49 cooking to starting businesses. They discussed their frustrations of being perceived as backwards—and categorized with the derogatory terms washamba (farmers), washenzi (barbarians), or wachawi (witches). Others discussed how they felt pressure to perform—or were coerced to perform—certain aspects of ethnicity for UN officials. When the photographer for the photo exhibit and UN report came to Chogo, individuals reported that they were asked—and paid to—dress up and dance in poses staged by the photographer. They recognized that these reports would “go to Europe” and inform other aspects of their resettlement and the ways in which they were discussed by the UN globally, but they also needed the money that was offered by the photographer. In recalling the photographer’s request, Zigula refugees discussed the disconnect between what the UN claimed to want for them, development, and how the UN portrayed them in resettlement through the photos in the reports and their actual experience living in the resettlement with few services: the UN constructed them as, in their words, washenzi – barbarians. A man named Haji, who was trained as a pharmacy technician in a Kenyan refugee camp, discussed his frustration with how the UN perceived the Zigula as backwards and the social expectation to perform backwardness for the UN: The government and the UN people [waUN] don’t want us to be civilized [ustaarabu] or to have development [maendeleo]. No, they would rather we live as poor people, farming by hand, and then they can come here with their cameras or with foreigners [wazungu] and say, ‘Dance!’ or ‘Drum!’ or look at us and say, ‘Those people are such barbarians (washenzi). Look at how they live!’ and of course when you see us we are poor. We are simple. But it is because they left us like this, not because we want [choose] it. If I could, 50 I would open a small pharmacy in the city. But the law says I am to stay here and farm. So I farm, even though I have no idea what to do. And because there is no hospital and no doctor here, people come to me asking what medicines they should try to find to treat themselves. I haven’t studied, I am not a doctor and I am not a pharmacist. But here, people are in need, so I guess. Pulling his chair closer to mine as we sat under a mango tree in the morning sun, Haji dropped his voice into a bass whisper, “I fear I have accidently killed people by telling them to take the wrong medicines. But they are so desperate. Their children are sick. They don’t understand when I say I don’t know. There are no other options. I am guessing [at what medicine they need]. I pray that I haven’t killed anyone, but how can I know?” He picked up a leaf, playing with it between his fingers, before a neighbor entered the path to his house, sending Haji to his feet to receive the guest. SELF-FULFILLING PROPHECY The autochthonous resettlement model became a self-fulfilling prophecy (Merton 1968). The UN claimed the Zigula could not be resettled in the West because of their alleged ‘backwardness’ epitomized in culture. Consequently, the Zigula were resettled in Tanzania in an environment defined by its ‘backwardness’ and lack of amenities in order to be culturally appropriate. The consequent reports of the resettlement highlight Zigula backwardness and the idea of a culturally appropriate resettlement, designed for people incapable of engaging in the broader world. Cultural appropriateness was measured based on outsider codification of ethnicity such as housing design and materials, farming techniques, language use, and healing and ritual practices 51 th based on 19 century—or pre-diaspora—practices. The success of the resettlement, then, was measured by the continuity of use of pre-diaspora practices. These practices were not defined through historical documentation from Tanzania or Somalia, but through the imaginings of aid workers. The photography exhibit on Chogo illustrates these imaginings, the tropes of rural, merry Africa: the bounty of subsistence farming, a community formed through communal work (like hauling water) and leisure (story-telling), the continuation of “African” ritual (like dance and “witchcraft”), and the continuity of simplicity in daily life (manual farming, oral traditions, lack of electricity). When reality did not match these imaginings, aid workers engineered the images by paying for and staging the performance of made-up rituals and documenting the images for use in reports. Reports carried these images ‘back to Europe’ and elsewhere, proclaiming the success of a resettlement that returned people to their natural environment. Chogo provided ‘backwards people’ with an appropriately ‘backwards’ environment in which to be forever ‘backwards’. The tropes resonated with those in donor countries. The imagery of rural African backwardness is hardly new. As James Ferguson (2006) notes in Global Shadows, tropes about Africans as rooted or fixed people were used to justify colonial development policies and occupation, resource extraction, and authoritarian rule. These tropes have carried forward and continue to inform neoliberal conquests for resources and development discourse about African capacity. These ideas of backwards and needy Africa continue and have up take. But, instead of suggesting that rural Africans need development (as a linear trajectory) as was the basis of development since the post-war era, the insinuation is development, as the implementation of 52 state-provided social citizenship rights, is not possible, necessary, or required for everyone. Instead, aid workers should find “culturally appropriate” solutions – a call that requires justifying and explaining rural poverty through culture and embedding this relationship within global hierarchies of rights. It also requires essentializing ethnicity and culture into unchanging objectives with associated indicators that can be measured. Rejecting previous modernity-based models of development that sought to include everyone within the populace through government institutions and delineated hierarchies based on knowledge, the autochthonous model defined individual capacity through a similar scale of human capacity. But instead of attempting to intervene or provide services to those on the periphery, autochthony justified individuals’ lack of resources and rights access by constructing citizenship as natural – and naturalizing inequality and social stratification as the outcomes of environment-produced human trajectories. Thus the outcomes at Chogo were divorced from the resettlement design and the effectiveness of the resettlement model as a development model; instead, the outcomes were chalked up to some naturally ordained Zigula capacity of backwardness. Perceived backwardness begat backwardness. RURAL RIGHTS IN A GLOBAL CONTEXT The Chogo resettlement simultaneously signaled the Zigula lack of potential to contribute to national and global economies, while indicating their simplicity and lack of ingenuity to contribute to the Tanzanian state. As Stacy Leigh Pigg argues, development discourse is imbued with a scale of human progress and hierarchies of global and local, situating villagers as citizens with the wrong kind of knowledge—local knowledge, not global, useful, and universal knowledge (Pigg 1996:507, 511). Located in global and national peripheries outside of usefulness to the global economic order or to the national project of development, villagers are 53 constructed as different kinds of citizens with different kinds of rights. Their relationship to the global economy determines their needs for rights; thus, the Zigula were resettled in, as the UN and government of Tanzania constantly emphasized, “a rural village, where they belong.” Their isolation on the periphery marked a distinction within Tanzanian citizenship between those living in urban areas and those in “the village”; ostensibly a difference between “market citizens” defined by their ability to produce and engage in global consumption and what I call “rural citizens”, individuals defined by their local knowledge and lack of access to development – what Pigg describes as the prescribed characteristics of villagers. Just as the United Nations Officials who designed the Tanzanian resettlement doubted the Zigula ability to adjust to life in a Western country, thus searching for an African resettlement option, the Tanzanian government doubted the Zigula’s ability to produce, contribute, and engage in Tanzanian “development.” Thus, their resettlement location and consequent rights were defined by rurality and village life. Zigula village life was categorized through ethnic stereotypes operationalized and defined by an essential simplicity unchanging across centuries, grounding th st the experience of being Zigula in 19 century rural African village life, even in the 21 century. The consequent form of social belonging—that is, social citizenship—is void of ideas of state belonging, rights, technology, and development. As aid workers attempted to make the resettlement explicitly “local”, they ultimately situated the Zigula as peripheral; that is, they placed the Zigula as rural Africans and Africa as a place, on the periphery of global progress, deserving of only the most basic form of rights, and divorced from not only notions of development, but global circulations of knowledge, economies, and peoples that define market and state-based notions of citizenship. 54 While the resettlement apparatus expected the Zigula to find citizenship in Tanzania, not through services or the economy, but through ethnicity, it was global connections that effectively kept those in Chogo alive throughout the hardships of the resettlement process. The next section explores how Zigula rights emerged not through ethnicity as an essential identity providing a certain form of rights or knowledge, but through transnational community connections within the Somali Zigula diaspora that, through remittances, allowed the Zigual to engage in market citizenship. GLOBAL NETWORKS IN A PERIPHERAL PLACE As the United Nations pulled out of Chogo and the government of Tanzania failed to provide even basic services, remittances from family members resettled in the United States enabled those in Chogo to buy food, access health care, send their children to school, and facilitated the process of building permanent housing. Not everyone had immediate family members abroad, but through extended family networks and ukoo, resources were distributed in an attempt to provide food and water for everyone in Chogo. Although the resettlement was guarded and gated and the Zigula were legally prohibited from leaving until receiving documentation of their citizenship, in the months following the initial resettlement at Chogo, first individuals—and later families—began to leave Chogo for Tanzanian urban areas and eventually, as chapter five discusses, refugee camps, or warzones. Those who stayed, however, often sought the support of their friends and family members abroad in order to form local markets, create loan networks, supplement subsistence farming with purchased goods and, in a few cases, in order to start businesses or purchase farming resources 55 with remittances. Only through this outside assistance was Chogo viable; only through this outside assistance were individuals able to leave Chogo. Although Chogo was gated and guarded and individuals were not supposed to leave the resettlement, the citizenship process that was supposed to take “up to six months” has yet to be fully resolved more than ten years later. Without access to work (outside of subsistence farming) in Chogo, a year after resettlement individuals began leaving Chogo for Tanzanian urban centers in search of work, and thus the means for market citizenship: In Chogo if someone gets sick, the closest hospital is a 70,000 [Tanzanian shilling, roughly 45 USD] taxi fare away. Even if you sell all of your crops, so you have nothing left to eat, you still will not have enough money. Better you move to [the cities of] Dar [es Salaam], Tanga, Handeni, or Arusha. At least you can try to find odd jobs and get some money and just walk to the hospital if you are sick. In Chogo, there is not work. There is no money for transport. There is no money for treatment. There is no money to return home. But the move to urban centers required resources, too. In the 1960s and 1970s, a few Somali Zigula families, inspired by Tanzanian President Julius Nyerere’s Pan-Africanism and disenfranchised by the racial politics of Somalia, left Somalia for Tanzania. During the war, these families helped provide their loved ones in Somalia with money to flee Somalia and a place to stay in Tanzania when Chogo showed no signs of providing sufficient livelihoods. Their homes became economic safe houses for early Chogo-leavers—mostly young men who crashed on concrete or dirt floors at night as they searched for work during the day. 56 With their established homes in Dar es Salaam with small urban gardens and strong local networks, these few 1960s and 70s migrant families worked hard to help those they could. But within a matter of months, the number of Zigula refugees leaving Chogo overwhelmed the early migrant families; they could no longer support large extended families looking for places to stay, food to eat, and work. Moreover, the early migrants feared the attention their poor, Chogo relatives brought to them from their Tanzanian neighbors. The early migrants rarely disclosed their pasts to their Tanzanian friends and neighbors. Immigrating during a time of little or no population documentation, fairly open borders, and a political climate that welcomed outsiders, the early Zigula migrants became Tanzanian citizens as the Tanzanian government created an apparatus of citizenship documentation. They learned or refined their Swahili as many Tanzanians learned Swahili. To their Tanzanian neighbors, many of who emigrated from rural villages to the city, the Somali Zigula were simply migrants—and Tanzanians—like everyone else. But as the political climate towards immigrants shifted in Tanzania during the 1990s and 2000s, and Somalis became highly stigmatized in Tanzania as terrorists, the early Zigula migrants hid behind their history in Tanzania, their long-established identities as Tanzanians, and their social networks in Tanzanian society developed over decades. Not only were they financially unable to support all of those fleeing Chogo, but doing so put a substantial social burden on them with their friends and neighbors in Dar es Salaam: they risked being identified as Somalis, too. 57 Without local support, Chogo-leavers turned to their family members abroad for help. Despite claiming the Zigula were incapable of third-country resettlement in the US because of their “backwardness”, many Zigula did receive resettlement in the US through the “Somali Bantu” Resettlement Program. Although the Zigula in the US were no where near as wealthy as their Tanzanian relatives imagined, some occasionally had the capacity to send money to family members in Tanzania. These remittances, in turn, helped families establish new homes in Dar es Saalam as they left Chogo; eventually, as chapter six documents, these resources helped some individuals leave Tanzania in search of rights. The financial resources from abroad were used to cover rent and daily food, school fees and hospital bills, daily water and transportation costs, and the numerous hidden costs of institutional rights access, as discussed in chapter five. Others sent enough money for some individuals— usually eldest sons—to start small businesses called genge that sold fruit, cigarettes, soda, pens, spices, and other odds and ends. These businesses both fueled and were fueled by Chogo connections. Many of the products sold in these Dar es Salaam shops, like sisal mats and rope, produce, sesame oil, and spices came from Chogo, creating opportunities for those living in Chogo to sell their goods in urban centers. Chogo also provided those in Dar es Salaam with a cheap source of produce; without any other opportunities to sell their produce, those in Chogo were willing to sell their goods to those in Dar es Salaam for whatever they offered. Eventually, others, like the young man pictured in the UNHCR report with his generator, started businesses in Chogo to provide some services those in Chogo desperately wanted – like electricity. With remittances received from their family members in the US, families could afford 58 cell phones and to pay the charging fee at the generator. This allowed those in the US to keep in touch with their family members—especially elderly parents—who lived in Chogo. Eventually the young man was able to upgrade his generator and he began a sort of ad hoc electricity program for those in Chogo. For ten USD and the cost of the wiring, the young man would provide electricity to houses in close proximity to his shop. For an additional two dollars a day, the young man would guarantee two hours of electricity per family, per night, enough for one light bulb and one radio. The cost was exorbitantly high and prohibitive for those living in Chogo without family abroad. But for those who could request 60 USD a month from their family members for electricity— something their family members saw as important and increasingly understood as a right after their time and experience abroad—electricity became a benefit of remittances. Others started genge in Chogo to sell commodities like salt, matches, machetes, and malaria medicines. Yet few people could actually afford these luxuries. Stores often sat closed until someone’s family member from Dar es Salaam ventured back to visit Chogo or to help with the harvest, bringing with them an extra 200 shillings (roughly 13 cents US) for salt. Chogo storekeepers reported that they did their best business when UN or NGO vehicles rolled into the resettlement. Stores would spring open and individuals would put out the goods they had stockpiled to send to their relatives in Dar es Salaam to sell. When the [fancy SUVs] would pull into Chogo, I would open the bags of things I prepared for Dar [es Salaam]. Brooms, tomatoes, mats, sesame seed – everything, EVERYTHING, was put into the shop. Once, I even had my son-in-law bring a few bottles of Coca Cola 59 from the main road so that I would have something if the UN people came. So when they came, I sent word that I had soda and I sold it for much more than it cost. The [Tanzanian] UN staff and the white and Chinese UN staff like to buy our fruit because it is cheap. So when they came for the soda, they bought all of the fruit that I had and all of the sesame oil I pressed by hand. [In that day] I made more than I did the entire year prior. When one of the UN staff members recollected a visit to Chogo, she recalled a similar incident, although in very different terms: Chogo is not a good place for people like us. But, you know, they even have Coca Cola there. These refugees complain about not having health care or education, or anywhere to sell their crops, but they can buy a Coke. If they don’t have money, why are there shops? [The refugees] are just lazy, waiting for a handout. Our job is to break their dependency. CONCLUSION In 2004, when I worked in San Diego, California in refugee resettlement, I heard stories about Somali Zigula refugees in the United States struggling to adjust to resettlement. One story claimed that during a cultural orientation in Phoenix, Arizona, the resettlement worker left the room to take a phone call, leaving ten Zigula—known in the US as Somali Bantu—alone in the orientation classroom. When the resettlement worker returned ten minutes later, the refugees were in full panic mode, attempting to get out of the room and fearing they had been trapped. The punch line of the story: the refugees were so backwards that they had no idea how to use a doorknob. They panicked when the resettlement worker left because they were incapable of figuring out how to open the door on their own. In a meeting in 2012 in Dar es Salaam, a Tanzanian UNHCR staff member told me the same story, claiming that the incident had occurred 60 in Dar es Salaam with Zigula refugees and one of his co-workers. Much like the resettlement officials in the US, the Tanzanian UNHCR employee used the story to emphasize Zigula backwardness and lack of compatibility with modernity. As he told the story, he chuckled to himself, strategically positioning himself as more “developed”, more knowledgeable, and more capable than the refugees resettled in “the bush.” In Chogo, ideas of development, village, backwards, tribal, and African intersected to form a certain kind of citizenship after resettlement: autochthony. Autochthony reinforced a Westernheld idea of primordial, rural Africa defined by “pure” ethnicity manifested in the idea of rural tribes while simultaneously denying an individual’s capacity to engage in market economies, to live in a world defined by technology and change, and to be worthy of rights provided by the state. Autochthony provided the Zigula with the means through which to access legal citizenship through ethnicity, but it also provided the logic for denying them social citizenship and isolating them in a rural area – at least until receiving legal citizenship. In her work on Nepalese villages, Stacy Leigh Pigg notes that the city and village are conceptualized as a binary defined by definitions of development and shaped by ontologies of modernity (Pigg 1992). This binary relationship is loaded with other binary distinctions defining social hierarchy and capacity: developed and undeveloped; the city and the village; the global and the local; the urban and the rural; the civilized and the backwards; and the expert and the one in need of intervention. Within this binary, too, lie ontologies of citizenship and consequent rights. Autochthony as a citizenship model distinguishes the rights of rural, backward, villagers from the rights of progressive, educated, urbanites, positioning the Zigula as peripheral to the 61 Tanzanian state because of their lack of “capacity to develop” and thus their inability engage in global economies in order to purchase market citizenship. In other words, despite the claim of the resettlement apparatus that autochthony bases rights off of the traditions of ethnicity, in reality, the Zigula were situated on the far end of the spectrum of rights, outside of the purview of the state, economy, and even development. More than underdeveloped or in need of development like Pigg’s villagers, by categorizing their citizenship as “autochthony”, the Zigula are categorized as beyond help: outside of development. As Latour (1993) notes, the construction of modernity relies on presence of binaries that create clean breaks, distinctions, and categories that mark progress and what came before by artificially differentiating the modern, from the traditional; civilization from nature; and developed from undeveloped. Through this binary view, places, especially rural places like villages, embody a lack of development through a lack of modernity. While there is a great deal written about this modernist construction of development, it remains largely discursive and lacks a materiality: What are experts constantly trying to introduce into rural villages? What is implemented through these interventions in the name of development? Development is a material process: development experts explicitly work to change social worlds by implementing material changes in communities. But more than just implementing material changes, the goals of development are explicitly services of social citizenship. The material world is the platform on which change—that is, development—is supposed to occur by creating access to social citizenship that acts as the foundation of the binary distinction between the past and progress, developed and undeveloped, urban and rural. Health care, education, clean water, electricity, transport, sewage, and centralized food systems comprise the basis of the binary and 62 the interventions of development; these services also comprise social citizenship (Bulmer and Rees 1996). As discussed in chapter one, T.H. Marshall’s theory of social citizenship posited that economic forces attempted to commoditize social citizenship services; through government intervention and protection of these services, the government was able to create a minimum standard of rights—a social citizenship floor—through guaranteed access to rights (Marshall 1964). In other words, as modernist narratives about development emerged in post-Marshall Plan Europe, they mirrored the emergent European and, to a lesser extent, American welfare state, where development meant service delivery systems and a social aesthetic of service availability (Scott 1999). Neoliberalism has largely erased or diminished the role of the government in protecting social citizenship access—especially in countries where structural adjustment programs specifically targeted these forms of government protection—and access to capital now determines access to social citizenship, not legal membership (Brodie 2004). But the aesthetic remains and the goal of development continues to be service access – but instead of the state, the burden of rights access has been shifted to individuals. Consequently, while development activities continue to address access to social citizenship rights, in neoliberalism, development interventions have shifted to address citizens access to (economic) capital, social capital, or human capital in order to access rights (Somers 2008). Social citizenship rights are no longer guaranteed or provided through government infrastructure, but purchased through the market (Tsing 2005); hence, the proliferation of micro-finance/credit programs, co-payment interventions, and capacity-building 63 support services as development interventions. Social capital, human capital, and economic capital have all emerged as the paths to social citizenship-as-development. 