Laymon Political Transitions and the Uses of Public Education

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THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO

POLITICAL TRANSITIONS AND THE USES OF PUBLIC EDUCATION:

UNIVERSAL SCHOOLING IN CUBA AND PERU

A DISSERTATION SUBMITTED TO

THE FACULTY OF THE DIVISION OF THE SOCIAL SCIENCES

IN CANDIDACY FOR THE DEGREE OF

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

DEPARTMENT OF POLITICAL SCIENCE

BY

STEVEN E. LAYMON

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

JUNE 1999


UMI Number: 9934083

Copyright 1999 by Laymon, Steven E.

All rights reserved.

UMI Microform 9934083 Copyright 1999, by UMI Company. All rights reserved.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF FIGURES....................................................................................................... iv

LIST OF TABLES.........................................................................................................v

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS........................................................................................ vi

Chapter

1. UNIVERSAL SCHOOLING AND CONNECTEDNESS...................... 1

2. THE POLITICS OF UNIVERSAL EDUCATION................................... 38

3. CmZENSHIP & FORMS OF SOCIAL ATTACHMENT.....................76

4. THE CASE OF CUBA...................................................................................119

5. THE CASE OF PERU................................................................................... 184

6. CONCLUSION.............................................................................................250

A ppendix

A. POPULATION GROWTH ESTIMATES, PERU: 1972-1975 (5-15) .. 261

B. ENROLLMENT ESTIMATES, PERU: 1972-1975 ................................. 262

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY.................................................................................. 264

iii


LIST OF FIGURES

FIGURE 1 (SIMPLE LANDSCAPE).........................

FIGURE 2 (TWO BY TWO LANDSCAPE)..............

iv


LIST OF TABLES

TABLE 1 (HISTORICAL TIMELINES)....................................................................25

TABLE 2 (CUBA: LITERACY AND ENROLLMENT)..........................................180

TABLE 3 (PERU: LITERACY AND ENROLLMENT)..........................................248

v


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T his w o rk w o u ld n 't have succeeded w ith o u t the support and assistance of a great many people. My parents backed m y decision to continue my research, desp ite the ever lengthening tim e ho rizon it reached out tow ard. My m other is an educator a n d in sp ired m y interest in the importance of education as a social good. M y father, who passed away while I was w riting my dissertation, was an am ateur student of history, who had a sw eeping fam iliarity w ith the n arra tiv es w h ich fo rm our collective inheritance.

The list of people I owe a debt of gratitude to at the University of Chicago is endless. The participants of the Organizations and State Building Workshop provided unsurpassed intellectual colleague-ship. I also w ant to thank Beatriz Riefkohl at the University's Center for Latin American Studies, Dean Alison Boden at Rockefeller Chapel, and Kim Stanton at the M acArthur Foundation. They helped me chart my travel to Cuba, and m ade the discovery of tha t rem arkable country possible. My com m ittee-Jon Elster, Gary Herrigel, an d Susan Stokes-provided patient guidance, despite long periods of snail's pace progress. My committee Chair, John Padgett, deserves special mention. He consistently walked w ith me dow n my idiosyncratic theoretical path, an d pointed to die scholarly landm arks which helped keep me from straying off into the intellectual wilderness.

I have m ade m any friends in Chicago, and they all played a role in shaping m y thinking, my sentiments, and m y stubborn unwillingness to lose sight of m y goal. Andrea, Bobby, Dave, D w ight, Emily, Greg, John and Gia, Kevin, Marthame and Elizabeth, Paul and Susan, Tom and Wendy, and Will all deserve to be nam ed. My Chicago family-Shom, H erb and Josh-fed me, entertained me, and comforted me.

In Havana, I was helped by my friends Ivan Perez, Jesus Garcia del Portal, and Jorge Gonzalez Corona. Like the many other Cubans I met, they are generous souls.

I have always held the belief that scholarly research is a collaborative project. We borrow ideas from others, we w ork out insights collectively, we depend on the struggles and achievements of others for the narratives we choose to tell.

M y final thanks m ust go to Rebecca, to w hom this work is dedicated. She has provided steadfast com panionship and loving support throughout the long years of research required to finish this dissertation. I could not have done it w ithout her.

v i


CHAPTER 1

UNIVERSAL SCHOOLING A N D CONNECTEDNESS: Statement of the Problem

This paper will use events in Cuba (between 1934 and 1990) and Peru

(between 1948 and 1992) to study the interrelationship of mechanisms linked

w ith the adoption of universal schooling and parallel reconstructions of

collective consciousness. Many authors who have w ritten on the subject of

the nation have appropriately linked the construction of nationalist solidarity

w ith public education.1 O thers have hung the hopes of dem ocratic

institu tions2 and economic development on educational practices. Despite

this long history of reflection, a great deal of the work devoted to the study of

the role educational systems play in society is imperfect in its reconstruction

Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983). See also Barry R. Posen, "Nationalism, the Mass Army, and Military Power," International Security 18, no. 2 (Fall 1993), pp. 80-124; as w ell as E.J. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990).

2 There is, of course, a long tradition of this scholarship, begun, perhaps, by John Dewey, Democracy and Education (New York: The Free Press, 1916/44).

3 Theodore W. Schultz, The Economic Value of Education (New York: Columbia University Press, 1963). Also, Alex Inkeles and David H. Smith, Becoming Modem (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1974). See also, Gunnar Myrdal, Asian Drama (Volume III) (New York: Pantheon Books, 1968).

1


2of the prerequisites for institu tionaliz ing these am bitious attem pts at

citizenship training through mass education.4

It is my belief that "nationalizing" universal education is more rarely

attem pted and less frequently achieved than is custom arily im agined by

theorists. The state may not seek to prom ote collective solidarity at the

expense of other goals. If it does prioritize a reengineering of collective

consciousness (as I believe it often does), it may find itself unable to achieve

its goal, its objective blocked by powerful non-state actors. It is clear to me

that specific conditions-the decline of certain social actors and the rise of new

logics of connectedness-make it more likely that a state w ill choose to pursue

a nationalizing educational project.

Often, elites have been portrayed as prom oting nationalism to advance

their own security and well-being, at the cost of mass interests. On the other

hand, another school of thought argues that nationalism is a genuinely

popular movement, which achieves collective interests at the expense of elite

preferences. In reality, elites and the poor both have m ultiple preferences,

and while nationalist reconstructions of consciousness m ay help achieve

some goals, they also frustrate the achievement of others. For example, while

some elites m ay hope to p repare the p ath for industria liza tion by

conditioning the human resources required for manufacturing, they will fear

the potential for popular uprising associated w ith new form s of collective

4 This reflects a dissatisfaction also voiced, in a different manner, by Mark Beissinger in "Nationalisms that Bark and Nationalisms that Bite: Ernest Gellner and the Substantiation of Nations," in John A. Hall, ed., The State of the Nation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 169-190.


3consciousness.5 The poor, though perhaps poised to benefit from the shared

efforts m ade possible by collective union, will surely not all benefit equally.

Some w ill find their well-being put at risk when local cultures w hich help

sustain subsistence are swept away.

Therefore, as a point of departure for this discussion, it seems clear that

it is not always in the interests of relevant actors to embrace the construction

of national consciousness. Risk averse actors will prefer the benefits offered

by existing arrangements over the uncertain pay-offs (and disruptive chaos)

promised by changes in the structure of collective union.6 As a first concern,

nationalism, as it is commonly conceived, cannot be undertaken w ithout first

expanding the range of authority conceded to the state, by surrendering to the

state the job of constructing and reproducing collective identity. As Rogers

Brubaker has written recently, the construction of collectivities is closely

5 This is true for the state (as embodied by military leaders, at least), as well. Posen argues that military leaders, while recognizing the strategic value of mass education, were in some cases slow to adopt it because they feared political unrest would follow as the poor masses acquired a shared cognitive and communicative culture. See Posen, p. 97.

Notice, this provides a special role for the bourgeoisie, who, if Gellner and his modernist colleagues are correct, embrace the idea of on-going change and institutionalized uncertainty. See Gellner, pp. 19-38. See also Alfred Stepan, The State and Society: Peru in Comparative Perspective (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978), p. 34, where he offers, "the goal of a stable, organically integrated society might entail radical change in basic structures." Such change may require the initial "use of force against the selfish resistance of the privileged interests."

nRogers Brubaker, Nationalism Reframed (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 19%).

Brubaker describes three types of nationalism. Of the three, one is relevant to my analysis here, the nationalism of n a tio n a liz in g states. See also Michel Foucault, "Govemmentality," in G. Burchell, C. Gordon and P. Miller, eds., The Foucault Effect (London: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1991), pp. 87-104; as well as Claudio Lomnitz, Interpreting the Sentiments of the N ation , (unpublished manuscript, 1997). Here Foucault and Lomnitz develop the idea that states take on the responsibility of defining a population, laying out a blueprint for its progress, and then find these plans taken up by the population as its own. In this process, other actors who were once central are pushed aside. Similar ideas are addressed in Beissinger, pp. 174-177.


4Q

linked w ith protecting elite interests. Conceding this task to state officers

may prove costly to elite actors.

In addition , nationalizing un iversa l education also facilitates the

construction of a shared cultural system w hich may permit the coordination

of mass movements, which can over-tum structures of social order preferred9 , ,iby elites, state bureaucrats, and others in positions of privilege. This risk too

should be considered a cost.

Many authors have argued that nationalism aids in the construction of

industrialization, by perm itting a un ifo rm cognitive and com m unicative

culture, w hich helps in the transfer of inform ation between m anagers and

shopfloor workers. It also helps fashion interchangeable workers, sufficiently

similar so each can step into the place of another. Certain actors in society

will fear the loss of their dominance (or well-being) in the face of expanding

industrialization, and they will resist the adoption of reforms designed to

condition its success.

H ow are universal education projects, which according to m any

th eo ries of nationalism are v ita l to th e construction of national

8 Rogers Brubaker, "Myths and Misconceptions in the Study of Nationalism," in Hall, ed., Ernest Gellner and the Theory of Nationalism, pp. 272-306. See also Theda Skocpol, States and Social Revolutions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), p. 30.

QThis idea was perhaps first referred to in the Book of Genesis, Chapter 11, verse 6 in the story

of the Tower of Babel. "And the Lord said, Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is what they begin to do: and now nothing will be withholden from them, which they propose to do.” See Gen. 11 : 6. W.E.B. DuBois offers a similar perspective: "when a human being becomes suddenly conscious of the tremendous powers lying latent within him...then there is loosed upon the world possibilities of good or of evil....” See W.E.B. Du Bois, "The Hampton Idea," in The Education of Black People (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1973), p. 8. Gellner offers a different view: without the nationalization of consciousness, class-based or political grievances will wear the garb of ethnic differences and produce unresolvable conflicts. So nationalism can help contain class conflict. See Gellner, Nations and N ationalism , pp. 73-75. This becomes relevant in Peru, as I will discuss in chapter 5.


5consciousness, in s titu tio n a lized in settings th a t are hostile to such

educational projects? As I w ill develop over the next several chapters:

revolutionary transitions open up opportunities for the state to move beyond

lim its im posed on it by non-state actors and perm it more far-reaching

reconstructions of collective consciousness.

This requires an understanding of a more active, self-interested, and

autonom ous state. Following the work of Theda Skocpol, I assume that states

(at least potentially) are more than coercive and administrative agents for

dom inant classes, or an assembly of bureaucratic instruments classes fight to

control.10 States are social actors, w hich have (or develop) the ir ow n

interests, and pursue policies designed to achieve these interests. I'll re tu rn

to this question and discuss it in greater depth in chapter two.

A n in itia l v iew

In Cuba and Peru, for m any years, large regions of the countryside were

left outside of the national culture, which took shape only in the u rb an

centers. This was true for at least several reasons. Industrial backwardness, a

result of colonialism and economic dependency, meant that a m anufacturing

sector, w ith its typical appetite for manpower, d id not emerge and d id not

produce a far-reaching reorganization of consciousness aimed at creating a

standardized workforce. Second, the landholding elites who benefited from

the absence of w idespread m obilization withheld their support for the public

10 In addition to Skocpol, States and Social Revolutions, see Theda Skocpol, Protecting Soldiers and Mothers (Cambridge: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1992), especially pp. 1-62; and Theda Skocpol, "Bringing the State Back in: Strategies of Analysis in Current Research," in Peter B. Evans, Dietrich Rueschemeyer and Theda Skocpol, eds., Bringing the State Back In (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), pp. 3-37.


6delivery of universal education in the countryside. Third, the Cuban and

Peruvian states tended to possess lim ited power vis-a-vis o ther actors in

society. Landholding classes, as just m entioned, w ere powerful. Cultural

elites, including the Catholic church, also refused to surrender the im portant

role they played in shaping consciousness. Additionally, especially in the

Cuban case, overseas actors often displaced the state as the principal power-

holders in society. As a result, the state was prevented from authoring

reconstructions of collective consciousness consistent w ith its preferences. As

I w ill argue in the pages to follow, a persuasive logic makes nationalizing

education an attractive option for the state when it is perm itted to realize its

aim s.11

The approach to schooling (and to the structuring of civic space) visible

in Cuba and Peru throughout m uch of the first half of the twentieth-century

undeniably produced a form of social organization. But, as opposed to

nationalist solidarity, this approach to reproducing social un ity did not

primarily prioritize the common language, collectively-held cultural symbols,

and shared histories which tend to bind together a group of people. Rather,

this approach to constructing solidarity was built on the idea that what joins

one person to another in society is the different occupations in which each

II This logic was perhaps first identified by Tocqueville, when he observed: "Every central power which follows its natural insticts loves equality....equality singularly facilitates, extends, and secures its influence, f One can also assert that every central government worships uniformity [of character].” See Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America (N ew York: Anchor, 1969), p. 673. As I discuss elsewhere, before some type of mobilizing event-like a revolution-serves to transform the acquiescent poor into an engaged collectivity, acting on new images of connectedness, the state may not embrace universal schooling, especially if state leaders believe they will not have a relatively free hand to create a new organizational and institutional structure to incorporate this population into a new system of order. But once the poor and powerless have been mobilized, states prefer bringing order to their collective consciousness, and will embrace universal education.


7engages and the different economic roles each class of citizens occupies.

Em ile D urkheim w as conscious of this d istinction . R etriev ing this

distinction, and employing it analytically, is one of the objectives of my work

over the following pages.

These different approaches to conceptualizing connectedness, I will

argue, re su lt in m arked ly d issim ilar schem es for co o rd in a tin g and

constructing citizenship. It is useful to identify three forms of solidarity, all

w ith corresponding fram ew orks for im agining connectedness and each

reproduced by the state (and other actors) in schools and other public and

private institutional spaces. These forms of solidarity are national solidarity,

"organic" solidarity, and class solidarity, of which there are two types, elite

and proletariat solidarity. These four approaches to the construction of social

so lidarity prom ote d ifferent schem es for the organization of secondary

categories of self-identification. National solidarity requires m embers of the

civic association to prioritize m em bership in the collective cultural and

historical union over other loyalties.12 Proletariat solidarity em phasizes the

prim acy of working-class attachments. Elite solidarity, in a sim ilar way,

encourages elite actors to devote themselves to the collective realization of

class-specific objectives. Organic solidarity is characterized by a more complex

ordering of loyalties, since attachm ent to the historical / cu ltural community

exists side-by-side w ith a logic of connectedness derived from m obility within

the hierarchical division of labor. Ernest Gellner knew this, and in fact his

description of nationalism captures a very useful model: an organic solidarity

project that aims at em ploying the schools to construct a broad horizontal

12 Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780, p. 11.


8union to steady the architecture of the division of labor (and provide shop-

floor managers with a conveniently interchangeable workforce). I will return

to these matters in later pages.

The construction o f collective identity

Over the last decade, the idea that nationalism is a constructed social

concept has trium phed over the notion that the "nation" is a natural by-13product of ethnic and linguistic diversity. As belief in the constructed

nation has championed over the idea of a fated ethnic nation, it has become

necessary to shift our attention to unpacking varia tion in the process of

constructing nationalism and to explaining the forces w hich advance the

construction of this sentim ent.14 Schooling has been iden tified as an

im portant element of this project. What is required, m any observers agree, is

universal public education. In the end, if the conditions are right, collective

consciousness is reshaped to take the form of a shared (national) union. This

can be considered (in Benedict A nderson's words) one type of "horizontal-

secular" solidarity.15 This is pieced together to serve the interests of the state

1 3The most important work in consolidating scholarly acceptance of this point of view is probably Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities (New York: Verso, 1991).

1-4 For a nice review of these issues see Geoff Eley and Ronald Grigor Suny, "Introduction: From the Moment of Social History to the Work of Cultural Representation," in Eley and Suny, eds., Becoming National (New York: Oxford, 1996), pp. 3-37. Of course, there are non-official nationalisms not constructed by and legitimized by state authorities. I will leave this issue aside, however, since my cases involve the use of schools by public officers. Brubaker emphasizes the need to understand the forces which help "nationalizing states" institutionalize this sentiment. See Brubaker, Nationalism Reframed, p. 16.

^ Anderson, Imagined Communities, p. 37.


9or other actors in society.16 While recent literature on nationalist solidarity

argues tha t prim ordial ties are not the prim ary build ing blocks of the1 7nation, it is w orth preserving the idea that citizenship can be constructed on

a shared ethnic, cultural, linguistic, historical, and territorial foundation.

However, it is vital to keep in m ind th a t these elements are interpreted

through specific political projects. Certain elements of a cultural heritage are

retrieved (and redefined), while others are left aside. Schools play a central

role in this reconstruction of culture. As I have commented, few scholars

have reflected on the necessary p reconditions required to successfully

institutionalize this educational mission.

Public education is constituted by state authorities and political leaders

to provide citizenship training, in its m any forms. Alongside horizontal

projects like nationalism, one can place vertical citizenship projects, which

aim at creating a hierarchical organization of society. This hierarchy mainly

aims at p roducing (or reproducing) econom ic class divisions. These

divisions are, like cultural systems an d political beliefs, purposefully

constructed and reproduced and not the product of m arket relations or other

purely m echanical forces. Like o ther form s of officially constructed

16 Brubaker, "Myths and Misconceptions in the Study of Nationalism,” p. 22. Again, this is clearly the implication in Tocqueville, p. 673.

17 The universality of this point of view is impressive, being as close to a consensus as is possible in social-scientific scholarship. One prominent voice who clings to the idea that ethnicity provides an essential starting point for nationalism(s) is Anthony D. Smith, The Ethnic Origins of Nations (Cambridge: Blackwell, 1986). Still, Smith believes nationalism to be a m odem project which transformed ethnic memories and cultures into today's nations.

- I QPerhaps one of the earliest theorists to observe this fact with clarity was Emile Durkheim.

He saw organic solidarity to be preserved by a three-tiered architecture which joined individual workers to the authority of the state through the disciplined mediation of "occupational groups” and other associations which served to reproduce the elaborate structure of the division of labor while limiting conflict. See the "Preface to the Second Edition" in


10solidarity, the state reproduces this routine civic association on a daily basis

th rough the activities of various public institutions. In this day-to-day

substantiation of citizenship, schools are, perhaps, the most im portant state-

controlled space. Interestingly, one approach to the construction of vertical-

secular citizenship employs universal elem entary education as a way of

eng ineering a common cognitive and com m unicative foundation for

economic activity. A second approach denies the poor m eaningful access to

schooling, in order to preserve the economic (and cultural) dominance of the

elite through an attempt to prevent the disadvantaged classes from gaining

access to the tools to construct a shared cognitive and com m unicative

culture.19

Constructing a culture of connectedness between members of society is

one step. If the state hopes to realize its own aims, it m ust take the next step

and structure a link between society and government. In both Cuba and Peru

the state engineered corporatist arrangements to structure patterns of interest

representation, shape collective behavior, and channel participation in state-

authored development projects.20 This is the political and organizational

Emile Durkheim, The Division of Labor in Society (New York: The Free Press, 1902/1933), pp. 1-31. For a much more recent statement on the construction of political economy see Robert N. Bates, et al, "Introduction,” in Bates, et al, A nalytic Narratives (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998), pp. 3-22.

Tocqueville offers an early perspective on this approach to constructing social order. Not only does withholding education make the construction of a shared cognitive culture difficult, but it also prevents common people from acquiring clarity of thought and administrative knowhow. They remain dependent on educated superiors. See Tocqueville, pp. 676-677.

20 See Stepan, State and Society, pp. 46-113; Philippe C. Schmitter, "Still the Century of Corporatism?” The Review of Politics 36, no. 1 (January 1974), pp. 85-121; and Guillermo A. O'Donnell, "Corporatism and the Question o f the State," in James M. Malloy, ed., Authoritarianism and Corporatism in Latin America (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1977).


11alchemy where collective union is transform ed into citizenship. I will re tu rn

to a discussion of this question in chapter two.

Transitions and opportunities

Schools play a central role in the day-to-day institutional substance

(and scope) of collective identity and citizenship, and their part in this process21 |is more prominent (and contested) du ring moments of transition. This is

because education is seen by state authorities as a valuable elem ent in the

structuring of post-transition social solidarity and in the shaping of a new (or

renewed) national/collective consciousness. States, perhaps some more than

others, also seek to use this transition as an opportunity to incorporate into

the civic community new citizens. In m any cases, the two concerns are

intertw ined.

Transitions should be thought of as junctures when (shifting) structure

and changing conceptual fram ew orks (and hum an agents) com bine to

produce opportunities to construct specific visions of "groupness" and

"boundedness. N ot only do sta tes seek to take advantage of structural

openings (i.e. the decline, elim ination , or im m obilization of previously

dom inant actors) to use classrooms and curriculum to shape consciousness,

but they do so at the specific time w hen new conceptualizations of collective

21 John Craig has pointed to interesting exam ples of this. Most of Craig's examples are different than mine. He discusses transitions involving military defeats and economic failures. See John E. Craig, "The Expansion of Education," Review of Education 9,1981, p. 166. Barry Posen points to a similar history in his theoretical study. See Posen, "Nationalism, the Mass Army, and Military Power."

22 Brubaker, "Myths and Misconceptions in the Study of Nationalism," p. 27.


12life (and experiences of shared suffering) are being introduced into society by

the interplay of events.

One prom inent chorus of voices which advocated the use of schools

(and other institutional spaces) for nation-building was the com munity of

scholars (and policy-planners) associated with the m odernization literature of2 a

the 1950s, 1960s, and early 1970s. These observers saw the post-war era as a

significant transitional m om ent. It was believed that (forward-looking

public) schools and o ther m odern institutions w ere requ ired to d rag

traditional societies into the bright light of the m odern age. While multiple,

in te rre la ted projects n eed ed to be u ndertaken (especially economic

developm en t and the con stru c tio n of m odern ad m in is tra tiv e state

structures), nation-building was important as a way of creating solidarity and

stability (and labor and commercial markets). Local ethnic traditions-and the

self-serving princes and social elites who benefit from their perpetuation-

needed to be swept away.

However, it was m ore difficult to build nations than these theorists

imagined. As I will discuss later, the problem was that without far-reaching

social revolution, "traditional" elites often adapted to change and joined w ith

"modem" elites to frustrate efforts to build a meaningful national project by

interfering in public policies designed to create nationalizing educational

reforms. Further, foreign economic forces, not local elites, often controlled

23 For examples see: Gabriel A. Almond and James S. Coleman, eds.. The Politics of the Developing Areas (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1960). Leonard Binder et al. Crises and Sequences in Political Development (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1971). Karl Deutsch, "Social Mobilization and Political Development," American Political Science Review 55 (September 1961). Daniel Lemer, The Passing of Traditional Society (Glencoe, IL.: The Free Press, 1958). W.W. Rostow, The Stages of Economic Growth (London: Cambridge University Press, 1960).


13land and other productive resources, and these actors had little interest in

promoting nationalizing reforms. A more profound transitional shift was

necessary. In Cuba, a transform ing national revolution opened the door to

change.

Revolution as a specific transitional experience

Social revolution transform s the political and cu ltu ra l landscape,

eliminating certain actors and replacing old cultural certainties w ith new

frameworks of thought. It also customarily serves to increase the power and

range of operation of the state, for reasons to be discussed in chapter two.

Briefly, states gain autonomy when (1) power is granted to them by dominant

social actors,24 (2) they can exploit positional advantages to take and defend

discretionary latitude,25 and (3) they control specific expertise and enjoy a

reputation for problem-solving.26 Revolution shapes the outcome in each of

these venues.

One problem, however, is that following revolution, M arxist parties

(and poor populations struggling to gain benefits from the revolution) often

attempt to use the institutional resources of the state for their ow n narrow

interests.27 Education, in particular, is used to reshape consciousness and

24: Jon Elster, Making Sense of Marx (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), pp. 402- 428.

25 Ibid., pp. 422-428.

26 Daniel Carpenter, The Forging of Bureaucratic Autonomy (unpublished manuscript, 1998).See also Skocpol, States and Social Revolutions, p. 30.

27 One interpretation could be that these oppressed populations are momentarily seized by the ressentiment described by Nietzsche. What evidence would support this, and even what this evidence might resemble, is not clear. See Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals (N ew York: Vintage, 1989), pp. 36-43.


14expand the community of political involvement-to build a new "socialist

man" and construct a participatory workers' "utopia" free of the injustice ofQ _

class politics. The d ifficu lty is, projects designed to fashion class

consciousness can lim it the realization of broad collective solidarity by

emphasizing (even as they attem pt to over-turn) difference and division in

society. Indeed, the idea of proletariat solidarity is by its very nature limiting,

since only a segment of society can aspire to membership in this collective

project.

If the state values stability, as I will argue, it seems likely that it will

choose to trade-off extremist goals for solidarity, sacrificing radical aims for

the stable broad-based solidarity of national union. The struggle becomes one

for dom inance betw een the state and com m itted ideo logues in the

communist party.

All in all, revolution plays an important role in preparing the way for

the realization of the state's project. Revolution elim inates elite opponents

of mass-mobilizing initiatives and the broadened state authority required to

carry forward such projects. It also introduces new images of collective

solidarity and encourages a reinterpretation of shared history.

Realities require that new governments rebuild economies misshapen

by dependent-developm ent or shattered by war. Expanding the industrial

capacity of the nation-state as a way of developing independence from foreign

2gFor a great descripton of this type of educational (and, in fact, multi-sector) project, see

Richard R. Fagen, The Transformation of Political Culture in Cuba (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1969). In addition, see Mary Arm Burris, "Struggle, Criticism, Transformation: Education in the People's Republic of China," in Martin Camoy and Joel Samoff, eds.. Education and Social Transition in the Third World (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), pp. 105- 152.


15actors or preserving the successes of the revolution m ay be a core priority of

the new leadership. In states which choose to use educational spaces (and

other institutional resources) to incorporate add itiona l num bers into the

political life of the collectivity, the new governm ent often urgently needs to

increase productivity in order to satisfy the m aterial (and occupational)

dem ands of the state's growing constituency.29 However, the instructional

and organizational requirem ents of solidarity projects and the educational

priorities of im proving economic productivity can be incompatible. New

leaders and educators need to weigh options, and piece together useful and

sustainable compromises.

This project's analytical approach

There is a vast body of literature on the question of the expansion of

education, much of it written by scholars working in other fields but relevant<2 n

to political scientific concerns. H ow ever, these accounts infrequently

wrestle w ith questions about the political contests w hich shape educationalon

reform and the institutionalization of policy. In part, this is because too

much of the literature in question ignores the question of hum an agents, and

how actors struggle, from positions of self- or class-interest and ideological

29 See Samuel P. Huntington, Political Order in Changing Societies (New Haven: Yale University Pres, 1968).

Craig, pp. 151-213.

31 Consider the vast body of literature on Modernization, which saw this issue not in terms of political struggles, but as a contest between sodal/historical forces, modernity and tradition. A struggle between the new and the stubbornly resistant old ways. Gellner shared this view; see Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, pp. 1-52.


16belief, to gain control over the reform process in order to protect existing

interests, achieve desired goals, or avoid unacceptable costs.

I will argue that these struggles over (usually elite) preferences explain

w hy universal education is rare, and more lim ited educational projects are

custom arily adopted. As I w ill develop over the follow ing pages, the

bourgeoisie (and their middle class allies) want to use the schools to construct

"storm ladders" to climb the w alls of inherited privilege and build new

opportunities for economic developm ent and individual gain. The land

ow ning rural elites (and other elements of the traditional order) want to use

schools to construct and reinforce barriers as a way of reproducing their

existing system of dominance.

Education policy is designed by governmental leaders, while subject in

some cases to the demands of organized social actors. It is implemented in

school classrooms and university halls (and in some cases on factory floors)

by teachers, adm inistrators, and literacy workers. Throughout this process,

im portant non-state actors-ideologues, political parties, business leaders and

other economic elites, teachers' unions, parents, and students-can intervene

to support, block, or redefine reform. The interaction of these actors, and the

influence of other social and economic factors, shape the outcome of reform

efforts. It is only when historical events overturn these structured routines

th a t we find the construction of both universal education and a broad

horizontal union. Revolution is such an event. Revolution transforms this

landscape by sweeping away particular types of actors.

As a first step toward sorting out some of these concepts, I will propose

simple m ethods to categorize relevant approaches to citizenship training. As

I w ill develop below, these four approaches to schooling and connectedness


17can be clustered in pairs, the first two associated w ith universal educational

projects, the latter pair linked w ith rationed educational projects. In the

chapter that follows, I will show that these approaches to the reengineering of

civic union can be imagined as the product of a citizenship project which

combines particular conceptions of order or connectedness w ith specific

policies for extending access to public education.32

(1) Incorporation projects join universal schooling w ith other state

initiatives to create a new community which shares a common worldview

and a collective (if, as I will discuss, loose-fitting) identity, fashioned by shared

cognitive and communicative tools. Typically, these reforms are directed

tow ard expanding levels of participation in communal life and improving

the skill and efficiency with which individuals acquire, decode, process, and

communicate social inform ation and political m essages. Risking the

possibility that the masses will find in their shared communicative culture

the ability to mobilize to dem and a greater say in social planning, states

embrace the expansion of collective consciousness as a necessary step in

opening new avenues for development and solidarity-building. At the cost of

lim iting the full realization of occupational diversity, these educational

reform s prioritize (national) unity th rough un iform ity of educational

experience. In the years after 1959, an incorporationist reform package was

institutionalized in Cuba, while the Peruvian military failed to achieve their

incorporationist goals in the years after the 1968 coup.

32- Or, as I will discuss in chapter 3, perhaps it is wiser to imagine these outcomes as the unintended product of school policy choices combined with imperfectly conceived reconstructions of connectedness. This is the idea behind the belief that nationalism is an arbitrary or contingent outcome. Rogers Brubaker's Nationalism Reframed is the dearest statement of this useful perspective.


18(2) The open-door system offers the prom ise of upw ard social and

economic mobility (and a promise of contingent citizenship and associated

benefits33) th rough educational and career achievem ent. This system of

reform and institu tional practice prioritizes attachm ent to productive roles

and occupational competence, bu t values public culture and shared language

as a web of interconnection to steady the p lay of economic activity. An

attem pt is m ade to construct and reproduce a system of occupational

hierarchy while (or, rather, through) (re)constructing a form of horizontal

(cultural/h istorical) solidarity. It is hoped th a t this shared culture will

produce sufficient fellow-feeling to help tem per the negative effects of class

d ivision and occupational distance. It is also believed that individuals

schooled to share these common cognitive and com municative habits will be

useful, interchangeable units capable of stepping into productive roles with

little training. I will call this particular form of union "organic" solidarity. A

description of this approach to the restructuring of educational priorities and

collective attachm ent is the m ain contribution of Ernest Gellner to the

literature of nationalism. As I will show, there are several paths to open-door

citizenship / educational outcomes. One is bourgeois revolution or the ascent

of an industrial class through other means. The second path leads through

an incorporation period. During the incorporation phase, the state introduces

u n iv e rsa l schoo ling an d the po litically re le v an t com m unity grows.