10 Outside of (obvious) global capital flows and wage labor—formal or informal—rural citizens must be constructed as something other than economic subjects or economic actors—and their rights must be understood as something separate or different from the formal services that comprise social citizenship. Instead of financial resources leading to the ability to purchase food, find work, or send children to school, ethnicity within its “proper” environment and through personal labor, is supposed to provides sufficient food resources and shelter through sufficient know-how derived from culture and tradition. Through autochthony as the primary ontology of resettlement, the Zigula were situated outside of social citizenship because they were situated outside of the scope of modernity and the possibility of development. Autochthony allowed the UN and government officials to lament the Zigula as dependent—and, through the Chogo model, they actively worked to end Zigula dependency on the state—all while claiming to provide citizenship, without any requirements placed upon a state. Citizens are dependent upon governments to build roads, implement electricity infrastructure, regulate clean water and food, design educational curricula, and provide licensing and oversight of healthcare entities. States are dependent upon citizens for legitimacy. In resettlement, refugees are dependent upon their new states for transitioning from statelessness to citizen; from individuals situated outside of the global community of states to individuals protected by, represented by, and incorporated into states. In return, citizens pay taxes, engage in political processes, and hold 10 See (Somers 2005) for a more in depth analysis of the role of social capital in neoliberal claims of self-sufficiency. 64 the state accountable. But by equating this relationship between citizens and states to development—and by excluding rural inhabitants from this mode of governance—the Zigula remained not only outside of development and social citizenship, but effectively stateless. 65 CHAPTER FOUR: THE PAPER STATE The resettlement at Chogo was designed as a gateway into Tanzanian citizenship. But implicit in the resettlement design was an assumption about how social citizenship services are accessed in Tanzania. This chapter investigates the assumed means of social citizenship rights access in Tanzania and contrasts it with what Zigula individuals did in on a daily basis in pursuit of rights in urban Dar es Salaam after leaving Chogo. Outside of the Chogo resettlement, the Zigula were expected to use state services just like any other citizen. Embedded within this expectation was the assumption that states directly provide services and that the state is a singular thing that is constant across time and place, just as citizenship (as a singular thing) is assumed to provide the means for integration within the state through resettlement and social citizenship, the services of the state. This one-size-fits-all model of states, citizenship, and services, is disconnected from the scholarship on states, particularly that on African states. Recent scholarship on African states has emphasized that Structural Adjustment Programs in the 1980s hollowed the previous existing forms of state through privatization, pilfering the best and the brightest, leading to increased side work by government employees to subsidize their inadequate salaries, and, in some cases, leading to the “criminalization of the state” whereby state networks are entwined with illicit economies of corruption and warlord politics (Ferguson 1994; Tripp 1997; Bayart, Ellis, and Hibou 1999; Bayart 2009). Much of this literature has been structural, providing insights into the upper-echelons of African states through high-ranking officials and ministers, or by focusing on political economy models that highlight the economic 66 relationships in war, the drug trade, or corruption networks (Reno 1998). This scholarship tends to generalize from the top down: corruption in high levels of African states is hurting those at the bottom through a networked-effect (Bayart 2009). But what do low-ranking government officials do within these models and how do these “politics of the belly” play out in the lives of individuals attempting use the services of the state? Ultimately this is a question not just of states, but also of citizenship: what is the relationship between citizens and the states and how is this relationship mediated through social citizenship services? In this chapter, I examine the state from the bottom up. By comparing state-generated models and organigrams of state services and individuals access state services, I look at how social citizenship is actually constructed in Tanzania. I focus on a variety of social citizenship services available in urban Dar es Salaam—education, electricity, security, and health care—comparing how these services are officially presented versus how individuals actually access them. My goal is to understand what the state looks like from the bottom up; that is, the experience of social citizenship in Tanzania. THE STATE AND ITS PRESENTATION OF SELF Finding diagrams and models of how the Tanzanian state works is easy; figuring how the Tanzanian state actually works is more difficult. Like many formerly socialist states, Tanzania produces flow charts, diagrams, reports, and extensively intricate delineations of hierarchies of service provision. Despite the prodigious production in paper documents, these records fail to capture what actually goes on in daily life in the institutions of social citizenship. This chapter explores social citizenship in Tanzania through the interplay of official, state produced documents and another system of relationships that actually facilitate the provisioning of social 67 citizenship rights. These two categories—the presentation of the official state and the experience of the actual state—are often characterized as serikali and sirikali: a play on words that changes the government (serikali) into a vicious secret (siri - kali). The sirikali, what I will refer to as “the secret state”, refers not to a real secret—as I will illustrate in this chapter, the sirikali operates openly—but it is not documented and expressed in official government documents. Instead, as donors are presented with the version of the state documented on paper, the Paper State, citizens are relegated to Secret or Shadow State. To get at the detail and intricacy of this system, I use an Actor-Network Theory approach: I follow the path of service access in order to illustrate the interplay between the official, paper version of the state and the accompanying shadow version that slyly links illicit and licit forms of services into one. The data for this chapter are based on participant observation with resettled refugees in queue at government bureaucracies, during informal encounters with government employees (from nurses and policemen to ministerial employees), on reports and documents obtained from government ministries (that are widely available in their offices and on their websites), and in interviews with government officials within the resettlement apparatus. HOW THE STATE SAYS SOCIAL CITIZENSHIP WORKS IN TANZANIA Like any post-socialist state, the Tanzania government produces a ridiculous amount of paper while documenting services (Verdery 1996). Central to its production is a collection of organizational charts known as organigrams, illustrating how both power and services supposedly flow through each ministry and branch of government. These charts are the official face of the Tanzanian government, listing names, positions, and the chain of command for every and any citizenry need. These charts are also the official face of the government to donors and 68 NGOs that hope to interface with the government and provide services. This is the “paper version” of the state; the state’s presentation of itself to the donor world and the official map and instruction manual for how to officially access government services. Consequently NGO programs, interventions, and projects are planned according to the bureaucracies outlined in organigrams that act as maps for implementing projects. Yet, these outlines of services, power, and hierarchies mean little in daily practice and service provisioning. Instead, a parallel network of services exists for accessing social citizenship services. These networks operate within the buildings and administrative offices defined by the paper version of the state, but the price, flow of services, and leadership are often completely different from what is presented on paper. What exists is a hierarchy of service providers and administrators that actually control access to rights. SECRET STATE, PUBLIC SERVICES What makes the secret state separate and different from the official paper version of the state? This chapter argues that there are four points that separate the secret state from the paper state: (1) The flow of services; (2) the power of the Secret State employees (obligatory passage points); (3) the requirement of bribes to access services and the explicit requirement for illicit payment for services by licit employees; (4) the undermining of the official version of the rights. Taken together, these four points make shadow services more than a bastardization of official state services, but actually a parallel version of the state that is situated at the intersection of licit and illicit, market and state, and is a direct product of neoliberal policy. Ultimately, the secret state is a tool of neoliberal governmentality. 69 The secret state is not unique to any single government ministry or branch; it is pervasive throughout the ministries of the Tanzanian government that provide social citizenship services. The secret state employs government workers; indeed, it is because the Tanzanian government has placed these individuals—teachers, doctors, police officers—or has subcontracted to work with these employees—electrical and water company employees—that these individuals have power. They work in government sanctioned and provided buildings; often buildings built during socialism and within government hierarchies of power that remain from socialism. In their daily jobs they use tools for their jobs provided by the government or sub-contracting company: teachers teach in government classrooms and write on chalkboards provided by the government, doctors work in government hospitals and operate using scalpels, medicines, and machines that belong to the government, water employees fix pipes owned by the government, and police officers direct traffic on government roads, wearing government-owned uniforms, and following national security hierarchies. These individuals are paid—or are supposed to be paid—by the government for their services. Indeed, their salaries are included on grants and loan applications to foreign donors, requests for money, and budget plans that are made in parliament. From all structural accounts from the outside, these individuals appear to be government employees serving the version of the Tanzanian state presented in official reports and presentations. But the view from within the Tanzanian state is quite different and the secret state emerges. As government employees go about their work, they yield a form of power not reflected in the official versions of their jobs. They control the apparatus of state services because they control the flow of patients, clients, students, and other forms of customers wanting to purchase social citizenship rights. In order to access services, they require bribes be paid in order to move 70 through the system; their official positions put them in positions where they act as gatekeepers. Often there are no alternative services or the alternatives that exist require more money than an individual is willing or able to pay. The result is that in order to access rights, bribes have to be paid within the government sector to government employees. In interviews, I asked research participants—the refugees, but also the government employees— about paying bribes within the state. The answer was always the same: government officials have to seek bribes from citizens because their own salaries are insufficient or the government fails to pay them for months on end. They, too, have to pay for school fees, take their children to the doctor, buy electricity and water, etc. Thus, they seek bribes in order to access their own rights. The result is that government employees are not paid and thus cannot access rights, so they must solicit bribes, denying services to those who are unable to pay access to rights. According to Aili Mari Tripp (1997), large scale black markets emerged during socialism when the government nationalized labor unions, taking away citizens’ ability to negotiate for wages and creating a gap between what individuals earned and what they needed. Individuals had been engaged in forms of black market labor since colonialism, but without the hope of negotiating for fair wages in government jobs, they became more invested in unofficial forms of labor that were technically illegal. During socialism and through the 80s, black market activity was the norm: families smuggled soap and grains into the country illegally to sell, government employees who were barred from additional forms of work kept farms or small businesses on the side, and those with money purchased taxis or buses illegally and registered them in the names of their spouses (Coulson 1982; Maliyamkono 1990; Freyhold 1980; Tripp 1997). 71 At the same time, government services were heavily subsidized and although they were inefficient, they were broadly accessible to the many who engaged in illicit trade (Tripp 1997). A little bit of occasional cash was enough to access important services. Most, but not all, people in urban centers could access social citizenship rights. But through structural adjustment programs, government subsidization programs were removed and citizens incurred a higher cost for basic social citizenship rights like education, water, and health care. Simultaneously markets opened, changing the relationship of supply and demand in the informal markets, legalizing formerly illicit trade, and consequently changing the primary source of income for many families. As the price of social citizenship rights increased, the income from the black market or informal work declined. As the black market became less profitable, Chinese goods began to flood the market in the early 2000s, further driving down the cost of formerly luxury goods like paper, sugar, and soap. While this made some goods more accessible (i.e. soap, detergents, sheets), it drove down family incomes from their second jobs—jobs that were no longer “black market,” but were legal, petty trade, as markets opened. As second income jobs brought in less income and government wages continued to stagnate, government employees soon found themselves unable to access their own services. Government salaries remained insufficient and second incomes were no longer enough to cover the price of social citizenship rights. Structural adjustment programs that pressured governments to remove subsidies for public services eventually drove up the costs of social citizenship services. So as doctors continued to make the same amount from their government jobs and their secondary wages plunged, the cost of the services they provided rose tremendously. Service providers could no longer afford their own services. 72 At roughly the same time, as larger sums of money entered the system from those using services, humanitarian aid and development money began flowing through program administration for specialized services like HIV/AIDS funding, anti-malaria campaigns, girls education, good governance programming, or water access. While money was quickly inserted from foreign governments and donors through the official government apparatus, citizens were increasingly strained to pay the official government prices and were proactively searching for ways of bypassing the official channels in order to access social citizenship rights. The result was a strategic reorganization of government services where service providers aligned themselves to coincide with flows of money - from the citizen up or from aid, down. As government employees told me, the reorganization of the system allowed them to access resources: they sold medicines that were supposed to be free, required bribes in order to access services that were supposed to be open to all citizens, illegally detained individuals throughout certain process (illegally arresting them, refusing to check them out of the hospital), or abused their positions of power (for sex, drugs, or other resources that could be sold again). Likewise, from the top down, they falsified per diem receipts, borrowed from government accounts, blatantly stole equipment from their offices, misused resources, pilfered petty change, falsified budgets, and created fake accounts. They profited from their positions, even when their salaries did not arrive. This constant pursuit of resources at the expense of services characterizes the secret state. What follows are ethnographic vignettes from different social citizenship services that, together, illustrate how, through an amalgamation of licit and illicit services, a shadow version of the state 73 provides citizens with services and that is reproduced through rights distribution - often at the expense of actual rights. HEALTH Public health is a major area of development intervention in Tanzania. In order to facilitate the emergence of international health programs, such as AIDS/HIV assistance through programs like PEPFAR, the Tanzanian government puts forth the paper version of itself as the apparatus through which aid money should flow and programs and services should be planned and delivered. In doing so, funds are funneled through the government towards services. In doing so, the apparatus of service delivery is largely seen as a given, as neutral structure through which services are delivered, implemented, and measures. Yet, as chapter five shows, the experience of accessing rights in Tanzania is often quite different than the paper plan for service access. One day, while hanging out in the hospital lines with a Zigula family and observing the process of going to the doctor, a nurse struck up a conversation with me. An interview with a high-ranking government employee who described her own graft within the upper echelons of the Ministry of Health was fresh in my mind, so I asked about graft. The nurses responded, “We all need to eat, all of our children need to study,” she said as she government of Tanzania up to select the next patient to enter the hospital. As she shook his hand to “greet” him and welcome him into the hospital, she looked back at me, opening her hand as she pulled it away from his, revealing a handful of cash. She smiled at me and she followed him into the hospital, kick her feet up behind her. Indeed, while hospital visits were nominally free, in practice, they required paying bribes even to enter the doors. 74 In the Zigula neighborhoods, the process of paying bribes begins by waiting outside the hospital. From this point, money is required at every step: first, bribes are required to be considered to enter the hospital; later, bribes are required to get the correct paper work, to enter a hospital room, for the doctor to show up, for tests to be run, and to receive a written prescription—all in addition to the actual costs of the various tests and procedures. But before even having the option to purchase charts or pay bribes, patients had to compete to enter the hospitals. Outside the doors of the hospital in the refugee community, the sick congregated early in morning in hopes of being selected to enter the hospital. In Tanzania, the national doctor to patient ratio is one to 50,000—it is worse in “slum areas,” like where the Zigula live—creating fierce competition to see a doctor (MAT2010). In the Zigula neighborhoods, where the number of patients far exceeds capacity, there is a selection process outside of the hospital doors where potential patients wait outside, hoping to be selected to enter the hospital. Like the example that I described above, gaining entrance into the hospital required paying bribes as did receiving care and treatment. Nurses, doctors, and secretaries acted as gatekeepers throughout this process, triaging patients not by need, but by ability to pay. By controlling access to services, government hospital employees gained access to financial resources. This process is described from the refugee perspective in greater detail in chapter six. During another day of observations at the hospital a nurse sidled up next to me. She started in broken English, asking if I knew Swahili. I nodded and she cut to the chase, “Do you know of any [foreigners] with AIDS?” she asked, so directly that I was taken aback a bit, “Here’s my number, I will deliver medicines to them so they don’t have to go to the hospital - I will give them a good price.” She slid off the bench as quickly as she had come, leaving me with only a 75 cellphone number on a wrinkled piece of paper, sweaty from her palm. Days later I encountered her again, “Mambo, What’s up?,” she greeted me. I asked about her offer, was delivering drugs part of her job? “No [laughing], it’s not my job, it’s my business. I take the drugs from the hospital and I bring them to patients who are too proud to be seen picking up AIDS drugs.” “You steal the drugs?” I asked. “The drugs are free for patients with AIDS…I just charge them to deliver and they don’t have the shame of the things the hospital makes them do like tests and counseling. I make the process easier for them. All of the nurses do this…and some of the doctors, too…it is a good business. Collecting money at the door [taking bribes to enter the hospital] makes some money…delivering medicine makes lots of money.” For five hundred dollars a month, nurses would deliver “free” drugs to your home, no AIDS test or counseling required. Meanwhile, outside the hospital, individuals waited for the opportunity to be tested, pick up medicines, and to be seen by a doctor. From the official, paper versions of the hospital—the organigrams and management matrices—hospital staff members created new organizations, services, and businesses that redirected money from the state into their own pockets, making themselves the obligatory passage points for services. In doing so, they also fulfilled their monthly targets numbers for patients required by the donors who worked through the paper state. “Each month we are supposed to report how many people we treat, [by selling AIDS medicines] we can reach our numbers and make money,” one nurse told me. 76 EDUCATION Halima became a teacher by chance, not by training. She grew up in Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya: “The schools are better in Kenya, the teachers know English there, so I learned English” she explained. When the UNHCR moved Somali Zigula refugees from Kenyan camps to Tanzania, Halima and her aunt were among the thousands relocated to a camp and then the new resettlement, Chogo. A fidgety sixteen year old, after a few months in Chogo Halima grew tired of being confined to the resettlement and started walking the main road looking for something new and possibly a job. She made it roughly 50 kilometers on the main road to Korogwe where she found work in a British missionary doctor’s home because she spoke English from her time in Kenyan camps. One day she struck up a conversation with the headmaster of the local primary school. He offered her a job teaching English. She accepted. When I met Halima, she was on break from school. The teachers were striking and Halima had taken a bus to Dar es Salaam to visit her cousins. During our interview, Halima was particularly interested in discussing education as a right. “People understand why we are striking. We are striking because we are not being paid,” she began, rhetorically, “Who works when they haven’t been paid for six months or a year? No one. Teachers cannot afford to send their kids to school because we are not being paid, so why should I teach if I can’t even afford the government service [I am offering]?” Teachers, doctors, and nurses all went on strike during my year of research because of lack of payment. Police officers, too, threatened to strike. Without receiving their salaries for months— or longer—many struggled to pay bills and to access services. But even when they were paid, their salaries were often insufficient. As I went about my daily research, I would pass first the 77 national hospital, Muhimbili, and later local hospitals. Doctors began carrying signs that, “I can’t afford my own services” or “I can’t afford health care.” Likewise, Halima, the Somali Zigula teacher, described the problem of teacher salaries in similar terms: I make fifty-thousand shillings a month [roughly 31 dollars]. I cannot even afford a bus ticket from where I live to Dar es Salaam with one month’s salary. Teachers cannot afford to send their children to school. It takes two months of salary to pay for one year of a child’s school fees. The money is there - there are 93 children in one of the classes I teach and each pays 70,000 in school fees each year. But the government says it cannot afford to pay me more. When the government failed to pay teachers for teaching, teachers had another way of commoditizing their services. After the official school day, teachers would hold class again, this time as “tuition,” the word for after-school class-for-payment, not to be confused with ada, school fees. Halima readily admitted that sometimes, like other teachers, she wouldn’t show up at all during the regular school day. “Why would I work for nothing? If students want to learn, they can come to tuition.” At tuition, unlike regular class time, Halima would teach what students needed for their annual exams in order to pass to the next grade level. Tuition became an integral part of teachers’ salaries. Charging between 1,000 and 2,000 Tanzanian shillings per day—roughly between 60 cents and 1.25 USD per day—with between 60 and 70 students showing up on a regular basis, Halima could easily make her monthly government salary in a day. Yet, the government salary remained important: Right now the school roof leaks, we do not have toilets, and the children sit on the floor because there are no desks. If this is a government school, the government needs to pay for 78 things and to pay us, too, for doing work. The government wants to pay nothing, but for us to do everything with good test scores. There is nothing for free. Government schools were the only potential sources of education for Somali Zigula children; private schools were simply too expensive. Somali Zigula parents of children in government schools were often conflicted by the government system. They recognized that the regular school day did not provide a sufficient education for their children and would not prepare children to pass yearly exams. Even the insufficient, daily classes were expensive and parents often struggled to cover basic school fees, let alone to pay for “tuition.” And not surprisingly, they were frustrated with having to pay twice for the same service. “Teachers are supposed to teach,” Hamadi, a father of five children argued, “Why am I paying them to teach twice? Why can’t they just teach [the first time]? The government not paying their salaries is not my problem…my children are the ones who are hurt by this. The government officials send their kids to private school. They don’t understand my problem.” And so education became elusive, a right not provided by the government, but accessible only through money and controlled by teachers. In the pursuit of education, teachers became the obligatory passage points, guarding services in exchange for personal profit. In a system of market citizenship, when teachers failed to receive adequate compensation for work, they too risked going without rights. By using their positions to profit, they ensured their own access to rights, often at the expense of the poorest; those who cannot pay twice. Because children had to be registered in schools for the annual exams, tuition alone was never an option for those who hoped to move through the education system and complete their degree. But for those who recognized that they could never pay expensive 79 secondary school fees (let alone university fees), parents often paid tuition fees without paying for official school fees so that their children could learn to read and write. For most Somali Zigula families, even 1,000 shillings a day—less than a dollar—was more than they could afford and was roughly what most families spent on food or water for a day. Some worked with teachers to arrange alternatives like trading meals or washing laundry in exchange for children attending tuition classes in order to learn basic skills, but for families with multiple children, even arranging exchanges was difficult. Others sent their children to Muslim schools, madrasa in Swahili or chuo in Somali, in hopes that they might find religious vocations. While these schools were technically free, they required students to contribute towards the maintenance of the teacher; often these free schools ended up costing more than tuition or public school fees. Sometimes parents sent their children to school without paying school fees. Often the children were returned home or kicked out of the school for the year, things parents expected, but worse, sometimes they heard nothing of the unpaid fees: “When I was new here I sent my daughter to school without paying the school fees. She was eight. I heard that teachers would send kids home if they didn’t pay. My daughter was never sent back so I thought the other parents were being stupid. Then my daughter … she changed. One day a child of a friend came and told me that she saw the teacher was touching [my daughter]. When I went to talk to [the teacher] at school, he told me that school was not free. I went to talk to the headmaster who told me to leave. I went to the police and they laughed at me. My daughter didn’t go to school after that.” 80 A few months after our interview the teacher died and the rumored cause was AIDS. The daughter’s test came back negative, but the family’s fear continued. The mother called me and demanded a follow up interview. While we talked, she sobbed and sobbed, “…[W]hen you write your book, you tell those people what [the teacher] did to [my daughter]. You tell them that we have no rights. You tell them that education is not free in Tanzania and that the government is lying when they say it is. This is [the government’s] fault. This happens because of them. You tell them that the poor have no rights and that the government takes our money and our children and our dignity. You tell them that my daughter is ok, but the other daughters of this country are dying because of the greed and lies of government men.” Unfortunately the problem of teachers taking advantage of students when parents fail to pay school fees is not confined to this one example. In Swahili, the phenomenon of older men taking advantage of young girls is called fataki. Fataki is the subject not only of public health campaigns by foreign donors, but also local rap music where it is referred to as “chips mayai,” French fries and eggs, insinuating that poor, young girls can be bought off for next to nothing the price of street food popular among children and teenagers. Those who are most at risk are girls from poor families that cannot afford to pay for their basic services (Luke and Kurz 2002). Instead, older men capitalize upon their lack of service access and money, promising money and services like education and water for sex. For those in positions of authority, those situated within the secret state as service providers and obligatory passage points, perceived ‘debts’ within the shadow system were resolved through fataki. Fataki was viewed as a legitimate form of payment in exchange for rights. 81 During an interview with a young woman who had grown up in Chogo, the woman, now twentytwo years old, recalled how when she was in secondary school one of the teachers in the resettlement would regularly attempt to corner her for sex. The teacher would fail her on exams that she obviously passed or would require her to stay after school without reason. He repeatedly reported her to the regional authorities for failing to pay her school fees when the fees had been already paid. The teacher would also embarrass her in front of her friends. “The only times I…[had sex] with him was when he forced me. […] After, he grabbed my hair and ripped some of it from my head and he left me in the classroom. That year when I went to take my [end of the year] exams, he said that I didn’t pay the fees and so I couldn’t take them exams. I cried and I left and I didn’t go back to school.” The girl’s school fees were paid with remittances from an uncle living in the United States. “My uncle is mad…his money has been a waste. But he is mad that there is no one to fix this problem, so that I can go to school – there is no one who can stand up for me.” The paper system provided no oversight and there was no recourse against teachers who used their positions within the shadow system for their personal gain. But intercourse was not the only way in which teachers abused their unmitigated power over their students. Parents reported that their children were sometimes used as farm labor or as domestic workers by teachers during class time. During one of my visits to the refugee camp, all the students from one grade level were at a teacher’s house harvesting his crops during the school day. When I asked why they were not in school, they shrugged, “We have to work at the teacher’s farm.” 82 In Dar es Salaam, during breaks in interviews, I would often sit on the front porch of a house that belonged to a Somali Zigula woman, Rukia, who sells sodas out of her home. The local elementary school’s headmaster lives next door to Rukia and, as we would sit on the porch and chat and drink sodas, we would watch as students came and went from the school headmasters’ home, carrying water, brooms, pots and pans, and other cleaning supplies. Rukia would often sigh heavily when the students would pass, then stand up abruptly and head inside her house, muttering to herself. When I eventually interviewed Rukia and asked her questions about education, she let loose stories of her headmaster-neighbor. Education is expensive here, but I paid for my daughter to go to school for two years. Then one day I saw her carrying a bucket of water to the headmaster’s house. I called her over and asked her what she was doing. She told me that everyday she did chores for the teachers or headmaster, running errands for them, cleaning their houses, and cleaning the school toilets and classrooms. The students did all of this and at the same time the teacher would send home notes saying that each family was expected to contribute to paying for guards and cleaning people for the school! I am paying for a cleaner when my daughter is doing the cleaning and not learning. If students aren’t learning at school, what are all the fees for? Why should I pay the school for her to haul water for the teacher, when she can haul mine for free. Better she cleans at my house where I don’t have to pay school fees. In education, teachers made themselves obligatory passage points through which to access education. By charging tuition they were able to supplement their meager salaries by providing quality services only for those who could afford to pay twice. This arrangement put them in positions of unmitigated power where they had access to students for work, sex, or just extra money. Market citizenship, together with a lack of oversight by the government, empowered 83 teachers to financially profit and wield authority over students and their families - especially those who could not afford private schools and had few options outside of the government system. Advocates of market citizenship often argue that market citizenship empowers individuals and holds institutions accountable when stakeholders “vote with their pocketbooks.” But for the Somali Zigula, those so poor that they had no other options to choose from, market citizenship forced them to either surrender their children (and their children’s bodies) to the uncontested power and whims of teachers and headmasters, or to remove their children from the educational system, losing all hope for upward mobility and literacy. The commodification of rights not only advantages the wealthy who have their choice of quality of services, but it changes those who are unable to pay from citizens—or even subjects—to commodities, things that can be purchased for the rich or powerful without fear of recourse. ELECTRICITY In December 2011, over the course of three hours it rained as much as it usually rains in a month during the rainiest time of year. Massive flooding occurred and power went our across the city as power lines were felled by water, wind, and lightning. In other parts of the city, power surged through power lines, blowing out power connections and starting fires in homes across the city. Electricity in Tanzania is purchased on a voucher system. Individuals go to power stations and buy codes; they go home and input the codes in small boxes connected to their power source and purchase electricity. The electrical boxes are referred to as “Luku boxes” that were implemented to help track the country’s energy supplies and to cut down on theft of electricity. The boxes act as a buffer between citizens and the otherwise arbitrary measurement of energy use. (How do 84 you measure energy without meters? This is the constant question of the Luku box-less whose bills are decided by the whims of the power companies.) Luku boxes are valuable—and are nominally free, according to the power company. The December storms wreaked havoc on the power company and their supply of Luku boxes suddenly dissipated…or so they claimed. This section is a combination of ethnography and autoethnography. In the wake of the December storms, I watched as friends, other researchers, acquaintances, and research participants struggled to get their power restored and their Luku boxes replaced. I accompanied my landlord, too, as she struggled to resurrect our system and I shadowed Somali Zigula families as they attempted to get new Luku boxes. What I witnessed was how individuals battled and found themselves caught between the paper and shadow systems. --- Mama Mkomwa lives in the Somali Zigula neighborhood in Dar es Salaam with her three children, her husband, her husband’s brother and his family of five, and her in-laws. Their two room house has the rusted remnants of a roof with tarps, branches, and pieces of wood covering the holes. The water that drips through is collected in plastic basins, metal kettles, and plastic buckets and stored or used for cooking, bathing, and wash. Like others in Dar es Salaam, Mama Mkomwa’s household lost power through a massive power surge. When I spoke with Mama Mkomwa the day after the storm, she was first mad about the credit she had just input on the Luku box, “My brother in Kansas sent me his Christmas bonus 85 yesterday. I put 10,000 shillings (roughly 8 USD) onto the box the night of the storm. Now, all that money is gone.” In February, Mama Mkomwa still had not received a replacement. In August when I left the country to return to the states, she was still waiting for a box. “They keep telling me, ‘Sorry, come back tomorrow’. Or, ‘I don’t have a pen to sign the forms,’ these are both the inside ways of saying, ‘You have to pay a bribe before you get it.’” For months, Mama Mkomwa returned to the offices daily in search of a box. Every time she returned home empty handed. She didn’t have the money to pay a bribe for the box, so she had no other option but to annoy the officials charged with receiving her request by showing up often and asking the requisite questions. --- During the same storm, my apartment’s Luku box blew up. My landlord, an upwardly mobile daughter of a former government minister wasted no time in figuring out what needed to be done. Over the course of ten minutes of talking on the phone and using Blackberry Messenger, she had identified a friend with a high ranking relative within the power company, figured out why no boxes were available, and had found the person who would be the solution. After the storm, the Luku box technicians realized that the boxes would be highly sought after. They took all the boxes from their office store rooms and registered the boxes in their names. Suddenly, the office was out of boxes at the very moment of the highest demand. Customers who needed boxes—boxes that are supposed to be free—would have to pay, not the power company, but the technicians who were now the owners of all of the units. When I expressed interest in learning how this system worked, my landlord invited me to sit in as she discussed the transaction with 86 the technician. When the technician knocked at the door, carrying three different boxes to choose from, she welcomed him with, “This is my white friend. She wants to know how corruption works in Tanzania, so I told her she could join us today.” With a wide grin he welcomed me to their conversation to listen, observe, and learn. He consented to a brief interview while he installed the unit. “These are the three options,” he began his sales pitch, “This is just a regular box, nothing has been done to it. It is 300,000 shillings. This box,” he said, holding up a box that appeared to be similar to the first, “Will be 400,000 shillings. It has been fixed so that it is slow. How many fans, lights, or air-conditioning units do you have in here? Ten-thousand shillings (seven USD) will last for a month [An amount that usually lasted only a few days, at most].” Holding up the final unit that appeared the same as the first two he grinned broadly, “This unit [laughs] THIS unit is 600,000 shillings but you will never put money on it again. Free electricity for eternity.” Stealing electricity in Dar es Salaam is a common problem and the technician who brought the box was also the one charged with finding the culprits, “I promise never to turn you in for fraud,” the technician assured my landlord on his way out the door. Less than six hours after the storm, my landlord purchased a new unit and the technician had made nearly five times his monthly salary. While he installed the box, his phone rang and rang. By the time he left, all of his units had been reserved by Dar es Salaam’s wealthy. “We won’t get more of these boxes for months,” he explained, “the Luku boxes in Dar es Salaam will be finished by tonight.” ---- 87 “I know it wasn’t your house, but you can’t just give into this kind of corruption,” a friend, Margaret, an anti-corruption activist told me, “You have to be persistent until you get things through the official channel.” For three months she told me this as she went without power. Margaret often brings her work home with her in the evenings, using a laptop at home to write reports for her NGO and to keep in contact with her friends via email. The lack of power seriously affected her work as well as her children’s school work. Without electricity, her kids were forced to do work by flashlight and by the light of oil lamps. Her husband, John, started staying at the office later and later. One day John came home with a used diesel generator as the cost of fuel soared to nearly nine dollars a gallon. While relatively well off, Margaret and John still could only afford to run their generator for an hour or so a day. Margaret grew increasingly frustrated with the system as she persistently asked for a Luku box day after day, while her attempts to acquire a box through the official system were stymied. One day, nearly four months after her Luku box exploded she told John that she was leaving and that he needed to do whatever he needed to do in order for their family to get another box. She didn’t want to know how or where he government of Tanzania it, she just needed electricity again. John was unable to get the current, digital version of the box. The supply of digital boxes had yet to be replenished after the December rains. Instead, John received an analog punch version of the box that is difficult to use, often inaccurate, and vouchers for the analog boxes can only be purchased at a few places around town (digital vouchers can be purchased in every area of the city). He confided in me that the box cost him more than 250,000 shillings and he had to promise the technician that he would purchase his future digital box from him once the new shipment came in. I asked Margaret what she thought of the whole system. “I didn’t want to feed 88 corruption…but what other choices are there? The government isn’t in control anymore, the corrupt government officials are.” --- Examples from the December floods are numerous. Most of the Somali Zigula refugees I know in Dar es Salaam have yet to have their Luku boxes restored. I selected these three examples from my ethnographic work in order to illustrate an important point: the shadow version of the state presents a certain form of market citizenship whereby those at the top of society are able to rig the system to pay the least. Those who are least able to pay remain excluded from the system and attempting to engage the system as it is presented on paper actually costs them valuable resources (including time) while further distancing them from accessing the system again in the future. My landlord, without a second thought, purchased free power for her house and her tenants for the foreseeable future with the blessing and help of those within the system, effectively driving up the cost for those the “free” Luku boxes were supposed to help. In the case of electricity, the shadow system allowed the elite first access to “free” services—Luku boxes— that had been commoditized through corruption. Through complicity with the electric company officials, those with the most resources could usurp the system, buying their way out of market citizenship and into unlimited, free electricity with a one-time fee. Meanwhile, those with the fewest resources remained incapable of purchasing “free” services, using their meager resources in basic pursuit of their rights. But as “free” resources were commoditized through hoarding, the poor became further removed from economies of rights and low-level government officials profited from scarcity. 89 SECURITY It’s difficult to write about mob justice in Africa without feeding stereotypes of Afro-pessimism and violence. For months I conducted interviews with refugees in Dar es Salaam as they described the need for—and sometimes their role in—vigilante justice as we discussed rights. My goal in presenting vigilantism is not to glorify the violence that has become pervasive in people’s lives or to blindly regurgitate stories of disorder ubiquitous in journalism about Africa. My objective is to present how security and insecurity were experienced by those without the means to purchase protection and in interviews, the topic of security always began with narratives of mob justice. While research participants often began their descriptions of justice and security in Tanzania with stories of vigilante justice, officially the Tanzanian government describes state security services as, “The Force is a centralised [sic] organ with hierarchical organisational [sic] structure set up from the Headquarters flowing downwards to Regional Unit, District and Police station levels” (Tanzanian People’s Defense Force 2012). The Tanzanian Police Force organigram describes hierarchies of responsibility within the police forces, from the traffic unit through investigatory bodies. Despite the intricate hierarchy charts and centralized-de-centralization that the government officially espouses, the experience of justice and security in periurban Dar es Salaam does not reflect the bureaucracy and responsibilities described in official documents and publications. Instead, like other state services, the paper version of security reflects informal networks that are woven throughout the state infrastructure. 90 SAFETY IN DAR ES SALAAM In neoliberal Tanzania, security is a commodity to be bought and sold and it comes in many forms. There are police organizations, private security companies, organized community watch groups, gangs, and mobs. In the wealthiest neighborhoods of Dar es Salaam, the symbols of security as a market citizenship service are visible in the high white walled compounds with electric fences (armed through the reliable electricity of automatic generators), barbed wire, highly trained dogs, armed guards, and giant gates bearing the insignias of the city’s security firms. Bigger houses with thicker walls display the names of regional and international security agencies. Private security firms patrol wealthy neighborhoods, like the police do in the United States. They are armed with automatic weapons, attack dogs, and protected with body armor. The same private security companies are responsible for security at banks and transporting money. Their guards sit outside ATMs with automatic weapons, operate ambulances and fire trucks, and their signage is placed openly and freely on anything that might need protecting: cars, houses, businesses, and strangely, even a police station. In daily life, the police do little in terms of security and protection of the general populace. My informants often complained that when they would report crimes such as rape, theft, even murder, nothing happened except the drawing up of a police report—a report for which they had to pay a bribe. One of my research participants, in the middle of our interview, called the national emergency number—the Tanzanian version of 911—to prove the country’s failure to respond to its citizens. Indeed, instead of a voice on the other side of the line, the automated message barked back a familiar refrain, “Sorry, the number you have dialed is not available. Try again later.” In interview after interview, refugees claimed that security exists only on paper, unless you can afford to pay the bribe for them. 91 MOB JUSTICE Operating within the official government was hopeless for the refugees. The police did little and the little that they did required money. During my time conducting research in the refugee neighborhood I saw the police only once, after a bank had been robbed and the private security guard had been shot, and rumors had started circulating that the police were behind it. While I only witnessed the police once, I observed numerous car jacking, a couple of robberies, serious car accidents, riots, and regular mob justice. Despite the frustration with the police, the refugees I interviewed often found resolution to petty theft and basic security through mob justice. The sense of hopelessness that the refugees reported about the police was always accompanied by stories of mob justice as the solution to the lack of security. Without the police, they argued, the only thing that would maintain society was fear, “The police scare no one. What people fear is that if they steal, they will be beaten to death by their friends and neighbors…and their family. The people who smile at you everyday will take a rock and bash in your head. I fear you and you fear me and so together we are safe.” During my time in the Zigula neighborhoods, I witnessed numerous mob attacks against those accused of theft. They would start slowly, a hum of discord within a growing crowd until sentiment turned and the accused had been convicted by the group, who would turn from bystanders into witnesses to jury, judges, and then executioners. The beatings would begin. Zigula men, in particular, would describe sheria mikononi (law by the hands) as the form of security that they relied upon for their livelihoods. Abdi, a middle-aged Zigula man who ran a small fruit stand outside of his house described security in his neighborhood: “My [fruit stand] has been robbed three times. They take all of my money, all of my fruit, and leave me with nothing. Twice the men had weapons and so I could do nothing, but 92 the third time they guy just had a machete. When he came and tried to rob me I yelled ‘Mwizi!’ [Thief!] and people came out of their stores, out of their house and the captured the man. They lit him on fire. Either he dies for his crime or I will die from his crimes. It should be him.” I followed up Abdi’s statement by asking him to clarify his statement about “he dies or I die” and he responded, “My family depends on the money I make here for water and food. If I make 3,000 shillings in a day [roughly two dollars] that is a very, very good day. But all it buys my family is cassava and a little water. Not even enough water to wash clothes. When the fruit spoils and can’t be sold, we eat that, too. If you take my money and you take my fruit, my whole family will starve.” Mob justice, as brutal and violent as it is, provided the primary source of security within the Somali Zigula community. Without it, families struggled to protect the little that they had. Without the police to intervene for protection or the capacity to hire a private security firm, individuals enforced order through fear. While the Zigula clearly participated in mob justice, they also feared it. As poor outsiders, they recognized that they could easily be the first to be blamed when things went missing. “Here people have people that they know, relationships—do you understand me?— relationships that mean they trust you or they can borrow things if they need them. But when you are new here…like we are new…no one trusts you. Plus, you can see we are poor. When you look at our houses and our clothes and our children, you know we are poor. So people think they cannot trust you. You might steal from them. Do you 93 understand? We don’t have the relationships that allow people to trust us. So when something disappears, we are the ones who are blamed.” And blamed they were. Young Zigula men were especially targets of blame and consequent mob justice. Nearly every month I conducted research there was at least one funeral held for young Zigula men killed by mob justice. My first month conducting research, a young man who sold single cigarettes to passengers leaning out bus windows was killed when a customer claimed he returned too little change. The young man refused to return the money—his fellow venders insisted that the passenger was trying to scam him—and a yelling match began. The passenger confronted the young man, rallying a crowd of men, leading to a pushing match between the passenger and the vender. As some point, the customer declared the vender a thief and the vender turned and ran, only to be chased down by the mob and killed. One of his fellow cigarette venders tried to intervene; to stop the beatings and to return the money the man initially insisted was stolen—the equivalent of less than ten cents—but it was too late. He, too, was beaten. After a long day of interviews, I came across a group of Zigula men leaving the cigarette vender’s funeral. We exchanged greetings and I expressed my condolences for the loss of their friend and family member. “His problem,” one of the men told me, “is that he didn’t realize that no one here [cared about] him or trusts him. He has no power, no rights, no value. He should have apologized and given the customer whatever he wanted.” As outsiders, the men pointed out that their neighbors who grew up in the area—or who had family in the area—were trusted because they were part of social networks that gave them credibility and some protection. But newcomers were to be feared; and poor newcomers, like the Zigula were to be especially feared for their intense need and lack of networks. 94 Vigilantism provided both security and insecurity for Somali Zigula families in Dar es Salaam. Without the security provided for all citizens by the police, the Zigula had few other sources of protection. Like others in their community, they relied on each other for intervention against thieves, but unlike their neighbors, they were often the first to be suspected when things went wrong based on their outsider status. Unequal access to security and increased insecurity were experienced together as an anxiety-ridden form of inequality. A fast-talking Zigula man who asked me to call him Broda, compared the punishments of vigilante mobs for petty theft with the seemingly unnoticed crimes of government officials: “You know [former Prime Minister] Lowassa? His [distant] family members’ house was robbed. The thief took a pair of flip-flops [worn in the shower or bathroom]. The family suspected the houseboy, so they searched for him and questioned him in front of the house with the neighbors. He said he didn’t steal the shoes, but the [young men of the family] didn’t believe him. They called him a thief and the neighborhood men took turns beating him until he [passed out]. Then they set him on fire so that all the neighborhood houseboys knew the consequence for stealing….How much is a pair of flip flops? Maybe 1,000 Tanzanian shillings. I ask you, how much did Lowassa steal [through government corruption in the Richmond Scandal]? They are saying 200 billion shillings! But the houseboy died for 1,000 shillings? And Lowassa did not go to jail…no…he’s a parliamentarian now. We [the] poor are so busy killing each other for nothing that we forget that it is our leaders who are the real thieves.” SOURCES OF SECURITY IN BETWEEN But between the police and vigilantism, there were other, smaller forms of safety and security. Some neighborhoods hired community-policing groups called Sungusungu to walk the streets 95 armed with machetes (Heald 2002). But like private security firms, the sungusungu had to be paid for, and like the neighborhood gangs, the armed sungusungu sometimes turned on those they were paid to protect. Instead of hiring sungusungu, some Zigula families armed themselves with machetes, knives, boards, or other things that could be used in self-defense and others hung amulets or spiritual items outside of their doors to ward off thieves and violence. However, from arming oneself to contributing towards the sungusungu, caught thieves were ultimately punished through vigilantism; their cases almost never made it to the courts. Instead, with the support of friends and neighbors, accused thieves were brought to justice by “the law of the hand.” CONCLUSION As the United Nations implemented the Zigula resettlement in Chogo, the Tanzania government invoked the Paper State claiming that rights were available to citizens in Tanzania through government institutions. But the reality of social citizenship is much more complex. Instead of services being provisioned through government institutions, services work through networks and moral economies that run through government structures, within government buildings, and require government employees, but the actual experience of services and the ways in which they are accessed—through sex, blackmail, corruption, moral economies, dressing up, or clientelism—are never reported within the organigrams and state service maps. Instead, services are provided apart from the state; and “state services” are experienced outside of state purview. For the poor, who are unable to purchase private services and who lack the networks to engage the secret state services, accessing services is a serious obstacle—and risk. Some rights, like security and personal safety are non-existent because the system that protects also targets those without resources and social networks. Other services, like education, force those without 96 resources to risk their bodies when they lack economic resources in order to access services that are “free”. While poor citizens experience expanded risk and uncertainty, service providers—like teachers, doctors, and other government employees—are in positions of increased power with the ability to demand bribes, bodies, time, labor, or anything else available in exchange for rights that are supposed to be “free.” The result is not just a commodification of rights through “market citizenship”, but a commodification of vulnerability. Yet, teachers, nurses, doctors, and other low-level government employees claim their alternative services are required so that they, too, may access social citizenship. As funding is decreased for state services and as state employees struggle to pay for services—often the very services they offer—they use their own positions to access rights. In other words, as obligatory passage points, government officials leverage a social and professional position for an economic position. And their positioning relative to service access, market citizenship, and control of resources is envied. In interviews, Zigula refugees both sympathized with government officials’ lack of salaries from the government while coveting their ability to get resources through bribes. In interview after interview, Zigula refugees confessed that if they had government positions, they too, would demand bribes and use their positions for personal gain. At the same time, they described this behavior in the most reprehensible terms - but where else are people at the bottom supposed to gain rights? While some international organizations overlook the Paper State and implement programming based on the version of service delivery that the government puts forward, others engage the government through “good governance” programs that seek to eliminate “corruption.” While the 97 system is far from just—in fact it is unjust—for the poor and marginalized, the system also fails those often targeted for corruption: the low level government officials who form the Paper State in search of their own rights. Placing blame on the low-level officials elides the structural issues of the Paper State that enable opportunities for abuses like fataki, while rendering low-level officials powerless to actually follow the supposed rules. 98 CHAPTER FIVE: ZOMBIES, NINJAS, WIDOWS, & PATRIARCHS This chapter provides the refugees’ perspective of rights structures in resettlement. It provides insights into what individuals do within the structural constraints of resettlement. Why would someone choose to be a refugee again after just receiving citizenship? Despite resettlement and legal citizenship in Tanzania, Somali Zigula refugee-turned-citizens returning to refugee camps and the war in Somalia looking for what they called “refugee citizenship.” In the scholarships on refugees and on citizenship, “refugee citizenship” appears to be an oxymoron. As Hannah Arendt observed in post-War Europe, states, through legal began citizenship, are supposed to provide individuals with the “right to have rights” (Arendt 1994). Access to “social citizenship”, the basic entitlements within a society and the basis of social membership, is thought to be derived from legal citizenship (Marshall 1964); thus per Arendt’s axiom, refugees gain social citizenship rights through legal citizenship. But what rights can a refugee camp provide that citizenship cannot and what does this tell us about the relationship between citizens and the state? Recent scholarship on citizenship suggests that legal citizenship does not guarantee social citizenship; instead, social citizenship is derived through access to capital, and social citizenship rights like education and health care are reserved for those who can afford to pay. This commodification of rights has been described by sociologists as “market citizenship” (Brodie 1997; Somers 2008), whereby rights are not guaranteed by the state, but available to those with the capacity to purchase them. Studies of market citizenship are dominated by structural perspectives of rights distribution, illustrating how market forces limit rights access and are 99 institutionalized as political ideology. 11 Yet, there has been little investigation into what individuals within the confines of market citizenship do on a daily basis in pursuit of social citizenship rights and how this process corresponds to theories of the relationship between states and citizens. 12 Situating Arendt’s axiom of the “right to have rights” within discussions of market citizenship, this paper explores how newly resettled refugees (who were granted legal citizenship in Tanzania) pursue social citizenship rights – and why rights might be available in refugee camps, but not to legal citizens living within the confines of their state. The data for this paper suggest that market citizenship is much more dynamic than its current theorization suggests and that, in developing countries, market citizenship is comprised of much more than labor markets: states, global and regional humanitarian aid and development markets, moral economies, military action, and individual positionality all affect the experience of social citizenship rights. Refugee camps and warzones, while entwined in these economies of rights, are spaces of exception whereby the most vulnerable are provided with the most rights. For Somali Zigula refugeeturned-citizens, the “right to have rights” is consequently not through state membership or labor markets, but by strategically positioning oneself within aid markets to claim vulnerability according to individual positionality. 11 There are a number of good, recent examples on social citizenship within the citizenship scholarship. Examples include, but are not limited to: (Brodie 2004;Somers 2008; Benhabib and Resnik 2009; Kesby 2012). 12 There are two exceptions. One recent example of an agentive perspective of social citizenship is James Holston’s ethnography of urban citizenship in Brazil (Holston 2008). An example of agentive perspectives of legal citizenship is Kamal Sadiq’s work on immigrants obtaining legal citizenship in developing countries (Sadiq 2009). 100 This chapter begins with a brief introduction to the Somali Zigula, a Somali minority refugee population and the subject of this paper. Next, I move on to the current literature on citizenship and theories of accessing social citizenship rights. After a review of my methods, I move on to the results. The results section is divided into four sub-sections, with each sub-section focusing on particular Somali Zigula populations. The first two—Ninjas and Widows—describe how gender intersects with race and humanitarian aid categories of vulnerability for Somali Zigula women. The second two subsections—Zombies and Patriarchs—describe how war and language skills intersect with gender to produce access to rights. I conclude by arguing for the creation of theories of “humanitarian citizenship,” or the ways in which rights are produced through categories of humanitarian aid and how these rights interact with states. NINJAS I met Zara, a young Zigula mother who lives in periurban Dar es Salaam, at her home as she returned from taking her infant son to the hospital. Zara was among the first group of Zigula refugees to receive citizenship in Tanzania. She was dressed in an abaya, or buibui in Swahili, a long black frock worn by Muslim women with a hijab head covering, and a niqab, a face covering that leaves only the eyes visible. I know Zara well and we have met often in the streets of Dar es Salaam, yet this was the first time I had ever seen her fully covered. As we settled in for the interview, she slowly removed the layers of clothing, revealing her normal attire of a simple skirt of local cloth and a second hand t-shirt beneath. She read my expression, “You’ve never seen me dressed like this before, have you? This is what I wear when I take my son to the doctor.” I must have returned a confused look because she continued, “You know the doctors at the public hospital serve those who can pay first. When I 101 wear this, they cannot distinguish me from the wife of a rich Arab. Little do they know that I am a poor refugee; they see me and they think that I can pay.” Zara dressed the part of the market citizen: by changing what she wore, she changed the way others viewed her and the economic hierarchies attributed to rights through gendered ethnic and racial stereotypes. Through dress, she changed her interactional category of citizen: wives of rich Arab men can afford health care and the bribes that health care required; refugee women cannot. After months of research in Dar es Salaam, I began to notice the telltale signs that a woman was sick or had a sick child or family member: hands hennaed only to the wrist or mid-hand instead of up the arm and out of sight; second-hand sparkly ballet flats and fake gold rings that were jointly owned and passed around between neighbors, sisters, and friends; and darkly lined eyes that are otherwise reserved for wedding celebrations. And, of course, being fully covered – not the norm for most Somali Zigula women. The women called this outfit “the hospital clothes” or “ninja” and they claimed that by wearing it, they could pass for “the wives of rich Arab men.” For young women without the means to pay the bribe necessary to see the doctor, dressing as though they had money to bribe their way to treatment became an important way of skirting the system and accessing healthcare. The women, who called themselves waninja—the Ninjas—performed the role of a worthy social citizen by drawing upon Tanzanian notions of race, class, gender, and ustarabu—a Swahili term for “being civilized”—in Tanzania in order to access rights. The Ninjas performed the role of a market citizen; they dressed the part of those perceived to be the most economically advantaged 102 in their community, in order to gain rights. In doing so, their performance illustrates that market citizenship is about more than simply financial access and the free market. The Ninja’s case illustrates how market citizenship is embedded with ideas about race, class, gender, nationality, and deservability that are interactional and change the ways in which social citizenship is accessed, experienced, and understood on a micro level. And as such, the Ninjas illustrate an important characteristic of neoliberalism in Africa: citizenship is not derived from states, it is derived through personal interaction in markets that are embedded with stereotypes of intersectional positionalities. As Jean and John Comaroff have extensively documented, postcolonial African states are often characterized by the multiplicity of identities that have emerged in post-colonial Africa in pursuit of services limited by structural adjustment programs and laissez-faire economic policies (1997; 1991). As the Comaroff’s so clearly argue in Ethnicity, Inc., the marketization of citizenship has not only led to ethnicized and racialized competition over resources, but the marketization of ethnicity itself – the last commodity left to sell – in order to purchase rights (2009). Market citizenship, then, is not only embedded with intersectional positionalities of access, but the labor of producing ethnicity, as the Zombies do. Moreover, while market citizenship is theorized in relationship to economic markets and access to capital through labor, the Zigula case illustrates that market citizenship is entwined with moral and illicit economies. But in order to understand the case of the ninjas and their citizenship performance, it is first necessary to understand how health care is accessed in peri-urban neighborhoods in Dar es Salaam. 103 HEALTHCARE IN DAR ES SALAAM Living in extremely poor neighborhoods in peri-urban Dar es Salaam, Zigula refugees had few resources – even when compared to others living in the same area. On paper and in the reports produced by the government, going to a doctor in Tanzania is relatively easy and inexpensive: a patient goes to the hospital, pays the basic, nominal fee to see a doctor and for medications and then returns home. In reality, none of the hospitals in the neighborhoods where the refugees lived worked this way. So how do individuals receive services at hospitals? There are two ways: bribes and connections. BRIBES In the Zigula neighborhoods, the process of paying bribes begins by waiting outside the hospital. From this point, money is required at every step: first, bribes are required to be considered to enter the hospital; later, bribes are required to get the correct paper work, to enter a hospital room, for the doctor to show up, for tests to be run, and to receive a written prescription—all in addition to the actual costs of the various tests and hospital visits. Individuals struggled to estimate the costs of bribes as they varied from visit to visit and to differentiate licit and illicit costs: whether bribes or fees, both had to be paid in order to access services. But before even having the option to purchase charts or pay bribes, patients had to compete to enter the hospitals. In Tanzania, the national doctor to patient ratio is one to 50,000—it is worse in “slum areas”, like where the Zigula live—creating fierce competition to see a doctor (Medical Association of Tanzania 2010). In the Zigula neighborhoods, where the number of patients far exceeds capacity, there is a selection process outside of the hospital doors where potential patients wait outside, hoping to be selected to enter the hospital. This process is not determined by emergency status or triaged by condition. Instead, potential patients are judged by their ability 104 to pay. But, by simply waiting outside, patients have signaled to hospital staff important criteria: those who wait outside are individuals who do not have social networks that extend inside of the hospitals. Those who wait—wasubiriaji, in Swahili—are those who are not connected; they are nobodies. According to the hospital reception staff, there are two kinds of waiters: 1) those without connections because they are poor, foreigners, or Tanzanians from rural areas who have recently moved to Dar es Salaam and thus are removed from social networks and relationships that provide access to those who work inside the hospital and 2) those without connections because of their elite status by race, nationality, and those who are “too good” for the social connections of regular Tanzanians. Thus, by dressing up as “wealthy Arabs” the Zigula were not simply copying signs of wealth, they were also re-categorizing themselves from the poor type of waiters to the elite kind of waiters. In Zigula families, the burden of figuring out how to access health care services fell to young women, women in their late teens to their mid-thirties, who were often in charge of taking family members to the hospital and who had to budget and manage the risk of bribe costs. “Because I have young children, I am at home. So I take people to the hospital to see the doctor,” Miriam, a 24-year-old married woman, told me. She continued: If I am just wearing what I am wearing now [a second hand t-shirt and a wrap of local cloth], I would not [see the doctor]. My friends and I have our ‘hospital clothes’ that we share. We wear them to the hospital and sometimes we take turns wearing them to weddings because they are nice – especially the shoes. When I wear them, the nurses 105 think that I am married to an Arab man. They see my gold and think that I am rich. They are poor, too, so they can’t tell it is fake. So that even if I pay a small bribe now, they think there is more to come. If they give me a problem with the first bribe, I just tell them that my husband expects quality and that more money will come when the treatment is complete. They think, ‘yes, Arabs are like that.’ Miriam is not Arab, nor is her husband. But her performance draws upon Swahili stereotypes about race, class, and access to services that allow her to gain entrance and service at the hospital with very little economic cost while demanding high quality services normally reserved for the elite. Since Mariam, Zara, and their peers all play this game at the same neighborhood hospital, I asked why the nurses failed to catch on to their charade. “The hospital serves a lot of people in this area and we are few compared to the many, many people who go there. Also, there are real Arabs who go and get services at the hospitals and act this way.[…]I realized that the women who wore the ninja [niqab] always [entered the hospital] first. They looked rich and so they government of Tanzania in. I watched what they did, what they wore, how they acted. I watched them at the mosque and I watched them at the hospitals. Then I did what they did. I wore what they wore. I acted like I was the one who expected to get service.” As immigrants and newcomers to Tanzania, the Zigula had to learn the way resources and resource access were constructed in Tanzania. Many confessed that they were confused by the category of the Arab Wife (“but the women aren’t Arab – Somalis look more Arab than they do!”) and the ways in which Tanzanian just assumed that certain populations had money in the poorest neighborhoods of Dar es Salaam (“if they were really rich, why would they live here?”). 