However, over time, a variety of pressures-popular dem ands for enhanced

m aterial w ell-being an d the perceived need to industrialize to compete

33 John Padgett offers an interesting example of this in a much earlier era. In renaissance Florence, members of the community could only vote if they w ere members of guilds. For a general discussion of his case material, see John F. Padgett and Christopher K. Ansell, "Robust Action and the Rise of the Medici, 1400-1434," American Journal of Sociology 98, pp. 1259-1319.


19against geo-political enemies-encourages states to adopt new systems of order

w hich produce a vertical architecture of connectedness, o vertu rn ing the

horizontal solidarity of the incorporationist period.

A lthough outside the scope of this study, one clear example would be

the package of educational reforms adopted by Eduardo Frei's Christian

Democratic government in Chile between 1964 and 1970.34 Frei's project—

w hich resu lted from the ascent of a bourgeoisie supported by the policy

outreach of the U.S. Alliance for Progress-combined a significant increase in

the opportunities for mass participation in education with economic reforms

w hich sought to create a more efficient agricultural sector and a greatlyo r

enlarged manufacturing sector. The educational reforms were designed to

m ake available to the masses the cognitive tools and occupational skills

required by the new industrial operations. Improvement in the quality of life

experienced by the poor was contingent on the ir partic ipa tion in the

economic life of the nation.

For m y cases, the example of pre-revolutionary republican Cuba is

interesting. The Cuban system was characterized by regional variation: while

an open-door organization of educational resources was the norm in Havana,

public schools in the countryside had very few resources and shaped a very

different culture of connectedness. The provincial elite chose to send their

children to costly parochial preparatory schools, while the rural poor had no

See Kathleen B. Fischer, Political Ideology and Educational Reform in Chile 1964-1976 (Los Angeles: UCLA Latin American Center, 1979) and Stefan de Vylder, Allende's Chile (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976).

^ D e Vylder, pp. 19-22.


202 / f

viable public school system to w hich to send their children. In the end,

existing patterns of dominance an d subservience were reproduced through

education (and other public policies). In part, the explanation for this

outcome is simple: w hile the bourgeoisie had influence in the cities

(especially Havana), they p layed no significant role in the politics of

constructing educational policy in the countryside. Similar patterns can be

observed in Peru, where the bourgeoisie constructed near universal schooling

in Lima by 1961, but, because they could not extend their influence beyond the

urban center, they surrendered control of school policy in the rural interior to

land-holding elites.37

As I will discuss, reform s in Cuba after 1975 restored open-door

elements in school planning. Access to desirable professional training, which

opened doors to more rew arding opportunities for employment and related

material benefits, was limited to a small part of the population.

(3) The caste system w ithholds educational resources from the great

m ajority while shaping cognitive and professional skills for the more

fortunate few. This system aims to reproduce the patterns of social order in

which prevailing distributions of w ealth and power are anchored. While the

package of educational and institutional policies associated w ith open-door38approaches have a secondary concern with collective "high" public culture,

the objectives of caste pedagogies are much more limited: to cultivate among

36Louis A. Perez, Jr., Cuba and the United States: Ties of Singular Intimacy (Athens:University of Georgia Press, 1997), pp. 133-134.

See I Volumen de Resultados de los Censos Nacionales: Sexto Censo Nacional de Poblacion (Tomo 3) (Lima: Instituto Nacional de Planificadon, 1966), p. 53.

38 See Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, pp. 35-38, for a discussion of this idea.


21the poor a disciplined acceptance of ascribed status, occupational roles, elite

decision-making, and, more broadly, the legitimacy of upperclass privilege,

professional expertise, m eritocratic rewards, and hierarchical au tho rity .39

Elite solidarity is reinforced by common educational experiences and the

shared cognitive culture constructed by schooling. The hierarchical order is

reproduced, but at a cost: a wide-based solidarity is sacrificed and the promise

of a more extensive educated workforce, in tegrated into th e com m on

com m unicative and cognitive culture, is lost. The o rgan iza tion of

educational space in the (pre-revolutionary) Cuban and Peruvian countryside

fits this model.

(4) The radical system is designed to build solidarity am ong the

laboring class. This approach aims at eradicating, not rep ro d u c in g ,

hierarchies of economic classification. At the same time, it su rren d ers

broader forms of solidarity for the construction of class-consciousness and

proletarian solidarity. This approach has obvious links to Leninist thought.

Its goal is to radicalize consciousness and lay the foundation for class struggle.

This is done by constructing a core revolutionary leadership above a less

carefully educated popular mass. It is most likely w hen com m unist party

leaders share w ith the state the responsibility of formulating new policies of

education and new blueprints for collective consciousness. As I w ill discuss,

elements of Cuban state policy, but not the main educational reform s, were

designed to achieve this goal. Additionally, the educational policies of Peru’s

Shining Path insurgency followed this model.

39 Susan C. Stokes points to an excellent example of this type of cognitive training in herdiscussionoturbanidad or deferential etiquette. See Stokes, Cultures in Conflict: SocialMovements and the State in Peru (Berkeley: University of California Pess, 1995), p. 19.


22

Sketching out guiding log ics and relevant m echanism s

I will be guided by the assum ption that incorporation projects have a

special relevance for states seeking to take advantage of the opportunities of

political transition.40 Incorporation approaches prom ise the state three

appealing payoffs: (1) If successful, incorporation projects incorporate into the

political (and cognitive an d com m unicative) com m unity prev iously

marginalized segments of the population and secure for developm ent efforts

the muscle-power of these new citizens.41 (2) In addition, this new union can

be mobilized into a m ass-arm y for the defense of the n ew state. (3) As a

political m aneuver, the in tro d u c tio n of in co rp o ra tio n policies helps

guarantee the new governm ent the support of the low er- and working-

classes, advancing the prospects of political stability by offering to this

potentially disruptive mass valuable pay-offs: schooling an d m em bership in

the civic association.42

This idea was initially put forward by Martin Camoy. See Camoy^s "The State and Social Transformation," "Education and the Transition State," "Educational Reform and Social Transformation in Cuba, 1959-1989," and Camoy and Carlos Alberto Torres "Education and Social Transformation in Nicaragua 1979-1989," from Martin Camoy and Joel Samoff, eds., Education and Social Transition in the Third World (Princeton: Princeton University Press,1990).

41 Obviously, this suggests hopes for expanded levels of political participation for the masses, but I would argue that this does not necessarily mean an immediate expansion of democratic institutions if such institutions are to be understood in terms of standard one-person-one-vote procedures. Instead, people participate in politics by taking a role in the planning, implementation, and oversight of national economic and sodal-welfare projects, and come to expect (shared) benefits from these policies.

A OOn the question of the stabilizing effect of incorporating the popular class into the political

process, see Barrington Moore, Jr., Social Origins o f Dictatorship and Democracy: Lord and Peasant in the Making of the M odem World (Boston: Beacon, 1966), where Moore argues that the failure to resolve the "peasant problem" leads to revolution or fascism, and Ruth Berins Collier and David Collier, Shaping the Political Arena (Princeton: Princeton University Press,1991), where they distinguish between (state and party) incorporation and repression, and trace


23In short, the state likes these reforms because they promise (along with

other initiatives) expanded capacity, enhanced security, and greater political

stability. States have logical and strategic interests in pursuing these reforms,

but they are not always able to do so. I believe that revolution plays a special

role in creating conditions friendly to the successful institutionalization of

these reforms. Revolution sweeps away elite opponents of expanded state

initiative and collective union.43 Revolution also can be im agined as an

im portan t juncture, w here collective goals, shared suffering, and popular

unity are em phasized.44 Hence new programs of instruction m ust embrace

popular union, or seem out of step w ith social progress (and risk being over

turned by popular reaction). Like others, I also believe these far-reaching

efforts at coordinating social integration are more likely to be undertaken by

le a d e rs in te re s te d in advancing in d u s tr ia liz a tio n an d econom ic

developm ent.45 H ow ever, this choice to lay the foundation for industrial

out the resulting sequences of conflict, change, and consolidation. See also important contributions by Charles Tilly, '“Reflections on the History of European State-making," and Gabriel Ardant, "Financial Policy and Economic Infrastructure of Modem States and Nations," both in Charles Tilly, ed.. The Formation of National States in Western Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1975).

43 This could mean that elements of the same social and economic class which was dominant before the revolutionary rupture retain power, but with a new unwillingness to hold direct power and a greater tolerance for allowing political openings. See Elster, Making Sense of Marx, pp. 402-428.

44 For a sophisticated discussion of this process, see Pierre Bourdieu, Language and Symbolic Power (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1991). Bourdieu discusses the role of crisis and transition in overturning near-perfect orthodoxies which succeed in concealing the arbitrary (and self-interested) nature of social representations. See also Beissinger, pp. 174-177. As I w ill discuss later, once this ability to see beyond the concealed arbitrariness of hegemonic orthodoxies is acquired by poor populations, it becomes more difficult for state- and elite- authored systems of order to gain acceptance.

43 Gellner is, of course, the main spokesman for this view, often described as the "modernist" school. However, many others, even scholars as distant from Gellner as Partha Chatterjee,


24society, while typically em ploying universal schooling as part of a w ider

strategy, eventually encourages a reevaluation of the utility of uniformity of

educational experience. Admission to higher education becomes increasingly

selective and university curriculum is designed to provide students with

specialized skills useful to industry.

It is important to emphasize: universal education is only one part of a

larger initiative. States make use of all possible public (and available private)

institutions, cultural rituals, and social practices to reorganize society.

Education is im portant in so far as schools are (as John Dewey said),

"environments framed w ith express reference to influencing the mental and

moral disposition" of young people.46 Also, for my project, education matters

because it is the one constant. Both of m y states attem pted sim ilar

educational reforms, while coordinating their reforms w ith different parallel

institutional, symbolic, and cultural initiatives.

In both Cuba and Peru, a colonial past established a historical

foundation for economic backwardness and social division. Backwardness

and division continued as foreign economic powers came to dominate trade

and political life even after the achievement of political independence from

Spain. In each country, a creole elite in collaboration w ith U.S. and european

business interests developed the beginnings of economic m odernization in

the capital, but the rural in terior rem ained under the control of traditional

systems of order, w hich left the peasantry outside the political life of the

link nationalism with attempts at "progress." See Gellner, Nations and Nationalism and Partha Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), pp. 1-35.

46 Dewey, Democracy and Education, p. 19.


25nation. Fear of peasant mobilization delayed the extension of political rights,

the expansion of membership in the civic union, and the reengineering of

access to schooling. As a result, by the beginning of the 1960s, in each country,

rural literacy rates were low and more than half of all peasant children failed

to enroll in school.47

Beginning w ith Cuba, I w ill examine the mechanisms by w hich

incorporationist (nationalizing) educational policies are in troduced and

adopted. Cuba will receive special attention, since the reform s I am

examining were successful institutionalized there. It is important to offer a

brief review of the historical settings. The sequences of political change (and

citizenship reform) in these countries can be illustrated as follows:

Table 1 - Historical Timelines CubaBatista-era (1934-1959): Caste/Open-door->Castro I (1959-1975): Incorporation->Castro II (1975-1990): Incorporation/Open-door

PeruOligarchy (1948-1968): Caste—>Velasco-era (1968-1975): Incorporation—>Senderista/ Transitional Democracy (1975-1992): Radical/Open-door

What helps in the im plem entation of incorporationist reforms? The

Cuban case, I will argue, dem onstrates the im portance of revolu tionary

transform ations. The difference betw een C uba-w here incorporationist

reform s succeeded-and P eru -w h ere they fa iled -is the success of a

47 For Cuba, the rural literacy rate was around sixty-five percent, high for Latin America, but still resulting in the marginalization of one-third of the country’s population. In Peru it was reported by census figures to be around sixty percent, although this figure seems high, since nearly a third of the population didn't speak Spanish at all. School enrollment for children between 6 and 14 was about forty percent in rural Cuba and forty-five percent in the Peruvian highlands. For Cuban figures, see Censos de Poblacion, Viviendas y Electoral: Informe General, 1953 (Havana: Oficinia Nacional de Ios Censos Demografico y Electoral, 1953), p. xxxvi and p. xxxix. For Peru see, I Volumen de Resultados de los Censos Nacionales: Sexto Censo Nacional de Poblacion (Tomo 3), p. 53 and p. 184.


26revolutionary movement. In Cuba, politics was refashioned. The idea that

politics was about the representation of narrow economic an d m aterial

interests (and that government w as the vehicle for this representation) was

transformed by the the revolutionary experience, w hich stressed common

sacrifice and collective goals, not individual gain. The conceptual parameters

of legitim ate politics—the ap p ro p ria te goals of political strugg le—were

redefined. Only approaches which stressed collective (i.e. national) gain were

now viewed as legitimate. This was especially true since the revolution was

view ed as a fight against foreign dom ination and the local agents who

facilitated that dominance. State repression-justified as a continuation of

revolutionary struggle-served to stifle political rivals (who were tainted by

their association w ith U.S. "imperialism"). After the revolution, hundreds of

thousands of political opponents left the island.

After winning control of the state, Cuba's revolutionary government

moved to transform society. Educational change was a foundational piece in

this project. It should be recognized that the impetus to transform education

came not (only) from ideological orientations, but from the p lay of state

preferences. The state valued the stability and other benefits these reforms

promised. These reforms offered: (1) an expanded citizenry ready to lend a

hand in development efforts, (2) a resiliant force of dtizen-soldiers, available

in uncertain times characterized by hostile foreign enem ies, and (3) a

symbolic payoff to workers and peasants to help cement mass loyalty and

prevent insurrection and continuing social disorder.

In Peru, reform-minded political actors took pow er in a conventional

way—by military intervention—and political opponents w ith strong objections

to popular educational (and citizenship) reforms continued to take part in the


27political life of the country. This meant, in the end, that opponents of reform

were able to block or slow reform efforts. Indigenous communities and other

poor Peruvians w ere given new political tools to resist attem pts at state-

m anaged incorporation. The peasantry lent wavering support to guerrilla

insurgencies while the urban poor agitated for a more direct role in shaping

Peru’s future.

A t the same time, elite opponents of an expanded role for the state

in tervened to un track the am bitious state- and nation-building projects

initiated by the military. In the Peruvian case, the transformation of politics

was incomplete and political competitors of the state were not pushed to the

margins of society. These actors could continue to interfere in politics and

frustra te state efforts to achieve its ow n (imperfectly defined) policy

preferences.

I w ill also attem pt to explore the variety of pressures that shape the

evolution of educational program s once policies are in place. Continuing

poor economic perform ance, for example, can under certain conditions

encourage reevaluation of incorporatist educational schemes. In the search

for solutions, the give-and-take between working-class, middle-class, and

industrialist- and land-holding-class interest groups-espedally parties-can

redefine goals and priorities if these groups have access to the state (or to

teachers or students who stand to block or shape policy implementation at the

classroom level). U nder such circumstances, policy fram ew orks can be

transform ed, adding, for example, open-door features, especially a greater

em phasis on selective higher education. However, surprising changes occur

even in cases where capitalist- or middle-class actors have lim ited influence.

New citizens can become a destructive force if the state's capacity to deliver


28m aterial benefits does not grow alongside the expansion in political

participation. My central case, Cuba, provides an ideal exam ple. There, a

m odern, industria l/ technocratic orientation am ong state decision-m akers,

com bined w ith domestic pressure for better m aterial b enefits and the

threatening proximity of a hostile United States, encouraged a reevaluation of

the importance of technical expertise and prom oted reforms w hich turned

from the path of uniform universal schooling. The hope was that improved

technical skills com bined w ith enhanced rew ards for th e technically

proficient could expand economic productivity.

In the Cuban case, the state took on the role conventionally filled by

the bourgeoisie. Interestingly, upon assuming this role, the state also adopted

the preference for organic solidarity customarily paired w ith bourgeois-

directed industrialization. I'll return to this issue in chapter four.

The m odel

The study which follows uses com parative h istorical analysis to

identify mechanisms which perm it the institutionalization, of universal

public education and related changes which help in the construction of a

shared cognitive and communicative union. In particular I a m interested in

corporatist policy formulas which join universal education w ith new, broadly

inclusive conceptions of citizenship. I will argue that it is in p a r t irrelevant

w hether "nationalism" is the clear goal of these reforms. These policies

create a cultural homogeneity which, in the words of Ernest Gellner, "appear

on the surface in the form of nationalism."48 As Rogers Brubaker has argued,

AftGellner, Nations and Nationalism, p. 39.


29nationalism is a "contingent event," something w hich emerges from actions

perhaps aimed at other (or more narrow) purposes.49

My research design pairs two countries-Cuba and Peru-w hich share

many characteristics; however, in Cuba the educational reforms I study were

institutionalized, while in Peru they were not. I m easure institutionalization

of universal schooling by evaluating literacy levels and the percentage of

students through eighth grade who remain in school.

This is a version of the "most-similar system s" design commonly

employed in com parative analysis.50 The goal of this analytical method is to

isolate causal m echan ism s by lim iting the p la y of variance am ong

background variables across cases. While some critics appropriately question

the ability of this approach to produce general laws, I am not troubled by this

assessment.51 My goal is m ore modest, but worthwhile. I aim to identify

m echanisms, not iron-clad laws, which result in the institutionalization of

incorporationist reform s relevant to "nationalizing" projects. In this way, I

clarify ex isting th e o ry , w hile exp loring th e un iverse of re lev an t 52m echanism s. In the next chapter I w ill review recent developm ents in

political science and sociology which offer new strategies for uniting careful

49 Brubaker, Nationalism Reframed, p. 7.

Adam Przeworski and Henry Teune, The Logic of Comparative Social Inquiry (Malabar, FL: Krieger, 1970), pp. 31-34. See also John Stuart Mill, A System o f Logic (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1974), pp. 388-391. Mill calls this analytical approach the "Method of Difference."

51 Przeworski and Teune, p. 34.

C OSee Charles C. Ragin, Constructing Social Research (Thousand Oaks, CA: Pine Forge, 1994).

Ragin offers a three level method for categorizing research approaches. He would categorize my research as a union of qualitative and comparative methods. See pp. 81-130.


3 0cultural and historical observation w ith rational choice approaches to the

study of social institutions.

As I will develop in greater detail in the following chapter, I believe

two principal mechanisms shape the different historical trajectories seen in

Cuba and Peru. First, for many years in both countries, actors w ith different

goals and differing willingness to accept various risks in tervene th rough

political struggle to prevent the successful im p lem en ta tion of un iversal

public education. In most cases it is a weak theory of elite participation I rely

on: it is their unwillingness to dem and certain policy changes, not their active

obstruction that I stress. Second, revolutionary change, w hich happens only

in Cuba, transforms the social and political landscape and perm its the state to

institutionalize its educational goals, creating near universal literacy and h igh

levels of student enrollm ent. This, in turn, helps fashion the cognitive

hom ogeneity commonly understood as national consciousness. Third ,

revolution brings with it new conceptions of connectedness w hich guide state

efforts at shaping the civic union.

Cuba

Prior to Castro's rise to power in 1959, Cuba's system of public schooling

was characterized by an extraordinarily unequal distribution of educational

opportunities. Access to schooling was restricted to upper-class families and

the cities. In the cities, classroom instruction beyond elementary school was

designed to make available to the privileged few the specia lized skills

necessary to secure em ployment in the U.S. dom inated econom y (or the


31bureaucratized Cuban state). In the countryside, education was available

only to the well-to-do. Schooling provided elites w ith a shared cognitive and

communicative culture, which helped form collective solidarity and a shared

sense of purpose. Cuba was a divided island, w ith the poor population in the

countryside, in particular, operating outside of the coherent communicative

and cognitive web which one associates with national culture. Unschooled

children in the countryside lacked access to the shared history that constitutes

such a crucial element of Cuban national unity.54 Meanwhile, region-specific

cognitive habits were reproduced by local folk cultures.

Because reading skills were valued by enterprise managers, elementary

school programs did succeed in expanding literacy in Havana. Literacy levels

in the countryside w ere considerably less im pressive and other basic

educational goals were poorly realized.55 In the countryside, 41.7% of the

population was illiterate, while only about 12% of d ty residents were.06 The57high illiteracy rates were caused primarily by poor school enrollment rates.

Only 38.7% of youngsters in the rural interior attended elem entary school,eg . . , iwhile a much higher 73% of urban children w ent to school. The figures

Camoy, ''Educational Reform and Social Transformation in Cuba, 1959-1989," p. 157.

^ This circumstance persisted despite the constitutional promise of universal education. This promise was the result of an extraordinarily progressive - if disregarded -1940 constitution.See Eduardo Lara Hernandez, "Las Leyes Sobre la Educadon, Primera Parte," Education 9, no.33 (April-June 1979), pp. 62-76.

^ Camoy, "Educational Reform and Sodal Transformation in Cuba, 1959-1989," pp. 157-58.

Censos de Poblacion, Viviendas y Electoral: Informe General, 1953, p. xxxix.

57 Ibid., p. xxviii.

Ibid., p xxviii.


32were even worse for older children of secondary school age: only 7% of

students betw een 15 and 19 years of age registered for school in ru ral

communities, w hile a somewhat better 27% went on to secondary school in

the cities.59

A fter 1959, the state moved to im plem ent school reform s and

citizenship training routines that can be characterized as a centrally-managed

incorporation project. In a later chapter I will re tu rn to these literacy and

enrollm ent figures, and measure their im provem ent over time, as a way of

establishing the institutionalization of reforms aim ed at constructing a

system of universal education after the revolution.

I will argue that the emergence of a national consciousness, joining

the Cuban people in a civic union encompassing the whole territory of the

island, did not occur until 1961, with the arrival of universal education. The

history of Cuban nationalism resembles many other cases. New World-born

landholders, tired of Spanish colonial practices (and taxes) organized

uprisings aimed at creating a sense of shared destiny among fellow "Cubans."

However, a Cuban nation was slow to emerge. First, social, cultural, and

economic distance between the eastern and w estern halves of the island-

originating in the earliest days of colonial em pire-persisted , eventually

form ing two very different conceptions of what it m eant to be Cuban.60

Second, the leading figures in the movement for Cuban independence d id

59 Ibid., p. xxxix.

60 See Tom Naim, "Scotland and Europe, " in Geoff Eley and Ronald Grigor Suny, eds., Becoming National (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), pp. 79-104. N aim argues that national solidarity can be slow to develop if the elites who aim to construct the nation and the masses who must make up the vast ranks of it are operating from very different cultural scripts.


33not w ant horizontal solidarity, they w anted to retain their advantages of

w ealth and status. Symbolic nationalism was sim ply a usefu l vehicle for

achieving their ends.61 This class of citizens d id not take steps to create

universal education or adopt other reforms that w ould have helped construct

the collective consciousness w hich m igh t have produced more broadly

anchored solidarity.

The revolution and the universalization of educational opportunity

created for the first time a nationw ide culture. Indeed, the project had

revolutionary aims, but they co-existed alongside the construction of a

national consciousness. The literacy project undertaken shortly after the

revolution, in particular, aimed specifically at creating a unification of the

east and the west, at fusing H avana's m odernity w ith Oriente's habits of self-

reliance, sacrifice, and attachment to the land.

The questionable economic payoff of these program s led to the

adoption of open-door features in more recent policy plans. Aside from the

fact that the original incorporationist policies were successful in creating the

necessary foundations for a shared cognitive and communicative culture, it is

this shift-from incorporation approaches to m odified open-door policies-that

makes the Cuban example a useful case. U nder the incorporation policy,

schooling featured a general emphasis on basic skills (like literacy). In time,

elements w ith in the Cuban state became dissatisfied w ith the results, and

pushed forw ard open-door reforms, in part, as a way of achieving material

See Anderson, Imagined Communities, pp. 47-65. Anderson describes N ew World "creole nationalism" as "socially-thin;" elites only reached dow n far enough into the vast Iower- classes to build a movement strong enough to drive out a feeble, declining Spain.


3 4im provem ents necessary to perpetuate the survival of the revolutionary

state.

The Cuban example therefore illustrates another dim ension of my

project that efforts at state-led incorporation must also direct their attention

to economic priorities to satisfy increased demand for material benefits. This

sometimes means the adoption of the "rational and efficient" m arket model

of the m odem industrial division of labor, which pushes state leaders toward

th e acceptance of specialized education, differential rew ards, and the

beginnings of class and status division.

Peru

In 1968 the reform ist m ilitary government of General Juan Velasco

pushed to the side a stum bling democracy that for generations had

dem onstrated little com m itm ent to eradicating the grinding poverty and

p o litica l isolation fam ilia r to m ost Peruvians. The R evo lu tionary

G overnm ent of the A rm ed Forces introduced far-reaching changes in the

delivery of public education. These reforms were part of a package of public

policies designed to enlarge the circle of membership in political society

Prior to the reform s, the system of public education was rigidly

structured, with students expected to follow from an early age prearranged6 2educational sequences appropriate to their ethnicity and class. M ost

s tu d en ts were sorted in to program s offering little hope fo r better

opportunities. Under this system, many students remained illiterate, most

62 Beatrice Avalos, Educational Change in Latin America: The Case of Peru (Cardiff: University College Cardiff Press, 1978), p. 38.


35were left w ithout valued skills, w hile only a fortunate few went on to

ST O

university studies. Indeed, a th ird of all students in the indigenous

communities of the Peruvian highlands never learned Spanish, preventing

their entry into the cognitive and communicative union of the Peruvian

nation.64 In short, it was a perfect (Peruvian) example of caste approaches to65the organization of educational institutions.

Much like Cuba, literacy rates in Peru revealed a gap between the cities

and the countryside. While only 18% of the urban population was unable to

read, almost three-fifths of the rural inhabitants could not.66 In part, this was

a product of the disparity in school enrollment rates: 83% of urban children

of elementary and secondary school age were in school, while only 44% of

children in the countryside attended school.67

After the 1968 coup, the m ilitary 's reforms were designed to open

educational opportunity to all. Classroom instruction and parallel political6 gprojects focused on the cultivation of a new "national consciousness." This

program included a special emphasis on reaching out to the indigenous

63 Ibid., pp. 32-40.

64 f Volumen de Resultados de los Censos Nacionales: Sexto Censo Nacional de Poblacion (Tomo 3), p. 1.

This is a worthwhile point. While my ideal types suggest the general dimensions and priorities of educational reform, each nation constructs reform in a unique way, incorporating into the process specific cultural understandings of solidarity and hierarchy.

661 Volumen de Resultados de los Censos Nacionales: Sexto Censo Nacional de Poblacion (Tomo 3), p. 53.

67 Ibid., p. 184.

Avalos, Educational Change in Latin America: The Case of Peru, p. 31.


36com m unities of the highlands. While, for the first time, all w ere welcomed

into the schools, the hope was to transform this clamoring mass into a single

people, speaking w ith the same voice.

This was joined w ith the m ilitary government's longer list of political

and social reforms. The Velasco governm ent attempted to transform how

business was carried out on the factory floor, on the sugar plantation, in the

new towns surrounding Lima, as well as in the classroom. In each arena, the

goal was to fashion a new sense of national solidarity, discipline previously

uncooperative actors, and give substance to m em bership in the civic

com m unity .69

The Velasco government’s approach to educational policy represents a

failed attem pt to introduce incorporationist citizenship/ education reforms. It

is useful precisely because it allows an opportunity to examine the specific

obstacles which can serve to trip -up attem pts to introduce incorporation

educational policies. In this case, the problem was the unrealized (and, in

some cases, radical) demands of an increasingly mobilized lower-class sector.

Further, elite actors dissatisfied by the Velasco governm ent’s expansion of

state authority acted to resist the state's attempts at institutionalizing its gains.

These upper-class actors intensified their efforts to overturn the m ilitary’s

efforts to expand membership in political society as the costs of such policies

became clear.

In the A ndean communities in the most im poverished districts of

Peru and in the shanty towns surrounding Lima, unwilling to surrender to

For a persuasively thorough account of this project see Alfred Stepan, The State and Society: Peru in Comparative Perspective (Princeton:Princeton University Press, 1978). Stepan calls the project "organic-statist."


37state policy-planners' visions for a new architecture of connectedness, the

p o o r increasingly made use of new avenues for expressing popular

sentiments. They learned to use new m echanisms-created by the military for

structuring public order-to pressure the state for desired services and policy

shifts. In some settings, convinced of the ineffectiveness of these new

instruments, the poor moved to increasingly radical projects.

At the same time, property-holding elites and other beneficiaries of the

status quo worked to overturn the m ilitary governm ent's gains. The hope

was that the state's gains in autonomous policy-m aking could be reversed,

and the increasingly vocal poor could be stripped of the cognitive and

communicative culture which seemed to be aiding in their efforts to build a

successful movement.

O rganization o f this study

This study will explore these questions over several chapters. The next

chapter w ill present a more detailed account of m y m odel. I will identify

re lev an t mechanism s and the in terconnectedness of these mechanical

elements. In chapter 3, I will contextualize my work by critically analyzing

some of the relevant contributions to the study of nationalism . The next two

chapters will be devoted to the historical cases of Cuba and Peru. Finally, in

the last chapter I will return to my model to draw out some conclusions about

the role of schools in the formation of national consciousness and the

im portance of specific mechanisms in help ing th is educational project

succeed.


CHAPTER 2

THE POLITICS OF UNIVERSAL EDUCATION

My objective is to identify mechanisms connected to the institutional

ization of universal education projects, which, as some authors have argued,

p lay a key role in nationalizing consciousness. Beyond this, I w ant to

examine how revolution transform s cultures of connectedness and makes

new forms of citizenship more likely. In the pages to follow I will construct a

m odel which borrow s elements from key contributors to the study of

nationalism and collective consciousness, attem pting to bring together

different perspectives from Rogers Brubaker,1 Barry Posen,2 Karl Deutsch,3

Ernest Gellner,4 and Emile Durkheim,5 among others. A more complete

contextualized summary of these works follows in chapter 3.

^Rogers Brubaker, Nationalism Reframed (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996).

2 Barry R. Posen, "Nationalism, the Mass Army, and Military Power," International Security 18, no. 2 (Fall 1993), pp. 88-124.

3 Karl W. Deutsch, Nationalism and Social Communication: An Inquiry into the Foundations of N ation a lity (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1966).

4 Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983).

5 Emile Durkheim, The Diznsion of Labor in Society (New York: The Free Press, 1933/1964).

38


3 9I believe nationalism is best understood as an em ergent phenom enon

which results from a territory-wide reconstruction of collective consciousness

and related patterns of public association. Universal public education is a

central element in this process. The state has an interest in expanding the

inclusiveness of collective consciousness, and it will do so if conditions allow

it to do so.6 Typically, however, states have lim ited autonom y, forced (or

choosing) to share power with social elites. Social actors whose interests are

threatened by the creation of a popular union will resist efforts to implement

universal educational reforms. This commonly results in m ore lim ited

public educational policies which serve to reproduce the existing divisions of

wealth and status. Revolutionary change opens up a w indow of opportunity

for the state to m ove beyond these lim ita tio n s an d perm its the

institutionalization of popular education.

Using events in Cuba and Peru, I will identify three mechanisms

associated with the institutionalization of universal public schooling. First, I

w ill argue that elite preferences delay the in tro d u ctio n of un iversal

education. Second, I will show that revolution can help clear the way for the

implementation of universal education reforms and the parallel repackaging

of conceptions of citizenship. Finally, state-led efforts to industrialize the

econom y make mass schooling even m ore likely , b u t also serve to

reconceptualize goals in many cases, focusing atten tion on the need to

abandon uniform schooling for increasingly specialized training.

6 As indicated in chapter 1, a good place to begin to understand the state's interest in a broad, horizontal union is Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America (New York: Anchor, 1969), especially pp. 671-674.


4 0To organize my thoughts, I w ill tu rn to M artin Camoy's contributions

to Education and Social Transition in the Third World.7 A lthough not his

principal goal, Camoy's efforts help to bridge some of the gaps found in the

works on nationalism, specifically w ith regard to the the circumstances

required to im plem ent universal education, w hich helps bu ild national

solidarity. Most im portant, Cam oy draw s attention to the significance of

transitions, as im portant w indow s of opportun ity w hich m ake possible

educational reform s capable of sw eep ing ly inclusive redefin itions of

consciousness.