106 But, left with few other options, the Zigula women adopted the dress and social presence of the “Arab Wife”; they acted as if rights were assumed and told off anyone who doubted their wealth. CONNECTIONS Kerai, another young Zigula woman who participated in clothes sharing with another group of friends, explained that Zigula women couldn’t access hospitals the same way Tanzanian women could because they lacked the social networks that allowed poor Tanzanian women to seek alternative entrance in the hospital. “My Tanzanian neighbors are poor, but they have connections. They use these relationships to get help […]. Someone knows someone who knows someone who can help. We don’t know anyone here.” More than simply not knowing people in Dar es Salaam, the Zigula actively hid their former refugee status, further hindering future connections that could lead to health care access. As the Kenyan military moved into Somalia and al-Shabaab continued to threaten East Africa, Somalis became persona non-grata in Tanzania; even more so as al-Shabaab took credit for major bombings in Uganda and Kenya, leaving Tanzanians to speculate when they might be next. The Zigula, as descents of slaves originally from the area that is now Tanzania, phenotypically resemble Tanzanians more than their Somali co-nationals and speak a Bantu language native of Tanzania. The Zigula used their ethnicity and language to hide their affiliations with Somalia out of fear of xenophobic violence that often erupted in Somali neighborhoods when Tanzanians accused their Somali neighbors of terrorism, petty theft, and inevitably every crime in between. In interviews, the Zigula often used highly coded language to hide their origins, employing pseudonyms for their villages in Somalia and even a pseudonym for Somalia, and despite fluency in Swahili, many of my participants would code switch between Swahili and KiZigula, 107 the Zigula language. Community elders often briefed me on what to say to Tanzanians who asked what I was doing in the neighborhood—visiting a friend who just had a baby, learning Kizigula, and just wandering around Dar es Salaam were their most frequently recommendations—but I was never (never!) to use the word refugee or reveal that I worked with Somalis. Both, they warned, could put me and the Zigula at risk of violence. Aiding or interacting with a Somali, they warned, was enough to put me—and them—at risk for mob violence. Just as certain racial and ethnic positionalities could position individuals for rights – Somali identities could put individuals at risk for serious bodily harm. So as the Zigula hid their identities out of fear of relationships with Tanzanians that could provide them with the connections to access services, and as they lacked the financial resources to directly purchase rights through market citizenship, the only way to access rights was to perform that they could pay. Indeed, as Kristin Phillips has noted, the moral economy of rights is “often at odds with those who suffer the most” (2008: 39). Instead of admitting need or presenting themselves as former refugees with legal citizenship, the Zigula learned to present themselves not as those in need, but of those worthy of rights; not those vulnerable in their poverty, but those powerful and privileged enough to make demands and articulate rights publically. They lacked both the connections and monetary resources to make good on these perceived threats, but on a case-by-case basis, it allowed access to health care. The sparkly gold shoes were enough to access healthcare today, tomorrow—inshallah, God willing. THE LIMITATIONS OF PERFORMING CITIZENSHIP AND THE IMPORTANCE OF MONEY While the ninja farce helped young, Somali Zigula women access healthcare for themselves and their families, it did little to address the structural inequalities that made the charade necessary in 108 the first place. An informal system of bribes created obligatory passage points that had to be paid-off before the women could access care and allowed those with connections to receive preference over others. Despite finding a way to get into the hospital, the women still had to have economic resources. Before the women could put on the charade, they had to find money first – money to buy the clothing with groups of friends and money to pay some bribes at the hospital. Dressing up was easy, but finding money was difficult. Expected to stay home with young children, the young women struggled to earn money. In order to gain access to money, the young women would manipulate household budgets to save a little here or there, or sell meals or tea to bus drivers, truck drivers, or local day laborers. Rarely did their husbands know how they stretch the budgets to make one extra meal a day, or that they often went without their one meal a day in order to sell the food to local laborers. Little by little they saved for an emergency. Hospital visits constituted such emergencies. More than providing just access to the hospital, the hospital clothes sharing groups also provided members with access to loans. If one of the women in the clothing-sharing group needed a little extra money, one of the other women would loan it to her, knowing that the money would be repaid the next time she needed to wear the “hospital clothes.” Despite finding ways to enter the hospital and creating networks of support that helped fund the necessary bribes, only once the women combined their resources could they access care. Yet, the Ninjas occupied relatively privileged social positions within the Zigula community; not all Zigula women had enough money to even play the part of the “Arab wife” and the performance 109 required having a social network willing to loan money, a wage-earning husband, a network with which to share resources and divide care work. But the ninjas case highlights two important aspects of market citizenship: market citizenship is situated not just within economic economies, but moral economies and that market citizenship is embedded with stereotypes of deservability by race, class, gender, ethnicity, and age. Like the Somali Zigula, many Tanzanians were unable to pay the requisite fees and bribes to enter the hospital, but the refugees lacked the social connections their neighbors used to access service. In fact, the Somali Zigula actively hid (kujificha), like other immigrants in Dar es Salaam (Malkki 1995; Sommers 2001), because despite having citizenship, they were none-the-less targeted by immigration officials and their new co-citizens, even with proper documentation. Being outsiders put them at risk in a way their poor Tanzanian neighbors were not, hindering their potential to create social connections to bypass bribes and access healthcare. Social capital, which Bourdieu (1985) defined as “the aggregate of the actual or potential resources which are linked to possession of a durable network of more or less institutionalized relationships of mutual acquaintance or recognition” helped Tanzanians bypass bribe-seeking gatekeepers (p. 248). Ultimately, market citizenship required not only economic capital, but also social capital. A lack of social capital made the former refugees more susceptible to price fluctuations and the whims of nurses who controlled access to the hospital. Accessing healthcare rights in Tanzania is not as simple as simply paying the required costs. Instead, healthcare sits at the crossroads of formal economies of medicine, informal economies 110 of bribes-for-rights, and moral economies of mutual support. These economies are not neutral, but are deeply embedded with commoditized notions of who deserves health care by age, race, gender, ethnicity, and nationality. The Ninja case illustrates the importance of familial and social support in accessing rights. The next section explores the citizenship consequences of being a single mother without familial support and the challenges of raising children isolated in market citizenship. WIDOWS: REFUGEE CITIZENS Fatuma’s entire family died in the war in Somalia. Her husband and children were all killed, as was her mother, her father, her siblings, their spouses, her aunts and uncles, cousins, and their children – everyone with whom she had direct blood ties. Worse, in a consequent attack on her village after she left, all of her friends and neighbors were killed. While living in Kenyan refugee camps before being transferred to Tanzania and processed for Tanzanian citizenship, Fatuma “inherited” orphaned Zigula children whose entire families had died in the war. She had little choice, “What was I supposed to do? [Zigula] people said, ‘your children are dead, their parents are dead, here. Here, take these children. Now you have family.’” Without anyone else in world, Fatuma began raising these children, taking them with her and registering them as her own adopted children for citizenship in Tanzania. But when the United Nations withdrew its aid from the refugee-turned-citizens, and individuals were expected to fend for themselves in the resettlement, Fatuma struggled to provide for herself and her children. Like other widows and single mothers, Fatuma returned to Kakuma, a Kenyan refugee camp in search of help: “Life is not good in Kakuma. It is not safe, it is hot and dusty, people die often and without reason. But, it is better than being a citizen of Tanzania, if you are like me. If you 111 have children and no one to help you in Tanzania, you and the children will die of starvation and nobody cares. Children are the rock around your neck that drowns you. At least [in the refugee camps] there is a little food, free education, and health care. There is not life here, but we are alive.” While there are no records of Zigula refugees who received citizenship in Tanzania and then returned to Kakuma, my research suggests that the vast majority were single women with small children. This section explores why single mothers returned to refugee camps “in search of rights” and the role of the political economy of aid in social citizenship. MOTHERING IN A REFUGEE CAMP Single women with children constituted the majority of those who returned to refugee camps after receiving resettlement in Tanzania. The Somali Zigula describe two groups within this population: “old” women and “young” women. “Old” women, as they were often described, had previously given birth to children in Somalia and the children they were raising were often children born after childbearing age. In other words, to the Zigula, it was quite obvious that these children were not theirs, but were “inherited” or “gifted” orphans. The “young” women were often the biological mothers of their children and were often women who had children outside of marriage or were divorced. Both the “old” and “young” women were viewed by others—and described themselves—as living on the extreme margins of the group. With no social support and children to look after, refugee camps became their only potential source of rights. One of the major challenges that led “old” and “young” women alike to return to refugee camps, was the lack of childcare options available in Dar es Salaam and in the rural Chogo resettlement. Although for different reasons, both groups of single mothers lacked familial support, the primary source of childcare. Young women were often ostracized by their families for having children outside of marriage or divorce and old women often lost most of their family members 112 in the war and lacked familial connections that provided help. Single mothers struggled to find work with children at home and failed to pay for food, housing, and other family needs without work or family support. Nuru, a Somali Zigula women who was left by her husband, described her situation this way: In Tanzania, it is law for all children to go to school. But, after my husband left me, I couldn’t afford to send [my daughter] to school and I didn’t have anywhere to live. […] My [former] father-in-law gave me money to go back to the refugee camp. I don’t like it here, life is hard and I am always scared. But, it is better than sleeping on the street in Dar es Salaam and not being able to educate my daughter. There I have no one. Here I have the UN. For women with children to care for, the lack of family support and childcare access often hindered access to rights. They struggled to find work and someone to care for their children. The challenge of raising a child without assistance became a significant obstacle in accessing social citizenship rights. Children, who required time, money, and social support in Tanzania, provided the means to access special programs in refugee camps designed for single mothers, orphan caregivers, and survivors of gender based violence – populations deemed “vulnerable”. Services within camps are based upon a basic modicum of human rights: educational opportunities, food rations, water, and healthcare are available and free for all refugees. For those in particularly vulnerable positions, like the single Zigula women, refugee camps provide additional assistance. Gender was often the basis of these programs and compounding positionalities—ethnicity, marital status, parental status, age, and victim status—increased service access. Hajia, an older woman caring 113 for six children, lamented the relationship between vulnerability and rights. She recalled that in Tanzania, children were expensive and their needs, like housing and school fees, created a financial demand that she could never fulfill. These demands made her vulnerable. But in camps, these services were provided for and were free; children, instead of being an additional mouth to feed, often provided access to special programs for single mothers, additional assistance, and recognition of hardship. Once Hajia revealed that her children were orphans, she would sometimes receive additional help directly from aid workers or material goods like cloth or pots and pans that helped her family or that she could sell for cash. The thing that cost her rights in Tanzania brought her additional rights in the camp. Like widows caring for orphans, single mothers, too, received additional assistance after “confession” (Foucault 1993; Nguyen 2010). Their status as single mothers often allowed them preferential access to educational and counseling programs within the camp – assistance that is unavailable within Tanzania. These programs also created spaces where Zigula women could talk about what they experienced. “[In my community] People think that I am a prostitute, because I have a child outside of marriage,” Rukia told me, “but in the camps, I can say that what happened to me was not my choice, but was violence. I am not someone to be shunned, I am someone to help.” Women reported that confessing their difficulties served two purposes. First, it allowed them recognition as people. While in other social spaces caring for orphans, raising children outside of marriage, or gender-based violence and harassment were shameful or burdensome conditions, in camps, these conditions brought sympathy and recognition of hardship and humanity. Women 114 often expressed relief that someone else understood how much they were struggling. Second, confessing their condition as single mothers, caregivers for orphans, or victims of gender based violence brought with it material support like soap, additional food items, cloth, or education that eased the burden of daily life. But outside of the formal aid apparatus, in Zigula social spaces, single women’s privileged access in the camp came at an especially high social price. As Rukia, the women quoted above, described: “The problem is, only the refugee camp employees see me as a person. To the other people in my community, the fact that I was raped and now that receive services because of it only confirms that I am a prostitute. […] The only people who support me are other victims like me.” As Katarzyna Grabska (2011) has documented, “gender mainstreaming programs” in camps— programs that put forward gender as an area of intervention—come with economic, social, educational, and material support and services for women who participate. Designated as “vulnerable” the Zigula women were eligible for more services and resources within the camp if their stories fit particular program objectives or population parameters. But in order to access these resources, they had to confess their predicaments, to meld their stories with the program language and to state their problems publicly. “When I came into the camp, first I said, ‘I’m a refugee – I need help!’ and people looked at me. Then I learned to say, ‘I’m a widow because of war and these are the orphans I am raising!’ and people rushed to see what I needed.” While many of the women were happy to find support groups and communities of women enduring similar challenges, the extent and public nature of these programs often made them uncomfortable and many of the women reported feeling shame about such public confessions. 115 “[The NGOs] want to know about my private areas [female circumcision], about who I have sex with [AIDS], about cultural ritual and about how I punish my children. These are things you do not say openly. But in camps, when you say them, you are rewarded with help. I need help so I take the shame so that my children will have more to eat.” Like the Ninjas, the single women worked to fit particular categories that allowed them access to rights. Unlike the Ninjas who hid their vulnerability, women in the camp learned to boldly proclaim their vulnerability and to position themselves within particular categories that brought support. In Dar es Salaam, the Zombies worked to appear as market citizens; in camps, the single mothers worked to learn the language and presentations of vulnerability that brought rights. Vulnerability was less of a farce but a performance nonetheless: the women had to learn the script of need—the right things to say, the right people to say it to, and the correct presentation of self—positionalities and burdens had to be expressed and to employ certain symbols in order to be recognized. This presentation of self is openly presented on the websites of NGOs that work within the camps where donors can support NGO camp programming by purchasing social citizenship services on behalf of refugees. The International Rescue Committee (IRC), for instance, allows supporters to purchase “symbolic gifts” of services such as a year of school for girls or women ($52), clean water ($100), maternal health care ($52), or women’s safety and wellness kits that include clothing, soap, a flashlight and a whistle to help deter sexual assault ($80), among other services (International Rescue Committee 2012). A picture of a refugee woman, visually fitting the categories the single women described, accompanies each gift. For instance, donors can 116 purchase a woman a “Wellness and Safety kit” on the IRC’s website. A picture of a teenaged African woman holding a box and smiling at the camera is accompanied with the caption: Refugees arrive in places like Kenya’s camp in Dadaab with absolutely nothing. They’re suddenly thrown into the reality of living in close quarters with tens of thousands of others; privacy ceases to exist. Women are especially vulnerable to harm, including sexual assault. We help ease the insecurity of life in these camps by providing critical, even lifesaving supplies to women: clothing and sandals; a bucket, soap and other hygiene items; and a flashlight and whistle so women can call for help if they are in danger. In refugee camps, refugees do not purchase social citizenship rights through the market, but their rights are purchased and supported through charitable markets. Their stories and pictures accompany website images of women enjoying rights accompanied by statistics of vulnerability, urging donors to donate more in order to provide more women and children with rights. Donors fund services for the most vulnerable and it is through confessing this vulnerability that women gain access to the donated resources, providing their stories to encourage more donations. NGOs continue to provide services and ensure their own economic viability by keeping vulnerability visible (Waters 2001). ZOMBIES Dar es Salaam is economically driven by an informal economy that employs more than 89% of its urban population (Rogers Kasirye 2009). For young, uneducated men in Dar es Salaam who report having a job, this figure is nearly 100% (ibid). Despite the prevalence of the informal economy, these jobs often rely upon social networks that facilitate access to capital, consumption, and patronage required for success in the informal economy (Tripp 1997). For 117 young Zigula men (18 – 35) whose education was interrupted by war and migration and who try to live undetected in urban areas, these jobs are often unattainable without social connections and without any education. As a twenty-three year old Zigula man described: “I don’t know anyone who might hire me – everyone [I know] is like me. So everyday I wake up and all I can do is mishemishe [hustle, from the English ‘being on mission’].” The daily mission was to find work: “I go to bus stands and carry packages for people after they get off the bus. I try to convince people to ride certain buses or I try to find [odd jobs]. My goal for every day is to earn enough money for food.” These young men only earned enough for their daily needs by being scrappy – and earning the equivalent of one US dollar was often considered a successful day. When work was scarce, some turned to petty theft, constantly on the look out for a misplaced cell phone, watch, or jewelry. Often, they lived together in rented rooms of ten or more people sleeping on floors with wives, girlfriends, or children. Without the resources for much more than food and sometimes water, these men saw themselves far outside the purview of the state: “I have citizenship, but I’m not a citizen. No one is helping me. [Tanzanian President] Kikwete doesn’t know anything about me. He doesn’t think about me.” These young men referred to themselves as “Zombies”, in English. A young man who told me to call him “Bahati Mbaya” – Bad Luck – described the term Zombies like this: All of us [young men] grew up in refugee camps. In the camps they sometimes show movies and they used to show these old Hollywood zombie movies where the zombies are dead people but they just walk slowly around looking for something to eat. We’re like 118 that, we aren’t humans any more. We’re dead, but we’re still walking around [looking for something to eat]. Young, unemployed and uneducated Zigula men referred to themselves and people like them as “Zombies”. The Zombies had resigned themselves to the fact that they were unable to engage with the state and formal systems in Tanzania because of a lack of money. As men, in refugee camps they weren’t categorized as “vulnerable” and without access to at least a little capital like the Ninja’s, they failed to perform the role of citizen. The Zombies truly were outside of the systems that brought citizenship in Tanzania and consequently access to health care, food, and water—anything that required money—required ingenuity. They often reported creating food concoctions to treat illness, by boiling the leaves of the neem tree to treat malaria or stomach problems, or by chewing cloves to treat everything from a headache to toothaches to infections. In their search for rights they were forced to mishemishe. Recognizing their inability to gain formal employment because of a lack of education and connections, the Zombies started returning to Somalia in 2010. By 2012, despite the Kenyan military’s presence and increased violence in southern Somalia, Zombies continued to return. They started moving back in such large numbers that I struggled to interview some of them before they would leave. Others would call me after arriving in Somalia to let me know they arrived safely and to update me on what life was like in Somalia. “I government of Tanzania a job working with an NGO that distributes food and stuff. They pay me by the day. No one cares that I don’t speak English or that I haven’t gone to school. Some of the [aid workers] are Africans and their skin is like mine. They see me and they see SomaliSomalis [Cushitic language-speaking Somalis] and they choose me 119 because I look like them and so I can’t be al-Shabaab. [Now] I have food and money. [The NGO] says that next month a school will open. I sent my wife money so she can come here with our child and live with me.” Despite the insecurity in Somalia, the presence of NGOs brought job opportunities and services like clean water, food, education, and healthcare. The Kenyan military, too, hired young Zigula men for daily wage labor and to interpret from Swahili to Somali. Things that were out of reach in Tanzania – like educating children or a dependable source of income or food – were possible in Somalia because of the humanitarian relief apparatus. Consequently, Zombies received social citizenship in Somalia through NGOs and the Kenyan military. In Tanzania, market citizenship meant that rights required financial resources and connections; in Somalia, for men, rights came through aid and phenotype. Young men whose lives and education were interrupted by war and who came to age in refugee camps had little to offer in the Tanzanian economy. Unable to read or write, or to even sign their own names, Zombies were part of the massive unemployed population in Tanzania. Outside of searching for manual day labor, young Zigula men struggled to find sufficient employment; without capital or contacts, they failed to start small businesses that have long been help to uneducated, unemployed in Tanzania (Tripp 1997). But in Somalia, their phenotype and Swahili language skills made them valuable to NGOs and the Kenyan military and the services that were so important to daily life were free through humanitarian aid. Humanitarian aid organizations entered Somalia to provide relief to those living in a “failed state”. As Somalis, or citizens of the failed state, they were eligible to services through humanitarian relief. 120 Both humanitarian aid organizations and the Kenyan military viewed the young Somali Zigula men as stateless and vulnerable to the whims of war and poverty. The men’s phenotype and language skills marked them as “safe” Somalis – based on the stereotype that “Somali Bantu” are not members of al Shaabab—and thus they gained access to protection through the Kenyan military and proximity to aid. As men, they were hired for manual labor positions based on their perceived physical strength and willingness to live in harsh conditions. The few women who returned to Somalia described that they often only received offers for domestic labor—cooking, cleaning, and sex—but often these jobs paid little, if anything. Consequently, the women who stayed in Somalia were those with spouses working for NGOs or the Kenyan military. Single women rarely ventured into Somalia and they all reported the same reason: without work or spouses, what would they do? Better, they told me, the refugee camps. In Somalia, as young, able-bodied, “Somali Bantu”, Somali men, the Zombies were able to engage service infrastructures in order to get rights. Unlike life in urban Dar es Salaam, in Somalia education meant little to accessing labor and labor meant nothing for accessing social citizenship rights. Instead, based on their ethnicity, gender, and age, they gained access to labor markets; based on their nationality—or lack thereof—they received access to humanitarian aid. Within the Zigula community, the Zombies were often looked down upon in Tanzania for their inability to gain formal employment. Older men often emasculated younger men by pointing out their inability to find work, create stable families, and provide for them themselves and communities. Although the young men were considered firmly of reproductive age, older men 121 and women sometimes referred to these men as wahuni, a term that belittled them as young, irresponsible hooligans. This perception was often in stark contrast to many older Zigula men who immigrated to Tanzania with a different set skills, were able to find jobs, and consequently bore the responsibility of providing for an entire community. The next section of this paper explores how older men gained rights through labor and social networks in Tanzania because of their Italian language skills. PATRIARCHS Like the Zombies, many Zigula struggled to find opportunities for work. One exception, however, was a generation of men who were educated in Italian Roman Catholic Mission schools in Somalia or men who grew up working for Italian farms, families, and companies in Somalia and who consequently spoke Italian. Known within the community as “Old Men”, when they came to Tanzania as refugees, this group had work histories and sometimes letters of recommendation from Italian families and companies. This generation of men quickly found jobs working with Italian companies in Tanzania. One man, Omari, described his first week in Tanzania this way: “The first day I was in Tanzania, I slept. The second day I was [in Tanzania], I went to where all the [foreigners’] companies are located and I looked for an Italian name. When I found it, I went in, greeted them in Italian, told them all of the companies I had worked for in Somalia, and they hired me. Now I have worked for six different Italian companies in Tanzania and I have never had a problem finding work. They tell me I speak Italian without a Tanzania accent and that I understand their culture.” 122 This section explores what market citizenship looks like from the perspective of labor markets. Italian-speaking older men were a minority within their community; few others had job opportunities and wages like they experienced. In turn, they were uniquely situated to purchase rights within the market. Despite their economic advantage, Italian-speaking men were rarely able to purchase their own rights, largely due to need within their own community and their prioritization of family and community emergencies and extreme need over their own rights. Older men who studied, even for only one or two years, in Italian mission schools in Somalia and who often worked for Italian companies in Somalia were quick to find work in Tanzania with Italian companies, families, NGOs, and Roman Catholic missions. Their language skills and training in Somalia carried forward to Tanzania, providing them with a rare skill not commonly found in the Tanzanian labor market. The men work as safari tour drivers, translators, cooks, truck drivers, construction foremen, and other positions. Literate or not, the very ability to speak Italian set them apart from their Tanzanian counterparts. Through their jobs, they earned sufficient salaries to send their kids and grandchildren to local, government schools and they generally struggle less than other members of the Zigula community. This social positioning— as employed—combined with the social expectations for older men to materially support their families, made them financially responsible for extended family members. In moments of crisis, community members turned to these old men for help, often placing significant expectations on them. When others failed to feed their families, find work, go to the doctor, or educate their children, they turned to the employed older men for help. While these men may have more reliable access to resources than others, their income fell short of being able to support an entire community’s needs. 123 Salum, an older, Italian-speaking man, described the pressure he feels regarding work: No one else in our community has jobs like we have. We are thankful to God for our opportunity, but it is not enough. I am getting old. Some of the men my age have already died. They died of presha [heart attack/high blood pressure]. It’s hard to know that I have to provide for all of these people and that if I die, my family will have nothing because everything we have that is extra we are expected to provide for everyone else. Through their gender, age cohort, and the villages they grew up in in Somalia, certain individuals gained privileged access to Italian mission schools; in Somalia this led to jobs with Italian families and companies and has led to special access to certain kinds of work in Tanzania. While these older men make more money and have more social stability than other groups in Tanzania, they also burden a significant amount of community need. In their community, because of their age, gender, earning potential, and social status, they are viewed as patriarchs. Other men—and sometimes women—of their generation who were educated in English mission schools or in Somali government schools have not been able to find work at the same rate as the Italianspeaking men, nor are they expected to provide for the community in the same ways. Despite their relative success compared to other Zigula community members, they often confided in me that they felt like failures in Tanzania. “What I have is barely enough for my family, but it is not enough to support an entire community. But that is what others here expect – I should be supporting everyone because I have a job.” Although older Italian-speaking men made enough to support their immediate families, emergencies within extended family members and price inflation often rendered their earnings insufficient. “The price of sugar has doubled in 124 the past year. One month, my entire salary went to my [cousin] who was in a motorcycle crash.” While their salaries were technically sufficient, in practice they failed to cover even the most basic of expenses. Food, water, healthcare, education, and transportation costs for one person, or a few people, could be supported by one salary. Market citizenship requires individualism and selfishness, or an equitable society where everyone’s’ needs are already met and each person can focus on his or her immediate needs. But extreme social need and unstable economies drained the capacity of salaries, rendering even the most privileged without basic rights. Meanwhile, the Tanzanian government and United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) capitalized on the stories of the Italian men, using them as tokens of resettlement success (Storytelling UNHCR 2012). This tokenism was intended to celebrate the accomplishments of a few as the potential of many. The reality, however, was that the need of many consumed the privilege of a few, rendering nearly everyone unable to send their children to school, struggling to access healthcare, regularly going without meals, and unable to purchase water. One of the men featured in many of the UNHCR’s videos celebrating the “successes” of the resettlement recently died. Despite having a good job with good wages, he died of malaria from lack of treatment. Expected to care for everyone else, he did not have enough resources to help himself. CONCLUSION In post-War Europe, T.H. Marshall (1964) theorized social citizenship as the state protecting citizens from market forces, creating a societal modicum of rights through universal education, access to food, water, and healthcare for all who enjoyed legal citizenship. This was the “right to have rights” that is promised through refugee resettlement. The shift to market citizenship has 125 erased the modicum of social rights, exposing citizens to the whims of markets. Consequently, the “right to have rights” no longer emerges through legal citizenship, but through market citizenship, a term that has thus far been too narrowly theorized by focusing on labor markets and personal wealth. Aihwa Ong (2006b), like other scholars of market citizenship, argues that neoliberalism organizes individuals by particular population characteristics according to labor and citizenship rights are doled out accordingly. The Somali Zigula case, however, illustrates that individuals are organized by particular population characteristics for rights, but not labor. Instead non-labor markets also affect social citizenship rights. In humanitarian aid and development markets, social citizenship rights emerged through the commoditization of vulnerability defined by particular positionality that could be packaged and sold to Western donors in exchange for rights. In Somalia, the military presence coupled with presence of humanitarian NGOs allowed young Zigula men to access labor markets because of stereotypes about ethnicity while simultaneously claiming vulnerability and accessing rights through humanitarian aid markets targeting those affected by war; these young men were able to both access the means to pay for rights, while receiving rights for free through aid. However, saying that rights are simply derived through a variety of markets is too simplistic. Ultimately aid, military intervention, refugee camps, and NGOs were all funded through the objectives of states – both local and foreign –that embedded programs and interventions with target populations and stereotypes about who deserved what kinds of rights by race, class, nationality, ethnicity, gender, age, and other positionalities. Some positionalities were explicitly 126 defined as vulnerabilities that could be marketed for resources-cum-rights. That is, internationally specific vulnerable populations were defined as worthy—even as locally, specific vulnerable populations struggled to survive. The challenge, for those who struggled to survive with legal citizenship, was to find a way to meet the categories defined as legitimate for accessing social citizenship rights. Thus, the Ninjas dressed up, the single women learned the language of vulnerability, the Zombies returned to war, and the old men sought out Italian companies and presented themselves as knowledgeable of Italian culture. This process of categorization has individualized rights; as the case of the old men illustrates, while rights may be accessed individually, the failure to obtain rights is experienced collectively. Who can sit and watch their love ones starve or die slowly of treatable diseases like malaria knowing that they have the money to assist with food or to provide medical treatment? But when such a small subsection of a community has these resources, and the need of the community is great, resources quickly disappear, rendering even the relatively wealthy, broke. For neoliberal refugees-turned-citizens in Tanzania, the right to have rights comes not from legal citizenship and state membership. The right to have rights for Somali Zigula refugees comes from the fortune of aligning—or creating the perception of aligning—with international aid funding priorities within particular spaces of exception like refugee camps and war, or in the hospital waiting rooms of Dar es Salaam. Various medical anthropologists have documented similar humanitarian aid-driven rights distribution, what Vahn Kim-Nguyen has called “therapeutic citizenship” (Fassin 2005, 2007; V.-K. Nguyen 2010). All of these examples draw upon the consenting to be governed through supplication based on confessed forms of vulnerability. More than just a bodily or medical form of rights, I suggest that this condition 127 should be called “humanitarian citizenship”, recognizing that providing basic social citizenship services to those caught in circumstances of vulnerability is the driving force behind the entire market of humanitarian aid and, ultimately, the source that provides rights. The basis of humanitarian citizenship is market citizenship: the underlying principle is that everyone but the utmost vulnerable should be able to work, and thus acquire rights, with very little attention paid to how structures intersect and create positionalities of vulnerability – or create spaces of rights through aid. Instead, market citizenship has taken on the assumed neutrality of the “free market”, blind to the fact that market citizenship is deeply embedded with hierarchies of race, gender, ethnicity, age, nationality, and marital status that work to limit—or expand—individuals’ access to rights. While vulnerability is a determinant within a state because it compounds market limitations, in the refugee camp, vulnerability can be an asset for individuals—usually women—who meet the other criteria for receiving assistance. The vast majority of research on social citizenship examines what states do, what state institutions do, or the policies that have led to particular social citizenship outcomes. Consequently, citizens have been largely absent in the literature on citizenship. Part of this absence is because the literature on market citizenship is driven by normative critiques of neoliberalism and market citizenship – critiques that are timely and necessary. However, the constant focus on institutions elides the strategies that individuals employ in search of rights and thus sources of rights outside of state or formulations of rights in non-state locations. The emphasis on citizenship reform has overlooked the strategies individuals employ now and the power structures their struggles—and solutions—elucidate. 128 By presenting examples of what individuals do within market citizenship, my goal has been to illustrate citizen response and to bring to the forefront the structures that shape the experience of social citizenship in East Africa. Indeed, there is a tension in my findings: humanitarian aid provides necessary access to rights; however, it does so through a strict adherence to donor interests, not the needs or dignity of those it serves. Finally, by taking an agentive approach to citizenship, my objective has been to understand what mediates the space between state and statelessness and what individuals do after receiving legal citizenship to claim social citizenship. For East African refugees—and former refugees who have been resettled and have legal citizenship—the “right to have rights” is far more complicated than a relationship between individuals and states: it requires the ability to read and align with global markets, be they military, aid, or labor. 129 CHAPTER SEVEN: KNOWLEDGE AS POWER/POWER AS KNOWLEDGE This chapter returns to the vantage point of the humanitarian aid apparatus in order to examine the resettlement process as a tool of knowledge creation. In Seeing Like a State, James Scott critiques centralized planning and community development initiatives for their positivism: blinded by the belief in models and universalism, state governments ignored the local in the quest for the modern (Scott 1999). Scott concludes by chastising the centralized planners for ignoring the metis, that is, indigenous knowledge as an alternative to the modernistic high science of centralized planning. The type of planning produced in these models, Scott argues, elides other forms of social organization and the life experiences not visible to the state. Chogo, as described in chapter one, relied upon ideas of indigineity as a form of centralized planning: the UN and government of Tanzania attempted to codify ethnicity and indigenous knowledge into a form of development intervention. Despite appearing as opposite processes, the production of a modernist aesthetic in centralized planning and the production of an indigenous aesthetic of citizenship are part of the same dynamics of development-centered knowledge production that is ultimately driven by a certain ontology of modernity that rests on establishing categories for reporting and measuring social outcomes. In this chapter, I argue reporting at Chogo ultimately is defined by agnatology, that is, the intentional production of ignorance (Proctor and Schiebinger 2008) through reporting mechanisms that failed to capture the realities of life in resettlement, but instead reflect changing forms of governmentality. 130 In Tanzania, agnotology comes in many forms. In this chapter I describe how humanitarian aid workers constructed a false version of reality through reports by looking at the production of ignorance, or un-knowledge, at various points in the resettlement process. I begin by exploring the changing process of humanitarian aid reporting, comparing the Chogo resettlement to an early refugee settlement in Tanzania. Next, I look at how the United Nations measured outcomes at Chogo, building upon data from chapter one. Finally, I examine how the United Nations received and integrated feedback from Tanzanian officials into the resettlement process. I conclude by examining what reporting at Chogo ultimately documented and what kinds of data mattered at various points throughout the resettlement. UJAMAA Resettlement is not unique to refugees. During the height of high modernism in the 1950s to 1970s, resettlement was often an inevitable outcome of re-thinking service distribution and infrastructure in the name of development. Especially in developing countries, citizens were moved—sometimes forcibly—in order to centralize services and authority (Escobar 1994, 2010). The logic of resettlement prioritized social citizenship services like health care, education, water, food security, and transportation as the core tenants of development through infrastructure projects that attempted to insert state services into rural areas. In other words, development was conceptualized not just economic security, but access to the services that establish a modicum of social belonging – social citizenship (Marshall 1964). Resettlement planning changed the geographic distance between citizens and the state by relocating individuals within closer proximity to state services. Not only were citizens able to more easily access services, but relocation facilitated state surveillance and governmentality. In post-independence Tanzania, a resettlement initiative called ujamaa vijijini, or villagization in English, attempted to relocate 131 rural citizens to centralized rural villages in order to increase agricultural productivity and shorten the proximity between rural citizens and the new Tanzanian government (Coulson 1982; Freyhold 1980). But before ujamaa vijijini began to relocate—first voluntarily and later forcibly—Tanzania’s rural citizens, it began as a social experiment with Tanzania’s large refugee population. Rwandan refugees, living in western Tanzanian camps, were selected for a new resettlement that would create villages in unoccupied land not far from the camps. In the refugee settlements, development officials would test social and economic living requirements in order to develop a model that would later facilitate Tanzania’s resettlement of citizens into centralized villages. The new settlements would become laboratories, where social scientists would experiment with variables in order to identify the perfect equilibrium of service delivery and governmentality. The refugee village model project was funded by the Swedish and Norwegian governments (RSC/LT-91 TCRS). In creating these villages, development workers—many of them former colonial officers or the children of colonial officers—attempted to create a social model that could later be replicated throughout Tanzania as ujamaa vijijini or in other places around the world as an alternative to refugee camps (RSC/A-59.3 RPG). In order to create the model, development experts used the refugee-test-villages as laboratories: they experimented with daily caloric intake, governance techniques, road engineering strategies, and social motivation for the refugees who were forced to build the villages from the wilderness they cleared (RSC/J-30 MAT). As they manipulated variables, and consequently the lives of the resettled refugees, development workers produced report after report on the outcomes of their experiments: the livelihoods of refugees. 132 Later the Tanzanian government used the findings from the refugee villages as it relocated hundreds of thousands of Tanzanian citizens into rural villages (Coulson 1982). Ujamaa, according to James Scott (1999), was an attempt to socially engineer development using replicable and portable models of social citizenship within a particular high modern aesthetic of what it means to be developed: highly standardized, efficient, grid and network-based spaces of living and working that provide access to government services. It was the centralizeddecentralization of this resettlement process that ultimately led ujamaa vijijini to fail; while the Tanzanian government organized implementation through the central government, it left daily activities to low-level government officials who had neither the resources nor interest in overseeing the bureaucratically extensive programs of ujamaa all while being charged with forcibly relocating individuals, often to less-than-favorable locations (Coulson 1982; Freyhold 1980). Seeing opportunities for their own profit and the lack of oversight by the central government, low-level ujamaa officials personally benefitted from the resources set aside for social citizenship programming while the citizens they forcibly relocated struggled. The early refugee-camp-laboratories ultimately had access to what ujamaa bureaucrats did not: generous resources from international donors hell-bent on alleviating refugee crises emerging from postcolonial life and subjects, refugees, with few other options for livelihoods or land. Unlike ujamaa vijijini, Chogo was not designed to provide access to social welfare services or to centralize state interventions. To the contrary, and as chapter one covers in detail, Chogo was designed to centralize ethnic knowledge within an indigenous homeland in order to access “traditional knowledge” as a solution to social citizenship. Yet both Chogo and ujamaa vijijini 133 are part of the evolution of modernity and the changing ways in which social categories are manipulated for governance. “High modernity,” which characterized ujamaa vijijini with its focus on centralized planning, standardization, and government is not separate from “liquid modernity”, or the obsession with privatization and individualization that emphasizes th consumption and emerges in the latter part of the 20 century (Bauman 2010:47 – 48). 