Cam oy shares my belief that the state plays a central role in the

construction of identity and citizenship. Education is an im portant part of

this undertaking. Before the revolutionary shifts in the several societies

Cam oy and his colleagues study, the constraining effects of conditioned

capitalism and the economic and political interests of elites com bined to

create specific educational outcom es.8 Follow ing revolu tionary change,

schools are transformed by new leaders following different preferences and

responding to new historical opportunities.

In pre-revolutionary Cuba, one finds a program of public education

designed to serve the needs of p lanters, small-scale m anufacturers, and

foreign economic pow ers by reproducing existing social and economic

7 See Camoy's "The State and Social Transformation," "Education and the Transition State," "Educational Reform and Social Transformation in Cuba, 1959-1989," and Camoy and Carlos Alberto Torres, "Education and Social Transformation in Nicaragua 1979-1989," from Martin Camoy and Joel Samoff, eds. Education and Social Transition in the Third World (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990).

8 Camoy and Samoff, "The Search for Method," pp. 4-5. Other contributors to the volume examine Tanzania (Samoff, "Modernizing a Socialist Vision: Education in Tanzania"), Mozambique (Anton Johnston, "The Mozambican State and Education"), and China (Mary Ann Burris, "Struggle, Criticism, Transformation: Education in the People's Republic of China").


4 1cultures, reinforcing social divisions, and distributing relevant w orkplace

skills (as required by the system of production). The absence of a m eaningful

local industrial sector means there is no need to manufacture the vast h u m a n

force required to operate shopfloor machinery. The fear of mass insurrection

prevents school reform s which w ould more widely distribute politically

relevant cognitive and communicative skills.

With the rise of the M arxist transition state which comes to pow er

following the victory of Fidel Castro's 26th of July movement, comes the

in tro d u c tio n of a new program of public education offering b roader

opportunities for collective achievem ent and popular partic ipation along

w ith new foundational concepts of social solidarity. Changes in how

production was organized required a new workforce, joined in a cognitive

union and capable of cooperatively taking-on the m any tasks in Cuba's

developing economy. Fear of foreign enemies encouraged the state to begin

the work of building a citizen army.

This approach to the organization of schooling and society seems to be

a logical policy choice for planners in the poor countries of the post-colonial

South. The "popular" approach to the organization of public education

broadens the legitimacy of the new political leadership, enhancing prospects

for stability, and is a vital step in the process of mobilizing forces to launch

nation-building and development efforts.

This correspondence betw een collective benefit and policy choice is

largely coincidental. According to Camoy, universal educational reforms are

p rim arily ad o p ted because they serve the political in terests o f the

revolutionary party. I tend to agree, but with a slight modification: while

collective benefits may be coincidental, I believe these reforms are adopted


4 2primarily because they serve the state's interest. These educational reforms

are part of a wider state-guided reengineering of the social and political space.

As Camoy sees it, the post-revolutionary leadership concerns itself

w ith the cultivation of a sense of iden tity divorced from im m ediate

productive consequences. While the capitalist state sought to encourage the

developm ent of productive ta len ts and habits (and the coordinated

integration of skills into a system of production), the new revolutionary

government's program for reconceiving collective consciousness is focused

on the emergence of habits and skills (and self-understandings) tied to

collective participation in political activity. The revolutionary party believes

popular m obilization serves to im prove its chances ag a in st counter

revolutionary opponents.

Education becomes the principal vehicle to transport the previously

marginalized masses into the new age of hands-on involvem ent in national

politics. Primarily, the objective is to construct popular su p p o rt for the

revolution, but a variety of collective benefits also result—for example,

national economic developm ent and enhanced geo-political security for the

new nation-state. As central features of this new educational project, Camoy

points to the developm ent of aggressive literacy cam paigns9 and the

reallocation of educational resources tow ard elementary school programs

designed to develop basic skills, useful m ainly for en tering into the

intellectual and cultural life of the nation ,10 not specifically for mastering the

technical challenges of the m odem industrial workplace. These efforts help

9 Camoy, "Educational Reform and Social Transformation in Cuba, 1959-1989", p. 176.

10 Ibid., p. 178.


43create a u n ifo rm ity o f experience and d is tr ib u te co g n itiv e and

communicative skills. W ith these skills, the poor can now take a role in the

political life of society.

If Camoy is correct, and this process of reform helps secure popular

su p p o rt for the po litica l leaders w ho enact it, w hy d id n 't political

entrepreneurs ad o p t un iversal education sooner? Further, if, as Ernest

Gellner argues, industrial developm ent requires the construction of a shared

cognitive and com m unicative union, why d idn 't aspiring industria lists in

Cuba and Peru adop t universal education at an earlier date?11 The lim its

placed on education stifled the grow th of industry . W hy d id n 't the

bourgeoisie pressure the state to introduce universal schooling?

Carnoy's answ er to this puzzle is persuasive: universal education was

not offered because it threatened the interests of pow erful actors. Land-

holding rural elites opposed the expansion of education because it gives rural

laborers new skills and new options. Other elites, including state officers,

feared that a w id er shared cognitive culture could resu lt in popular

movements, as the poor m ade use of their new solidarity. Finally, foreign

powers, which profited from their domination of the Cuban (and Peruvian)

economy, disliked the idea of autonom ous local industria l developm ent.

Such developm en t bo th th rea tened p ro fits , by p ro d u c in g po ten tia l

indigenous commercial rivals, and promised to improve the m aterial wealth

and self-sufficiency of Cuba and Peru. Increasing industrial capabilities and

H One of Gellner's mistakes w as to argue that skill development, as distinct from the acquisition of cognitive and communicative tools, would take place in the workplace. In actuality, as I will discuss later, to reduce capital expenditures on training, employers seek to shift skill development on to the state. See Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, p. 28.


4 4growing self-sufficiency p u t at risk the dom inance enjoyed by developed

powers (in particular the United States).

Pressures shaping gradual evolution

Not all countries follow the Cuban example, moving in a single step

from stifling educational policies designed to benefit only the privileged to

universal popu lar education. There is ano ther option: "dem ocratizing"

access to education gradually. This reformist approach to education was seen

in the historical experience of many countries.12 However, this was only

possible when a local industrial sector had access to the state and was able,

perhaps in unison with the growing working-class, to pressure the state for

expanded access to education. This was not the case in Cuba nor m uch of the

post-colonial world.

Also, after new policies are institu tionalized, change continues, as

forces shape an d reshape educational policies. Castro's governm ent found

itself struggling to reorient a shattered, underdeveloped econom y while

attending to the new m aterial dem ands of an expanded com m unity of

politically relevan t citizens. At the same tim e, a hostile U.S. enemy

threatened the new Cuban nation-state. As a result, policy m akers came to

believe that the public schools could not be reserved solely for the purposes of

fashioning historical/ cultural (national) unity. H ard economic (and strategic)

realities dem anded that economic productivity be expanded. Specifically,

state leaders began to draw up plans for industrialization. Accordingly, what

w e find em erging over tim e is that public education in post-revolutionary

I2 For a discussion of this reformist tradition in the United States, see Ira Katznelson andMargaret Weir, Schooling for A ll (New York: Basic Books, 1985).


45states is characterized by an approach which features: (1) an improved system

of elementary and secondary education which extends the promise of literacy

to all while developing the basic skills which enhance "national" solidarity

through cognitive and communicative coherence, and (2) a more selective

system of university and scientific training (available to far fewer citizens)

directed tow ard the production of advanced technical skills believed to be

necessary to economic grow th.13 These educational policies are coordinated

w ith related institutional reform s and enhanced rewards for the technically

proficient.

As a prelim inary step toward a coherant m odel, one can posit a

continuum extending from one extreme to the other. Carnoy referred to

M arxian policy approaches to the organization of public education as

"popular" or "anti-capitalist7' approaches. These policies were fram ed to

replace "capitalist" approaches maintained by the narrow economic and

political elite w hich ru led p rio r to the revolutionary transform ation of

society. I offer these essences in new bottles: universalistic approaches to

public education designed to extend popular participation in the nation's

political life w ill here be called incorporation projects, while Carnoy's

"capitalist" programs of public education, as mentioned in my introductory

comments in chapter 1, will be referred to as caste projects.

In constructing a graphic representation of this landscape, we find to

the extreme right hand side an educational system that seeks to encourage the

developm ent of productive talents and a form of collective consciousness

For evidence that development pressures have encouraged the rededication of resources toward higher education, see Camoy, "Educational Reform and Social Transformation in Cuba, 1959- 1989," pp. 185-188.


46tempered to the requirements of the workplace an d the reproduction of

existing social divisions, while at the far left end we locate a program of public

education that tries to promote the emergence of habits and skills not tied to

productivity, but tied instead to constructing uniform ity of sentiments and

capacities for collective political participation. These ideas can be diagrammed

as shown:

FIGURE 1 - SIMPLE LANDSCAPE

INCORPORATION CASTE

Pressure to assemble resources Pressure to open space forfor industrial development popular participation

--------------------------------------------------

I believe there are forces at work which compel evolutionary changes

(although these forces require human agents to make use of historical

opportunites to im plem ent change). As proposed in the figure above,

pressures (external to the ideological preferences of leadership) drive the

g radual evolutionary transform ation of public educational programs.

Grassroot demands for greater political participation, the state's desire to

address this source of potential political instability, and the will to build a

more reliable foundation for resisting foreign enem ies, encourage the

introduction of educational (and parallel organizational, symbolic and

institutional) reforms designed to promote wider citizenship. The need for

economic developm ent-and the need for the specialized technical skills

associated w ith industrial development-makes likely changes directed at


4 7im proved economic performance. The perceived need for expanding growth

may come from the working class' noisy dem ands for better material rewards.

In addition, this preference for pursuing economic growth comes from the

state's interest in improving the country's material capabilities vis-a-vis other

countries in the international system. Certain social classes-the bourgeoisie

in particular-also have a self-interest in prom oting industrialization.

Expanding the typology

By borrow ing from Carnoy I have established the rough outlines of two

of the approaches to citizenship tra in ing described in my introductory

chapter. H ow ever, it seems to me that these two ideal types-and the

continuum separating them -do not exhaust the possible range of policy

approaches. One can extend the universe of policy approaches by identifying

two more possibilities. In fact, Carnoy sketches out the outlines of these

additional alternatives, although he does not incorporate them into a wider

argum ent.

I assume that schools w ork to achieve certain state (or societal) goals,

specifically citizenship training. To allow a com prehensive description of

approaches to the conceptualization of architectures of connectedness, I

po sition tw o ex trem es-horizontal-secular citizenship (cognitive/cultural

so lid arity ) an d vertica l-secu la r c itizensh ip (so lida rity b u ilt around

ro le /tech n ica l/o ccu p atio n a l sp e c ia liz a tio n ) -a t the end p o in ts of a

con tinuum .14 Likewise, the second dim ension runs between two other

14 As I w ill discuss elsewhere, this architecture of connection is an institutional framework which provides both a sense of self and a sense of the wider world of social relations. It constructs observable social relations and provides a playbook of behavioral and interrelational norms. For a general statement of this view, see, Roger Friedland and Robert R. Alford, "Bringing Society Back in: Symbols, Practices, and Institutional Contradictions," in


48extremes: universal access to instruction and structured programs which track

students from a very early age and ration access (through a variety of

methods) to better educational opportunities. Taken together, these ideas can

be illustrated as follows:

mtn<DaT30)-PO<UCcoo\a

•H

mc<uN-H-P•HO00)M3+>Oa)■u

•HJSo

RGURE 2 - TWO BY TWO LANDSCAPE

Approaches to structuring educational access Universal Rationed

Horizontal-Secular

Incorporation (national solidarity) Radical

(proletariat solidarity)

Vertical-Secular

Open Door(organic solidarity) Caste (elite solidarity)

In this landscape I situate ideal types in each of the four comers.

Hence, incorporation approaches are education/ citizenship projects which

emphasize cognitive (familiarly seen as national) solidarity and offer (largely

uniform) universal schooling, while caste approaches employ rationed access

to a id in the reproduction of existing social hierarchies. Two other

approaches, discussed below, are open-door approaches, which can be

described as universal, organic solidarity projects aimed at reproducing the

industrial division of labor, and radical reforms (what Camoy describes as

Walter W. Powell and Paul J. Di Maggio, eds., The New Institutionalism in Organizational A nalysis (Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1991), pp. 232-263.


4 9"vanguard party” approaches), w hich join carefully rationed access to

schooling w ith very specific conceptions of horizontal (working-class)

solidarity.

While one way of viewing society proposes that what one does is an

approximate definition o f the terms o f one's attachment to society,15 a

different view suggests that membership to the civic forum is defined by

collective cognition, fam iliar cultural sym bols, common forms o f

communication, and shared goals.16 The first approach to fashioning social

unity requires only th a t (at least some) in d iv id u a ls develop common

communicative tools (mainly language) and learn the specific skills necessary

to perform their particular workplace tasks (and accept the legitimacy of this

approach to the organization of society). The educational goals appropriate to

the latter approach are broad, requiring not the narrow learning of specialized

work skills, but the sweeping dissemination of nuts-and-bolts basic education

to teach cognitive skills and shared cultural symbols.

Note how this distinction requires two definitions of culture.17 To

sustain the hierarchical organization of society, social actors need to construct

a culture of relationship, a formula for structuring intra-sodetal relations. To

create a cognitive union, actors need to develop a shared interpretive

15 Durkheim's The Division of Labor in Society for a more complex examination of the issue. See my discussion of Durkheim's model in chapter 3. See Alfred Stepan, The State and Society: Peru in Comparative Perspective (Princeton: Princeton University Pess, 1978) for a more multi-dimensional model of "organic-statist" connectedness.

16 This is the view of the body of work on nations and nationalism. See chapter 3 for a discussion of these works.

17 Similar observations can be found in Marc Howard Ross, "Culture and Identity in Comparative Political Analysis," in Mark Irving Lichbach and Alan S. Zuckerman, eds., Comparative Politics: Rationality, Culture, and Structure (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 42-80.


5 0framework for understanding events and forces at play in the w orld. These

cultural systems can co-exist, each more or less richly infused w ith content,

each offering a m ore or less coherent archive of rules and inform ation about

the world and how individuals associate in it an d negotiate their w ay

through it. For clarity, in these pages cultures of relationship w ill be refered

to as patterns (or architectures) of connectedness. C ulture w ill refer more

narrowly to the symbolic and interpretive system s w hich shape (and are

given shape by) cognition and communication.

Along the top edge of the diagram I propose a distinction between

schools w hich offer universal public instruction available to all, and an

educational system in which access is limited to a specific, carefully selected

group of students. The rationing of schooling can come through limits placed

on public expenditure, which limits school construction through vast areas of

the country, or through turning over a sizable share of the responsibility of

education to private schools, which charge fees beyond the reach of poor

m ajorities.18 In a few cases, more direct policy m echanism s sort through

students and lim it access to schooling.

The bourgeoisie w ant to use schools to construct the hum an resources

to staff the machinery of the industrial workplace. The m iddle class looks to

education as an opportunity for upward mobility w ith in this workplace (and

wider society). The specifics of policy are less im portant than is the assurance

that an opportunity exists for social and economic advancem ent through

skilled and professional occupations-an open-door to a be tter life and

18 A field of literature on spending in education examines how state funding enables (or discourages) participation in the educational system. See John E. Craig, "The Expansion of Education," Review o f Education 9 (1981), pp. 151-213.


51membership in the social hierarchy. In order to see these policy preferences

realized , these actors need to overcom e the o p p o sitio n of foreign

m anufacturers and ru ra l lan d h o ld ers , pow erfu l forces in dependent,

agricultural societies.

Under open-door approaches, university applicants need only to be

able to meet (reasonable) entrance requirements and pay the (moderate) cost

of tuition. Open-door policies extend the promise th a t (for those who can

satisfy requirements and meet the cost) access will be assured to educational

programs linked to specialized and professional skills valued by industry and

society and useful in securing w ell paid, high status jobs. Through these jobs,

the wider benefits of society become available. However, lagging industrial

grow th and m isguided econom ic policy-planning lim its the num bers of

professionals w hich can be abso rbed into the econom y. Slow grow th

combined w ith unregulated university admissions can eventually produce

unrest among the underem ployed (new) m iddle-class.19 For this reason

university admissions are often carefully managed to lim it the growth of a

dissatisfied middle-class.

The distance between open-door approaches and caste policies rests in

the significantly different ways students' educational careers are structured.

Caste approaches feature rigidly structured educational tracks: it is determ ined

early in a student's life w hether or not she will be able to qualify for higher

levels of education. As m entioned, various m ethods can be used to limit

19 In short, an open-door system must be linked with employment opportunities. The promise of opportunity needs to ring true. Underemployed college graduates (and professionals) are a potentially disruptive class of citizens. See Peter S. Cleaves, Professions and the State: The Mexican Case (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1987). Cleaves presents the possible problems behind expanding opportunities for university education faster than employment opportunities.


52access to educational opportunities. In Cuba and Peru, few public funds were

devoted to school construction in the vast interior, leaving the poor there

w ith now here to turn. The wealthy, w ith costly private school options

available, were more fortunate. This approach to schooling emphasizes the

continuing perm anence of existing social divisions. The idea that all

residen ts w ithin the territorial borders of the country could be equal

participants in the national project was discarded.

The open-door citizenship project interprets participation in a very

specific w ay—m em bership in the civic association is defined by one's

contribution to the economic life of the nation. Shared cognition is a tool for

facilitating the construction of this economic life. Incorporation projects, in

contrast, emphasize general education and shared cultural elements as a way

of more w idely distributing the basic communicative and cognitive skills

req u ired for full social partic ipation . The citizenship project w hich

accom panies in co rp o ra tio n is t ed u ca tio n a l projects im ag ines social

participation in terms of collective contribution to the political and civic life

o f the nation. The benefits derived from this participation are collective

benefits-economic development and geo-political security.

As suggested by the diagram, the radical approach is characterized by a

concern for the uses of education in constructing a horizontal fellowship.

E d u ca tio n is used to shape ideological consciousness and political

participation in a very deliberate manner. Literacy materials and access to

schooling are employed to construct a new ideologically purified national

po litica l leadersh ip and, less effectively, a politically acculturated or

acquiescent mass. Social participation contributes to the achievement of


53revolutionary goals and the anticipated benefit of the social project is the

eradication of class politics (and related patterns of exploitation).

One example, would be Cuba's Schools for Revolutionary Instruction

in the 1960s. Cuba's Schools for Revolutionary Instruction w ere founded in

1961.20 Only twelve schools, affiliated in most cases with workplaces, existed

w hen the initiative was launched. The idea was to select a few promising

young revolutionaries to educate in the thought of Marx, Lenin, and Fidel

Castro (as well as Jose Marti). These leaders would then take positions in

politics and administration and provide the conceptual guidance for the on

going work of political and social institutions (including schools). The project

struggled along for a few years, before the state pulled the p lug in 1967. The

Schools for Revolutionary Instruction were part of a series of initiatives

coordinated in partnership by the state and party ideologues. These efforts, as

I will discuss in chapter 4, also included revolutionary mobilization through

the media, the armed forces, mass organizations (like the Committees for the

Defense of the Revolution), and the party.21 These projects stand apart from

the very different initiative undertaken in the public schools.

State autonomy and educational reform

It is my belief that incorporationist approaches to public education are

linked to the project of launching and advancing nation-build ing (or

-rebuilding) projects in poor countries, especially those of the post-colonial

Richard R. Fagen, The Transformation of Political Culture in Cuba (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1969), pp. 104-137.

M.L. Vellinga, "The Military and the Dynamics of the Cuban Revolutionary Process," Comparative Politics 8, no. 2 (January, 1976), p. 267.


5 4world. This approach allow s the state to assemble the hum an resources to

w restle w ith the num erous economic difficulties it faces and the social

divisions that stand in the w ay of national prosperity. Additionally, it helps

construct a broad fo u n d atio n for a stable political com m unity. It is

im portant, therefore, to ga in an understanding of w hat mechanism s can

serve to support such efforts.

One aspect of the question previous scholars have failed to address

adequately is the role (and interests) of the state as a separate actor in the

political struggle over education and collective consciousness. Ultimately,

M artin Cam oy's argum ent rests on the idea that leaders adjust educational

policies (within the lim its of structural constraints) in order to protect class-

based interests. In some cases, this may involve adopting unexpected reform

strategies designed to p reserve rule, despite their capacity to make the

achievem ent of other class goals less certain. However, Carnoy never

seriously entertains the idea that state interests, distinct from those of other

actors, can play a central role in reform policies.22

Carnoy's general be lief seems to be that the state em erges as a

significant and separate actor only in periods of advanced capitalist

developm ent.23 In Carnoy's opinion, in Cuba, and elsewhere in the post

colonial world, economic developm ent has not achieved levels of complexity

sufficient to trigger processes of political change which produce opportunities

for expanded state autonomy.

22 However, Camoy does discuss the need to adjust policies to transform consciousness to create forces to battle external enemies w ho would seek to overturn the revolution. See Camoy, 'The State and Social Transformation," p. 55.

23 Martin Camoy, The State and Political Theory (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984).


55The question of the autonomy of the state is not a new one. The liberal

tradition positions the state as a m ediator between social forces. Yet, m ost

early analyses failed to define the state's realm as a separate area of interest

distinct from the interests of other social actors.24 "Common good" theories

of the state generally situated a vision of a state committed to the protection

of the wealth of the propertied class.25 Rousseau took a fu rth e r step,

reimagining the role of the state as a builder of collective consciousness and

fellow-feeling. Thus, while the state was still active in preserving the sanctity

of property, it also intervened to promote equality and inspire patriotism .26

In this project, state education played a central role.

Marxist theorists have also struggled to com prehend the question of

state autonomy. In The German Ideology, Karl Marx develops the argument

that the state is conditioned by the dominant mode of production in society.27

Therefore, the m odem industrial state is controlled by the bourgeoisie, just as

the landed classes controlled the state in earlier eras. The state becomes the

apparatus for reproducing the dom ination of the ruling class and the system

of production upon which this domination depends.

24 See Skocpol, States and Social Revoltions, pp. 24-33.

25 Camoy, The State and Political Theory, pp. 12-23.

26 Ibid., pp. 22-23. See also, Jean Jacques Rousseau, On the Social Contract (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1978), p. 223.

27 Karl Marx and Frederick Engels, The German Ideology (N ew York: International Publishers, 1970), and Camoy, The State and Political Theory, pp. 46-47.


56H ow does the state do this? For one thing, the coercive pow er of the

state is used to hold the oppressed classes dow n with brute force.28 Yet, more

im p o rtan tly , the s ta te also carries o u t more subtle adm inistrative

responsibilities. Particularly relevant to my project, the state constructs

consensus through public education and the production of knowledge.29

A ccording to A ntonio Gramsci, the state is responsible for the

enforcem ent of "discipline on those groups who do not 'consen t' either

actively or passively." This coercive apparatus is "constituted for the whole

of society in anticipation of moments of crisis."30 This responsibility to

com m and discipline extends over even elite classes during moments of

disorder w hen "command and direction" is required.31 In short, political

crises and other m om ents of transition open up opportunities for far-

reaching state-directed initiatives. Crises of capital accumulation and other

bedevilm ents of m odern political economic life trigger the transfer of

discretion from capitalist classes to the state.32

O ther authors argue that state autonomy is more frequent than one

m ight im agine follow ing a superficial reading of Marx's thought on the

28 Frederick Engels, The Origin of the Family, Private Property, and the State (New York: International Publishers, 1964), pp. 155-157.

29 Camoy, The State and Political Theory, pp. 65-88. Also, Antonio Gramsci, Selections from the Prison Notebooks (N ew York: International Publishers, 1971), pp. 210-276.

30 Gramsd, p. 12.

31 Ibid. See also, Camoy, The State and Political Theory, p. 53; and Karl Marx, The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte (New York: International Publishers, 1964).

32 See Camoy, The State and Political Theory, p. 53. Also, Stephen Skowronek, Building a New American State: the Expansion o f National Administrative Capacities, 1877-1920 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1981).


57subject. Here, the dominant class' distaste for direct rule, or its fear of the

working class, become beachheads from w hich state authorities can begin to

build a w idening circle of autonomy.33 This directs ou r attention to two

possibilities: states can expand their range of autonomy w hen elites grant to

the state greater latitudes of discretion and when positional advantages give

to the state leverage to take additional discretion.34

To go much beyond this, we must tu rn to recent w ork on the question

of state autonomy. This work has assembled a list of conditions which help

facilitate autonomous state action.35 At times, this body of inquiry has

confused even as it offered enlightenment, for example suggesting that both

embededness in multiple, overlapping networks a n d freedom from links

with dominant social actors produce autonomy for public officials.

Perhaps the most persuasive work on the question of state autonomy

has been the work of Theda Skocpol. Skocpol's starting point is the belief that

states have two essential responsibilities: m aintaining dom estic order and

33 See Jon Elster, Making Sense of Marx (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), pp. 402-428. Also, Skocpol, States and Social Revoltions, pp. 24-33. See also Perry Anderson, Lineages of the Absolutist State (London: New Left Books, 1974); and Claus Offe, "Structural Problems of the Capitalist State,” German Political Studies 1 (1974), pp. 31-56.

34 This last point is a conclusion suggested by Engels in The Origin of Family, Private Property, and the State. His specific reference is to those circumstances where well-balanced class antagonists open up opportunities for state mediation. But it seems clear to me that the state could take strategic opportunity of the chance to act.

33 See Dan Carpenter, The Forging of Bureaucratic Autonomy (unpublished manuscript, 1998);Skowronek, Building a New American State; and Theda Skocpol, Protecting Soldiers and Mothers: The Political Origins of American Social Policy (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992). Also Ellen Kay Trimberger, Revolution from Above (N ew Brunswick: TransactionBooks, 1978); and Barbara Geddes, Politician's Dilemma (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994).


58preserv ing the nation-state 's security in the geo-political system.36 To

perform these tasks, the state carves out a circle of authority and acquires the

necessary resources to accomplish its aims. This by necessity requires the state

to compete to some extent w ith a range of non-state social actors for control

over resources.37 Once resources are appropriated by the state, the state may

use its capacities to move beyond its narrowly defined role. In particular, it

may take steps to reinforce its authority, to expand its prerogatives, or to carve

out a zone for responding to as of yet unanticipated challenges.38 As a further

step, states can also be imagined to seek to acquire (and exploit) competitive

advantages over social actors with w hich they com pete for authoritative

discretion and m aterial resources.39 In other w ords, states begin to think

strategically vis-a-vis other actors, including dom inant social elites. In most

cases, Skocpol notes, the state will embrace the system of order constructed by

upper class actors. To do otherwise is to cultivate disorder and makes an

enemy of the most pow erful class in society. However, state interests stand

separate from the interests of elite classes, an d at tim es the state will

undertake policies contrary to the preferences of the wealthy and powerful.

This is m ost likely during times of crisis and transition, w hen preexisting

systems of order are already at risk or in ruin. This seems persuasive to me. I

36 Theda Skocpol, "Bringing the State Back In: Strategies of Analysis in Current Research," in Peter B. Evans, Dietrich Rueschemeyer, and Theda Skocpol, eds., Bringing the State Back In (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), p. 9; also Skocpol, States and Social Revolutions, p. 30.

37 Skocpol, States and Social Revolutions, p. 30.

33 Skocpol, "Bringing the State Back In, " p. 15.

39 Skocpol, Protecting Soldiers and Mothers, pp. 42.


5 9also agree w ith Skocpol's emphasis that states are never fully free to realize

their preferences. State autonomy is lim ited by the pow er of other social

actors and the need to work cooperatively w ith these actors to achieve shared

goals.

In an earlier generation, theorists of political modernization directed

attention to the role of the state in tim es of transition. For this group of

w rite rs , p o litica l d ev e lo p m en t-n ecessa ry as a p re c o n d i t io n to

in d u stria liza tio n and dem ocracy-requires the construction of "political

organizations and procedures that are not simply expressions of the interests

of particu lar social groups."40 A m odern state is invulnerable to direct

control by social actors, it acts to m ediate and resolve social disputes and

serves in the public interest.

Alongside this perceived need for state intervention to build m odem

political institutions was a belief that the state also could play a productive

ro le in launching industria l developm ent, especially in late-developing

countries.41 Traditional elites, principally ru ra l lords, had no interest in

em barking on the social, political, and economic changes needed to achieve

industrialization. Only through state intervention could these changes occur.

In these cases, social actors possess neither the motivation nor the expertise to

40 Samuel P. Huntington, Political Order in Changing Societies (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1968), p. 20. This can be seen as a modem restatement of "common good" theories of the state. See also, Alfred Stepan, 'The New Professionalism of Internal Warfare and Military Role Expansion,” in Alfred Stepan, ed., Authoritarian Brazil (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1973), pp. 47-65.

41 See Alexander Gerschenkron, Economic Backwardness in Historical Perspective (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1962); Dietrich Rueschemeyer, Evelyne Huber Stephens, and John D. Stephens, Capitalist Development and Democracy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,1992), pp. 82-83; and James R. Kurth, "Industrial Change and Political Change," in David Collier, ed., The New Authoritarianism in Latin America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979), pp. 319-362.


60make necessary shifts. The state may be seen as a more w illing and

competent actor. Still, the question remains: H ow will the state gain the

upper-hand vis-a-vis social elites who are opposed to new policy directions?

Where politics is dominated by traditional elites and modem political parties

have yet to emerge, it is often left to the most basic (and uncorrupted) office of

the state, the m ilitary, to step forward and in itiate a shift toward more

promising forms of government.42

Ellen Kay Trimberger has developed an argum ent about how this type

of state intervention might emerge.43 Such state directed initiatives occur

under certain conditions, one being the perceived existence of foreign threats

to national sovereignty.44 Interestingly , the school of m odernization

theorists m issed an im portant point: throughout much of Latin America

"traditional lords" had been replaced by foreign landholders, and, as a result,

the struggle to transform the political economy became a struggle against

foreign domination. The reproduction of the existing system of economic life

required the preservation of a fragile alliance between foreign m ultinational

corporations, local property-holders, and the the weak, but surely not

irrelevant state.45 These actors possess different interests, and there is always

pp. 242-243. Also Joseph La Palombara, "Penetration: A Crisis of Governmental Capacity," in Leonard Binder et al, Crises and Sequences in Political Development (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1971), pp. 205-232.

43 Trimberger. See also Geddes, pp. 2-7.

44 Trimberger, p. 5.

45 Peter Evans, Dependent Development (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979). My case, Cuba, requires a modification of Evans' model, since there w as very little local industrial development in Cuba. I w ill hum to this question in chapter four.


6 1the possibility that one of the participants-most likely the state—will defect to

join with other local actors to carry the banner of national sovereignty.

Yet, even if this moment of autonomous intervention is possible, for

policy initiatives to succeed, the state needs to find a w ay to im plem ent

change over a sustained period of time (and in the fam iliar spaces w here

policies are carried out day-by-day). Several elements help states achieve th e ir

(independently defined) goals over a period of time. W hen state bureaucrats

have sufficient funding and the necessary expertise, chances for preserving

autonomy are im proved.46 Further, officials may be more committed to their

efforts if it is believed that failure would result in the loss of office.47 H ere

revolution is im portant, transforming logics of connectedness and bringing

forward into prom inence new actors.

Given the context of revolutionary change, state education officials

come to believe they may be removed from their posts if they fail to move

forw ard w ith reform s designed to create universal education .48 T h is

reinforces existing preferences. With the removal of property-holding elites

from political life, the state no longer feels compelled to com prom ise its

policy preferences in order to satisfy oligarchs and industrialists, who m ay

have p rev io u sly in te rv en ed through politics to rem ove sta te actors

46 Geddes, p. 15.

4:7 Trimberger, p. 4

48 For a dear example of how this works-in fact, how mutually reinforcing pressures from the state and the m asses inspire a committment to policy among state bureaucrats-see Florenda E. Mallon, "Chronide of a Path Foretold? Velasco's Revolution, Vanguardia Revoiudonaria, and 'Shining Omens' in the Indigenous Communities of Andahuaylas,” in Steve J. Stem, ed., Shining and Other Paths: War and Society in Peru, 1980-1995 (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1998), pp. 84-117.


62committed to the incorporation of popular masses. The new dom inant social

actors—the communist party and the masses which stand beneath it-are more

likely to be tolerant of state d iscretion in the construction of universal

schooling.

In both Cuba and Peru, state leaders undertook corporatist reforms

designed to restructure patterns of association and logics of connection while

institutionalizing forms of policy im plem entation. Corporatism refers to a

particular set of policies and organ izational arrangem ents designed to

structure associational life.49 The state seeks to shape or create interest

groups, redefine identities and loyalties, an d restructure the architecture of

connectedness. Customarily, theorists have em phasized state intervention

into organized associational life-studying how and w hen states reach into the

w orld of unions, neighborhood clubs, an d political parties in order to

dism antle, marginalize, or counter-balance troublesom e actors which block

policy implementation, upset social order, and compete w ith the state for

resources. In place of these organized actors, the state substitutes alternative

organizational vehicles which, the sta te hopes, offer m ore prom ising

opportunities to achieve outcomes preferred by the governm ent. But it is

clear to me that a consciousness-shaping project is undertaken alongside the

restructuring of organizational space. This is too often ignored by scholars.

The result, I believe, is a failure to recognize the connection between the

corporatist reorganization of society an d nationalism as a parallel state-

initiated process.

49 See Stepan, The State and Society, pp. 46-113.


63Like A lfred Stepan, one of the m ost sophisticated studen ts of

corporatism in Latin America, I believe that corporatist projects em erge

m ainly at moments of crisis, when the state sees that existing patterns of

social organization are failing to preserve social order or that these established

pattern s are failing to generate levels of developm ent and industria l

innovation required to preserve the nation-state's geo-political security.50

Revolution, as an example relevant to my current concerns, is a concrete

expression of the failure of previous arrangem ents to preserve order an d

greatly enhances the chances of conflict w ith the w ider world. As a result,

corporatist restructurings (and related consciousness-shaping projects) are

likely to follow revolution. Moreover, following revolution, such efforts are

more likely to succeed, since, among other things, the social elites who w ould

stand to lose the most from such undertakings (and, as a result, resist their

im position) have been sw ept from the scene (or significantly weakened).

Keep in mind, the state, even at these moments when it takes advantage of

opportunities to act to expand its range of authority and improve its chances

to achieve its ow n preferences, is constrained by the power of other social

actors. Undertakings which satisfy the preferences of actors w ith which the

state shares the w orld will be more likely to succeed. Expanding access to

education serves both the interests of the state and the objectives of the

communist party and the working class.

50 Ibid., pp. 52-72.


64Choice o f m easurem ent tools

As I will discuss in a moment, in evaluating the delivery of education,

I believe outcomes are more worthy of reflection th an is expenditure. What a

state spends on education may dem onstrate a com m itm ent to universal

public education. However, funds can often be used to achieve other goals.

Additionally, state resources can be consumed by school personnel with very

little improvement in educational access. It is only w ithin a contextualized

acount that an understanding of the relevance of state expenditures can be

grasped.

Here it is worth m entioning Amy G utm ann 's w ork on the subject.51

She constructs a sophisticated contextualized account of the logics of state

spending on education. Gutmann's account, w hile focusing on formulas for

determining funding, is ultim ately concerned w ith outcom es. Gutmann

considers three standard formulas for setting budget goals in education: (1)

The "maximization" formula requires states to spend, as m uch as necessary to

maximize the (economic) life chances of all its citizens. (2) "Equalization"

encourages the government to distribute resources so tha t the opportunities

of the least advantaged students are brought nearest the most advantaged. (3)

Finally, "m eritocracy" asks only that the s ta te d is trib u te funding in

proportion to children's dem onstrated ability to learn. G utm ann finds that

each of these approaches fall short of her normative preference of establishing

legitimately "democratic education." Instead, she proposes a "democratic

threshold principle." This argum ent stipulates th a t spending has to be

sufficent to guarantee every child the ability to partic ipate in the political

Amy Gutmann, Democratic Education (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), pp. 128- 139.


65process. Unlike the m axim ization formula, the threshold principle doesn 't

require educational institutions to deliver schooling sufficient to satisfy all

needs of every student. Instead, the project only asks schools to provide every

student w ith the tools necessary to participate in political decision-making.

Then, through their involvem ent in the democratic process, citizens can raise

and debate questions about other issues related to individuals' life chances.

Gutm ann's dem ocratic threshold principle fits comfortably w ith my idea of

incorporation approaches to educational reforms.

The Cuban case provides an example of how evaluating educational

systems through expenditures can be misleading. Prior to the revolution,

Cuban educational expenditures grew, yet school construction lagged. M uch

of the M inistry of E d u ca tio n 's resources w ent into the pockets of

adm inistrators.52 Evidence of this will be explored in chapter four. I believe

it is vital to look beyond budget figures, to consider how the connection

between learning and social order is conceptualized and access to education is

constructed and, ultim ately, to evaluate these abstract achievements through

actual performance.

With respect to the desired introduction of incorporation reforms, a

pair of Carnoy's m easures of reform provide a useful starting point. One

m ust ask: (1) Is there evidence of a far-reaching literacy campaign (and adult

education program s), p en e tra tin g not only the nation 's classroom s, but

extending also into the w ork place to reach older, illiterate laborers? The goal

is to bring socially relevant education to everyone possible, even to those

52 Interview with retired teachers at the Casa del Pedagogo de Diez de Octubre, a neighborhood center for former school teachers, July 24,1997. See also Fagen, p. 36 and International Bank for Reconstruction and Development, Report on Cuba (Washington, D.C.: International Bank for Reconstruction and Development, 1951), p. 425.


66beyond school age (and already carrying on a "productive" role in society).

Literacy campaigns are a feature unique to incorporation approaches. In the

end it is im portant to examine literacy rates, as a w ay of establishing the

effectiveness of policies. (2) Also, is there a real attem pt to create a foundation

for a (sufficiently sophisticated) shared cognitive and com municative culture.

Literacy alone is no t sufficient to achieve this purpose. This can be done by

making elementary and secondary education a valuable learning experience

for all, not only an opportunity for the p riv ileged few. To evaluate

achievement of th is goal I first want to ask: are policies constructed to

guarantee a high level of participation by students between 6 and 14, when

conceptual and communicative skills are developed?53

Institutionalization

The central question that needs to be answ ered is: W hat mechanisms

serve to advance (or obstruct) the proposal and institu tionalization of

universal schooling? All in all, I am p ro p o sin g th a t the following

mechanisms will be identified in my research: (1) The narrow interests of

elite social actors w ill customarily prevent the adoption of a universal public

education reform package. This is true for several reasons. First, elites are

reluctant to turn over to the state the important task of constructing collective

identity. Second, landholding elites will fear th a t a coherant collective

consciousness will help rural populations construct successful movements

53 This requires mention of one problem of measurement. One resource on which I depend for the late colonial era statistical evidence of literacy and school enrollment in Cuba-the U.S. War Department's 1899 census of Cuba-brackets the ages 5 and 17. I prefer 6 to 14 years of age, because this captures the years of elementary schooling. Where other age groupings are used, I will make special note. See U.S. War Department, Report on the Census of Cuba, 1899 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1900).


67and end generations of domination. Or, they fear that rural populations will

leave agrarian servitude behind and m igrate to the cities to make use of new

cognitive and communicative tools in industrial workplaces. Third, foreign

and local elites who profit from the dependent capitalist economy hope to

avoid the em ergence of an indigenous industrial sector not under their

control.

(2) R e v o lu tio n a ry ch an g e w ill fa v o r the ad o p tio n and

institutionalization of incorporation reforms. This is true for at least four

reasons. First, revolution transforms the political landscape, sweeping away

opponents of popu lar or collectivist projects, and (in most cases) parties

opposed to lim ited governm ent. This helps im prove prospects for

autonomous state action in the education field (and elsewhere).

Second, revolution increases the chances of foreign war54 and, as a

result, increases the need for a more careful and complete universalization of

cognitive an d com m unicative cu ltu re as a p recond ition for mass

m obilization.55 The reasons revolution increases chances for foreign war are

num erous and best reviewed elsewhere. In the case of Cuba, America's

Cuban business partners were driven from the island, property owned by U.S.

citizens w as seized, and the prospects of continuing U.S. domination of

Cuban life dim m ed. Predictably, this provoked on-going American hostility

and fear of a U.S. response to the revolution.

Third, another reason revolution helps w ith the institutionalization of

incorporationist policies is related to the bureaucratic politics of policy

54 Stephen M. Walt, Revolution and War (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996).

55 Posen, "Nationalism, the Mass Army, and Military Power," pp. 88-124. See also Tocqueville, p. 677 for a reflection on this issue.


68im plementation. As discussed earlier, state officials w ill be m ore likely to

aggressively defend efforts at framing specific policy initiatives if they believe

such policies will help them retain office. In the era of post-revolutionary

politics, where collective objectives are embraced in rhetoric and practice, and

im plem entation of universal education goals is valued by party and societal

actors who have power to retain or replace state bureaucrats, office holders

w ill work to realize universal educational reform initiatives.

Finally, given the threat of foreign enemies and the new culture of

national autonom y, post-revolutionary states are m ore likely to adopt

strategies for industrial development. M aterial conditions m ake this even

m ore likely, since many manufactured goods previously came from foreign

allies who now stand opposed to the revo lu tionary leadersh ip and the

nation's new course.

(3) Ambitious industrialization p lans w ill favor the expansion of

universal education. Further, the more sophisticated the economic structure

an d technological needs of industry becomes, the m ore likely the further

expansion of un iversal education into secondary and post-secondary

instruction. Gellner links nationalism w ith industrial capitalism , specifically

w ith the need to create solidarity (and interchangeablity) w ith in the work

force.56 Further, cognitive solidarity streamlines the teaching of technical and

workplace expertise. However, Gellner suggests tha t m uch of this technical

instruction w ill take place in the w orkplace itself. I f in d this idea

unconvincing empirically. Enterprise m anagers usually seek to transfer the

expense of educating workers, shifting the burden to society or, in some cases,

56 Gellner, Nations and Nationalism.


69on to workers themselves. In fact, it could also be argued that some workers,

as well, prefer the state to take on this teaching function. Then, workers can

emerge from the educational process w ith valued skills, and select the best job

offer from com peting employers bidding on their expertise. I believe this

characterizes a sentim ent am ong m iddle-class supporters of open-door

policies.

In the end, industria lization can be im agined to push education

p lanners to construct schools so they serve to fashion cognitive and

com municative solidarity and teach certain valuable skills. As the technical

requirem ents of even factory-floor positions develop, and the need for

increasing ly soph istica ted cognitive an d com m unicative skills grows,

universal education will expand upw ard, push ing the age for mandatory

school enrollm ent forw ard, and creating un ifo rm curriculum even in the

higher g rades (and on into university studies). In short, I believe that

industrialization (and the associated need to construct like units which can

perform interchangeable shopfloor tasks) begets universal education, and that

as interchangeable tasks develop complexity, uniform ity of education expands

upw ard into higher grades.

H ow ever, the need to use schools to teach skills, and the need to

encourage members of society to invest tim e and effort in learning these

skills, opens up the prospect that schools w ill begin to offer specialized

train ing to sm aller num bers of citizens, an d th a t the state will structure

incentives to rew ard those who develop technical proficiency.


7 0C om parative research

The goal is to explain the different outcomes which follow ed the

in troduction of sim ilar reforms in Cuba and Peru. This points toward

com parative historical analysis. What seems useful is some variation of the

"most sim ilar systems" design discussed by Adam Przeworski and H enry

Teune or Arend Lijphart.57 Why did incorporation reforms succeed in Cuba

and emerge but fail in Peru? The answer, I intend to argue, has little to do

w ith the specific historical experiences of each nation, and more to do w ith

particular mechanisms which remain concealed behind the superficial facade

of recorded events.58

New developments in comparative political study offer attractive tools

for theory-building. Three separate intellectual projects have in recent years

become conjoined into a shared theoretical stream. This was a logically

consequence, since the three projects had a shared objective: to im prove the

explanatory power of qualitative social science.

The first of these three approaches to social scientific analysis, the

"new" institutionalism , stresses the shared understandings and patterned

relationships which constrain social (and individual) choice and produce

57 Adam Przeworski and Henry Teune, The Logic of Comparative Social Inquiry (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1970), p. 32; and Arend Lijphart, 'The Comparable-cases Strategy in Comparative Research," Comparative Political Studies 8 (July, 1975), p. 164.

5 Przeworski and Teune make the claim that the names of particular social systems (Chile, the West, Capitalism, etc.) can be replaced by lists of variables which summarize the totality of mechanisms, factors, and processes operating to produce the social structures constituting and supporting the systems. See Przeworski and Teune, pp. 10-11. A new vision of this tradition stresses that this type of analysis, while aiming for the law-like general statements Przeworski and Teune proposed, must have a contextualized sense of place and time. See Robert H. Bates et al, ’Introduction," in Bates et al, Analytic Narratives (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998), pp. 3-22.


71conformity and continuity.59 Scholars working in this school of theory seek

to explain why innovations spread, why some choices are made instead of

others, and how particular social practices are reproduced. Their explanations

make reference to cultural habits, organizational forms, and the repercussions

of previous choices. Particular ways of viewing the world or organizing social

life make some outcomes more likely than others. The power of this

approach to explanation comes from its ability to grasp the forces which lock-

in particular organizational forms and patterns of social life. While

com fortable w ith continuity , these theories are less concerned w ith

explaining change.

A second analytical approach which has gained wide influence in

recent years is derived from the grow ing body of literature on "social

m echanism s."60 Typically, these authors believe, social scientists seldom

move beyond establishing covariance between variables. The true causes of

events are concealed m echanism s. For example, social scientists have

observed that dem and for schooling rises w ith increasing urbanization. But

urbanization doesn't produce the elevated dem and for education, a complex

59 For examples see Paul J. DiMaggio and Walter W. Powell, "The Iron Cage Revisted: Institutional Isomorphism and Collective Rationality;" Lynn G. Zucker, "The Role of Institutionalization in Cultural Persistence;” and Friedland and Alford, ” Bringing Society Back in: Symbols, Practices, and Institutional Contradictions," all in Powell and DiMaggio, eds., The New Institutionalism in Organizational Analysis. See also Katheeln Thelen, Historical Institutionalism in Comparative Politics (unpublished manuscript, 1998). Also Avner Greif, "Self-Enforcing Political Systems and Economic Growth: Late Medieval Genoa," in Bates et al, Analytic Narratives, pp. 23-63.

60 The leading voice here is Jon Elster. See Jon Elster, Nuts and Bolts for the Social Sciences (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 3-10. Also, Jon Elster, "A Plea for Mechanisms," in Peter Hedstrom and Richard Swedberg, eds., Social Mechanisms: an Analytical Approach to Social Theory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 45- 73. See as well, Peter Hedstrom and Richard Swedberg, "Social Mechanisms: an Introductory Essay;" and Gudmund Hemes, "Real Virtuality," both in Hedstrom and Swedberg, eds., Social Mechanisms.


72assortm ent of social and economic factors associated with the m ovem ent of

people to cities does. In order to capture the complexity of this process, Jon

Elster recommends em ploying mechanistic explanations, w hich capture the

"casual patterns" w hich trigger events and produce outcomes.61 This is

preferable to traditional dependent/independent variable explanations w hich

serve to obscure, rather than reveal the complexity of causation. Further, too

m uch of the w ork done in trad itional variable-driven social science is

d irected tow ard the production of "general laws." In actuality, the social

w orld is infinite in its capacity to surprise—causes which produce one effect in

a particular situation are likely to produce a very different outcom e u n d er

d iffe ren t h isto rica l or cu ltu ra l circum stances. A u thors em ploy ing

m echanistic explanations do not pretend they have discovered universal

truths, only im portant relationships between causes and events.

The th ird school of thought contributing to new d irec tions in

com parative politics takes its inspiration from rational choice theory. This

com m unity of scholars tu rns to rational choice theory to capture w hat

rational choice explanations do best: "reveal how intentional and rational

actors generate collective outcomes."62 However, these authors caution tha t

we m ust keep in m ind that while "the choice of each actor may be intentional

and individually rational, the results to all may be unintentional and socially

irrational."63 What is most valuable here, in my judgement, is the emphasis

on strategic interaction. These models highlight the role of rational and

6! See Elster, "A Plea for Mechanisms," p. 45.

62 Margaret Levi, "A Model, a Method, and a Map: Rational Choice in Comparative and Historical Analysis," in Lichbach and Zuckerman, p. 20.

63 Ibid., p. 20.


73strategic actors who make choices designed to achieve desired ends. Their

decisions are m ade w ith in a social space, where their choices take into

consideration the desires of other actors, the probable actions of these actors,

and the likely interactive consequences of their collective actions. Actors are

im agined to respond strategically to each other's choices un til a state of

equilibrium is arrived at; in other w ords, until all actors recognize that

additional moves will not produce an improvement in their circumstances.64

While most theorists working in this tradition emphasize the centrality of

the individual, I believe it is possible to imagine collective actors employing

strategic behavior to achieve hoped-for ends.

This new community of authors makes advancements over the neo

classical economic school of rational choice theorizing. The new rational

choice theorists now prom inent in sociology and political science do not

remain bound by out-dated assumptions about utility- or wealth-maximizing

preferences. Actors are im agined to pursue a wide range of preferences:

fairness, security, stability, community, and so forth. This reflects a new

understanding of the role of culture. As one author has pointed out, "culture

orders political priorities, m eaning it defines the sym bolic and material

objects people consider valuable and w orth fighting over."65 Additionally,

culture constrains how actors imagine their strategic w orld.66 Thus, culture

shapes what we prefer and how we conceptualize going about getting it.

pp. 23-24. See also Mark Irving Lichbach, "Social Theory and Comparative Politics/' in Lichbach and Zuckerman, pp. 239-276.

^M arc Howard Ross, "Culture and Identity in Comparative Political Analysis," in Lichbach and Zuckerman. Interestingly, while Ross is included in the volume as a culturalist, his argumentation clearly employs rational choice elements.

66 Levi, p. 25.


7 4These three separate streams of thought have recently been pieced

together into a single analytical form ula by com parative scholars seeking

m ore encom passing explanatory frameworks.67 The goal is to create an

analytical m ethod which can capture the role of cultural institutions (and

history) in shaping preferences and the strategic arena, while seeking to

identify causal mechanisms that produce specific outcomes within this social

space. In the pages ahead, I attem pt to employ precisely this type of

m ethodological instrument.

In the m ost sim plified form possible: I believe incorporationist

reforms succeeded in Cuba because a revolutionary transition elim inated

certain social actors, transferred authority to the state, and created conditions

favorable to the institutionalization of (territory wide) universal education.

The fact that the Cuban state had ambitious (if, in the end, largely unrealized)

p lans for expanding industrial production am plified its com m itm ent to

universal schooling.

I m easure institutionalization of universal education by evaluating

literacy levels and by examining the system -w ide retention of students

between 6 and 14 years-of-age. If both of these numbers exceed ninety percent,

I consider universal education to be successfully institutionalized. For

example, in Cuba, my central case, by 1980 the literacy rate was well above

ninety percent and over ninety percent of all children between 6 and 14 were

in school. This last figure in particular was a vast im provem ent (in only

tw enty years) over the pre-revolutionary period, w hen only about fifty

67 See especially, Robert H. Bates, Avner Grief, Margaret Levi, Jean-Laurent Rosenthal, and Barry R. Weingast, "Introduction," in Bates et al, pp. 3-22. See also, for a different but similar project, D oug McAdams, Sidney Tarrow, and Charles Tilly, 'Toward an Integrated Perspective on Social Movements and Revolution,” in Lichbach and Zuckerman, pp. 142-173.


75percent of the relevant population was in school.68 This change d id not result

from a change in legal requirements. Cuban children under the age of 14

were legally required to be in school prior to the revolution, yet enorm ous

num bers of them were not. The shift is explained by some other factor. I

believe the im portant event was revolution an d the expansion of state

authority, which gave the state the opportunity to achieve its preferences, and

allowed the construction of schools, perm itted student attendance to be

monitored, and absenteeism and retention issues addressed.

At present, I w ill not be troubled by the question: But is any

consciousness formation occurring in these (relatively) full school rooms?

For the time being, I will be content to assume that participation in school

suggests willingness (or availability) to partic ipate in the design of and

acquiescence to new concepts of citizenship. I w ill return to this m atter in

chapter four.

68 Informe del Ministerio de Educacion a la Asamlea Nacional del Poder Popular de la Republica de Cuba (Havana: Ministry of Education, 1981).


CHAPTER 3

CITIZENSHIP A N D FORMS OF SOCIAL ATTACHMENT

Many political scientists an d social historians have devoted their

intellectual craft to the im portant task of describing the attachments that bind

individuals to larger social groupings. At the level of the m odem nation

state, this attachment is institutionalized in the series of legal ceremonies or

commonplace rituals and fam iliar practices th rough w hich ind iv iduals

affirm (and the state constructs) their citizenship.

In this chapter, I will examine three ideas. First, that citizenship is best

understood as a state-engineered attachment formed between an individual

and a defined social group (usually a nation, although that term requires

further comment). I will claim that the state employs a variety of familiar

institu tions-includ ing public education—to give substance to citizenship

attachments. I want to imagine citizenship as something that is more than a

legal agreement. I think it has to be thought of as something w ith content

and as something that is shaped and confirmed by common institutions and

in day-to-day rituals (like schooling). This is, in part, the idea behind Ernest

Renan's "daily plebiscite."1

1 See Ernest Renan, "What is a Nation?", in Geoff Eley and Ronald Grigor Suny, eds., Becoming N ation al, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), p. 53.

76


77Second, that there are two forms of attachm ent to the state and the

social body: one constituted by economic relations, the other arranged around

common language(s), collective culture, public h isto ry and the shared

cognitive and communicative union these construct.

I will discuss that these two forms of attachm ent are not equal in their

capacity to adapt to change. Attachments formed by economic relationships

are more susceptible to collapse under the stress of change. This isn't because

culture is "eternal" or "foundational," while forms of economic organization

are ephemeral. Rather, something close to the opposite is true. Culture

endures as a basis for organizing society precisely because it has very little

concreteness to it. It is a symbolic and interpretive web, holding people,

institutions and events together. It is adaptable to new situations because

actors can reshape it to new times, reinterpret sym bols to fit new needs.

Economic relations, on the other hand, are highly specific, joining workers,

managers, and capitalists together in particu lar configurations. When

economic life is transformed, for example w hen new political realities force a

reevaluation of prevailing property rights, social attachm ents predicated

upon economic roles need to be refashioned. A dditionally , economic ties

customarily result in conflict, as the members of society who habitually

occupy the lower rungs on the hierarchical structure of economic life struggle

to improve their position.

Third, beginning w ith Ernest Gellner I w ill go on to discuss the

literature on nationalism, w ith an interest in grasping the various analytical

perspectives on the subject. I w ant to question the seem ing ubiquity of the

idea of the nation and examine the play of forces which are linked (at least in

scholarly thought) w ith its appearence. I will synthesize an account of the


78origins of nationalism. Following Rogers Brubaker, I will propose that the

nation is often not the product of deliberate design. Instead, it emerges from

the interplay of events and is the product of the pursuit of other campaigns.

In pursuing a variety of goals within a strategic setting populated with other

actors, states invent nations.

CitizenshipThe connection betw een citizensh ip and nationalism is not

straightforward. Nevertheless, at the core of the concept of the nation is the

idea of straining tow ard self-government, creating a state of one's own. In

initial formulations of this concept, the image constructed by theorists of

nationalism portrayed a people, united by fate through a shared language and

a common heritage, struggling to establish self-rule out of the ruins of multi

cultural empires. Following the work of Karl Deutsch2 and Ernest Gellner,3 a

new view began to em erge. Citizenship came to be understood as

membership in a cognitive community constructed through public education

(and other m eans).4 Here we arrive at an interesting knot which has never

been entirely untangled: now the national com m unity striving for self-

government through the achievement of a state of its own, has actually been

constructed th ro u g h the in tervention of a state system of education.

2 Karl W. Deutsch, Nationalism and Social Communication (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1953).

2 Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983).

4 Geoff Eley and Ronald Grigor Suny, "Introduction: From the Moment of Social History to the Work of Cultural Representation," in Eley and Suny, eds., Becoming National, p. 6. See also John Dewey, Democracy and Education (New York: The Free Press, 1916/44/66), p. 93. Here Dewey says, "education became a civic function...(t)o form the citizen, not the 'man' became the aim of education."


7 9Therefore, citizenship becomes defined (at least in part) as the effort of a

people to preserve the autonomy of the state which created their union. How

is this d ifferent from patriotism? The essential ingredient seems to be a

strong loyalty not only to the state, bu t to the com munity to w hich you

belong. Further, there is an expectation that the state w ill provide benefits to

the people clustered under its umbrella.

Following Deutsch's w ork on the subject, one can conceive of two

projects state officials ultim ately are responsib le for constructing. A

co m m u n ity is a people who share a common culture and, as a result, a

shared system of communication, while a society is a group of people joined

together in a common system of material production and exchange.5 The

establishment of a shared culture helps facilitate the construction of a system

of exchange (and the division of labor which is a parallel requirem ent).

Citizenship—that is to say, (state mediated) m em bership in a community—is

im agined by Deutsch in cultural terms. The state goes about constructing a

shared communicative and cognitive union, which makes economic society

possible. Society is a by-product of the state's cu ltural project, it isn 't the

prim ary objective of the state’s nation-building efforts.

H ow ever, u n d er m any circum stances, the state is not equally

responsive to the dem ands of every segm ent of the population. In other

words, not all members of the community enjoy equal "ownership” of the

state. It seems clear that some factor intervenes to complicate Deutsch's

convenient, yet overly simple definition of citizenship. Marxist scholars, as

we have seen in an earlier chapter, believe that this intervening variable is

5 Deutsch, Nationalism and Social Communication, pp. 61-64.


80related to the ownership of the means of p roduction . The existence of

cultural union helps make economic society possible, but the structure of

economic society transforms the unity of the cultural community (and, in the

process, alters the terms of citizenship, i.e. m em bership in the cultural and

political community). This is true for a variety of reasons, but central to this

research is the fact that differences in where citizens stand in the occupational

h ierarchy create differences in the d istribu tion of life chances and, in

particular, access to schooling, especially in the absence of a far-reaching

system of public education. Education is central to the construction of a

cognitive union. Those w ithou t access to education can not enjoy full

m em bership in the cultural community because they can not acquire the

cognitive and communicative skills which perm it equal membership. When

no public education is available to the poor, and they cannot afford the

private education accessible to the wealthy, then equality of membership in

the cultural community is lost.

However, membership in economic society remains. If one chooses to

set aside Deutsch's narrow definition of citizenship, along with other equally

restrictive definitions, then it is possible to im agine that participants in a

system of exchange enjoy mem bership (and the attributes of citizenship) in

economic society. One question remains. Earlier I stipulated that citizenship

is a relationship between governm ent and society m ediated through the

in tervention of the state. For m em bership in the economic system of

exchange to constitute citizenship, it would m ean that the state must play a

role in shaping and reproducing the attachment of individuals to the system

of economic life. I argue that state decisions about the organization of

educational opportunites often do reproduce existing economic hierarchies,


81by preventing some classes of people from gaining both the cognitive and

communicative tools required to participate in the politics of the com m unity

and the occupational skills which might allow them to better their m aterial

circumstances.6

Durkheim 's form s o f social solidarity

An obvious starting point for the next part of this discussion is Emile

Durkheim 's The Division of Labor in Society.7 Durkheim's core in terests—the

difference betw een mechanical and organic forms of social solidarity and the

role the div ision of labor plays in structuring society-point in the same

direction as my ow n immediate interests.

Let me begin by noting the correspondence between D urkheim 's forms

of social attachm ent and my own. Durkheim sees social solidarity em erging

from tw o d iffe re n t hum an tendencies: attraction betw een sim ila r

individuals, and affinity for those whose talents, habits, and orientations

complement one's own. The first of these he calls mechanical solidarity, the

second organic solidarity. In each case, Durkheim believes, as I do, tha t the

state and other social actors play an important role in structuring these forms

of social attachm ent. Durkheim's emphasis is on laws and juridical rules,

while I think it is more useful to discuss the roles played by other public

institutions, like schools.

D urkheim 's mechanical solidarity, given form by crim inal law ,

convention, and custom, in essence depends on culture, or, as D urkheim

6 For further reflection see Dewey, Democracy and Education, p. 98.

7 Emile Durkheim, The Division of Labor in Society (New York: The Free Press, 1933/1964).


82refers to it, "collective or common, conscience," to provide social cohesion.8

Repressive law or public reproach serve to preserve this collective conscience

by punishing those who behave in w ays contrary to prevailing standards.

This punishment is important to the continuation of social cohesion not only

because it corrects members of society who break w ith in tellectual and

behavioral standards, bu t also because it m arks such dev iations as

anom alous, reinforcing the cultural agreem ent w h ich joins indiv iduals

together in society.9 According to D urkheim , w ithou t this pun ishm en t

society w ould break apart, because agreem ent, a lth o u g h founded upon

uniform sentiments, can be "unsettled" by behavior w hich calls into question

the "unanimity" of shared values.10 This form of social attachm ent is,

therefore, vulnerable to disruption and collapse.

As suggested earlier, I believe the opposite. D urkheim 's mistake, I

believe, is his reliance on law as the principal m echanism of social

agreement, and his failure to fully consider the im portant role other social

and political institutions play in establishing, preserving, and reconceiving

collective beliefs. Central to this process, many observers of the social process

have commented, is education. John Dewey in Democracy and Education ,

for example, wrote about the use of schools to develop new states of collective

consciousness, or, as he puts it, "like-mindedness."11 For Dewey, education,

8 Ibid.., p. 79. This step - equating conscience, generally understood to suggest a capacity to determine right and wrong, with culture - m ay seem like a leap. But som e translators have rendered Durkheim's use of the French term conscience, as consciousness. In this form, it seems an uncontroversial matter to link culture w ith conscience.

9 Ibid., p. 103.

1016id.,p . 103.

Dewey, Democracy and Education, p. 4.


83in general, is the process by which young members of the social com m unity

are introduced to society's "beliefs, ideals, hopes, happiness, m isery, (and)

practices."12 Social union cannot exist w ithout some level of cultural unity,

and education is one of the principal mechanisms for fashioning this unity.

This instruction takes place in many surroundings, but is accomplished most

successfully, most systematically in schools.

A dd itionally , D urkheim exam ines h istory and in ap p ro p ria te ly

im agines that the common conscience fades over time as it is replaced by

indiv idual consciences.13 I would respond that it seems, in some cases, that

an in te rna liza tion of cu ltural standards by ind iv iduals-D ew ey 's "like-

m indedness"-actually strengthens cultural solidarity , even w hile certain

long-existing social organizations which once embodied these standards fade

from memory. I will return to these ideas later.

Similarly, D urkheim 's organic solidarity points toward, bu t does not

exactly conform to m y idea of economic citizenship. D urkheim 's idea of

organic solidarity rests upon a notion of a division of labor—a scheme of

occupations-relatively free of any form of class conflict.14 Indeed, quite apart

from dw elling on the destructiveness of m odern economic life, as Karl

Polanyi w ould,15 D urkheim sees in the division of labor a form of social

12 See Ibid., p, 2.

Durkheim, p. 171. Durkheim borrows this belief from Herbert Spencer.

1/4 Durkheim does consider class conflict, but he sees it as the product of an "abnormal type," produced by "particular circumstances" which prevent individuals from follow ing their "individual natures and social functions." See Ibid., p. 376.