13 This shift, Bauman argues, is ultimately a shift in governmentality. The panoptic governmentality model Foucault describes is based on mutual engagement—it works because the guarded are balanced by the guards; but in liquid modernity, mutual engagement ends and the relationship between “the supervisors and the supervised, capital and labour, leaders and their followers…” ends when the watcher disengages, dismissing the duty of watching and, instead, insists on individual responsibility (Bauman 2010:11). Order and centrality are no longer the foci of planning and power, instead, inconsistency and unevenness create conditions that force all social responsibility on individuals. What remains, however, is a continued emphasis on categorization that identifies those who are worthy, enemies of the state, citizens, aliens, and other groupings that specify authenticity and belonging. In the evolution of modernity in Tanzania, the hard, built, and centralized resettlement ujamaa vijijini is replaced by the resettlement at Chogo, a space defined by the dualism of autochthony: the local situated within the global. In defining and basing the resettlement on a colonial imagining of African village life from two centuries ago, the resettlement design explicitly 13 A brief note on Liquid Modernity: Chogo is an excellent example of Bauman’s time/space compression found in liquid or late modernity where an idealized or imagined version of an African vision 200 years ago—that arguably only ever existed in colonial field notes, never actually in Africa—could substitute for a current, sustainable way of life. 134 defines the resettlement in opposition to ideas of globalization, development, technology, and human capacity: the local can only be understood in opposition to the global (Mbembe 2002). Chogo, defined as an alternative to resettlement in the global North is characterized by conceptualizing life in rural Africa 200 years ago; but Chogo is not a pre-modern place. To the contrary, it is liquid modern par excellence: time and space are collapsed and conflated, the burden of enforcement is removed from the UN or the government, and the resettlement ceases to be measured by program indicators or aggregated data, and instead emphasizes individual responsibility for individual survival after resettlement. When individuals leave Chogo, they enter the shadow state (see chapter five). While the shadow state contradicts the nicely prepared flow charts and organigrams of government officials, it is not a bastardization of the state. While it suffers from corruption, it is not corrupt: the shadow state is simply the guards leaving the prison panopticon, creating a new dynamic of governmentality in their absence that emphasizes individualism: so the Ninjas dress up, nurses figure out their own ways of creating markets, teachers take what they need from their pupils, and individuals seek out places where their burdens might become advantages through humanitarian aid. Like high modernity, liquid modernity relies on categorization to organize the world. In high modernity, the category of citizen was associated with specific rights and ways in which to access rights. Transitioning from refugee to citizen, meant transforming one’s categorization from right-less to rights-entitled. The early refugee village research projects sought to define these entitlements down to the calorie, hours necessary to work, and number of latrines per household. In Chogo, categories indicated individual proximity to markets and ability to produce. Being Zigula automatically excluded individuals from access to global markets and instead entitled individuals to one to a bucket of sesame seeds, a hoe, and uncleared land because it indicated an (assumed) lack of global 135 networks, work experience, cosmopolitanism, and development. Being Zigula indicated backwardness, rurality, simplicity, and barbarian-ness incongruent with economic production. In the next section, I explore how the categories employed in the resettlement informed the creation of knowledge about the resettlement through reporting. PRODUCING UNKNOWLEDGE In the early refugee villages that preceded ujamaa vijijini, development officials obsessed over knowledge. They wanted to know how many calories individuals required on a daily basis when building roads, constructing homes, and farming. They played with variables to figure out the maximum amount of land an individual could clear, farm, or harvest in X number of hours, days, weeks, or months. The officials documented and analyzed every aspect of daily life down to their own actions and their own footprints on the projects they were overseeing. Like colonial officials before them, they kept extensive journals with newly learned words, descriptions of new plant life, and blueprints for villages, bridges, and social development; even their daily activities—run-ins with wildlife, correspondence with family abroad, what they ate for lunch— were noted for posterity. These were not the scribblings of boredom, but ethnographic data to be used to make sense of the social world and the workings of its minutiae. Used in tandem with the biometric and social quantitative data collected in the field-turned-laboratories, they believed that the lived world could be documented, made sense of, compiled, reported, and improved upon. Every part of social life mattered and needed to be understood in order to measure progress and to differentiate progress from what came before it. Consequently, they produced mounds of reports—of paper—as they documented everything they came across. These reports were used to justify new projects, to develop best practices, and to track the progress of outcomes. 136 Like their predecessors, current-day UNHCR staff in Tanzania thrived on paper. The first time I entered the office of a Tanzania UNHCR officer who I will refer to as “Kate,” welcomed me in as she sat at her desk emailing. “Come in, come in,” she said, “I just need to finish this.” She continued to plunk out the email. As the computer dinged to indicate that it sent, she gathered up stacks of paper on the floor scattered around her desk. “This,” she said, referring to the now towering composite of paper, “is why I did not respond to your first four emails. I am very busy.” She looked at the tower of paper with lips pursed into a self-satisfied smirk, “There are a lot of things that need my attention.” For months I had attempted to contact Kate through her official email, through her colleagues, and through friends of friends. I left notes for her at the guarded entrance of the UNHCR compound and worked through the official UNHCR chains of command. She ignored me. Finally, a friend, who is the director of a major international NGO and who had watched as I struggled to get a response from Kate for months, had her secretary call Kate’s office and request her personal phone number. Finally I was able to plead my case and request an interview. Kate consented, and so I walked through the door of her office to be greeted with her paper tower. After a few niceties and basic greetings, she introduced her colleague, “Joseph,” and left me to interview him in her absence. “So many reports due,” Joseph explained on behalf of his boss, “reports due to us and reports we are writing.” Reporting was more than an administrative task; by collecting and analyzing data to summarize project outcomes, reporting attempted to translate reality into measurable results. But as modernity changed from hard to liquid, so too did the kinds of data and analysis in UNHCR 137 reports and the relationship between UNHCR staff and the documents they produced. For months I downloaded reports on Chogo from the United Nations’ and various NGO websites, attempting to understand the objectives and interventions at Chogo. I came to my meeting with Kate (and consequently Joseph), armed with questions from these reports. How was initial demographic data compiled and how often is it updated? What happened to programs heralded in some reports (electricity, healthcare, water access) and then forgotten in subsequent reports? And why was Chogo first categorized as a third country resettlement program and then later described as a local integration program? 14 Joseph did his best to answer my questions, at times struggling to be diplomatic, guarding something as he struggled to frame his answers. At the end of our meeting, he asked Kate to return and answer my questions. Kate had no problem being honest: she had absolutely no idea. Via email, she referred me to her unit’s public relations officer. In email exchanges and in person, UNHCR Tanzania officials insisted on calling Chogo a local integration project and would stop conversation and correct me when I used the term resettlement. After the second time of correcting me mid-sentence, I challenged the public relations official with why early UNHCR-Tanzania documents referred to Chogo as a resettlement, Tanzanian parliamentary notes refer to it as a resettlement, UNHCR Geneva documents refer to it as a resettlement, and the vast majority of refugees recall being moved from Kenya to Tanzania by the UNHCR, yet current UNHCR-Tanzania documents and staff all 14 The distinction between a local integration and third country resettlement is important here. Local integration implies that refugees were living in local, which is in-country, refugee camps before selection for the citizenship process. Third country resettlement means that refugees were hosted in a separate country before being relocated by the United Nations for resettlement in a third country. Local integration projects are not always permanent and do not always come with citizenship. Third country programs do and third country host countries are expected to abide by the United Nations guidelines for resettlement, which explicitly enumerate rights in resettlement. 138 insisted the program is a local integration. When I brought this up with Kate, nonplussed she relented; she had not read the original reports on the Chogo resettlement, she had no idea why the resettlement began, her office had no copies of the reports, and she had no intention to read them. She did not care. As far as Kate was concerned, the UN had paid for legal citizenship and the land necessary for Zigula citizenship. The outcomes at Chogo were not the concern of the UNHCR. The UNHCR produced reports on Chogo simply reflected the data collected by the government or local NGOs. Three hundred thousand Burundians were awaiting resettlement— and her expertise—Chogo was simply no longer important. Reporting data from Chogo reflected the UNHCR’s lack of interest in Chogo. Ten years of reports contain contradictory numbers, focus on the same program outcomes (the end of citizenship is imminent), and stories of returning the Zigula to their ancestral land. But the reports, the numbers, and the stories in annual reports do not reflect the realities of daily life in the camp. The final report celebrating the completion of Chogo used not demographic data or resettlement outcomes to prove the efficacy of the program; it used photos of farmers to illustrate the importance of individual work (see chapter one). The images were coupled with a specific discourse of what it means to be a Tanzanian citizen. At the opening of the photography exhibit, UNHCR expatriate aid workers used the language of ujamaa to describe the outcomes at Chogo. The official slogan of Ujamaa—kujitegemea, meaning self-reliance in Swahili—was batted around by UN officials, as they discursively attempted to situate the autochthonous resettlement model as inherently Tanzanian. Kujitegemea in Ujamaa, however, referred not to individual self-reliance as the aid workers claimed and as 139 Chogo required; in Ujamaa, kujitegemea was explicitly defined and outlined in the manifesto of African socialism, the Arusha Declaration, as national self-reliance by incorporating every citizen into the national economy through cooperative production at the local level (Nyerere 1967). Kujitegemea meant an end of foreign interests influencing Tanzanian politics and foreign relations, the end of economic dependency and interference by colonial powers, and the establishment of Tanzanian development through social and economic development. Kujitegemea in Chogo, on the other hand, emphasized complete exclusion from the national economy and individual work as the means of individual support. In Chogo, success came not through establishing social and economic development, but individuals relying upon their own physical bodies to survive. The emphasis on the individual in the Chogo model meant that the outcomes of Chogo could not be aggregated: success or failure, outcomes were assumed to be the reflections of individual work ethnic and ingenuity, not program efficacy. The outcomes did not matter. That is, until the outcomes at Chogo suddenly mattered. One day in late 2010, while I was conducting research in Chogo, an elderly refugee man mentioned that “the white police” had visited Chogo only days earlier. Why, I wanted to know, what were they looking for? In a low voice he told me that “outsiders”—that is, non-Zigula Somalis—had paid off the government official in charge of the resettlement for citizenship documents. The rumor was that he paid nearly 4,000 US dollars for each document – nearly half of the Tanzanian official’s yearly salary. Many non-Zigula had purchased citizenship through Chogo, he told me. Indeed, over my years of visiting Chogo, I had regularly seen these families lined up outside of the resettlement official’s office. In fact, the Zigula refugees who lived in Chogo often joked and teased that I, 140 too, could become a refugee and citizen of Tanzania, if only I paid the resettlement director enough money. The “white police” were here because one of the men who purchased citizenship at Chogo had entered Kenya with a Tanzanian passport and blown-up a bus terminal, killing four and injuring forty people. Weeks later, another man with Chogo citizenship and a Tanzanian passport blew up a Nairobi mall. The Tanzanian official in charge of the resettlement fled, but other Tanzanian officials confirmed to me that the rumors were true, as did several United Nations officials. Suddenly the original design of Chogo mattered because someone needed to be blamed. Kate and other United Nations officials suddenly were interested in the design of Chogo, the history of Tanzanian resettlement, and all of the documents—UN documents—which I had downloaded from UN websites. A senior UN official called me into her office one Friday afternoon, long after the office had closed, and demanded to know how I learned so many details about the resettlement. When I explained to her that the UN posted reports on its website, she demanded that I teach her to use the UN’s own websites for finding documents. She ordered me to show her how to use the Tanzanian Parliament’s website in order to search parliamentary debates. When I explained to her that all of the debates were in Swahili, she grew irate: “don’t these people know we give them money, they should give us whatever we want in any language we want it. They don’t understand that they are accountable to us!” I sat in her office as she skimmed UNHCR reports and news articles on Chogo. “Are these numbers even right,” she asked, “how many people in Chogo right now?” 141 For ten years the United Nations produced reports on the Chogo resettlement, claiming the Tanzanian government was providing services that never existed in infrastructure that was never built, for people that never resembled their descriptions, for numbers of people that were pulled from the blue, under the terms of resettlement that were never interrogated. Early in the resettlement when most of the Zigula left Chogo for Dar es Salaam because, as it turns out, they never were a rural people only capable of farming (despite how they were imagined by ex-patriot aid workers), the United Nations had no idea. It had no idea when people starved to death, it had no idea that the government official in charge of the camp stole millions, it had no idea just how much of a failure Chogo really was. Not because officials failed to go to Chogo—indeed, many described their own trips to Chogo and what they saw there—but because once they were there, they were not interested in outcomes or services, or the refugees they resettled. The officials were completely obsessed with—and consequently blinded by—the idea that Chogo needed represent some pure form of rural African life. This view homogenized a diverse population of lawyers and doctors, policemen and teachers, and military leaders into nondescript, rural farmers, overlooking global connections that existed after resettlement and previous experiences of individuals, some of whom had lived in urban Somalia or places like Moscow, Johannesburg, Nairobi, Rome, and Havana. The resettlement was ultimately motivated by a type of categorization that defined who has legitimate claims to citizenship and what citizenship rights look like. The act of categorizing ultimately situated the refugees within binaries of modernity—urban/rural, backwards/developed, rights from market/rights from land—that shaped the objectives of the resettlement. In reports, the categorization of refugees is reflected in their portrayal as nothing 142 more than indigenous, unchanging farmers. The reports ultimately constructed a false reality of the Zigula based on a stereotype of timeless African backwardness, refugee ineptitude, and rights in rural Africa. This construction allowed the UNHCR and government of Tanzania to dismiss resettlement outcomes as individual outcomes associated with character and personal work ethic, not program feasibility or a reflection of the resettlement as an intervention. Consequent reports reflected not knowledge about the resettlement and the status of the people who lived there, but actively produced ignorance that allowed apathy and disengagement to define the resettlement and elide the strategies individuals used to search for rights. The result is not just epistemological, but agnatological: as the UN categorized Zigula refugees, not only did they create and draw upon a particular form of knowledge production, but in doing so they actively produced ignorance. Agnotology, the study of ignorance or un-knowledge, suggests that like knowledge, ignorance, too, is socially produced and is socially productive (Proctor and Schiebinger 2008). Global resettlement and humanitarian aid funding structures (chapter one; seven), lingering stereotypes about Africa and Africans (chapter one), modernity as a process (current chapter), and neoliberalism as a shift in governmentality and economy (six) all collided to re-define citizenship rights in rural Tanzania. But more than ignoring the realities within the Zigula community, they also ignored Tanzania’s history with resettlement. UNHCR officials not only misinterpreted kujitegemea in ujamaa, but they failed to recognize rural resettlement as a key feature of ujamaa, to which kujitegemea referred (Rist 2002). The UN officials I asked about ujamaa knew little about it, except to define it ambiguously as socialism. Tanzanian immigration officials, however, were often shocked at the UN officials’ ignorance about Tanzania. In interviews, high ranking 143 ministry officials scoffed when recalling how the UN thought they had the newest and best plan for resettlement and development and then it turned out to be an neoliberal version of ujamaa, something most of the current officials grew up within and others worked within as part of the government. As the UN officials discussed their “new” resettlement, they were openly condescending to the Tanzanian officials who questioned the program’s efficacy; after all, ujamaa had been a very public, global failure. Moreover, many of the government immigration staff had started their government service within ujamaa and were intimately aware of what rural resettlement looked like in ujamaa. Others came of age in ujamaa and grew up hearing stories of forced resettlement and the glorification of rural life. But that UNHCR wasn’t interested in listening to their questions, concerns, or experiences and they were quickly shut down by UNHCR officials, who believed that Chogo was cutting edge and innovative and would encourage self-sufficiency, not a throwback to the dependency of socialism. The government officials of all ranks and stations openly talked about how UNHCR officials treated them like incompetent idiots and they confided in me that they imagined the foreign UNHCR directors viewed them, government officials, much like they viewed the refugees: as backwards, unknowledgeable Africans. Tanzanian citizenship and Tanzanian-ness was defined solely by European and American aid workers, not by the Tanzanian government. As the UNHCR-Tanzania produced reports, they assumed that they produced knowledge. But instead, they produced a semblance of the Zigula without actually knowing anything about daily life in Chogo. In producing reports about autochthonous resettlement, they reproduced colonial narratives about the noble savage, the “happy African,” and simple, unchanging rural life. Through reporting, the UN, not the Zigula, defined who the Zigula were to global audiences, 144 their needs, and the terms of their citizenship. As the UN produced more and more reports about the resettlement, the less they actually knew about the process, the people, the initial objectives that initiated the resettlement, and the historical connections they were inadvertently creating for Tanzanian officials. Each years as the UNHCR produced more and more reports about the resettlement, they created documentation of life, citizenship, and resettlement as it never was. The result was agnatology, the systematic production of not-knowing. TERRORISM AND CITIZENSHIP When news of the bombings emerged, they implicated the UNHCR: after all, the UNHCR paid for the citizenship documents, including the fraudulent documents provided to the al-Shabaab operatives. The UNHCR reports and record keeping lacked the documentation to point to who received citizenship and their valid claims to refugee status. They couldn’t identify who had lived in Chogo and for how long, nor could they distinguish between “real” Zigula citizens and the terrorists. Just as the UNHCR constructed the Zigula through the use of particular categories, the al-Shabaab operatives had learned to work within the same constructions, in order to navigate international borders. The al-Shabaab operatives identified the problems with the resettlement and then exploited them for their own means. They realized that Chogo had very little oversight—that “the guards had left the panopticon”, in Baumann’s (2010) words—and, as an actor within the Shadow state, that the director of Chogo could be easily bought off without anyone knowing. Like the officials within the shadow state, the Chogo director too, controlled access to resources without oversight or follow up. The al-Shabaab operatives realized that autochthony meant that no one would be stopping by Chogo to monitor program implementation; they realized that a program that 145 focused solely on individual outcomes could be used for individual gain. They realized that because the Zigula were categorized as “simple” and “backwards,” no one would oversee the Zigula or the dissemination of citizenship and no one would suspect that rural farmers would have the capacity to build bombs, cross borders, and engage in terrorism. The categories the UN constructed for Chogo provided the perfect cover for terrorism. Just as the young Zigula women in Dar es Salaam learned to perform the part of the “Ninja” in order to get access to health care and make claims to rights, members of al-Shabaab learned to manipulate the categories of aid and resettlement to gain access to legal citizenship documents. Both performances situate individuals in relationship to global markets: the Ninjas performed wealth, desirability, and thus market citizenship. The al-Shabaab members took advantage of the Shadow State and market citizenship of the resettlement director in order to gain the legal documentation that would allow them to pass as the Zigula stereotypes of simple, backwards, villagers in order to cross, undetected, into Kenya. In constructing the Zigula as citizens, the United Nations constructed the perfect terrorist cover, a resettlement controlled by one lowly bureaucrat, completely unmonitored, where outcomes were measured by nothing than personal accounts of survival. Unlike high modern resettlement that attempted to implement universalizing, generalizable models and account for every variable, the liquid modern resettlement documented nothing, deferring everything to “culture” or “tradition.” Even basic data on the resettlement—the number of people who received citizenship, for instance—was inconsistent from report to report and unchecked by the report writers. The Chogo model drew upon neither the findings at the early refugee villages that predated ujamaa nor the 146 outcomes of ujamaa vijijini. The knowledge—or un-knowledge—produced by the UNHCR at Chogo illustrates a particular implementation of power: the national history of Tanzania and the historical diversity of experience within the Zigula community were overwritten by Western tropes of life in rural Africa that were institutionalized in the name of humanitarian aid. In the weeks following the visit of the “white police” to Chogo, Zigula refugees in Tanzania who had received legal citizenship documents were notified that their documents may—or may not— be valid. Others, those still waiting to receive their documents (more than ten years after the process was to be completed), were put on notice indefinitely and notified that they may or may not receive citizenship in the future. No longer refugees, but without the documentation of legal belonging, these individuals risked—and indeed, experienced—arrest by the police and immigration officials for not having the proper documentation. In a final meeting with UNHCR Tanzania officials before I was to return to the United States, I expressed concern that the refugees resettled at Chogo were caught between statuses and had no idea whose documents were valid and who was inexplicability a refugee again. My plea was met with nods, but little else. In the 2013 UNHCR-Tanzania report there is no mention of Chogo or Zigula refugees or programs supporting their ongoing citizenship problem. There are no programs—and thus no money—allocated to assisting them. The refugees report that things have gotten worse. Immigration officials frequently enter Chogo or visit households in Dar es Salaam, claiming that the Zigula are in the country illegally. Legal documents are rendered useless—if individuals show their documents, they are told the documents are no longer valid. If they lack documents because they are still waiting for their documents to be processed, they are told they 147 are in the country illegally. The only way to carry on, to avoid imprisonment, is to payoff the immigration officials or police; to bribe officials through the Shadow State. 