15 Karl Polanyi, The Great Transformation (Boston: Beacon Press, 1944). Still, Durkheim does acknowledge the tendency of m odem economic life to obliterate all existing form s of social and cultural life. See Durkheim, p. 190.


84attachm ent w hich "is the source of civilization."16 I w ill discuss this

m isjudgm ent in a moment.

Central to Durkheim 's argum ent is his belief in the ascendancy (and

resiliency) of the division of labor as a m ode of organizing society. As

ind iv idual consciences emerge, diverging from the collective conscience in

greater numbers, the fragile fabric of agreement which constitutes mechanical

solidarity is tom away. Yet, if the process of social development follows the

historical pattern Durkheim describes, social cohesion is preserved, rendered

more resolute by the emergence of organic solidarity. Indeed, the two forms

of social solidarity are perfectly com plem entary-the individualism which

destroys m echanical solidarity is the glue w hich holds together organic

solidarity. As individuals are more freely able (and encouraged) to pursue

their particular talents, they naturally join together w ith others who bring

into the social bargain other necessary skills. There is cohesion in this union

due to the fact that, as D urkheim points out: "The different parts of the

aggregate, because they fill different functions, cannot easily be separated."17

N o longer is society organized around shared sentim ents, uncertainly

preserved by law, but now around economic cooperation, preserved by the

needs of indiv iduals and the "rules of occupational m orality."18 This

occupational morality is the product of "usages and customs" common to

each ind iv idual working w ithin a particular economic sector and reinforced

16 Durkheim, p. 50.

17 Ibid., p. 149.

18 A s I w ill discuss later, James Fearon and David Lai tin see national union serving a similar need, by providing cheap and reliable information about the people w ith whom one transacts.


85by professional discipline.19 It is these forces which regulate and preserve

most employment contracts and economic transactions. The law (and hence

the state) remains an important element, standing behind such interactions,

reinforcing the spontaneous obedience which customarily accompanies the

division of labor and intervening, w hen necessary, to render contracts fair.

But the fact that so much of life becomes regulated by social rules, not public

law, results in a more truly social (and moral) form of solidarity.

Yet rules, not like-mindedness, remains the core of D urkheim ’s hope

for an amicable union. In his preface to the second edition of The Division o f

Labor in Society, D urkheim m ore clearly develops his belief in the

im portance of "occupational g roups" or "corporations" as crucia l

in term edia te associations w hich fo rm u la te ru les necessary for th e

harmonious functioning of society. W hat these associations perm it is the

containment of the lawless, selfish, and potentially destructive individualism

w hich results as an unfortunate side-effect of the organic organization of

society.20 These occupational groups are un iquely appropriate to this

function, and better suited than the state for this purpose, because in their

occupational group individuals find a m ore n a tu ra l un ion of tastes,

preferences, habits, and so forth. As a result, the rules established by the

corporation fit more comfortably w ith the inclinations of the ind iv idual

members, and better command their loyalty and support. According to

Durkheim: "A nation can be m aintained only if, betw een the State and the

I-9 Durkheim, p. 227.

2° Durkheim, pp. 5-10.


86in d iv id u a l, there is intercalated a whole series of secondary groups...."21 The

state's role, then, is to step in on rare occasions w hen the spontaneous

obedience of fair and just interrelations betw een these associational groups

breaks down. Given our now familiar view of the nation as the pinnacle of

collective existence, D urkheim offers som ething fairly alien. Loyalty is

d irected to the occupational group, n o t the state nor the h igher-level

collectivity consisting of the union of all secondary groups.

D urkheim 's conceptualization of organic so lidarity has several

problems. First of all, Durkheim fails to dw ell long over the fact th a t fairness

and justice-objectives guaranteed by state in tervention through juridical

law -are concepts given form by society. In part, this is because he takes for

granted the objectivity and autonom y of the state, the agent responsible for

rendering judgem ent on the fairness of contracts, the give-and-take of

exchange, and relationships between occupational groups.

Second, it is easy to dism iss h is claim that organic solidarity is

incontestably moral. For Durkheim, m orality is defined by solidarity with a

group.22 So, if it can be shown that the division of labor produces conflict, no t

cohesion, and inequality, not unity, then it can be said that organic solidarity

is, using D urkheim 's ow n fo rm ulation , an im m oral basis fo r social

attachm ent.

Third, related to this and most im portant of all, Durkheim fails to give

sufficient thought to the problem of class conflict in m odem industrial

society. A lthough he is conscious th a t occupational skills are developed

21 Ibid., p. 28.

22 Ibid., p. 399.


87through experience and training, and are not sim ply the p roduct of natural

ability, he gives very little thought to the unequal distribution of life chances

and educational opportunities. These unequal opportunities resu lt in unfair

occupational (and political) advantages for some, and force others to take

w hatever form of work they can find. That this result w ould produce one

class which would seek to preserve its advantage, and another that would be

m iserable in its vulnerability to exploitation, scarcely attracts D urkheim 's

attention. This is a significant oversight, since it means little thought is given

to the significant potential for conflict inherent in this app roach to the

organization of society. This conflict is po ten tia lly m ore explosive if

occupational groups, and not just individuals, fall into d isp u te over the

disparity of opportunity.

I believe that forms of social attachment coordinated around shared

beliefs, cultural symbols, historical experiences, and common language(s) are

m ore resilient than are forms of attachment relying on economic solidarity.

D urkheim believes som ething fairly opposite: tha t o rganic solidarity is

preferable and more steadfast than m echanical so lidarity . G iven the

remarkable congruence of our initial concepts, why do D urkheim and I arrive

at such different conclusions? In part, the difference resides in our separate

conceptions of what change is and how it affects society. D urkheim imagines

change resulting from the deterioration of agreement over tim e, a slow eating

aw ay at the foundation of so lidarity , accom plished, p a rtia lly , by the

emergence of individualism. H is image resembles the notion at the heart of

m odernization literatu re-trad itional compliance is conquered by m odern


88individuality.23 I have a more actor-centered conception of change. Social

transitions occur because actors (perhaps taking advantage of opportunities

coinciding w ith moments of vulnerability), struggling from positions of

interest, confront and overturn existing social arrangem ents. Change results

from conflict, not simply the exhaustion of a preceding consensus. In this

conflict, actors often employ symbolic and cultural resources in strategic ways.

What form of solidarity is best suited to survive conflict? This is an

im portant question for my project, because I believe that states often prefer

nationalism because it promises stability. Two answers can be given to this

question. If, as I believe, the division of labor in m odem industrial society

creates natural antagonism s betw een labor and capital, it seems clear that

Durkheim 's organic solidarity will reproduce conflict, not contain and resolve

it.

Second, I need to return to an earlier notion-that culture, rather than

resid ing in public institu tions and law , is very often in ternally held,

preserved in idiosyncratic ways in the heads and hearts (and cognitive and

communicative habits) of individuals. If this is true, then (some forms of)

like-m indedness can survive, despite the e lim ination of (rule-making)

organizations and system s of o rder w hich created it. Nationalism , in

particular, nicely fits this description.

23 See, as exam ples, Karl Deutsch, "Social Mobilization, and Political Developm ent”, The American Political Science Review 55 (September 1961); W.W. Rostow, The Stages of Economic Growth (London and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1960); Gabriel Almond and James S. Coleman, eds., The Politics of the Developing Areas (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1960); and Daniel Lemer, The Passing o f Traditional Society (Glencoe, Illinois: The Free Press, 1958).


89Theories o f nationalism

This draws me back to a question left unresolved in my introduction:

What is a nation? Ernest Gellner offers a widely employed definition. A

nation is a cultural union.24 By this, Gellner means that nations are form ed

w hen individuals mutually recognize (or are brought to recognize) th a t they

share a system of belief, com mon ideas, ways of com m unicating and

behaving. In this process, culture becomes personalized and yet shared .

There is like-mindedness, even if no true uniformity. Therefore, w hen

transformative events come to pass, a structure for reestablishing solidarity

rem ains, even if the actors or historical circumstances w hich w ere the

original source of the ideas are swept away.

Other scholars have been better able than Durkheim to grasp the pow er

of cu ltu ra l/h isto rica l horizontal citizenship ties. The l i te ra tu re of

nationalism is vast, but it can be mapped into four distinct phases: (1) the

work of so-called primordialists, (2) the contribution of modernists, (3) the

path-breaking insights of social-psychological theorists, and (4) the recent

reaction of scholars like Rogers Brubaker, who are confronted b y the

confusing play of ethnic conflict in the post-Cold War world and encourage a

more complex analytical approach.

PRIMORDIALISTS

The earliest attem pts to examine the idea of the n a tio n w ere

characterized by a naive acceptance of the m yth of the ancient orig ins of

nations. While few scholars accepted the most absolute formulations of the

prim ordiality of nationalism —those w hich argued tha t the na tio n is "a

24 Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, p. 7 and pp. 53-54.


9 0natural society" whose "decisive characteristic is b irth /'25 and therefore a

product of bloodlines-m any accepted that forces shaped national identity, and

it was very difficult to break free of the ties of common origin, language,

territory and collective experience.26 These deeply rooted historical facts

produced an inevitable affinity am ong members of an ethnic people, and they

struggled to realize their shared fate in a sovereign union. In short, w hile

nations might not be of ancient origin, their roots are. The w ork of Carleton

Hayes, one of the earliest students of nationalism, best captures the flavor of

this school of thought.27 This analytical tradition is carried on by the recent

work of Anthony Smith, who links nationalism to the persistence of ethnic

com m unities.28 To d istin g u ish Smith's contribution from earlier, m ore

straightforw ardly p rim ord ia lis t w orks, some have term ed his analytical

framework "ethnic continuationist."29

MODERNISTS

The school of "modernists," who arose as a critique of this tradition,

argued instead that nationalism was a specifically m odem artifact, created fcy

contemporary forces. I w ill discuss four authors w ho participate in this

reaction against prim ordialism . These theorists m ake relevant, if very

d ifferent contributions. E rn est Gellner, like D urkheim , is p rim arily

25 Charles Maurras, tited in D eutsch, 'Nationalism and Social Communiation, p. 4.

26 See ibid., pp. 3-8 for a discussion o f this work. See also Eley and Suny, "Introduction: From the Moment of Social History to the W ork of Cultural Representation," in Eley and Suny, eds., Becoming National, pp. 4-6.

27 C.J.H. Hayes, Essays on Nationalism (N ew York: Macmillian, 1966).

28 Anthony D. Smith, The Ethnic Origins o f Nations (London: Blackwell, 1986).

29 See Comments by Eley and Suny in Eley and Suny, eds., Becoming National, p. 105.


91concerned with the role (and historic contribution) of the division of labor in

society. However, unlike D urkheim , Gellner makes a clear case for the

importance of cultural solidarity as an anchoring prerequisite for any stable

economic union. While D urkheim turned to in term ediate occupational

groups to capture loyalty and fashion solidarity, Gellner, aw are of the

possibility that these secondary groups could promote intra-societal conflict,

d irects our attention to the prom ise that national so lidarity ho lds for

anchoring economic activity. Gellner's innovation was his realization that

education, not coercive law, plays the greatest role in creating uniform ity of

habits and collective solidarity. In Gellner's words: "The m onopoly of

legitim ate education is now m ore im portant, m ore central th an is the

monopoly of legitim ate violence."30 This was uniquely true for the m odem

w orld . The challenge is no longer to combine relig ious an d cultural

com m unities in to a m ulti-e thn ic te rrito ria l em pire , b u t in s tead , to

incorporate diverse units into a productive industrial economy. The nation

emerges as the characteristic form of social union in the age of m anufacturing

because industrial production requires several things: (1) a coherent, shared

cognitive and com m unicative cu lture; (2) interchangeable ind iv iduals ,

conditioned by this homogeneous culture and capable of coordinated action

and able to acquire quickly the required workplace skills; and (3) social order.

The cultural landscape of pre-m odern agrarian society w as rigidly

structured, with a religious and political elite, set apart from the masses by

linguistic and cultural d ifferences, ru ling over a p a tch w o rk of local

communities, separated from one another by their attachm ent to traditional

Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, p. 34.


92ethnic cultures and regional dialects. While agrarian society could survive

w ith m ultiple, disconnected producers, working land iso lated in their

separate ethnic communities and sending all surplus to a single, centralized

authority, industrial production requires vast numbers of, in Gellner's words,

"viable and useable hum an beings," w ho share com m on form s of

communication and uniform sensibilities.31 This requirem ent of industrial

technology-growing num bers of workers to fill the shop floors and operate

the m achinery-dem ands the destruction of the old agrarian order and the

manufacture of a new social system and a new form of consciousness, which

commands the loyalty of populations dispersed over a w ide territory.

One of the significant problem s w ith the trad itional social order

inherited from the pre-industrial past was that these perm anent horizontal

divisions, based on language and culture, prevented the free movement of

people (and ideas) into positions of influence. A related concern was the need

for mobility in industrial society; w ith perm anent barriers, hum an forces

couldn’t move w ith the flow of technological and economic tides. Gellner

argues that the new industrial society is the first in history built upon a belief

in progress and continuous improvement, and, as a result, it is the first that

requires individuals conditioned for movement and adaptable to change.32

However, w ith this enormous tidal m otion of economic and human

forces, how is social order conceivable? Gellner's answer is tha t nationalism

has three special qualities which make it ideally suited to preserving order in

this unsettled age. First, nationalism creates a sense of fellow-feeling, which

32 Ibid., p. 38.

32 Ibid., pp. 22-25.


93helps underm ine the potential for conflict inheren t in the occasional

inequalities w hich accompany the industria l econom y. The national

community is a horizontal union, permitting (at least the appearance of) free

m ovem ent w ith o u t barriers.33 G ellner believes th a t inequalities are

temporary, not locked-in by unyielding divisions, and the disadvantaged hold

on to the hope that they can climb out of poverty. I believe this is empirically

incorrect. As I w ill discuss in my case study chapters, the poor correctly

believe that the m iddle class enjoys material and intellectual advantages that

improve their chances to acquire the tools necessary to succeed and reproduce

their success. Second, and directly related to this first point, Gellner argues

that w ith in a national community movements conceived to address these

inequalities cannot draw on the passion and resonance of ethnic identity to

push forward their cause.34 The elimination of internal ethnic divisions does

away w ith one im portant tool for agitators interested in creating revolution.

Third, nationalism, being rooted in myths of common biological union and

shared h isto ry , enjoys an illusion of perm anence, inev itab ility , and

naturalness, which makes challenges to the social order seem impractical and

misconceived.35

Karl Deutsch shares many of Gellner's viewpoints, b u t also offers some

useful perspectives of his own. For Gellner, the construction of the national

community and economic society is part of a single project. Industrial society

is inconceivable w ithout nationalism. At the core of Gellner's analysis is the

33 Ibid., p. 67.

34 Ibid., p. 75.

35 Ibid., p. 11. See also Mary Douglas, How Institutions Think (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1986), p. 45, where she argues this should be view ed as a general rule.


9 4belief that industrialization caused the emergence of nationalism as a form of

social organization. As a result, it is hardly surprising tha t the result is an

in tim ate connection betw een the tw o phenom ena. D eutsch is helpful

because he prys these two elements apart.

While Deutsch believes th a t industria lization an d other m odern

developments are part of a package of social changes that accompanied the

daw n of the age of nationalism, he is much more specific in identifying the

causal factors that produced the nation. Deutsch makes the case that culture

should be thought of as a "configuration of do's and don'ts, a correlated

pattern of mental Stop and Go signs, of preferences im plicit or expressed."36

People who share these c u ltu ra l preferences have an easie r tim e

communicating with one another because they think alike. However, this

only creates the possibility of b u ild in g a com m unity. To succeed in

constructing a w ell-ordered, reasonab ly stab le com m unity , a social

"communications system" m ust be able to handle sufficient volum es of

inform ation and process it accurately and efficiently. It is this capacity to

communicate effectively which produces the m odem communities of culture

w hich span hundreds and even thousands of miles.37 W hat D eutsch calls

"the com municative facilities of a society" include language an d other

"socially standardized system(s) of symbols" and m ethods for transm itting

these symbols; "living m em ories" an d cultural artifacts (like a rt and

architecture) which record these m em ories; and facilities, like schools, which

36 Deutsch, Nationalism and Social Communication, p. 10.

3 / Ibid., p. 62.


95preserve and reproduce these systems of symbols and historical memories.38

D eutsch view s nationality as a system of com m unications-a way of

organizing symbols, preserving memories and transmitting inform ation.39 It

is an especially useful system of communication for the m odem age because

it cuts across locality and race and class to carry the same inform ation—the

sam e sym bolic system, the same preferred "do's and don'ts", the sam e

m em ories—to everyone within the w ide community of the nation state. This

perm its the coordination of the vast hum an resources required by mechanical

p ro d u c tio n . Further, it creates links betw een ind iv iduals who are

increasingly "uprooted by social and technological change, (and) exposed to

the risks of economic competition."40 In fact, Deutsch sees nationalism as a

so lu tio n to the p rob lem of econom ic an d political inequality , a

com m unicative apparatus for organizing collective reactions to poverty and

powerlessness.41

A s I have already discussed, D eutsch believes that we need to

d istingu ish between the cultural com m unity and economic society. The

nation (as a cultural system) and industrial capitalism (as a form of economic

life) emerge a t a similar point in hum an history and are correlated, but not

causally linked. Nationalism possesses certain traits that make it more likely

that industrialization will succeed. Two elements, already discussed, make

this true: (1) nationalism's capacity to channel inform ation more effectively

38[bid., pp. 70-71.

39 Ibid., p. 76.

40 Ibid., p. 75.

41 Ibid., p. 77. In Deutsch's words, national consciousnesses can become "stormladders for masses o f individuals."


9 6across social barriers, and (2) it's ability to provide a comforting sense of

belonging to individuals adrift in the technological and economic tides of the

m odem industrial market.

However, Deutsch points to an im portant point that escapes Gellner's

analysis. "Prenationalistic” and pre-industrial leaders can adapt to changing

circumstances by substituting the illusion of national solidarity for the reality

of nationalism. By offering the rhetoric of nationalism , while controlling the

"communicative facilities” that provide the "stormladders" for the masses to

climb out of poverty and restructure inequitable economic arrangem ents,

these elites are able to retain power.42 M eanwhile, they are able (at least for a

short time) to appropriate the organizational properties of nationalism to

construct industrial society. In short, they mobilize the hum an resources

required for industrial production, while suppressing the construction of a

true "national" community.

A third scholar, like Gellner and Deutsch, who points to the special

quality of nationalism as an unpara lle led tool for bu ild ing resilian t

foundations for collective solidarity in the m odem age is Barry Posen.43 I

disagree with many of Posen's secondary conclusions, but I share his interest

in retrieving elements of Gellner's argum ent in order to adapt them for a

more careful use. Posen wants to emphasize (more deliberately than Gellner)

th a t nationalism is something constructed by the state for purposes of

mobilizing the masses for the work of the nation-whatever the ends of that

w ork might be. (As I will discuss, I believe tha t he mistakenly limits the

4 2 Ibid., pp. 77-78.

42 Barry R. Posen, "Nationalism, the Mass Army, and M ilitary Power," International Security18, no. 2 (Fall 1993), pp. 80-124


9 7range of possible ends, w hile exaggera ting the in ten tionality of the

undertaking.) Posen also attempts to answer an important question left aside

by Gellner and Deutsch: H ow does nationalism become such an extensive

phenom enon?

Posen links nationalism w ith a specific cause: the need for m odem

sovereign states "to m obilize the creative energies and the spirit of self-

sacrifice of m illions of soldiers."44 The first mass army arose fairly recently,

in France following the Revolution. A review of the full list of reasons why

the French regim e brought about this innovation is unneccesary for our

purposes. Let me sketch out a few of the im portant points.

Between 1792 and 1815, France fought a series of wars w ith neighboring

European powers. The sweeping ideological fervor of the French Revolution

helped produce meaningful changes in the organization and composition of

the French arm y.45 The officers corps, once the exclusive privilege of the

nobility, became open to educated m en of the growing m iddle class. The

rank-and-file, once a sm all band of vo lunteer troops, was enorm ously

expanded by conscription following the first coalition's invasion of France in

1793.46 This w ealth of fresh blood was necessary, since the long duration of

this period of warfare required the continuing replacement of French officers

44 lb id., p. 81.

45 See Ibid., pp. 83-84. See also Theda Skoqpol, States and Social Revolutions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), especially pp. 196-198 (Skocpol, using several sources, estim ates that the French army jumped from 200,000 troops in 1792 to 770,000 by 1794); and Stephen M. Walt, Revolutions and War (Ithaca: Cornell U niversity Press, 1996), pp. 46-128. Walt also makes the persuasive argument that revolutions make war more likely by changing perceptions of the "balance of threat." Ill return to this point in my treatment of Cuba in chapter 4.

^ Posen, p. 83.


98and soldiers. The need to cycle the thousands of new soldiers into existing

units required a new system for educating soldiers. Soldiers needed to

become interchangeable units, capable of picking up a w eapon and stepping

into the dem ands of battle, ready (and willing) to work in coordination with

other soldiers (and under the direction of officers) they never m et before.

This required a sense of collective purpose (which m eant shared memories

and a common fram ework for viewing preferences) and a standard spoken

language (and eventually literacy).47 All in all, the mass-army emerged as a

result of the accident of the French Revolution.

But efforts by o ther European states to reproduce the innovation

resulted in the purposeful construction of national solidarity through the

developm ent of territory-w ide universal education and the use of other

public resources to create a cognitive union w hich incorporated the entire

population. The nation, Posen argues, was the product of the need to imitate

an innovation which threatened to make France the dom inant pow er on the

continent. In some cases, these innovations were adopted reluctantly, by

leaders w ho feared that the construction of m ass-education and collective

consciousness would result in a surge of popular expressions of discontent.48

The need to guarantee the payoff-preserving the state's freedom from French

dom ination-exceeded the risk of facing other unacceptable costs, namely,

mass revolt and the loss of elite political control.

Posen's argument is reasonable and convincing. The principal doubt I

have is whether he is entirely correct about the intentional character of the

47 See Ibid., p. 85.

48 Ibid., p. 97.


99construction of national consciousness. In many cases, it seems, nationalism

is the product of deliberate state intervention. H ow ever, there seems to be

too many cases w here national solidarity em erges despite state efforts to

suppress it. Further, there are other cases where national consciousness does

not emerge, despite state efforts to cultivate it. Clearly, Posen doesn't fully

acknowledge the complexity of the social game w hich produces nationalism.

The state is only one actor at work in the give-and-take over the construction

of collective consciousness. Much of his a rgum ent seems to be about

developing patriotism , not true nationalist so lidarity , w hich (as Deutsch

rem inded us) requires the willing participation of popular sectors, not their

unwitting participation in wars designed to preserve a status quo.

In addition, while Posen's work may offer a persuasive argument for

the emergence of nationalism in Europe, and a m ore limited explanation for

nationalist projects elsew here (he claims th a t nationalism and mass

m obilization will em erge wherever states feel th e ir security threatened by

foreign armies), his efforts clearly do not offer a com prehensive explanation

for the sp read of nationalist projects th roughou t the periphery, where

nationalism becomes a liberational (not a status quo) project.

A fourth author, Tom Naim , provides a partia l solution to this puzzle.

N aim sees nationalism as a tool used by elements of backward societies to

construct a strategy for resisting the domination o f Anglo-French (and later

global) capitalism .49 N aim developed his analytical project following a little

49 See Tom N aim , The Break-Up of Britain: Crisis and Neo-nationalism (London: Verso, 1977); also Tom N aim , "Scotland and Europe" in Eley and Suny, Eds., Becoming National, pp. 79-104. The same article w as published under the same title in New Left Review 83 (January-February 1974), pp. 57-82. M ost of my references will come from the "Scotland and Europe" artide, since Naim 's argument is m ade m ost precisely there.


1 0 0noticed insight offered by Gellner.50 Gellner observed that nationalism was,

at least in some circumstances, connected w ith the "uneven diffusion" of

industria l know -how . In N airn 's hands, this contribution fram es an

illum inating d iscussion of the complex relationship betw een uneq u a l

international development, the aspirations of local elites, and the role of the

masses in claiming a small circle of self-directed economic and political life.

As I will argue in a moment, N aim provides the perfect point of transition

betw een the m odernist school of thought, and the (prim arily M arxist)

theorists who followed w ith the "imagined community" movement of social

psychological analysis.

In a sense, N aim 's argument is also a useful expansion of Posen's

argument. Posen limited his reflections to the role of security competition as

the prim ary cause of nationalist reconstructions of society. N airn sees

nationalism emerge from economic competition. Local bourgeoisies in the

backward peripheries of Europe (and later in the third-world) tu rn to

nationalism to resist the imposition of foreign economic domination (and to

build a local form of industrial capitalism ). These local elites w an t

development, but self-directed development, which promises to enrich local

industrialists, not foreign m anufacturers. To achieve their goals, the

bourgeoisie tu rn to the masses, and mobilize their energies in the g reat

nationalist struggle for self-guided industrial development. As N aim points

out, this requires a central relationship between the bourgeoisie and the

common people. In some cases, this link is slow to develop. This can be

because elites are sufficiently comfortable, despite foreign control of the

50 See Ernest Gellner, "Nationalism," in Ernest Gellner, Thought and Change (London: W eidenfeld and Nicholson, 1964), pp. 158-169.


101economy, and they view the m asses, not the foreign bourgeoisie, to be a

greater threat to their well-being. Or, it can be because there is enorm ous

cultural difference between local elites and the common people, and the basis

for m obilizing a nationalist response to foreign dom ination can no t be

negotiated. I will return to these points in the next chapter, because they

nicely capture elements of the explanation for Cuba's delayed nationalist

project.

SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGISTS

To develop the outline of this phase of theoretical thought I will

consider the work of three w riters. Benedict Anderson, like N aim , devotes

part of his craft to explaining the em ergence of nationalist projects in

peripheral societies struggling to free them selves from the dom ination of

distant powers.51 However, in a departure from N aim , A nderson doesn't

have an idealized view of how these projects operate-he is aware that not

everyone in the (newly formed) collectivity enjoys equally the benefits of

liberation.

Anderson's project is a significant break from m ost previous work,

since he encourages scholars to think more deeply about the social psychology

of nationalism. For Anderson, a nation is not a community of language, or

territory, or material exchange, bu t an imagined com m unity, a collectivity

which exists in abstraction, beyond the ability of the indiv idual to know in

im m ediate or experiential terms. This com m unity is constructed through

innovations in language, changing perceptions of time and place, and shifting

styles in literary representations. Anderson also offers an acknowledgem ent

51 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities (London: Verso, 1991).


102of the multiplicity of nationalisms, rem inding readers that the tem poral arc

of history conditions the availability of nationalism as a viable tool for the

coordination of collective behavior. As nationalism becomes a recognized

foundation for social movements and a way of thinking about collectivity, it

becomes available for use by more and more elites attempting to construct a

new group consciousness or a legitimate basis for rule. These constructions,

w hich employ available ideological, intellectual, and cultural resources, are

designed to protect or further the interests of privileged social actors. As I will

discuss in a moment, it is difficult to believe that elites could be successful so

consistently at identify ing (and effectively using) the rig h t cultural raw

material to build vehicles for their own strategic ends. It is better to imagine

that elite actors adapt to changing circumstances and redirect social shifts that

are launched by forces largely beyond their control. Indeed, this is the lesson

one learns from Anderson's third nationalist age.

A nderson identifies four phases of nationalist struggle. One of the

m ost surprising aspects of Anderson's analysis is his claim tha t the first

nationalist wave em anated not from the European core, b u t from Europe's

N ew W orld colonies. P roperty -ow ning (and office-holding) "creole

pioneers," motivated by a desire to control their ow n affairs (and retain for

them selves the rew ards of working the land and practicing their official

profession), used nationalist appeals to throw-off the chains of their trans

atlantic colonial m asters.52 The interesting thing about this project was its

lim ited in tentions-the goal was not to build a national union, b u t to

reengineer the political and social hierarchy in order to allow N ew W orld

52 Ibid., pp. 47-65.


103elites to at last occupy a position of supremacy. To do this, creole leaders

constructed a "socially thin" national m ovem ent, w hich purposefully

excluded from meaningful roles members of the lower classes, and African

and indigenous communities in particular.53 It was a project which made use

of the new resources of print-capitalism to reach out to the literate middle-

class to create a consciousness of a territorial hom eland, populated by kindred

individuals, suffering collectively under a system of domination imposed by

distant poltical authorities. The low er classes w ere excluded because local

elites wanted to continue to profit from the exploitation of the poor and

powerless (including populations held in servitude), and the privileged

classes feared that a genuinely shared union w ould provide the poor w ith a

basis for voicing claims of equality. Conveniently, because the lower classes

couldn't read (and in m any cases could no t even speak the dom inant

"national" language), excluding them from the discourse of the nation was

simple.

Over the next hundred years, the example of the New World's nation-

building project created a m odel employed by societies at the peripheries of

the European land-mass. This was the second wave of nationalism.54 This

phase was characterized by native intellectuals retrieving (and standardizing)

local languages as a form of resistance to the domination of distant im perial

authorities. The result w as a new sense of belonging for Romanians and

Bulgarians and Finns.

Ibid., pp. 48-49.

54 Ibid., pp. 67-82.


1 0 4However, a secondary result was the emergence of yet another wave of

na tionalis t "imaginings," w hat A nderson calls "official nationalism ."55

Dynastic multi-ethnic states, feeling the shift in the cultural and political

foundations of group connectedness, began to dress-up in the disguise of the

nation, or in the words of Anderson, to stretch "the short, tight skin of the

nation over the gigantic body of the empire."56 As I mentioned earlier, the

idea that elites could repeatedly succeed at this charade seems difficult to

believe. It presupposes both the idea that the concept of the nation is so

elastic as to perm it almost lim itless plasticity, and the (surely m istaken)

notion that the lower classes and local ethnic communities are blind fools,

capable of being tricked by the most transparent deceptions. It is better to

im agine that elite actors, struggling to use new ideological w eapons to

preserve their advantages in wealth and pow er, succeeded only in delaying

their downfall. Indeed, in Anderson's opinion, these official projects w ere

absurd undertakings, and in most cases d id very little to promote solidarity

betw een the imperial core and d istant subjugated populations. The one

notable success, perhaps, was Czarist Russification.

M ore commonly, as was the case w ith G reat Britain's attem pts to

Anglicize its far-flung empire, the result was to help promote a liberational

fourth wave of nationalist thought, which adopted the nationalist model that

had becom e the principal conceptual hook upon which all thoughts of

collective union or groupness were hung.57 In fact, the colonial schools

55 Ibid., pp. 83-111.

56 Ibid., p. 86.

57 Ibid., pp. 113-140.


105established as part of Britain's Anglicization campaign became the source for

the intellectual tools (mainly literacy an d bilingualism) which were used by

native nation-builders to construct the foundation for their "national"-

liberation movements.

Eric Hobsbawm's primary contribution to the literature of nationalism

is his effort to clarify some of the m echanism s by which these nationalist

imaginings are standardized and reproduced. I want to develop four themes

prominent in Hobsbawm's work. First, Hobsbawm offers the wise insigh t

that nationalist loyalties, in many cases, do not erase preexisting attachments.

Given the multiple loyalties each individual juggles, the job of constructing

solidarity is not to create uniformity of consciousness, bu t to make certain

that each person reorders how they prioritize their loyalties, placing loyalty to

the nation above all else.58 Local tastes; regional rivalries; political, religious,

and racial differences may survive, as long as this perm its loyalty to the

nation to remain a common thread.

Second, Hobsbawm does an excellent job of examining the relevance of

the raw materials of collective identity. Ethnicity, language, religion, and

revered iconography do not form the nation .59 Indeed, these cu ltu ra l

elements can serve to divide, as well as to unite a people. These cu ltu ra l

b u ild in g blocks only am oun t to , in H obsbaw m 's w o rds, "p ro to

nationalism ."60 These elements serve as a foundation for th ink ing about the

E. J. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism Since 1780 (Cambridge: Cambridge U niversity Press, 1990), p. 11.

59 Ibid., pp. 46-79.

60 Ibid., p. 46.


106nation. Nation-builders need to identify these bits and pieces of culture and

use them to generate feelings and imaginings of connectedness.

Third, Hobsbawm noted the role of the "invention of tradition" as a

crucial element in the construction of group solidarity.61 According to

Hobsbawm, what makes the nation such a powerful (and attractive) form of

g roup cohesion is its ability to offer (if only as theater) "som ething

unchanging and invariant" as a po in t of reference in the ever-evolving,

unsettled sweep of m odem life.62 As part of the nation-building process,

traditions were constructed out of ancient or new materials, and positioned in

the national m ind through song, rituals and ceremonies, art, and state

architecture. The idea was to institutionalize the nation as an ages-old

cultural and political union, one connected to history (and past generations)

and, in its unchanging solidity, one which would continue on into the future.

Traditions helped expand the concept of the im agined com m unity-now

members of the nation shared an everlasting union w ith revered ancestors

and future generations.

Finally, Hobsbawm offers the persuasive observation that the only

viable nationalism is a useful nationalism . For purposes of creating the

foundation for more dynamic economic activity (as well as the promotion of

national defense), the expansion of the scope of hum an society was the

objective.63 This m eant that national union, to be viewed as a legitim ate

61 Ibid., pp. 80-130. See also, E.J. Hobsbawm, "Introduction: Inventing Traditions" and "Mass- Producing Traditions: Europe, 1870-1914," both in Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983).

62 Hobsbawm, "Introduction: Inventing Traditions" in Hobsbawm and Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition, p. 2.

63 Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism Since 1780, p. 33.


107contribution to progress (and to the interests of the state), needed to follow

the form of national unification, not division. Bringing people together to do

the work of the collectivity was the desired goal.

This belief-that nationalism matters because it brings together the

resources required to lay the foundations for progress-is the central idea in

many third-world nationalist movements according to Partha Chatterjee.64

Like Benedict Anderson, Chatterjee argues that the leaders of liberational

struggle in the colonial south borrowed the idea of the nation, w hich was

perfected if not invented in Europe, to further their wars of independence.

Unlike Anderson, however, Chatterjee believes that the core concept was

adopted following careful critical reflection. For A nderson, nationalism

became a strategic resource-like other m odern w eapons-for liberating a

population and its territory from a foreign master. In Chatterjee's hands,

nationalism becomes also an opportun ity to reim agine the hum an

community, reinvent a collective history, and reinterpret shared symbols as a

w ay of better out-fitting the new sta te/people w ith the prerequisites to

progress beyond past limits and find a m eaningful place in th e global

community (as well as the means to defend this new achievement).65

Along this dimension, post-colonial nationalism becomes genuinely

liberational, since it brings together a subjugated (and divided) population

under the banner of a distinct identity and equips them w ith the conceptual

64 See Partha Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World (M inneapolis: University o f Minnesota Press, 1986/1995) and Partha Chatterjee, The Nation and its Fragments (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993).

65 See Chatterjee, The Nation and its Fragments, pp. 110-115. For a clear reading of Chatterjee's intentions, see Eley and Suny, "Introduction: From the Moment of Social H istory to the Work of Cultural Representation," in Eley and Suny, eds., Becoming National, pp . 28-29.


108tools and collective solidarity necessary to defend their place in a w orld

dom inated by pow erful fo re ign Goliaths. H ow ever, on the other hand,

nationalism fails to deliver freedom to the poor and the powerless within the

new nation-state.66 This is because post-colonial nationalism, like all forms

of nationalist reconceptualizations of social union, is a state-guided project

designed to assemble the hum an resources required for industrial production.

The new ideology of national culture becomes the intellectual project w hich

perm its and legitimates the construction of industria l society. Indeed, the

threat posed by foreign capitalists (usually former colonial masters), promotes

the (collective) belief tha t economic dynam ism (and industrialization in

particular) is a very rational necessity. The industrial model characteristically

carries w ith it the baggage of hierarchy and unequal rewards, and these evils

are adopted along w ith the promise of progress.

INNOVATIONS IN POST-COLD WAR THEORY

In the decade since the collapse of the Soviet Union brought about the

end of the Cold War, students of nationalism have endeavored to understand

the m eaning (and the sources) of the nationalist struggles w hich fell upon

parts of east-central Europe. Unfortunately, a good deal of this w ork has been

done by scholars w ith very little familiarity w ith the vast body of existing

though t on the subject. This lim its their ability to b u ild on previous

successes. I will briefly review the w ork of four authors who w ork beyond

this lim itation to offer w orthw hile contributions.

M uch of this w ritin g has been done by scholars of international

relations, who bring the assumptions and analytical tools of their discipline to

66 Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World, p . 168.


109the project. As a result, they are prone to explain ethnic conflicts in terms of

mechanisms like the security dilemma67 and structural anarchy.68 Too often,

these authors seem to return to a prim ordialist perspective, blaming conflict

on ancient hatreds which have been let out of the bottle by the roll-back of

Soviet (and local totalitarian communist) authority.

The m ost valuable contributions in this wave of literature carried the

analysis into less frequently traveled territory and em phasized in ternal

politics as the explanation for ethnic tension. A good example of this type of

work is the contribution of V.P. Gagnon, Jr.69 Gagnon's argument explains

the heightened national consciousness in the form er Yugoslavia th rough

w ithin-group competition over political office and related rewards. In order

to protect their privileged position, challenged leaders stir up national

sentiments and prom ote ethnic conflict as a way of rem apping cleavages, to

redefine nationality (or, more narrowly, ethnicity) as the only politically

relevant identity.70 The hope is that this strategy will encourage members of

67 See as exam ples, Chaim Kaufmann, "Possible and Im possible Solutions to Ethnic Civil Wars," International Security 20, no. 4 (Spring 1996), pp. 136-175; also published under the same title in M ichael E. Brown et al, eds., Nationalism and Ethnic Conflict (Cambridge: MTT Press, 1997), pp. 265-304; and Barry R. Posen, "The Security D ilem m a and Ethnic Conflict," S u rviva l 35, no. 1 (Spring 1993), pp. 27-47.

68 See in particular, D avid A. Lake and Donald Rothchild, "Containing Fear: The Origins and M anagement of Ethnic Conflict," International Security 21, no. 2 (Fall 1996), pp. 41-75; also published under the sam e title in Brown et al, eds., Nationalism and Ethnic Conflict, pp. 97- 131.

69 V.P. Gagnon, Jr., "Ethnic Nationalism and International Conflict," International Security 19, no. 3 (W inter 1994/95), pp. 130-166; also published under the same title in Brown et al, eds., Nationalism and Ethnic Conflict, pp. 132-168

70 Gagnon, "Ethnic Nationalism and International Conflict," in Brown et al, eds., N ationalism and Ethnic Conflict, p. 134. Notice that this is a restatement o f Hobsbawm ’s claim, that national consciousness only requires a reordering of citizen's loyalties. Existing biases, rivalries, political opinions and religious beliefs can survive, as long as they rank below the paramount loyalty to the nation.


110the national community to forget class disputes and political grievances and,

in the process, preserve the status quo authority of the ruling party.

Unlike many of his fellow-travelers, Gagnon is connected to many of

the m ain them es of scholarly research on nationalism . He presents

nationalist sentim ent as a constructed phenom enon resulting from very

recent developments. He critically questions the benefits of nationalism,

finding that the project typically serves elite interests at the expense of

popular causes. The biggest problem w ith Gagnon's view of domestic politics

is that he badly overestimates the pow er of rhetoric to cloud a clear-headed

calculation of self- or class-interest. Persuasion, w hich he calls "the most

effective" tool for arriv ing at dom estic po litical gains, is used w ith

considerable success by strategically savvy elites to the detrim ent of the

foolishly gullible masses.71 While I find Gagnon's claim that elites with their

backs to the wall might try this strategy in order to redefine the salient terms

of political identification, I can not agree w ith him that the project is so likely

to succeed. As the next pair of authors establish, mass decisions to sign-on to

available identities are also a product of rational calculation.

Like Gagnon, D avid L aitin an d Jam es Fearon have b rough t

unconventional analytical tools to the study of nationalism, employing game

theoretic methods in a field of study more accustomed to interpretive work.

As in Gagnon's project, Laitin and Fearon are interested in inter-ethnic

conflict. However, their w ork provides some im portant insights into the

process of constructing national identity. It is these elements of their work I

will consider, while leaving aside the issue of inter-ethnic violence.

71 Ibid., p. 137.


IllLaitin and Fearon do not offer a direct answer to the question: W hat is

the origin of national identity? However, it is simple enough to take a step

back and reconstruct their basic beliefs (using Laitin's earlier w ork on the

question as a starting point). Like other recent students of the subject, Laitin

and Fearon reject prim ordialist analyses. While kinship, language, religion,

and other cultural elements provide the building blocks of national identity,

inhabitants of the social landscape choose how to assembly these pieces into a

whole.72 In m aking their choices, common people select strategically,

attem pting to "position themselves for economic and political benefits."73

Elites can play an important role in structuring the choice set, by trying to link

benefits to specific constructions of nationality. Particular form ulations of

national identity are constructed from this two-sided project, elites attem pting

to influence outcomes by joining payoffs to particular choices an d the masses

attempting to make choices that produce superior benefits.

Once a formula for thinking about national identity is constructed and

shared by a sufficiently large num ber of people, collective so lidarity is

reinforced by the universal need to find some way to ev a lu a te th e

trustworthiness of the people w ith whom one interacts. In order to cooperate

with others, certain types of information need to be gathered. Collecting this

type of inform ation can be costly, and in some cases im possible. Ethnic

unions are characterized by relatively dense social networks an d offer "low

72 See David Laitin, "Hegemony and Religious Conflict: British Imperial Control and Political Cleavages in Yorubaland,” in Peter Evans, Dietrich Rueschemeyer and Theda Skocpol, eds., Bringing the State Back In (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), pp. 286-287. See also David Laitin, "The National Uprisings in the Soviet Union," World Politics 44, no. 1 (October 1991), pp. 139-177.

73 Ibid., p. 286.


112cost access to information." about the people w ith which one trades.74 What

the authors mean by this is sim ilar to the idea we encountered in Deutsch's

work: nations enjoy highly developed communications system s that allow

for cheap and rapid transm ission of inform ation. In this case, Fearon and

Laitin are specifically concerned w ith inform ation about ind iv iduals and

their capacity to be trustworthy.

It may seem that this type of inform ation becomes m ore difficult to

secure as an e th n ic /n a tio n a l com m unity grow s in size. W hile this is

certainly true, this fact is som ewhat beside the point. Because for Fearon and

Laitin, national solidarity is m easured in comparison to the relatively limited

solidarity individuals share w ith people outside their ethnic network. In

other words, while it is difficult to get consistently reliable inform ation about

po ten tia l transactional p a rtn e rs w ith in y o u r social com m unity (and

impossible to collect perfect inform ation), it is much easier th an collecting

inform ation about individuals outside one's community. W ithin a group,

individuals share culturally coded m ethods for signalling their intentions,

and collective institutions provide inform ation about how trustw orthy are

p articu la r classes of in d iv id u a ls . Even an im p erfec t sy stem for

com m unicating in fo rm ation p rov ides g rea te r security an d a better

foundation for trust than an unstructured relationship w hich provides no

reliable information whatsoever.

What I like about Fearon and Laitin's w ork is the fact that they sketch-

out a more powerful civil society. Unlike m any other authors, Fearon and

Laitin recognize that the masses are active players in the construct of national

74 See James D. Fearon and D avid D . Laitin, "Explaining Interethnic Cooperation," American Political Science Review 90, no. 4 (December 1996), pp. 715-735.


113identities. While they only have limited control over the raw m aterial out of

w hich they assemble their collective identity (fate and elites play im portant

roles in structuring this choice set), they are central actors in making decisions

about how these cultural elements are assembled into a whole.

One of the interesting things about this period of theorizing about

national identity is the common concern w ith how processes of constructing

self-identity are shaped by views of the "other." These authors agree that how

we im agine ourselves is partly determ ined by how we draw boundaries

between ourselves and others. Perhaps the mostly useful contribution to this

analytical approach has been made by Rogers Brubaker. Brubaker practices an

extreme version of constructivist thinking. He begins w ith the radical idea

that scholars entirely should avoid thinking about nations as "substantial

entities."75 Instead, they are phantasm s created from political practices,

cu ltu ra l idiom s, and conceptual fram ings. Brubaker draw s A nderson's

concept of "imagined communities" out to its thinnest extreme: according to

A nderson these national communities exist because people imagine they do,

for Brubaker they do not exist, we only imagine they do. Brubaker wants to

th ink of the nation as a "contingent event," som ething that happens or

emerges as the product of collective actions-it has no form or substance of its

own, it is only the residue left behind by activities directed toward some other

end.76

Nevertheless, the idea of the nation (as a kind of mass-hallucination),

and efforts to bring it into being (however impossible that may be) produce

75 Rogers Brubaker, Nationalism Reframed: Nationhood and the National Question in the New Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 7.

Ibid., p. 7 and pp. 19-21.


114real consequences. Nation-states reach across geo-political borders to try to

liberate the ir "national" brethren, held in captivity as ethnic m inorities

surrounded by hostile, culturally d istinct others. Elsewhere, perhaps in a

neighboring country, political leaders, uncertain about the ethnocultural

purity of their people, undertake "nationalizing" projects designed to

promote uniformity of language and singularity of culture. These projects, in

many cases, produce political instability, conflict, and war, and in m ost cases

produce the eradication of ethnicity-which Brubaker defines as the parochial

cultural habits and frameworks of identity which tie people to localities.

W hat is the goal of these destructive projects? Brubaker offers two

answers, one explicit, the other implicit. First, Brubaker openly argues that

these nation-building projects are undertaken by ethnic elites who seek to use

the pow er of the state to "realize" the destiny of their people (so long

frustrated by the discriminatory practices of previous sovereigns), by claiming

a piece of territory as their own, and expanding their cultural autonom y

throughout the whole expanse of this territory.77 In some cases, this mission

also requires rescuing their ethnic kin w ho reside in another territory.

Implicitly, Brubaker seems to be arguing that these efforts to identify a

national community, construct a coherant and uniform culture for it, and

create and defend a territorial hom eland come from a need to escape the

dem ands of others. It is about identifying interests-reserving for oneself

wealth and power-and constructing a collectivity capable of achieving and

77 Ibid., p. 9 and pp. 79-106.


115defending these interests.78 This m ay be about escaping oppression and

exploitation, or it m ay be ab o u t protecting imbalances in incom e and

influence. The point is, the objectives are political and economic goals, not

cultural autonomy per se. The cultural group is defined in term s that make

possible the attainment of the goals conceived. Then, the protection of these

gains-the defense of w ealth an d pow er against all who m ay come to

challenge one's claim to it—becom es a (legitimate) defense of national

au tonom y, not a self-serving b id to preserve a misbegotten treasure. Interests

become defined as national because the collectivity defending them is the

"nation."

In particular, B rubaker w ants scholars to take up th e project of

understanding the m echanisms by which "nationalizing states" define and

im plem ent their social and political goals.79 A lthough he never offers a

satisfying definition of the state, it is fairly clear that he imagines it to be a

th in administrative bureaucracy which fairly mechanically acts to realize the

policy preferences of a civilian elite. In many cases, this state "owning" elite

is sharply distinct from the rest of the population; and in the case of the

"nationalizing" state, this com m unity of elites is ethnoculturally distinct

from most others who inhabit the social landscape.80 State policies are

conceived as means of achieving linguistic and cultural uniform ity. While

Brubaker doesn't provide a com plete list of these policy initiatives, it seems

clear that public education w ould have to be considered a component in any

78 Rogers Brubaker, "Myths and M isconceptions in the Study of Nationalism," forthcoming in John H all, ed., Ernest Gellner and the Theory of Nationalism (Cambridge: Cambridge U niversity Press, 1998), p. 22.

79 Brubaker, Nationalism Reframed, p. 9.

80 Ibid., p. 104.


116collection of reform s designed to im p lem en t cu ltu ta l and lingu istic

uniformity. These policies are viewed as com pensatory, not power seeking,

since the objective is to rem edy past d isc rim in a tio n and repression

com m itted against the nation by more or less clearly specified others. A

secondary element of this project is building the capacity to prevent similar

injustices from happening in the future. The problem w ith Brubaker's

analysis is that he fails to offer a vision of the state which corresponds to

recent studies which discover an autonom ous, self-interested state, which

struggles w ith other actors to shape policy according to its preferences.

Two aspects of Brubaker's project appeal to me. I find the idea that

nationalism is something that emerges from actions directed toward some

other end very persuasive. This makes it possible to imagine that Castro's

revolutionary state was building national consciousness even while it was

occupied w ith reinforcing the revolutionary fiber of the people. Second, I

believe there is a need to explore w ith more care the processes used by states

to institutionalize "national" solidarity. W hile there has been occasional

in terest in the role of the state in na tion-bu ild ing , m any of the m ost

in fluen tia l contributors have focused on the ro le of non-state actors.

Admittedly, these actors play a key role, but the state m ust also be recognized

as a central participant. This is especially true if it is acknowledged that public

schools play an important part in the project.

A n im portant question becomes: Who cham pions reconstructions of

collective consciousness, specifically those projects w hich result in w hat is

fam iliarly called nationalism? As this discussion has dem onstrated, elites

occasionally have good reasons to adop t policies to prom ote "national"

consciousness. The bourgeoisie may seek to construct the social foundations


1 1 7for industrial development. A local elite may want to generate resistance to

the im position of foreign political or economic domination. Imperialists m ay

attem pt to create a m ore com prehensive ’’national" union which b inds

together many peoples living under the political umbrella of the em pire.

However, as this review of the literature also shows, elites often work to

supress the emergence of a shared popular union. As Anderson and Deutsch

propose, the wealthy have good reason to fear that a collective consciousness

joining together the common people can result in unwanted challenges to

the status quo.

O n the other hand, the m asses have reasons to be d istrustfu l of

"nationalizing" policies. As G ellner and Brubaker argue, nationalism

obliterates local cultures which can provide a sense of attachm ent an d

security to poor people. In the place of these parochial cultures, the architects

of the nation substitute a vast hom ogeneity which produces a lim itless

num ber of sim ilar units, conditioned to be plugged into the machinery of

industrial production. Still, the poor and powerless have the potential to

gain benefits from nationalizing initiatives. The colonized can break free

(and preserve their independence) from pow erful foreign masters. Further,

as Laitin and Fearon argue, the process of constructing a national identity can

open up opportunities for some actors to piece together an especially

powerful personality, which allow them to gain access to benefits previously

unavailable to them.

So, if elites and the popular classes have, at best, mixed incentives to

build nations, who has a more unam biguous interest in constructing national

consciousness? My answer is the state. In actuality, as I will discuss w ith

m ore specificity in the chapter to follow, the project customarily aims at


118som ething else. In particular, states seek uniformity of consciousness as a

w ay of expanding the material productivity of the masses, creating social

harm ony, and providing im proved geo-political security from external

threats. One important tool in this project is public education.

While the state may desire this broad horizontal union, i t is only

capable of constructing it in collaboration with (or in the absence of)

im portant non-state social actors. As I will argue in the next chapter, social

revolution, which removes pow erful opponents of shared un ion , is one

mechanism which can create circumstances friendly to the im plem entation

of the universal educational policies so central to the construction of the

nation.

However, what is it that universal education constructs? I believe that

schools do shape sentiments, encouraging through the content of curriculum

and daily routines a collective affection for the state and o ther revered

in stitu tions. More im portan tly though, universal education teaches

common cognitive habits, a public history, and a shared language. These

factors create a conceptual and interpretive landscape which people navigate

to find their way through the world. These fellow-travelers find am ong their

collective journeys a connectedness w hich is commonly id e n tif ied as

nationalism .


CHAPTER 4

THE CASE OF CUBA

Initial V iew

Following Cuba's revolution, the government of Fidel Castro took on a

far-reaching educational reform project, which w as linked w ith parallel

organizational, symbolic, and economic initiatives collectively designed to

reconceptualize citizenship and expand membership in the civic union. As a

package, these projects were both radical and incorporationist in their logic.

Che G u ev a ra 's com m itm ent to a rad ical reen g in eerin g of C uban

consciousness, in pursuit of an ideal "communist man," ready to begin the

work of class struggle, was only half-heartedly taken up by Castro and his

circle of planners. This im pulse was given its organizational form in a

variety of consciousness-building projects that functioned at the m argins of

governmental policy. Later I w ill discuss two of these programs, the Schools

for Revolutionary Instruction and the Committees for the Defense of the

R evolution.

As I w ill show, the educational reform s w ere characterized by

inclusiveness, functioning to bu ild a broad horizontal com m unity. W hat

resulted, I argue, was the first island-wide unification of Cubans into a

national cu lture . This v ision of national un ion , of course, retained

119


1 2 0revolutionary princip les-m any authors have argued persuasively th a t it

could not be otherw ise-but these ideological elements w ere in terp reted

through a collective project.1 The goal was to map cleavages in such a way

th a t m em bership in a b road , inclusive collectivity (i.e., the national

community), not a more narrowly conceived class identity, was the principal

politically relevant self-understanding. Or, to borrow Eric H obsbaw m 's

phraseology, the objective was to reorder how citizens p rio ritized their

loyalties, making certain that the state and the national collectivity w ere the

prim ary recipients of the citizenry’s affections and the beneficiaries of their

actions.

This project was undertaken because actors at several levels-in the

state (which now found itse lf free to pursue its in terests), inside the

leadership of the popular m ovem ent (in particular Castro's 26th of July

movement), and among ordinary people-found nation-wide union a viable

(and preferred) vehicle for coordinating Cuban solidarity. The project was

successful because revolutionary change created an environm ent friendly to

the institutionalization of the universal education reform s w hich helped

construct an expanded Cuban collectivity. This was true for several reasons.

In the first place, opponents of a broadened national consciousness w ere

swept from the island. At the same time, links with U.S. business interests—

w ho also opposed a s ta te -au th o red redefinition of C u b an n a tio n a l

consciousness-fell away.

In the second place, the guiding principle of M arxist revolu tion—the

achievement of gains for m any over the privilege of the few -created a new

1 Louis A. Perez Jr., Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution (2nd Edition) (N ew York: Oxford University Press, 1995), pp. 332-52.


121conception of connectedness which prom oted a broad horizontal solidarity.

N ationalism can be u nderstood to be, as H obsbaw m proposes, a

representation of "the common interest against particular interests."2 This

framework established a formula for action for state bureaucrats who had no

ideological motivations, bu t only w anted to hold on to their jobs. These

public workers, who played a key role in implementation, attem pted to shape

their actions to achieve these goals, because to do otherwise (they believed)

pu t their jobs at risk.

Additionally, they were given the resources to accomplish their aims.

This was largely so because state officers at the highest reaches of government

valued these community-building goals and took care to fund literacy efforts,

school construction projects, and related educational initiatives. Fourth, this

was true because the state, as an actor separate from the party leaders who

fought to control it, em braced an opportunity to construct a wide-based

solidarity that could prom ise stability, achieve desired developm ent goals,

and mobilize the masses to fight the foreign enem ies of the state. The

revolution served to w ipe-out supporters of limited government. As a result,

the post-revolutionary state was m ore free to reo rd er society in ways

appropriate to the achievement of its particular goals. Which, in the end,

reveals an interesting irony. Nationalism, conceived as a mechanism for

elim inating the narrow interests of particular actors, was used to achieve

goals specific to the state.

2 E.J. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism Since 1780 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), p. 20. This isn't the form nationalism always takes. Hobsbawm 's account is useful because it is rich in historical diversity. The idea o f nationalism -and its political relevance- changes over time.


122Finally, the U nited States began to take steps to overturn the new

revolutionary state. This encouraged the state (and the revolu tionary

leadership) to undertake w ith new urgency the reorganization of the people

into a broad-based union capable of coordinated mass action in defense of the

Cuban homeland.

Ernest G ellner and o th ers have a rg u ed th a t bourgeo isie-led

developm ent efforts m ade use of nationalism to reorder society and build

industria l economies.3 I am arguing that in Cuba, state developm ent

p la n n e rs also em p lo y ed n a tio n a lis t re co n s tru c tio n s of collective

consciousness. H ow ever, in Cuba nationalism w as about m ore than

assembling the hum an resources to accomplish industrialization, it was also

directed toward liberating Cuban political and economic life from foreign

domination. This is consistent w ith Barry Posen's idea that nationalism is

usefu l for mobilizing the masses to fight foreign enemies, but w here he

restricted his focus to military matters, I think a w ider view is worthwhile.4

Nationalism was used in Cuba to mobilize popular support for development

3 Em est Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983). In addition Benedict Anderson noticed som ething parallel, that capitalists used nationalism (or rather, a more indusive national language) to build w ider markets. See Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities (N ew York: Verso, 1983/91), pp. 37-46.

4 Barry R. Posen, "Nationalism, the Mass Army, and M ilitary Power," International Security 18, no. 2 (Fall 1993), pp. 80-124.


123projects.5 This is the idea developed by Tom N aim , but for N aim it was the

local bourgeoisie which guided the project, not the state.6

Educational reforms, bo th in the ir inclusive form an d classroom

content, were directed at creating a new island-w ide Cuban consciousness.

O ther state-led initiatives played a parallel role. However, schooling was

central, and constructed the shared cognitive and com m unicative cu ltu re

which permitted other initiatives to contribute to the overall outcome.

These un iversal ed u ca tio n pro jects w ere joined w ith p a ra lle l

corporatist reorganizations of social and political life. W hile com m unist

party leaders and party-affiliated mass organizations often held im portan t

roles in these corporatist projects, and often attem pted to d irect policy-

p lanning toward radical objectives, state officers usually held considerable

autonom y in implementing policy. The collectivist culture of connectedness

which characterized post-revolutionary Cuba, combined with the preferences

of the state, generally produced nationalist, not radical policy outcomes. This

was especially true in the case of educational policy. I will re tu rn to these

issues later in this chapter.

5 One author is important to mention here in passing. Partha Chatterjee comments on nationalism as a vehicle in the struggle against colonial dom ination. It is view ed as a legitim ate and useful vehicle because it seem s to be consistent w ith the more expansive goal of historical progress beyond liberation. This suggests, to me, a focus on questions erf "development," "modernization," and industrialization, all goals shared by the Cuban revolution. See Partha Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986/95).

6 Tom Naim , "Scotland and Europe," in G eoff Eley and Ronald Grigor Suny, eds., Becoming N ation a l (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), pp. 79-104.


124H istory and Legacies

THE YEARS OF COLONIALISM AND NEO-COLONIALISM

Cuba's history, like other lands in the post-colonial world, has been

shaped by the lingering influence of im perial projects and accidents of

economic fortune. In Cuba's case, Spanish rule set forces into motion which

delayed until 1961 the emergence of a united (and free) Cuba.

Cuba's fate was tied to its unique placement in the shipping lanes

lead ing into both the G ulf of Mexico an d the Caribbean. Spanish

administration was primarily concerned with maintaining territorial control,

since Cuba was the jumping-off point for explorations of Spain's continental

new world possessions. The lure of gold and silver pushed Spaniards toward

the rich mineral fields of Peru and Mexico, and few stayed to lend their efforts

to the construction of perm anent enterprises in Cuba.

About twenty years after Columbus first made land-fall on Cuban

shores, the Spanish colonial authorities established a territorial capital on the

southeast coast of the island, on the shores of the Caribbean, at Santiago de

Cuba. But the economics of empire, specifically the increasing importance of

Spain's territorial possessions in Mexico, shifted the focus of Cuba's fortunes.

As the Gulf of Mexico became the vital waterway, Santiago de Cuba slipped

into irrelevance, while H avana's position on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico

elevated it.

Beginning in the 1570s, under the threat of English privateers, Spain

organized all trans-Atlantic shipm ents of New World loot into twice yearly

flotas, which sailed from Havana under the escort of an armed convoy.7 This

7 Perez, Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution., p. 35.


125development formalized Havana's role as the economic center of the island's

life, and contributed to the ascendancy of the western half of the island and

the impoverishment of the east. In 1607, the seat of authority was transferred

from Santiago de Cuba to Havana.

Over the years, two cultures em erged in Cuba. In Havana, all

endeavors were oriented outwardly, to external trade, and were concerned

w ith profit. To the east, in what was to become Oriente province, life was tied

to the tides and the cycles of the season. Survival and steadfastness were

more highly valued than profit (although piracy an d surreptitious trade

offered rich rewards).8 Havana was linked w ith official enterprises and

bureaucratic order, and the eastern half of the island w ith locally improvised

economic projects and a form of self-rule. Over time, H avana's culture came

to be dominated by creole institutions, while the rural east became home to

communities of freemen of color, who carried w ith them their Afro-Cuban

traditions. These two very different faces of C uban society were not

reconciled for over three hundred and fifty years.

There is a dimension to this phenom enon w hich some writers have

proposed is generic to the experience of the displaced African populations of

the new world. The place African-Americans (in all their various new world

homelands) occupied in the economic nexus of m o d em commercial society

resu lted in a paradox: they played a central ro le in constructing the

foundations of new world economic life, yet were denied the benefits of the

8 Ibid., p. 41.


126w idening circle of affluence their labors m ade possible.9 Until perm itted

access to the economic and social benefits m ade possible by their efforts, blacks

w ould forever occupy a place outside the collectivities constructed by peoples

and states throughout the new world.

A nother outcom e of Cuba's accident of geography was the long

perpetuation of Spanish rule. Spanish rule in Cuba was prolonged by U.S.

diplomacy. The United States, the growing new world giant, came to tolerate

Spanish presence in Cuba. A weakening European power, Spain posed no

real threat to the United States, and its continuing role in Cuba was preferred

over the prospect of English or French control over the island. Eventually, of

course, as the U.S. developed wealth and confidence, it was eager to push

Spain from the last of its new world territories. However, in the early years of

U.S. independence, Spanish colonial authority offered steady control over a

strategically significant piece of territory.

W hile the rest of Spanish A m erica gathered forces to sweep the

Spanish from the continental empire, Spanish governors continued to rule

in Cuba (and Puerto Rico). The creole nationalism described by Benedict

A nderson,10 w hich served as a flashpoint for continental liberation, was a

pow erful force in Cuba as well. But the historical legacy of Cuban division,

the surprising tenacity of Spain, and the hand of U.S. interest delayed the

inevitable for several generations.

9 See Mark Sawyer, Theory of Racial Hierarchy: Defining Race and the State (unpublished manuscript, 1998). See also Paul Gilroy, The Black A tlantic (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993).

10 Anderson, Imagined Communities, pp. 47-65.


127For much of Cuba's early colonial history, Spanish authorities d id very

little to squeeze resources from Cuban territory. Cuba was little m ore than a

staging area and a fortified harbor. Enterprises arose to feed, clothe, and

provide services and repairs to the fleets. Landholders began to cultivate

crops and breed cattle for the new world garrisons. All of this developed with

little oversight (and limited taxation) by authorities in the metropolis.

As an expression of this lack of engagement w ith daily life in Cuba,

colonial governors d id little to build an educational infrastructure on the

island. There was little point, since so few long-term economic enterprises

w ere undertaken and there was only a small continuing social community.

For m ost of the colonial era, few er than ten percent of children attended

prim ary school.11 Wealthy creole families routinely sent their ch ildren to

parochial schools or to be educated in the United States. In the end, this

produced another dimension of difference between the privileged class and

the poor. The North American educated elite operated in their ow n separate

cultural realm, disconnected from the traditions and day-to-day routines,

beliefs and cognitive habits of the island's masses.12 These common people,

in turn, remained a disunited amalgamation, lacking the collective culture an

island-wide system of schooling w ould provide.