148 CONCLUSION Statelessness is assumed to be a kind of hell-on-Earth, as though belonging to a state means the recognition of personhood through citizenship. This assumption is based on an outdated theorization of citizenship, an idealistic model that was never universal, where recognition of humanity and common need—social citizenship—is bestowed upon citizens by states. While newer theories of citizenship focus on markets, these theories have yet to be adapted or realized by resettlement advocates. But even in recognizing the role of market citizenship in accessing rights, scholars have yet to contend with the complexities of capital beyond simply access to labor or the direct purchasing of rights. And while scholars have investigated how transnational elites negotiate international borders in search of rights, my hope has been to illustrate how refugees work within global structures to find rights. In refugee camps, this means if your story matches donor interests and your positionality fulfills donor reporting criteria for the month, you may get advantaged access to health care, education, food, and water. Social citizenship is available to those who In New York or London, program officers will refer to your cause or story as “sexy” – when posted online it will elicit donations. And pity. Just as Aihwa Ong’s wealthy Asian businessmen used their positionalities to manipulate markets for the best kinds of rights, for the select poor or the chosen vulnerable, rights are available when specific positionalities align with aid market interests. As I show in chapter six, like the entrepreneurs Ong describes, refugees too, play with positionalities and manipulate structures in order to gain access to rights. But so, too, do terrorists (chapter seven), who learn to capitalize on inconsistencies of state power, a characteristic of neoliberalism, in order to cross borders undetected and unsuspected. This inconsistency extends far beyond a few 149 terrorists taking advantage of a resettlement. The humanitarian aid apparatus was supposed to work within the state to construct citizens from refugees. While it failed to create citizens in the resettlement at Chogo, the apparatus regularly and effectively creates (social) citizens in refugee camps. THE ROAD TO HELL There is another dimension to this research that is more difficult to describe. During my time conducting research, I often felt like I was straddling worlds in addition to languages, geographies, viewpoints, and power relations. Although I had initially wanted to live in the Zigula neighborhoods while conducting research, due to increase crime and social instability, this quickly realized it was impossible. Instead, I opted for the next best thing: a place within a short bus ride, but close enough to town and the national hospital where I could regularly interact with refugees as part of my daily routines—research or otherwise. I quickly grew accustomed to boarding the bus every morning and trekking out to the refugee community. Everything from a more conservative style of dress to a new work schedule—sun up to sun down—became part of my usual routine as I conducted interviews with refugees. At the same time, I struggled to establish and re-establish connections within the aid world. Finally, when I gained entrance to the UN, NGO, and government of Tanzania interviews, my interview schedules dictated that my routines should change and consequently my dress, the language I used on a daily basis, and the locations I ventured off to every day. To get to the UNHCR offices, I boarded nicer buses with more expensive fares, to go to less dusty, more surveilled parts of Dar es Salaam. 150 I realized that my research project bridged ways of living and neighborhoods of Dar es Salaam; social spaces so distant that the groups failed to imagine each other’s daily life. One hot afternoon, while conducting interviews in the refugee community, I sat around chatting and drinking cardamom tea with a group of older refugee women and their daughters. They were discussing rent and how quickly their rent costs were increasing as inflation affected every commodity in Dar es Salaam. One of the women was looking for a more affordable place to live and so she was comparing rent costs of her peers that ranged from 5,000 Tanzanian shillings per month to 10, 000 shillings per month (three to six dollars), depending on the availability of a bathroom, electricity, and water. They discussed what they had heard rent costs in various neighborhoods of Dar es Salaam. Then, hesitantly, one of the women mentioned that she had heard that in the ex-patriot neighborhoods, rent could be as much as one million Tanzanian shillings per month – or roughly $625 at that time (1600 TSH = 1 USD). The other women were flabbergasted that rent could ever be that much. Although I did not live in that area of the city, they wanted to know, was it true? Was it possible to spend that much in a single month on housing? The truth was that I knew people who were paying three to five thousand dollars a month on rent in many areas of the city and rent in the ex-patriot community was almost always more than that per month. When I said yes, rent was frequently that much or more in the expatriot neighborhoods, the women wanted to know if UN officials lived in houses costing that much. They did, of course. The women grew silent until one woman broke the silence, “The rent of one UN [ex-patriot] for one month could cover all of the Zigula rent in Dar es Salaam for a year or build [concrete] houses in Chogo for all the Zigula. When they say they come here to work on development, I think they mean their own development.” 151 A few weeks later, I found myself at the Dar es Salaam Yacht Club swimming with friends. The Yacht Club is a relic of colonialism, perched on a cliff overlooking the Indian Ocean with patios, beaches, a pool, and Adirondack chairs scattered around a well-manicured lawn. After dinner, friends of friends who worked for various NGOs and UN organizations, as well as embassies joined us as the table; several of whom I knew from my research and my time spent in meetings and waiting at the UNHCR. Our conversation switched to aid work and development. As jovial and lively as our conversation had been, things quickly became hushed and serious. One by one, each person around the table admitted feeling hopeless about their job, recognizing that vary rarely were they making the impact their reports claimed or improving conditions as their programs intended. Even more slowly, people began referring to their own privilege in relationship to the impoverished conditions many Tanzanians faced. Those who had been in Tanzania the longest were some of the first to admit that they often felt hopeless. Many of them had renewed their contracts numerous times, effectively choosing to stay with the same programs, doing the same work. I asked them why and an uncomfortable silence followed. One man, about to retire, spoke up first. First, he admitted the failure of his own program—a program internationally recognized for its “success”, but then, referencing the view we were enjoying of the Indian Ocean, his own beautiful house with its whitewashed walls, high fences, and bright pink bougainvillea, and the quality international schools his children attended, he asked, “would you rather be here or in rural [America] where I lived before?” Others, too, chimed in. Where else were they going to work? What else were they going to do? Sometimes, they felt they made a difference and maybe that was worth some of the effort and waste. At the end of the day—or at least at the end of this particular day—aid and development work was a job, just like any other. 152 Like all of the other people in Dar es Salaam, they too were concerned about procuring enough resources to provide for their families, send their children to good schools, access health care, while saving for the unknown future. Their jobs, nationalities, education levels, and their luck of being born in a particular country during a particular time in history provided them with perhaps some of the most grandiose forms of privilege: the privilege to define poverty, to define others’ needs, to control the resources necessary for addressing poverty, and to decide who, exactly is deserving of rights. The fate of others’ lives became part of their daily jobs. As the aid workers at the Yacht Club shared their stories, an American man about to return to the US on leave made a different point: his job brought him status. His friends and family members back home saw him as a sort of secular missionary “saving Africa.” They didn’t see the bureaucracy, the fancy office vehicles, the meaningless reports, his work-provided house, or his large salary. They didn’t see the evenings spent at the Yacht Club. In the US he was viewed as a Mother Theresa-type and his friends and family imagined his work to be making a difference. But like others in the group, he had long given up on creating structural change, at least of the international development variety, “I think all of us know we do development work for our own development.” I often wondered if aid and development work would look different if, instead of getting into posh, air conditioned Land Cruisers, aid workers boarded buses. What if, instead of sending their children to the fanciest international schools, they sent their children to local schools. What if, instead of writing reports, they spent their days in the field, not as part of technical assistance teams that vroom in and out of project sites, but as ethnographers studying the daily lessons of program implementation. What if they were forced to meet those they were hired to help and spent the time to understand how their lives worked? Would aid look any different? 153 Or, what if we stopped romanticizing aid work and aid workers as do-gooders and humanitarians? What if we change the discourse around aid work in the global North and move away from describing aid and development workers as saints and instead understood them as people doing a particular job. Even the literature on humanitarian aid shies away from critiquing aid programs. The take away message is always the same: yes, the program failed and the work is flawed, but isn’t it better that they tried? Isn’t trying worth something? Straddling these two worlds and trying to understand both sides of the resettlement process convinced me that the issue is ultimately epistemological. Just as the refugees could hardly fathom the economic privilege of those directed to “help” them; the aid workers failed to understand the limitations, obstacles, and burdens the refugees faced on a daily basis. But the aid workers had the power, they had the control of resources, and they had the potential to create a resettlement program that would actually be a long-term solution to statelessness. But the UNHCR officials failed to see the racism and (neo)colonialism in the resettlement plan and in their daily interactions with officials from the Tanzanian government. They lacked the reflexivity and context to challenge the assumptions imbedded in the resettlement model. They took stereotypes at face value and created programs, without working to understand the complexity of the situation they were hired to address. Worse, despite identifying their own economic fears and the need to purchase education, health care, and other social citizenship rights in Tanzania, UNHCR officials failed to see the realities of market citizenship for resettled refugees and to create a program that would realistically address the restrictions of market citizenship and 154 provide coping strategies. They assumed themselves to be exceptional in their need, overlooking the resources at their disposal and their own privilege. Like the literature on humanitarian aid, the literature on market citizenship tends to focus on normative or utopian visions for citizenship, overlooking immediate solutions or strategies for coping with the limitations of rights based on income. While I agree that ideally neoliberalism and market citizenship would change, this hope does little to address the current realities and struggles of those caught without rights. My intention in taking an agentive approach to studying social citizenship has been to illustrate the structural limitations of rights-for-purchase while emphasizing coping strategies that individuals employ. This perspective provides clearer insights into other restricting factors that are associated with, but not directly attributed to market citizenship—like the role of xenophobia in limiting moral economy access, the ability to perform certain forms of rights claims, and the compounding nature of social citizenship when only a select few within a community have access to economic resources, but all have continued economic need. This is to say that neoliberalism is not simply an economic vision, but an organizing and governance principle for state and society: a form of governmentality (Ong 2006b). Chogo, planned as a market-free space, may seem like an anomaly or aberration in citizenship models because of its lack of emphasis on rights via the market, it is not: instead it reflects the total exclusion of individuals not deemed worthy enough to contribute to markets. Instead of being cared for because of their vulnerability, as humanitarian aid normally attempts to do in refugee camps, or integrated into society through a modicum of rights as social citizenship from the state attempts to do, the 155 Zigula were expected to forage for rights in rural Tanzania – a policy justified through ethnic stereotypes and colonial notions about life in rural Africa. The resettlement effectively further marginalized the already marginal, while allowing those with enough economic resources to use Chogo for legal citizenship and the cover of backwardness in order to perpetrate regional terrorism. Despite receiving legal citizenship in Tanzania, the Zigual refugees resettled in Chogo never received social citizenship in Tanzania—particularly not the social citizenship rights enumerated by the UNHCR Resettlement Handbook (United Nations High Commission for Refugees 2011, 2010). Presumed to exist outside of—and be incapable of accessing—global markets, their resettlement did not provide the means through which to access market citizenship, the dominant form of social citizenship in Tanzania. Refugee resettlement is based upon the idea of durability – the longevity of belonging to a place and having a home. This requires providing refugees transitioning to citizens with the tools and resources necessary in their new host country for surviving. In Tanzania, this means providing individuals with the tools necessary for negotiating market citizenship like economic resources necessary for health care, education, food, and water. It means resettling individuals within close proximity to services. It means creating resettlement models that are flexible and can be responsive to realities like bribes, shortages, and slowmoving institutions. Ultimately, it means that those designing resettlement policy need to have a working knowledge of the resettlement society and how its social institutions function and provide services and planning accordingly. 156 APPENDICES 157 APPENDIX A: REFUGEE INTERVIEW SCHEDULES I have divided the interview schedules into two main parts: refugees and officials. However, within the “officials” category, I have subdivided the interview questions by positionality of the official, including those who were privy to high level international policy negotiations within the UNHCR and Government of Tanzania, mid-level government bureaucrats and officials who designed the objectives and corresponding measures, programming, and interventions. After oral consent I will begin the interview. I will begin with general questions on citizenship: 1) Can you tell me a little bit about what the process of getting Tanzanian citizenship was like for you? Follow up: how long it took, how much it cost, and where were you were living throughout the process? 2) Now that you have Tanzanian citizenship, what does it mean to be a citizen of Tanzania? 3) In your opinion, what does it mean to be a citizen? What are the rights of citizens? I have a few questions about rights. I have made some cards with pictures that symbolize certain rights that I would like to discuss with you and some questions about those rights. [I would like to discuss some of the rights on the cards] 158 I will put out the cards that I have brought with me with the pictures representing the services, letting individuals look at the cards as we talk about the right pictured on each card. I hope it will be used to keep the discussion somewhat targeted and to help people think about other kinds of rights. Below are the questions that I will ask, guided by each card. I will also bring several blank cards. After asking them about the cards that I have brought, I will ask them to suggest rights that are important to them and I will ask the following formulaic questions, specifically about the rights they identify. These questions are all contextualized in the following sections, but the basic formula is as follows: 1) When did you (or your family) last access this service? 2) What are the challenges to accessing this service? 3) Where do you access this service? 4) What facilitates (helps you get) this service? 5) Who has access to this service in your community and who does not? 6) Has this access changed since you received citizenship? 7) Did you have access to this services in other places you have lived like refugee camps and Somalia? 8) – A general question in response to their answers from the questions above to conclude and generalize about what they have said before moving on to the next card. I will draw a picture and right on the card. At the end of the interview, I will ask individuals to rank the rights by importance, including the rights that they suggested. I will conclude by returning to more generalized notions of rights. 159 EDUCATION 1) Does or has anyone in your family attended school since receiving citizenship in Tanzania? If Yes on Question One: 2) Where do your children attended school or “tuition”? [While school is free in Tanzania, often the classes are very large and the teaching that occurs in the classroom is limited at public schools. Many teachers provide “tuition” after school, where they teach children the curriculum that was supposed to be covered in the classroom for a fee. The prices of tuition vary and are more expensive before exams that are required before passing from one level to another. Some private tutoring services also provide “tuition”.] 3) Do you have to pay for education or tuition? If so, how and where do you get the resources to pay for education? 4) What about other Somali Zigula; do they have access to education? Where do they send their children for school? 5) Has your access to education changed since you received citizenship? 6) Did you or your family have access to education in Somalia, refugee camps, or other places you have lived? 7) [If 7 is yes] What kind of school did they attend and how long did they study? [If 7 no] What other places did people go to learn? If No On Question One: 1) Why not? What are the obstacles to attending school? 160 2) Do other Zigula face similar obstacles? If not, how do they manage to send their kids to school? 3) Did you have access to education in other locations you have lived? 4) [If 3 is yes] What kind of school did they attend and how long did they study? [If 3 no] What other places did people go to learn? 5) –Question in response to the answers above to conclude the category or a general question about education as a right to conclude the category. HEALTH CARE 1) When was the last time you or someone in your family required medical attention? • Where did you go for treatment? • How did you decide to go to [that place] for treatment? • Do you like or recommend going to this place for treatment? 2) Is this where you and your family members usually go when you are sick or injured? [If not, where do you usually go and why?] 3) Are there are challenges, obstacles, or things that help you obtain health care? 4) Has your access to health care changed since you received citizenship? 5) Did you have access to health care in refugee camps, Somalia or anywhere else you may have lived? 6) Do you get help with your health needs anywhere else? 7) General question about health care based on their responses to the questions above 161 WATER 1) At home [where you stay] where do you access water? • Possible Clarifying Question: Is your water source operated by an organization, a company, a person, under your own control (like a well, borehole, or rainwater system)? 2) Are there any challenges or obstacles for you accessing water? 3) What is the cost of water? 4) Who has access to this kind of water service in your community and who does not? 5) Has this access changed since you received citizenship? Or when did you begin accessing water this way? 6) When you lived in refugee camps, Somalia, Kenya or other places, where did you get water? 7) –Follow up Question? POLICE PROTECTION, SAFETY, AND SECURITY 1) Have you and your family ever gone to the police for help, protection, or to file a report? 2) Are there any challenges to your safety here in Tanzania? 3) In your community, do rely on the police, the military, local sungusungu, a security company, or neighborhood organizations for security, or do you provide it yourself? • If someone was robbed in your neighborhood, who would you go to for help? Who would chase the robbers? • If someone was killed in your neighborhood, who would you go to for help? Who would chase the killers? 162 • If someone was raped in your neighborhood, who would you go to for help? Who would chase the rapists? 6) Do you have to pay for your safety? • How much? • How do you or can you afford it? 7) Has access to security and safety changed since you received citizenship? 8) Did you feel safe in other places you have lived like refugee camps and Somalia or Kenya? Do you feel safe when you travel? Why? • Follow up question generally about safety. WORK 1) Can you tell me a little about what kind of work you and your family members do in Tanzania? 2) How did you find (get) this work? Did you get any help or face any obstacles in getting this work? 3) What are some of the benefits of doing this kind of work? What are some of the drawbacks? 5) What kind of work would you like to do? 6) What are the obstacles in getting this work? 6) Since you became a citizen, has your access to work changed? 7) Can you talk a little bit about what the system of work was like in refugee camps? Did you work the refugee camp or other places you lived before here such as Somalia or Kenya? 163 Thank you for sharing your ideas with me. What other rights are important to you? [As people suggest rights to me, I will draw and write the identified right on a blank card and then go through the formulaic questions that I have established above to identify where they get rights]. At the end of the brainstorming, I will ask the following questions: 1) Will you put the list of cards in order of the rights that you think are the most important? 2) [Going through the stack] Why is [chosen right] the most important? • Why is it important in your life? • How would you change your access to this right? • Why is [chosen right ranked as least important] the least important? 3) Where do your rights come from now? 4) What is the difference in rights as a refugee and a citizen? 5) Did you have rights as a refugee? 6) What are human rights? Do you have human rights? 7) Does religion, family, ethnicity, or Somali nationality help you get any of the rights we talked about above? 164 APPENDIX B: INTERVIEW GUIDE: UNHCR, GOVERNMENT OF TANZANIA, REDESO PERSONNEL I have divided the personnel interviews into three categories, reflecting the interviewee’s positionality within the resettlement. UNHCR and High Level Government Officials Who Designed, Funded, and Initiated the Resettlement 1. Can you tell me a little bit about how the Chogo resettlement was conceived of and designed? a. Who was involved in this process? b. What was the relationship like between the UN and Government of Tanzania throughout this process? c. How was the land at Chogo selected for the resettlement site? d. How did the previous ujamaa village at Chogo play in or inform the site selection? e. Most resettlement projects throughout the world are in urban area. How did you come to the decision to do a rural resettlement? i. What were the perceived benefits of a rural resettlement? ii. What drawbacks were considered? 2. The UNHCR handbook for resettlement outlines and delineates certain rights in resettlement like healthcare, work, water, and education. How were these rights and corresponding services conceptualized in the planning process? 3. In your opinion, what are the strengths of the Chogo resettlement? What are some of the weaknesses? 165 4. Compared to other resettlement projects around the world, what makes Chogo unique or effective? Mid-Level Government Officials and Bureaucrats and High Level NGO Officials Who Created the Objectives and Measures of the Resettlement and Created Corresponding Programming at Chogo 1. Can you tell me a little bit about what the goals for the Chogo resettlement were? a. Now that the resettlement is over, do you think these goals were accomplished? Why and How? 2. Can you talk a little bit about identifying the objectives and creating the measures for assessing the resettlement? What were your primary goals for Chogo? 3. In your opinion, what were the strengths of the resettlement? What were some of the weaknesses? 4. The UNHCR handbook for resettlement outlines and delineates certain rights in resettlement like healthcare, work, water, and education. How were these rights and corresponding services addressed at Chogo? a. Can you explain how access was designed for these services? For example, who implemented a certain service, how long it was available, who had access to this service, and if the service continued or not after Chogo opened. 5. [From your department: i.e.:] From the perspective of your office, Refugee Affairs, what type of coordination and work did it take to help these refugees become citizens? 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