-11 Louis A Perez, Jr., Cuba and the United States (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1997), pp. 67-68. See also David Turnbull, Travels in the West: Cuba, with Notices of Porto Rico and the Slave Trade (London: Longman, Orme, Brown, Greens, and Longman, 1840), pp. 127-128. Turnbull actually puts the number of students enrolled in school at less than one percent of the children in Cuba. This seem s low, but it m ay have been a fair estimate of the rural areas through which he traveled. See also James W illiams Steel, "Cuban Sketches," in Louis A. Perez, Jr., ed., Slaves, Sugar, and Colonial Society: Travel Accounts of Cuba, 1801-1899 (W ilmington, DE.: Scholarly Resources, 1992), pp. 201-202.

See Richard Henry Dana, Jr., To Cuba and Back: A Vacation Voyage (Boston: Ticknor and Fields, 1859), pp. 121-128. Also published more recently (Carbondale: Southern Illinois U niversity Press, 1966), pp. 71-72.


128As the eigthteenth century m oved along, m arket forces and the

changing features of colonial enterprise (in particular, slave rebellions in

Haiti) increased the focus on sugar production in Cuba. The expansion of

sugar production resulted in a m onocultural economy, requiring im ports

from Spain to fill marketplaces.13 Spanish m erchants, seeking to profit

handsom ely from the dependent Cuban m arket, raised prices on goods

(while, at the same time, bargaining dow n prices paid for Cuban sugar and

tobacco). The result was an increasingly squeezed landed class, interested in

living in elegance, but, they felt, prevented from doing so by the predatory

practices of Spanish traders. This initiated clashes which would grow over

the next two-hundred years and develop clear lines of division, separating

Cuban and Spanish interests.

Not only did economic trends push Cubans toward a growing interest

in independence, so too did cultural elements. As Anderson would suggest,

among the literate elite the prin ted w ord p layed an im portant p a rt in the

emergence of a distinct Cuban identity. In 1791 a new new spaper, Papel

Periddico de La Habana, began publication. As the nineteenth century

opened, the paper became the voice of the increasingly agitated Creole land

owning class.14 The paper gave form to a grow ing sense of Cuba as a land

with a particular history, a defined territory, and specific interests. Notice: the

paper was created to give voice to grievances, bu t it became a vehicle for

uniting the population. This is consistent w ith Rogers Brubaker's belief

(which I share) that nationalism is an em ergent phenom enon, developing

13 Perez, Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution, p. 62.

14 Ibid., p. 67.


129out of events not initially directed tow ard a nationalist reengineering of

collective consciousness.

Cubans first took up arms to drive Spanish authority from its shores in

1868. The war dragged on for ten years and cost the lives of 250,000 Cubans. It

ended in failure. One of the reasons for this failure was racism; and this is a

fascinating contrast to A nderson 's m odel o f creole nationalism . In

A nderson 's treatment of creole independence, Spain's geographic distance

(and, perhaps, the play of en lightened libera l ideas in the European

community), produced a willingness on the p a rt of Spanish authorities to

adopt more humane regulations pertaining to the treatment of slaves. Creole

land-holders, seeing their fortunes (and security) threatened by the prospect of

slave revolts and a tentative willingness among officials to contemplate steps

toward abolition, drew together to resist Spanish rule.15

In Cuba, som ething very m uch opposite h ap p en ed . W ealthy

landholders, concentrated in the territories a round H avana, eventually

turned aw ay from the movement for independence. Their principal concern

seem ed to be that certain social elem ents, incited to rebel by the forces

15 Anderson, Imagined Communities, pp. 48-49. The interesting thing is that w hile the Cuban example seem s to suggest a different outcome than one one m ight expect from the Anderson model, in truth, the outcome is consistent with Anderson's analysis. Here's why: Anderson recognized that Creole nationalism sought to stir forces for independence, w hile carefully avoiding the type of mobilization which might produce unmanageable popular uprisings. Creole nationalism can be identified by its "social thinness;" the upper class only reached down into the vast lower-classes to an extent sufficient to create a m ovem ent strong enough to topple the weak forces of the declining Spanish empire. On this point, see p. 49. Cuba w as different than the rest of Spanish America because her w ar of independence was socially 'thick.' That is, the m ovem ent employed not a thin veneer of popular m uscle, but a deep lower-class discontent. The threat of an uprising by the lower-classes and people of color, therefore, was identified vrith independence, not with the prolonged rule o f Spanish imperialists. In short, given the choice between a mobilized afro-Cuban population or continuation of Spanish rulers, with an imperfectly defined stance toward the reform of slavery, on-going Spanish rule seemed preferable.


13 0agitating for independence, w ou ld never re tu rn to their positions of

servitude following the establishm ent of self-rule.16 Cuba had a very

different demographic face than m uch of the continent. There was a m uch

larger population of free m en of color, and in m any cases they w ere

established in gainful enterprises throughout the eastern and coastal regions

of the island. They shared w ith the creole elite of Havana a desire to be free of

Spanish economic regulation, b u t unlike the w ealthy creole land-holders,

they also envisioned the w ar as a crusade to end slavery on the island. This

commitment drove a wedge between social forces, and inspired the defection

of creole support for the war.

Sugar production played a central role in this demographic landscape.

As sugar production expanded throughout the 1700s, landholders im ported

thousands of slaves. Production of sugar was centralized on private estates-

there the cane was cultivated, harvested, processed, and packaged.17 The

technology, while ingenious in its capacity to use all of the cane for fertilizer,

production, and fuel, required very little classroom training to operate. As a

result, in the countryside schooling was viewed as m ore of a nuisance than a

benefit.

Because of a peculiar aspect of Spanish law, slaves could (and often did)

sell their labor to employers other than their ow ners. Given the cyclical

nature of the sugar production process, slaves often filled idle weeks working

for wages. By saving their income over m any years, many slaves purchased

16 Perez Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution, pp. 122-23.

17 For an unsurpassed description of the process, and its remarkable efficiency, see Dana, pp. 121-128.


131their freedom and moved to the isolated landscapes of the in terior or the

Oriente coast, to live as self-sufficient freemen.

W ithout creole support, the war was doomed. Especially given two

im portant factors: Spanish determ ination to hold onto Cuba an d U.S.

passivity. Spain pledged as many as 100,000 troops to contain the struggle.18

Spanish forces em ployed savage resistance, creative strategy, and greater

firepow er than the rebellion 's leadership could assemble. As A nderson

points out, continental liberation was made possible by the inability of a

weakening Spanish master to hold down a land-mass in revolt. Cuba was a

sm all territory attem pting to overcome an overwhelming Spanish force

which, having been displaced from the continent, concentrated its efforts on

the single project: keeping Cuba for Spain.

Of course, U.S. intervention could have transform ed the m om entum

of the struggle (as it would less than twenty-five years later), but the U.S.

decided to rem ain apart from the war. Precisely why the U.S. chose to sh u n

involvement (and the rich prize of control over Cuban territory) is a subject I

m ust leave aside. However, it seems that, in the end, the United States, still

shaken by sectional conflict and struggling to incorporate h u n d red s of

thousands of freem en liberated by the Civil War into a new social and

economic system, was unwilling to take on the challenge of extending rule

over an additional population of people of color, who, as well, spoke a

separate language.19 C ontinued Spanish ru le seemed to be the best


19 We are fortunate to have a good reflection of this view , from an earlier age, in the papers of Millard Fillmore. Fillmore said: "Were this island comparatively destitute of inhabitants or occupied by a kindred race, I should regard it, if voluntarily ceded by Spain, as a m ost desirable acquisition. But under existing circumstances I should look upon its incorporation into our union


132opportunity to preserve access to the Cuban market, w hile avoiding the

complex political repercussions and extensive costs which annexation would

bring.

Cubans again took up arms in 1895 to fight for their independence.

Many of the economic conditions which provoked the earlier nationalist

uprising remained. As a colony, much of Cuba's economic and political life

was regulated by Spain, to a degree not welcomed by Cubans, while the

island's trade was increasingly tied to the U.S. Social divisions, however,

proved less troubling than during the previous war of independence. The

question of the abolition of slavery no longer provided a source of conflict.

Spain ended slavery in Cuba by royal decree in 1886. W ith this divisive issue

behind them, land-holders and freemen found greater common ground to

work together toward shared goals.

The brief life of the Cuban Autonomy m ovem ent revealed that

p lanters still had concerns about the volatility of low er-class political

m obilization. Rather than risk the social instability th a t a fight for

independence might breed, some Creole elites chose to embrace a play for a

greater political voice in a reengineered Spanish dom inion.20 W hen this

as a very hazardous measure." See Millard Fillmore, "Third Annual M essage,” December 6, 1852.

20 Louis A. Perez, Jr., Cuba Under the Platt Amendment, 1902-1934 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1991), pp. 14-19. See also Perez, Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution, pp. 152-155.


133project failed, planters had little choice but to throw their weight behind the

struggle for independence.21

Sentiment in the United States had shifted in the years since the earlier

w ar of liberation. N ow expansionists were on the ascent, and the idea of

extending U.S. influence held favor. The increasing sense that Spain could

no longer guarantee o rd er in Cuba became an im portan t elem ent in U.S.

policy as business and governm ent leaders edged to w ard involvem ent.22

W hen pro-Spanish forces took to the streets of Havana in January of 1898 to

protest steps toward Cuban autonomy, the U.S. sent in the battleship Maine,

as a symbol of U.S. strength and a sign of its determ ination to preserve order

in Cuba and protect U.S. trade. Several weeks later, w hen the M aine exploded

in H avana's harbor, U.S. public opinion strongly came to favor intervention.

By April, the U nited States had officially declared war, by May U.S.

forces had engaged Spanish troops, and by July the fighting was largely over,

following a decisive U.S. victory in Santiago de Cuba. A peace treaty was

signed on December 10 in Paris between U.S. and Spanish envoys. No Cuban

representatives were present at the ceremony. Following the end of the war,

U.S. troops occupied Cuba between 1899 and 1902.

Cuban independence began under awkward legal circumstances.23 The

country 's new constitu tion included a provision, the P la tt A m endm ent,

21 lb id., p. 18. Again, as Benedict Anderson would encourage us to seek out, w e find a newspaper playing an important role in redefining collective consciousness. A s the A utonom ist movement became increasingly hopeless, their paper, El Pais, became a voice for a renewed movement for Cubans to fight for Cuban control over their lives and territory.

22 Luis E. Aguilar, "Cuba, c. 1860-c. 1930," in Leslie Bethell, ed., Cuba, A Short History (Cambridge: Cambridge U niversity Press, 1993), p. 33.

22 In addition to the historians I have already cited, consult Jules R. Benjamin, The United States and the Origins of the Cuban Revolution (Princeton: Princeton U niversity Press, 1990).


134w hich perm itted U.S. invo lvem en t in C uban politics. D irect U.S.

intervention, while it d id occur, was rare. More significant were the less

formal, but more unshakeable day-to-day facts of U.S. dom ination of Cuban

society, politics, and business.

U.S. investors succeeded in gaining control over many of Cuba's most

profitable assets. In the early years of the Cuban republic, U.S. interests owned

sixty percent of the agricultural land, including most of the estates employed

for the production of tobacco, sugar, and other crops for the w orld market.

Spanish interests held-on to about fifteen percent of the rural land, leaving a

tiny share-and generally the w orst available properties-for Cubans. Similar

dom ination extended into o th e r profit-m aking sectors, like trad e and

manufacturing, mining, transportation, pow er utilities, and banking.24

The consequences of U.S. control over Cuban life were far-reaching.

Cuban politics were shaped by the U.S. presence in the economy, as I will

show was school policy. One resu lt was a circumscribed range of upw ard

mobility for the Cuban bourgeoisie. Limited professional success could be

found in the accounting or low er-m anagerial offices of U.S. ow ned

businesses. But the path to success followed by many middle-class sectors in

other nations-small business ow nership-w as largely closed off in Cuba. For

one th in g Spanish merchants dom inated the retail sales sector. Second,

Cuba's small-scale manufacturers, as a result of a reciprocity agreem ent with

their U.S. neighbors, were unable to shelter their start-up enterprises with

24 Perez, Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution, pp. 195-199. The extent of foreign, and especially U.S., control was considerable. Ninety percent of the export trade of Havana cigars was controlled by the U.S. Tobacco Trust; U.S. companies owned and operated gas, electric, waterworks, telephone, and railway services in most major Cuban cities. The influence of Spanish money was not small: while the U.S. came to control much of the larger enterprise in Cuba, Spaniards continued to dominate in the small retail sector.


135protective tariffs, and less expensive U.S. goods, manufactured in factories

benefiting from scale and advanced automation, flooded the Cuban m arket

and over-turned local competitors.25

A dditionally , even m anual-labor opportunities were increasingly

scarce. Between 1902 and 1919 nearly three-quarters of a million unskilled

Europeans, mainly Spaniards, im m igrated to Cuba. These Europeans took up

m any of the construction and m aintenance jobs in the cities, w here the

expansion of m odem (foreign ow ned) enterprises created a small circle of

opportunity .26 As Cubans poured in from the countryside, displaced from the

land by the expansion of m odem farm ing on U.S. owned export-oriented

estates, they found themselves com peting w ith recent arrivals for jobs (and

frequently losing out in the push-and-shove).

In the end, only the public sector remained free of the inundation of

foreign workers and U.S. domination. A nd it was here Cubans turned to find

em ploym ent and enrichment. The result was predictable: government and

public service became corrupted by Cubans hoping to find w ealth, bu t

p reven ted from doing so in trad itio n a l for-profit sectors.27 Effective

governm ent was not prioritized; personal fortune-making was the m ain

objective of most state workers.

U.S. occupation forces oversaw reforms that made schooling in Cuba

compulsory in the years after 1900.28 The U.S. War Department sketched out

25 Eric Wolf, Peasant Wars of the Twentieth Century (N ew York: Harper Torchbooks, 1969), p. 258.

26 Perez, Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution, pp. 202-203.

27 Ibid., p. 215.

28 Albert J. Norton, Norton's Complete Hand-Book of Havana and Cuba (Chicago: Rand, M cNally & Company, 1900), pp. 263-264. See also, Maurice R. Berube, Education and Poverty:


1 3 6an expanded educational bureaucracy for Cuba, modeled on the U.S. system of

oversight. The problem was, in the U.S. it was the interplay of social forces

and the broad class coalition that favored universal education, along w ith

wise adm inistrative guidance, that drove school expansion. W ithout the

engagement of an aggressive state w ith a professionalized bureaucracy and a

supportive coalition of social forces, legal com plusion alone d id little to

improve school attendance.

During the early years of the republic, what shaped school enrollment,

m ore than anything else, was the economic cycle. D uring good tim es,

enrollm ent jumped, while recessions produced precipitous d rops. In 1907,

less than a decade after the introduction of the new U.S. authored education

code, more than thirty percent of Cuban children betw een 5 an d 14 were in

school, but by 1919, following economic dislocations linked w ith the First

World War, enrollment dropped noticeably. Good times in the 1920s pushed

the figure to sixty-three percent, but the depression and World W ar II eroded

that figure, and by 1950, only about half the children between 5 an d 14 were in

school.29

These im perfec t advances in schooling p ro d u c e d u n ce rta in

improvements in literacy. The U.S. W ar Departm ent’s 1899 census of Cuba

revealed that forty-three percent of all Cubans could read.30 Illiteracy w asn't a

social pathology that evenly covered the island: w hile only ab o u t twenty-

Effective Schooling in the United States and Cuba (Westport, CT.: Greenwood Press, 1984), p.84.

29 Berube, p. 84.

^ Ibid. See also U.S. War Department, Report on the Census of Cuba, 1899 (W ashington: Government Printing Office, 1900), pp. 358-384.


137seven percent of Habaneros w ere illiterate, sixty-eight percent of the residents

o f the eastern province of Santiago w ere.31 These pro found disparities

continued th roughout the Republican era. The exp lanation for these

disparities is m ulti-dim ensional. State services, like education, infrequently

found their w ay into the in terior.32 At the same time, economic hardships

w ere far more likely to overturn family security in the countryside, forcing

parents to pull students from school to p u t them to w ork in the fields. The

up and dow n enrollm ent ra tes over the years of the republic meant that

im provem ent in literacy rates w as slow and uneven.33 By 1931, national

census data showed that seventy-two percent of Cuba's population could read,

b u t literacy levels in the countryside, where public schooling was virtually

non-existent, were surely m uch worse.34

The failure to construct an effective governm ent du rin g the early

Republican era was especially significant in the interior, w here state authority

was infrequently exercised, and access to the services of public administration

w as mainly unheard of.35 The integrative role the state plays in most

societies was not assum ed by the Cuban governm ent. The rural areas

remained separate from the life of the wider society, and the division between

Havana and the Eastern provinces widened.

31 U.S. War Department, pp. 358-384.

32 See Victor R. Martuza, "Cuba,” in John Hladczuk and W illiam Eller, eds., International Handbook of Reading Education (W estport, CT.: Greenwood Press, 1992, pp. 105-127.

33 Berube, p. 84.

34 Ibid., p. 84.

35 Martuza, pp. 105-106.


138

BATISTA DOMINATED CUBA (1934-1959)

Whether by design or by accident, the delayed emergence of a territory-

w ide Cuban consciousness benefited U.S. interests and helped preserve the

U.S. dom ination of Cuban business life. The struggle for a sm all piece of

po litica l and economic autonom y for C ubans eventually resu lted in a

breakdow n of rule in 1933. For one-hundred days an unlikely coalition of

forces-m iddle class university students, laborers, and mutinous troops led by

Sergeant Fulgendo Batista-fought to lay ou t a p lan for affirm ing national

sovereignty, building democracy, and creating a "new Cuba."36 The flavor of

these proposals, and the implications for U.S. interests, b rought the swift

opposition of the United States government. The U.S. em ployed a policy

designed to isolate the progressive coalition and weaken its political support.

In the end, the U.S. succeeded in encouraging Batista to join it in eviscerating

the new politics of hope.

Batista became the protector of U.S. interests in Cuba. In exchange, he

and his small circle of elite supporters were given the opportunity to build

their personal fortunes. As a sign of their confidence in the new alliance, the

U.S. abrogated the Platt Amendement, ending the constitutional right of the

U nited States to interfere in Cuban politics. U.S. interests were well protected

by the new cooperative pact that joined Batista’s state, Cuban elites, and U.S.

economic interests together.37

36 Louis A. Perez, Jr., Cuba and the United States (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1996), p. 194.

37 Peter Evans, Dependent Development (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979). Evans describes the triple alliance which joins foreign business w ith local state and econom ic elites.


139In the 1950s,. w hile the sm all circle of elites linked to the U.S.

dominated economy enjoyed expanding standards of living, workers in Cuba

could not find work. Unem ploym ent rose to nearly thirty percent.38 This

was because most goods sold in Cuban markets were m anufactured in the

United States. Rural laborers, too, were ever more uncertainly attached to the

economy. Boom and bust w ould follow decisions made in W ashington as

U.S. trade officials adjusted the annual quota for Cuban sugar.39 Rural land

ow ners had reaso n to w o rry abou t im provem ents in educational

opportunities: armed w ith educational skills, rural laborers may have left the

countryside during agricultural lulls, to find work in the m odem economy of

the cities, and never returned.

While eighty percent of homes in the cities had electricity, only nine

percent of the residences in the countryside were wired. Similarly, eighty

percent of urban residents had running water, while a small fifteen percent of

the rural inhabitants enjoyed this basic, modern service. Medical and dental

services, and the resources of the Ministry of Public Health, were concentrated

in and around Havana, w ith little health care made available to Oriente.40

These figures help indicate that the benefits of membership in the civic u n io n

were not equally shared by all Cubans.

Since none of the participants in the alliance that controlled Cuban

politics w ould p ro fit from an island-w ide expansion of educational

opportunities for the poor, very little was done to improve access to the

Perez, Cuba and the United States, p. 230.

39 Ibid., p. 227-228.

40 Ibid., pp. 302-303.


140schools. Moreover, the obstacles tha t earlier had prevented the construction

of a better educational system, rem ained. Official corruption and a lack of

public mission continued to lim it the effective distribution of educational

services. The wealthy and the powerful, especially rural elites, interested in

containing the emerging discontent among the masses, sought to w ithhold

education from the poor, fearing tha t an intellectual aw akening would serve

to build solidarity and carry forward radical causes.

My distrust of expenditures as a real measure of policy im provem ent is

justified when one looks at M inistry of Education budgets under Batista.

Between 1940 and 1956, spending on education jumped from eleven million

dollars to seventy-four million dollars.41 Despite this dram atic expansion,

school attendance figures actually dropped (as economic crisis took hold) and

literacy rates rem ained largely unchanged.42 The economy, not the state,

continued to drive societal attachment to education and popular access to the

benefits of schooling.

Schooling was still not d istribu ted equally. Like o ther measures of

social inclusion, literacy rates were m arked by regional variation: in the years

before the revolution, over thirty-five percent of the population in Oriente

was illiterate, while a m inuscule nine percent in H avana was.43 As

government officials admitted, w idespread illiteracy was largely the product

41 See Berube, p. 85. During this time the cost o f living doubled, so even accounting for inflation, this represents an enormous leap in spending. See Perez, Cuba Between Reform and Revolution, pp. 285-286.

42 Berube, p. 84.

43 Informe del Ministerio de Educadon a la Asamblea Nadonal del Poder Popular de la Republica de Cuba (Havana: Ministry of Education, 1981). See also Censos de Pobladon, Viviendas y Electoral: Informe General 1953 (Havana: Oficina Nadonal d e 1 os Censos Dem ografico y Electoral, 1953), p. xxxviii.


141of the poor distribution of school services.44 In the countryside, despite laws

making attendance mandatory, only thirty-nine percent of children between

six and fourteen years-of-age w ent to school, while in Havana the figure was

nearly eighty percent.45 If one accepts my central claim (also m ade by many

other authors), that education plays a principal role in the construction of a

national consciousness, then these figures suggest that a sizable portion of the

Cuban population was left outside the collective life of the island.

W hy was learning so ra re in the C uban countryside? Several

explanations seem worth m entioning. First of all, as discussed, the state

bureacracy was an ineffective m echanism for delivering public benefits. The

schools, like the rest of the governm ent's organizational dom ain, w ere

prim arily em ployed to secure career opportunities to enrich the frustrated

Cuban middle-class.46 Second, desp ite the more simplistic conclusions of

N orth American theorists in the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s, education does not

expand automatically with "m odernization." The dem and for educational

expansion m ust be voiced th ro u g h political m echanisms. In H avana,

m anufacturers and managers of m odem enterprises, requiring a workforce

w ith m inim um communicative and cognitive skills, pressured the state to

44 Censos de Poblacian, Viviendas y Electoral: Informe General 1953, p. xxxix.

45 Ibid., p. xxxviii. See also Methods and Means Utilized in Cuba to Eliminate Illiteracy (Havana: Cuban National Commission for UNESCO, 1965).

46 See Perez, Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution, p. 219. This position was confirmed by retired teachers I spoke to in Cuba. The teachers I interview ed had worked under both the Republican adm inistration and the Revolutionary state. Interview with retired teachers at the Casa del Pedagogo de D iez de Octubre, a neighborhood center for former school teachers, July 24,1997. See also Fagen, p. 36 and International Bank for Reconstruction and Development, Report on Cuba (W ashington, D.C.: International Bank for Reconstruction and Development, 1951), p. 425.


1 4 2supply (more or less effective) educational facilities.47 In the countryside,

where agricultural labor and sugar production required few classroom-taught

skills, landholders and sugar processing plant managers d id not app ly

political pressure for enhanced educational services.48.[ Third, as m entioned

previously, the economic cycle, which often brought recession and despair to

the countryside, depressed already low student enrollment

Often overlooked, there was little popular pressure for educational

expansion in the countryside. Education as an abstract social good and an

expected benefit of citizenship m ay have been valued, but it had lim ited

practical uses in the concrete context of rural life.49 Since rural workers had

no upw ard mobility, and advanced classroom skills were not required for

m anual labor, rural residents could see few reasons to spend time in school, if

effort could be somewhat more profitably employed in scratching out a living.

Indeed, if education could play a role in improving the m aterial and

spiritual existence of rural (and lower-class) life through developing skills

useful for engagement in politics, then education might have been fought for.

However, the politics of republican Cuba, except for a few fleeting hopeful

47 N ote that this is consistent w ith Gellner's expectations, although Gellner is imprecise whether actions or forces compel the emergence of improved educational services. See Gellner, Nations and Nationalism.

One could perhaps make a stronger claim here: that rural elites specifically pressured the state to dism antle educational services in the countryside. Evidence on this point is im perfect. But the overall logic is consistent with a claim by Reinhold Niebuhr employed by Paolo Freire: "Giving education to the poor...wouId teach them to despise their lot in life instead of m aking them good servants in agricultural and other laborious employments." See Paolo Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed (New York: Continuum, 1983/70).

49 The best account of this logic I have found is Fidel Castro, History Will Absolve Me (Havana: Editorial en Marcha, 1962), p. 32.


143moments separated across time by a generation, were characterized by careful

control by (Cuban and foreign) economic and political elites.

Given the compelling m aterial benefits associated with, the control of

office, Cuban politics became characterized by violent, urgent competition.50

Status quo forces struggled w ith determination to control the m echanism s for

d istribu ting em ploym ent, w ea lth , and sta tus th rough p ub lic office.

Reformers and other progressive campaigners were fought against w ith

resolve, since politicians and state employees feared governm ental reform (of

any kind) could threatened this tiny enclave of Cuban ca reer mobility.

Educational reform, in particular, was viewed as a threat, since consciousness

formation might aid in movement-building.

As the 1950s rolled on, economic misery spread to the tin y Cuban

middle-class. As Cuban elites increasingly sought to shield th e ir w ealth in

U.S. investments, the availabilty of capital in Cuba shrank. The few Cuban

owned factories which p roduced processed foods and tex tiles for local

consumption suffered as a result, closing-off one of the la s t avenues for

middle-class mobility.51 As unrest expanded, Batista turned to increasingly

brutal repression. As official violence threatened to destabilize political order,

Batista's U.S. backers began to grow concerned about the regim e's ability to

protect U.S. trade and investm ent. W ashington took steps to w ithdraw

support from Batista. The U nited States hoped it could force Batista out and

install a government better positioned to guarantee o rder. Instead, it

weakened Batista to the point that revolutionary forces, once im agined to be

50 Perez, Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution, pp. 222-23.

51 Ibid., pp. 226-233.


144engaged in an impossible straggle, succeeded in overturning a generations-

old system of order.

THE REVOLUTION AS NATIO NALIZING PROJECT (1959-1975)

In the end, political actors interested in advancing more progressive

changes in Cuban society and governm ent needed to move outside the

formal political structure. Fidel Castro made his first attem pt at a revolution

in July of 1953. His first effort failed miserably. His campaign was aimed at

capturing a military installation near Santiago de Cuba, in im poverished

O riente province (where his second military campaign would also begin).

The rebels' forces were decimated by Batista's troops. Castro was one of the

few to surv ive to see trial. H is statem ent before the panel of judges

responsible for hearing his case became the manifesto for the Cuban left, and

w ould shape expectations for the socialist government six years later, when

Castro, after jail and deporta tion and another three years of (at times

desperate) arm ed struggle, came to power on a wave of popular resentment.52

O n top of the thorough despair of the Cuban laboring class, m iddle

class sectors were receptive to change as well. Clearly Tom Naim 's economic

nationalism was an im portant m echanism driving middle class support for

political change.53 A prospective Cuban bourgeoisie, interested (for selfish

reasons) in building a local industrial and commercial sector, sought to drive

o u t U.S. businesses and overturn the political leadership which preserved

their privileged place in the Cuban economy. The lower middle class, hoping

to find a place in this new economic order, wanted access to schooling which

52 Here of course I refer to the earlier m entioned Castro, History Will Absolve Me.

53 N aim , "Scotland and Europe."


145would develop skills useful to the climb up the career and social ladder. All

in all, the Cuban middle class saw political change (and subsequent social and

educational reforms) as the only reliab le w ay to erect Karl D eutsch's

"stormladders" and to climb out of economic uncertainty and past social

obstacles.54

Castro's early vision of C uba 's future took a nationalist tone and

employed Cuban hero Jose M artfs voice for both its legitim ating power and

its capacity to state worthwhile objectives.55 Indeed, Castro 's version of

M artfs nationalist agenda was colored by his own ideological preferences (this

w ould be true throughout the years that followed). Still w orth noting is the

fact that M artfs call for a nationalizing education curriculum was retained

and made central to the early years of socialist rule.56

Castro, like Marti, saw the schools (and the educational relationship

between teachers and students) as the point of contact w here consciousness

was formed and unity of purpose was shaped. It is in the schools and in other

shared public spaces that the nature of the problems faced by the collective are

given form and are made a conscious part of the social project, and solidarity

to address these problems as a nation is constructed.

Castro's project employed the schools (and some other public spaces) to

rem ap cleavages and redefine nationality as the principal politically relevant

identity. The hope was that the com m unity of citizens w ould forget (or at

54 Karl W. Deutsch, Nationalism and Social Communication (N ew York: John Wiley and Sons, 1953), pp. 77-78.

55 Susan Eva Eckstein, Back From the Future: Cuba under Castro (Princeton: Princeton U niversity Press, 1994), p. 4.

56 Castro, History Will Absolve Me, p. 35.


146least m inim ize) internal d isputes, historical grievances (between, most

specifically, blacks and whites), and occupational and economic distance, as

well as personal selfishness, to unite and preserve the sovereignty of the

Cuban homeland (and the authority of its state).57 In this process, Castro's

state became identified as the political and administrative ego of the nation.

This was a strategy bom of two parallel undertakings. Castro's

awkwardly unaffiliated movement needed to succeed in its competition with

existing political parties and o ther social actors-specifically the pre

revolutionary People's Socialist Party (PSP), w hich had opposed Castro's

arm ed struggle but now hoped to dom inate the resulting government.

Additionally, the state, as a distinct social actor, wanted to w in its struggle

w ith political competitors, both foreign and internal, including players as

diverse as the PSP and the U.S.-backed opposition-in-exile in Miami. The

goal was to m obilize support for the revolutionary movement and to

mobilize the population for defense of the nation. By building a national

community and by extending the benefits of membership in the civic union,

popular mobilization and political support w ould be secured, laying the

foundation for the perpetuation of rule by Castro's government, political

order, and resolute opposition to the nation-state's foreign enemies.

Since their interests so neatly coincided, the revolutionary leadership

extended discretion to the state to go about constructing the foundations of

solidarity and stability. This meant, am ong other things, that the state was

given resources to begin fashioning universal education as a step toward

57 This is essentially the idea behind V. P. Gagnon, Jr.'s arguments in "Ethnic Nationalism and International Conflict," International Security 19, no. 3 (Winter 1994/95), pp. 130-166. Gagnon, however, lim its his focus to competition betw een parties and, more exactly, to the use of this strategy by status-quo parties. I believe the strategy has w ider application.


147reenginnering collective consciousness. The state was better su ited than

Castro's circle of advisors to carry forward this task because the state possessed

the territorial reach, the bureaucratic oversight, and the expertise to succeed.

The task of uniting Cuba was a burdensom e undertak ing . Castro

believed it is especially in the sharing of misfortune and suffering, and in the

shared commitment to search for common solutions, th a t so lidarity and

activism is manufactured.58 One of the reasons H avana and O riente were

never integrated into a cohesive national union, Castro argued, was because

the residents of the two areas never shared common suffering, nor w orked

together to eradicate it.59 The two regions developed separate cultures, each

of which, in Castro's view, had undeniable strengths. Cubans in Havana

were better educated and m odem , accustomed to the organic discipline of

organizational structure, quick to adapt, oriented toward the future. Cubans

from the rural provinces to the east were endowed w ith com m on-sense,

steadfast, willing to bear suffering, and operated in a more extended tem poral

landscape.

For the early leaders of the post-revolutionary C uban state, the

horizontal union of citizenship w as founded not only on shared culture,

public history, and common sentiments, but also on collective effort. As T om

N aim has argued, a coordinated struggle against foreign oppressors requires

Castro, History Will Absolve Me, p. 28. See also Fidel Castro, "Speech at Varadero to Departing Conrado Benitez Brigadistas and their Families, Mother's Day, M ay 14,1961," in Richard R. Fagen, The Transformation of Political Culture in Cuba (Stanford: Stanford U niversity Press, 1969), pp. 180-192.

59 This is similar to the distance Naim describes in his work. This is a distance which frustrates attempts to frame national consciousness. Naim , "Scotland and England."


148the common effort of the educated and the laboring classes.60 But to make

common effort a possibility, a shared cognitive m apping of the w orld and the

nature of interconnectedness is required.

This was the idea behind the great literacy cam paign of 1961. The

cam paign is significant for a variety of reasons. The im provisational

managem ent style tha t h ad characterized post-revolutionary rule was set

aside, and a carefully structured campaign, which em ployed all m anner of

expert input, was planned and guided by a team of specialized administrators.

It was the most extensive exercise in state-building seen in Cuba up until that

point. Castro's im m ediate circle of advisors, who had made m ost of the early

decisions facing revolutionary Cuba, became the executive planners, selecting

a team of project officers, an d then offering them considerable discretion to

carry forw ard the day-to -day efforts of the cam paign.61 As suggested

p rev iously , the re v o lu tio n a ry m ovem ent's le a d e rsh ip p erce ived a

commonality of purpose betw een the state and themselves. Indeed, Castro

occupied two seats: he w as the principle ideologue of the m ovem ent and the

state's chief executive. In any event, there was really no alternative. The

national literacy cam paign was a massive undertaking and required a far-

reaching organizational effort.

At the top of th e new bureaucracy w as the national literacy

commission, com posed of representatives from state agencies, popular

60 N aim , "Scotland and Europe."

61 In this way, Cuba began its journey dow n a path Che Guevara w ould com e to detest: the bureaucratization of authority in governm ent. As I discuss elsewhere, this change, although agonized over from tim e to tim e, w ould never be reversed. See Che Guevara, "Against Bureaucratism" (1963), in D avid Deutschmann, ed., Che Guevara Reader (N ewYork/Melbourne: Ocean, 1997), pp. 157-163.


149groups, and political organizations, coordinated by the Ministry of Education,

w hich p ro v id ed pedagogical guidance as well. N ested b en ea th the

com m ission were four intercoordinated departm ents: the D epartm ent of

Finances (responsible for paying for the entire undertaking), the Technical

D epartm ent (responsible for the instructional dimensions of the campaign),

the Public Relations D epartm ent (responsible for the prom otion of the

project), an d the Departm ent of Publications (which handled the w ork of

prin ting and distributing the instructional materials). Next came provincial

and m unicipal officers who w orked w ith national coordinators to carry the

cam paign 's adm inistrative responsiblities into the m ountains and towns

across the island where literacy volunteers would work. As I w ill show later,

this organizational model was adapted for future governmental reforms.

A t the bottom of the entire structure was the pairing of literacy workers

(alfabetizadores or brigadistas) w ith (mostly adult) illiterates. This was

referred to as the "literacy un it," and in its ideal form consisted of a

"horizontal relationship of one alfabetizador and two illiterates."62 In reality,

learning groups were usually larger, and often included entire families.

A t the beginning of the campaign, Cuba had an estimated one million

illiterates, most were concentrated in the countryside.63 The teaching force

was diverse. Relatively few literacy instructors were teachers.64 This was, in

part, because the state d id not w ant to sacrifice conventional classroom

instruction and risk the beginnings of a new wave of d isplaced learners

62Methods and Means Utilized in Cuba to Eliminate Illiteracy, p. 43.

62 Censos de Poblacion, Viviendas y Electoral: Informe General 1953, p. xxxix.

Methods and Means Utilized in Cuba to Eliminate Illiteracy, p. 27.


150lacking attachment to school. The literacy campaign had to be carried on

alongside, and in fact coordinated with, m ore traditional schooling projects.65

In some cases, literacy workers were ordinary people, citizens willing to

teach during their free time, before and after w ork or on weekends. Their

impact was relatively limited because m ost lived and worked in the cities,

where literacy was only a nagging annoyance, not the full-scale social disaster

it was in the countryside. A small segment of the literacy campaigners was

made up of workers, deployed in the rural interior and along the coasts in the

Patria o Muerte workers brigades.

By far the most significant, and the m ost celebrated, part of the

campaign involved the Conrado Benitez brigades, named for a Cuban student

killed by "counter-revolutionary thugs." These brigades were made up of

over one-hundred-thousand school-age children, their average age between

fourteen and sixteen. Most came from the cities, the greatest number from

Havana. Most, after an intensive period of training, were placed in the

countryside, the greatest num ber in Oriente province. The brigadistas lived

in people's homes. They worked w ith their host families in the field during

the day, and taught the adults to read during the evening (their lessons

illuminated by the gas lamps that became the symbol of the campaign).

Between April 15, 1961, w hen the brigadistas were released from school

to participate in the campaign, and December 22, when the brigades marched

65 Fagen, p. 42. While all secondary and pre-university schools were dosed so instructors and students could lend a hand in the campaign, elementary schools were not dosed. The goal was to create a population universally educated up to the seventh or eighth grade level, so elementary schools continued to do their work. Of course, children under fourteen wouldn't have been much help in the campaign, they even could have been a liability. But their teachers, who were the best prepared to teach beginning learners, would have been valuable participants.


151into Havana's Jose Marti Plaza to declare Cuba a "territory free of illiteracy,"

700,000 Cubans were taught to read, at least to a first-grade or second-grade

level. Of the several hundred thousands not taught to read, the cam paign

was used to identify them, and structure solutions for their illiteracy. Follow-

up w ork tried to reach out to this part of the population. O ther program s

w ere designed to build on the foundations of literacy constructed by the

campaign. Newly literate Cubans received additional services, including a

series of books, designed to expand their intellectual developm ent. Overall,

by 1962, Cuba's nation-wide illiteracy rate had dropped to four percent from

about twenty-four percent in 1959.66

The literacy campaign combined two features which came to define the

educational experience in Cuba. First, as m en tio n ed , a m assiv e

adm inistrative apparatus was constructed and given considerable discretion

to carry forw ard its w ork.67 Once this d iscretion w as g ran ted , state

educational w orkers em ployed positional advantages, their considerable

professional expertise, and a grow ing reputation for succeeding against

considerable odds to expand their range of autonomy.

The literacy cam paign represented the first full-scale step tow ard

universal education. This is the second important point to be m ade about the

campaign: its prim ary aim was integrative, and this came to characterize the

C uban educational svstem for the next decade. N o one w as den ied the

opportunity to learn to read. The lessons were carried to every com er of the

66 Fagen, p. 54; and Censos de Poblation, Viviendas y Electoral: Informe General 1953, p.xxxix.

67 Fagen, p. 39. The campaign established a routine I w ill examine in more detail m om entarily. Radical mass organizations channeled and represented public opinion and conveyed a particular construction of the w ill of the people to the state, w hich had w ide discretion in m oving forward w ith policy.


152island, to workplaces, into fields. What you did, where you w orked, your

potential to be an enthusiastic revolutionary-none of these things mattered.

The prim er used for instruction was j Veneeremos! 68 The manual is

organized into fifteen chapters, or lessons, each designed by pedagogical teams

to serve as efficient introductions to certain phonic exercises. The fifteen

lessons built a learner's confidence and fluency through repetition and staged

increases in complexity. The technical care which w ent into the design of the

instructional aspects of the prim er became common to alm ost all Cuban

educational projects. The thematic content of the prim er combined obviously

radical elements (Lesson 11 'T he Revolution Wins all Battles") w ith material

more patriotic in tone (Lesson 5 "Cuban Fishermen" and Lesson 8 "A Healthy

People in a Free Cuba"). Seldom was the content divisive in character. Many

of the topics covered (land reform, shelter for the homeless, full employment

for a fair wage) had been im portant issues in the revolution, and the primer

served as one platform for sharing program specifics w ith a w ider audience.

W hat matters as much as the content of the primer, I w ould argue, is

the nature of the relationship between literacy teacher and learner. By design,

the program brought together Cubans of different backgrounds. Young

people from the cities, who had never known w ork in the fields and who had

enjoyed the benefits of education, worked w ith older, w eather-w orn rural

laborers, who in most cases never had access to schooling. Castro 's comments

at the send-off of the young brigadistas is telling:

You are going to teach, but as you teach, you will also learn. You are going to learn much more than you can possibly teach, and in the

68 jVenceremos! (Havana: Comision N ational de A lfabettzadon/Im prenta N acional de Cuba, 1961).


153end you will feel as grateful to the campesinos as the campesinos will feel to you for teaching them to read and write. Because while you teach them what you have learned in school, they will be teaching you what they have learned from the hard life that they have led....(T)hey will teach what it is to have lived, working constantly, forgotten by every government. <1 But at the same time, they will also teach you thereal meaning of sacrifice, and how honest and healthy the hard life is.

Each of you is going to feel like a better citizen and a better revolutionary, because you will better understand the necessity and duty of studying and preparing yourself for the Fatherland of tomorrow. And each of you will also understand the need for all of our people to study and improve. You will realize that much effort will be needed, that much learning will be needed, and also that much science and much technology will be needed in our nation if we are to bring your friends in the mountains and fields, and to their sons, the opportunities that you yourselves have had6 9.

The benefits of socialism were specifically conceived of in a new vision

of collective Cuban citizenship. That union, not narrow political training,

was the main goal is evident in the nature of the central players. The actual

lea rn in g environm ent w as a ho rizon ta l partnership , in w hich n o n

professional educators, in most cases children, sat w ith the unschooled,

formally to teach literacy skills, but more centrally to negotiate in their union

a joint understanding of Cuban identity, which fused elements of the u rban

and the rural, the m odem and the steadfast, the hopeful and the realistic. It is

im portant both that the brigadistas were well provided with technically well-

designed learning materials (so real learning could be accomplished) and that

they were children, not political agitators. This defined the campaign as a

negotiated learning experience aim ed a t both reconceptualizing Cuban

citizenship and distributing the (bare-necessity level) communicative skills

necessary for participation in a national community.

69 Castro, "Speech at Varadero to Departing Conrado Benitez Brigadistas and their Families, M other's Day, May 14,1961," in Fagen, pp. 183-184.


15 4As I proposed earlier, in addition to an effort at nation-building, the

literacy campaign was a very deliberate state-building project. W hile children

and rural laborers met together to share the experience of read in g , the

program depended on a extensive territory-w ide bureaucratic structure to

locate illiterates, evaluate their needs, and supply instructional m aterials.

Radical mass organizations-including the PSP and Castro's ow n 26th of July

m ovem ent-played a role at the conceptualization level, bu t th e w ork of

designing and implementing policy was done by an architecturally complex

government structure. This became the m odel for building the Cuban state.

This process of state-building was m ade possible, in large m easure,

because thousands of opponents of state expansion fled the island in the years

which followed the revolution.70 Their flight was driven by a cycle of action

and counteraction begun in 1959 by the Castro government's adoption of the

Agrarian Reform Law, which lim ited the size of agricultural holdings. The

consequences of the law were most profoundly felt by U.S. landholders, who

found portions of their sizable estates seized by the state. In retaliation, U.S.

officials began to discuss steps designed to strike at the new governm ent, in

particular, cutting the quota of Cuban sugar perm itted entry in to the U.S.

m arket As a response to these threats, the Cuban government fashioned an

agreement with the Soviet Union to sell, at favorable prices, m illions of tons

of sugar. These contacts led to renew ed diplomatic relations betw een Cuba

and the Soviet Union and additional trade. In particular, the Soviet Union

agreed to sell Cuba crude oil a t prices far below the in ternational m arket

standard. When Cuban officials requested U.S. owned refineries in Cuba to

70 Perez, Cuba and the United States, p. 245.


155refine the Soviet crude, the Am erican companies refused. As a result, Castro

nationalized the refineries. Responding, U.S. President Dwight Eisenhower

b an n ed the im porta tion of C uban sugar. One m onth later, Castro

expropriated m uch of the rem aining U.S. property on the island. Shortly

after, the U.S. im posed an econom ic em bargo on C uba and severed

diplom atic relations.71

The result was a massive exodus of America's Cuban allies, Cuban

employees of U.S. corporations, and political opponents of Castro’s rule. The

passing of U.S. influence in the Cuban economy m eant that Cubans who

profited from America's com m ercial presence faced an uncertain future.

Political opponents of socialism, who had practiced their opposition in th e

long shadow of U.S. influence, found their cause thrown into doubt.

As U.S. corporations and landholders were forced from the island, they

lost their ability to shape events. All in all, these social actors represented the

core ideological opposition to expanded state authority in Cuba. As they were

driven from influence in Cuba, their ideology of lim ited government w as

sw ept away as well. What stepped forward into this vacuum was a new hope

th a t the state could play a role in transform ing Cuba from a backw ard,

dependen t country, one in clam orous disunion and separated by troubling

inequalities, into a modem, self-sufficient, politically whole nation.

Additionally, as U.S. m anufacturers w ithdrew their products from the

Cuban market, the Cuban state needed to remake their economy to produce

the industrial goods and consum er products once supplied by Am erican

71 Ibid., pp. 239-243.


156companies. This turn toward industrial developm ent further reinforced the

tendency to promote universal schooling.

Following the revolution, governance became the responsibility of

four separate but interconnected entities. Executive power was placed in the

hands of the Council of M inisters and its d irectorate, the Executive

Committee, which was composed prim arily of heroes from the revolution-

Fidel Castro and his immediate circle of advisors. Indeed, ultim ate authority

over the affairs of government belonged to the members of the Executive

Committee, and this has not changed over the succeeding years. However,

Castro's circle of comrades was too sm all to extend direct control over the

whole island. They needed to rely on a state apparatus to carry forward the

transformation of Cuban society.72

The National Assembly, and m ore specifically the thirty-one member

Council of State it elected, were responsible for legislation. As I w ill discuss

later, reforms in the 1970s transferred legislative responsibilities (along w ith

considerable executive authority) from the National Assembly to a three level

system of local, provincial, and national assemblies know n as the Organs of

Popular Power (OPP).

In the earliest years after the revolution, the judiciary was dependent

on the w ork of people's courts, where average citizens conducted hearings on

petty crimes and civil disputes. A bove these functioned a form al court

system w hich handled m ore serious cases. O ver tim e, form al court

proceedings became more central and the w ork of the people's courts became

72 For a discussion to these types of calculations, see Eckstein, p. 20.


157less meaningful, being reserved primarily for resolving arguments between

neighbors.

Alongside these state structures, various radical parties and mass

organizations shaped policy and influenced public opinion. It is impossible to

grasp the m echanism s of Cuban policy-craft w ithout examining the role of

parties and m ass organizations. In the earliest days of the regime, the

leadership of C astro’s 26th of July movement and the directorate of the

People's Socialist Party were responsible for fram ing the policy goals of the

new state. Im m ediately following Castro's victory in January of 1959, the

revolutionary leadership enacted a series of legally binding proclamations

and official decrees. These w ere designed to solidify the gains of the

revolution and begin the work of transforming society.73 These early legal

precepts, really no m ore than a moral code for beginning the w ork of

im agining a leg isla tive agenda and a m ore com prehensive body of

governmental policy, were collectively know n as the Moncada Platform.74

The Moncada Platform was derived from the promises and the underlying

body of principles enunciated by Castro in his self-defense when he was tried

in 1953 on charges relating to his attack on the Moncada army barracks in

Santiago de Cuba.

Over tim e these decrees were formally adopted as legal instrum ents.

Following this initial wave of legislation, there was a noticeable decrease in

legislative activity fo r several years.75 More im portant was building the

Marjorie S. Zatz, Producing Legality: Law and Socialism in Cuba (New York: Routledge, 1994), pp. 53-60.

7±Ibid ., p. 53.

75 Ibid., p. 54.


158apparatus to deliver benefits to the population and guarantee social order.

The responsibilities assigned to the C uban state—which was, in principle,

p ro d u cer an d distributor of alm ost all goods; publisher of all books,

m agazines, and newspapers; operator of all radio and television stations;

p rov ider of all health care, housing, transportation services, and public

utilities; as well as political sovereign-required superhuman effort, constant

oversight, an d coastline-to-coastline om nipresence. The governm ental

behem oth necessary for this massive undertaking grew as tasks m ultiplied.

Even w hen this bureaucratic machine worked as well possible, self-

in terested adaptive behavior am ong in d iv id u a l Cubans could result in

frustration and failure for policy-planners and government functionaries.76

F inding solutions to these day-to-day problem s and adopting new policy

guidelines to avoid the repetition of failures, in part as a way of lim iting the

spread of popular discontent, became the chief logic of the bureaucracy. The

reinterpretation of legal codes and the invention of new policy instrum ents

followed from this search for solutions. O f course, the way state employees

interpret problems and form solutions is shaped by ideology. But efforts are

problem -focused, not directed at m oving resolutely tow ard som e utopian

goal.

This is especially true w hen one considers the problem of using

ideology as a coherent guide for action. Even if ideologues from the

communist party provided a marxist blueprint for policy-making and day-to-

day implementation, it seems clear that m ultiple and contradictory goals and

76 A s an exam ple, due to the seasonal or occasional appearance of certain products on the shelves of government stores, Cuban fam ilies began to hoard certain items, creating shortages not envisioned by policy-planners. Solving the problem, by m oving outside of narrow egalitarian principles if necessary, became the guiding motivation for action. See ib id ., p. 8.


159interpretive differences produced confusing messages about which paths to

choose. To avoid reverberating social disruption, problems often required

convenient and im m ediate solutions. Movement leaders-and especially

Castro—came to see the need for extending considerable discretion to the state,

simply to avoid the paralysis of daily administrative affairs.

This grant of discretion w as all the more acceptable because the state

and the revolutionary leadersh ip shared policy goals. Each w anted to

transform the Cuban population, to create a community of citizens who felt

bound by horizontal linkages, no t a vertical architecture of rank and

obligation. As a result, both state functionaries and com munist leaders

w anted to over-turn the p re-C astro system of sta tus and economic

distinctions.77

What would replace this old system may have rem ained a matter of

dispute. However, over time, those who held radical views began to lose

their ability to influence outcom es. In the years w hich follow ed the

revolution, organizational vehicles for representing radical ideas were

constantly built, d isassem bled, and rebu ilt in new form s. The pre

revolutionary People's Socialist Party (PSP), which was given oversight roles

in early radical consciousness-building and agenda-setting projects alongside

Castro's 26th of July m ovem ent, was dissolved into the new Integrated

R evolutionary O rgan iza tion (ORI) in 1961. The ORI, in tu rn , was

transformed into the Cuban Com m unist Party (PCC) in 1965. Even after the

PCC was formed, party leaders w ere kept off balance by frequent purges, as

77 Fagen, pp. 2-3.


160Castro would pull down established leaders from time to tim e and replace

them w ith new figures.

This constant in tervention into the organizational politics of the

Communist Party-and through it, into the mass organizations it directed-can

be seen as both an attempt by Fidel Castro to underm ine his ideological

competitors and an effort by the state, in a more classic corporatist project, to

eliminate and discipline troublesome non-state actors attem pting to acquire

autonomous control over resources and interfere in the im plem entation of

government policies.

To lim it its influence, the PCC was reconstituted by Castro as a

vanguard party, with very limited membership. Only about six percent of the

population belonged.78 The party 's influence was extended th ro u g h its

control of various mass organizations, unions, and similar associations. Mass

organizations often had clearly assigned roles to play in shap ing public

opinion and building support for government policies. H ow ever, the on

going changes in PCC leadership m eant that mass organizations functioned

with only the most general ideological road-map. As a rule, the w ork of mass

organizations became restric ted to urg ing vigilance in d efen d in g the

revolution.

W hen defense of the nation-state coincided w ith revolu tionary

vigilance, the state and the PCC could find common-ground. Such was the

case w ith the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution (CDRs). The

most inclusive of all Cuban mass organizations, CDRs were first form ed in

September of 1960. O ne-hundred thousand neighborhood CDR chapters,

78 Eckstein, pp. 20-21.


161with around a million and a half members, formed the base of the national

association's organizational structure. Above the local chapters was a

sectional directorate, above that a municipal directorate, above that one of six

provincial directorates, which were positioned beneath a national directorate

which set organizational goals and gu ided policy. The performance of

neighborhood units-their ability to work w ithin the organizational mission

of the national association and achieve measurable results-w as monitored by

sectional directors, who in turn were answerable to organizational officers

above them. Through this chain of com m and, h ig h er level directors

pressured subordinates to live up to the program 's ideals. N ational

competitions, designed to recognize and rew ard m eritorious units, also

created pressure to adopt exemplary practices.79

For the Communist Party, which controlled the office of the N ational

Directorate, the great value of CDR units was their ability to intimidate people

into properly revolutionary (i.e. class-based) thinking: individuals w ere

encouraged to question w hat their neighbors believed, w hether they

participated in revolutionary activities, who they met w ith (and why), and

the nature of their relationship to the ousted Batista government.80 The state

w anted to use CDR units for other purposes, prim arily to shape public

opinion and win backing for public policies, to mobilize neighborhoods to

contribute volunteer labor to national development projects, and to generate

patriotic support for the struggle against anti-Castro terrorists and the foreign

enemies of the nation-state. CDR units were also used to collect information

79 Fagen, pp. 75-83.

80 Ibid., p. 69.


162about popular grievances, as a way of gathering intelligence about prospective

sources of discontent.

O n occasion, the state found that revolutionary extremism among local

CDR directors created neighborhood conflict and spread d isillusionm ent

about the great collective undertakings of the new Cuba.81 Such fervor m ay

have served the PCC's on-going project of constructing class-consciousness,

bu t it conflicted w ith the state's preference for sodal harmony and a w idening

collective union. The chain of com mand, responding to pressure from the

state, would attem pt to control such excesses, to reign in neighborhood

directors who were overreaching. In the end, however, these types of local

conflicts were nothing more than a m inor concern, and since neighborhood

CDRs had only peripheral roles to play in the actual im plem entation of

policy, the state could carry forw ard w ith its important public endeavors. As a

result, the state continued to benefit in ways it could from the w ork of the

CDR, while tolerating the sm all inconveniences produced by over-zealous

chapter directors.

However in 1976, m any of the tasks assigned to local CDR chapters

w ere transferred to municipal OPP representatives. With this move, the state

in te rn a liz ed m any of the re sp o n sib ilitie s prev iously a llo ca ted to

neighborhood CDRs, effectively rem oving the CDR from the process of

implementing state policies.

The history of the Schools for Revolutionary Instruction (ERI)

followed a different path. The project was from the beginning alm ost entirely

the undertaking of the revolutionary left's ideological leadership . The

81 Ibid., pp. 98-103.


163purpose of the project, as described by Castro, was to aid in "the ideological

formation of revolutionaries, and then, by means of the revolutionaries, the

ideological formation of the rest of the people."82

The schools opened in January of 1961. Originally, there w ere thirteen

schools, educating about seven-hundred students. H alf the studen ts were

chosen from Castro’s 26th of July movement, the other half cam e from the

P eople 's Socialist Party. W hile the 26th of July m o v em en t held

administrative authority over the schools, all of the instructors came from

the PSP.

Castro occupied a unique role in the Cuban landscape: he w as both an

ideological leader and the chief sovereign. He hoped the Schools for

Revolutionary Instruction could help develop a philosophical p a th for Cuba

that was uniquely suited to Cuba's place in the world. The PSP, on the other

hand, hoped the schools w ould increase the influence of the party in the day-

to-day affairs of the political an d administrative life of the country. It was

im agined that graduates of the ERI w ould go on to prom inent leadership

roles in the state and mass organizations. As a result, the schools gave the

party an attractive incentive w ith which to recruit new members and a perk

they could offer to loyalists as a way to encourage right thinking.

Over the subsequent years, Castro, as chief executive, came to doubt the

value of the ERI. Beyond some clarification of ideological principles, the

schools produced very few social benefits. The schools w eren't successful in

producing the kind of leaders Cuba needed-clear-thinking abou t goals, but

82- Quoted in Fagen, p. 105.


164also familiar w ith international politics, global trade, technology, and other

central concerns of the modem age.

The m ain beneficiary of the schools was the PSP and later the PCC The

party used the schools to build its ranks, rew ard its members, and create a

platform for influencing state policy. Either as sovereign or an ideological

actor in the w ider arena of Cuban political society, Castro would no longer

permit the Communists to use the ERI as a resource for improving their own

position.

The state shut dow n the schools and transferred the teaching of

M arxism-Leninism to the universities. Com m unist ideologues transferred

their efforts to build revolutionary consciousness to their work w ith youth

groups, the teachers unions, and other associations w ith connections to

education. But w ith a constant game of musical chairs among the party 's

leadership, a coherent ideology and a long-term program for converting the

enthusiasm of youth into an expanded range of influence for the party was

impossible.

Only a handful of state bureaucrats, a smaller number of lower-level

functionaries, and very few individual citizens, in other words, hardly any of

those responsible for im plem enting state policy, including educational

reform, w ere PCC members. They may have shared some of the party's

ideological goals, bu t they constructed their identities from other roles.

A dm inistrators and teachers were employees of the state and this shaped

their self-understandings. This m eant they tended to take a problem-focused

approach to their work. Improving curriculum, finding ways to work past

chronic shortages of text books, combatting truancy, and keeping students

enrolled in schools year after year became consuming preoccupations. To


165what end all of their efforts were contributing-tow ard a workers' u topia or a

more broad-based nationalist union—was a far less salient and dearly form ed

concern.

The literacy campaign was followed up by the initiation of new system s

of adult and spetial education. Like the literacy campaign, these efforts were

shaped by the idea that all Cubans, regardless of their station in life, needed to

share in the common cognitive and com m unicative culture of the nation, in

o rder to share in the nation 's com m on history and the prom ise of a

(collectively constructed) future.

Conventional dassroom education, espedally at the elem entary and

secondary levels, also prioritized this goal. These new school reforms, like

the literacy campaign, combined an integrated administrative structure w ith

carefully refined pedagogical sdence.83 The Communist Party tried repeatedly

to usurp state administrative control over key governmental sectors, b u t in

education they were repeatedly rolled-back.84 Eventually, state p referred

objectives were prioritized, but not un til the Communist Party su rrendered

its direct role in policy implementation.

The struggle over the direction of educational polides and the role of

the schools continued into the 1970s. W hat the Cuban state's corporatist

project eventually succeed in doing—in the educational realm b u t also

elsewhere-was dividing the responsibilities of governm ent between form al

state organizations, which implemented policy largely free from interference,

and the PCC controlled mass organizations of civil society, which represented

83 Martuza, pp. 107-115.

8^ Perez, Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution, p . 349. The party's influence was greater in state-run m edia and the military.


166the interests of the Cuban people to the state and enlisted popular support for

the state's various projects.

In the end, this prolonged struggle gives credence to my higher-level

hypothesis: that as a general rule state control over adm inistrative and

especially educational reform is difficult to achieve. Non-state actors, like the

PCC, frequently interfere to attempt to prevent the consolidation of reforms

designed to serve the interests of the state. It ordinarily requires a sweeping

transform ation of society (and the elim ination or w eakening of non-state

opponents) to create the conditions necessary for the state to succeed in its

objectives. Revolution is one such transform ative event. But additional

developm ents m ay be necessary to expand and institu tionalize state

authority.

Recent w ork by Daniel Carpenter suggests that the delay in locking-in

state control over the educational sector is linked w ith the slow pace of

reputation-building.85 As the state developed a reputation for delivering

educational services, for expanding access, and for constructing a socialist

vision of national solidarity, m ovem ent leaders becam e m ore willing to

institu tionalize the discretion the state had taken in educational policy

making. I'll discuss this topic more in my concluding chapter.

I discovered, as I expected, that the building of national consciousness-

not class consciousness—was one of the principal goals of educational reform

in Cuba follow ing the revolution. This particular version of nationalism

carried w ith it a radical flavor, but it was solidarity, not class w ar that the state

sought to carry forward. For the first time in Cuban history, an island wide

85 D aniel Carpenter, The Forging of Bureaucratic Autonomy (unpublished manuscript, 1998).


167educational system was constructed, to provide all Cubans w ith access to

shared cultural systems, common historical m em ories, and a uniform

w orldview .

As a system of state structures emerged to carry forw ard these reforms,

adm inistrators used their positions of office to realize (and imagine) the

state 's objectives. As the Cuban Com m unist Party struggled w ith state

planners for control over education (and other state-run projects), the sheer

weight of the bureaucratic apparatus-and its considerable expertise-tipped the

balance in favor of state planners.

One last skirmish was fought in the late 1960s. As the state moved to

consolidate its place outside the narrow ideological orthodoxies preferred by

top leaders within both Castro's circle of ideological advisors and the PCC, the

lead ersh ip attem pted to by-pass w illfu lly se lf-gu ided (and, indeed,

occasionally corrupt) bureaucrats by giving pow er to local leaders. This

p roved to be a failure, only producing chaos and inconsistency in the

implementation of policy. Discretion was returned to the state, and in a series

of reforms throughout the early 1970s, the pow er of the state to carry out

policy was guaranteed.

INTRODUCnON OF OPEN-DOOR POLICY ELEMENTS (1975-1990)

By the time of the First Congress of the Cuban Communist Party in

1975, the battle over state autonom y in educational policy-m aking and

im plem entation was already lost, and w hile the Party Congress' final

resolutions offered some rhetorical pledges for the vigilant oversight of the

educational system to assure "the m ulti-lateral and harm onic formation of

the communist personality,"the party signaled their surrender with support

of goals more consistent w ith the s ta te 's overall objectives-im proved


168technical training of teachers an d a fu rth e r institu tionalization of the

adm inistrative apparatus.86 Following on this victory, the state m oved to

reorganize the M inistry of E ducation an d the system of education,

transferring the supervision of universities to the new Ministry of Higher

Education in 1976. The state launched the Central Institute of Pedagogical

Science that same year, and in troduced a long list of instructional and

organizational reforms in the form of the Plan of Improvement between 1975

and 1980.87

One of the main reasons the 1975 school reforms were adopted was

because earlier efforts to improve school performance and student retention

through ideological appeals had failed so noticeably. By the late 1960s, despite

the construction of a nation-wide system of schools, fewer than thirty percent

of prim ary school students graduated from sixth grade. In response, state and

party leaders urged students to practice "self-discipline," and to think about

the im portant contribution their education could make to the revolutionary

effort.88 The results w ere unrem arkable, studen t retention rem ained a

nagging problem.

In order to move beyond these problems, the Ministry of Education

proposed the sweeping Plan of Im provem ent. Perhaps m ost central to

solving the problem of student retention, the first four years of a student's

educational career were now spent w ith the same teacher, who used his or

86 Tesis y Resoluciones de la Primer Congresa del Partido Comunista de Cuba (Havana: El Departmento de Orientaaon R evoluaonaria del Comite Central del Partido, 1976), p. 135. Translation mine.

87 See Martuza, pp. 111-119 for a comprehensive description of these reforms.

88 Berube, pp. 106-107.


1 6 9her familiarity w ith the student to diagnose problem s and shape solutions

designed to more fully integrate the student into the educational process.89

The theory was simple; problem s which m ight lead to the studen t leaving

school—learning disabilities, trouble at home, chronic medical conditions—

were to be identified and rem edied. At the same tim e, any special talents

were to be identified so an appropriately challenging educational experience

could be offered to gifted children. This approach view ed studen t retention

problem s as being solvable through a careful application of educational

techniques, not a matter of ideological excitement. A nd the state—which was

uniquely suited to bring together all of the necessary resources, including

pedagogical training, social workers, medical specialists, and so forth-w as the

best vehicle to take-on the task. The results were impressive: by 1984, ninety-

three percent of all Cuban students graduated from sixth g rade.90 This

achievem ent reinforced the state's growdng repu ta tion for success in the

educational sector, and, as a result, deepened state autonomy.

A t the prim ary school level, reforms reinforced central control over

classroom curricu lum an d tex t-book content. A n n u a l ed u ca tio n a l

conferences gave m in istry officials the chance to rev iew p ro p o sed

innovations and to adopt im provem ents. Teacher train ing w as held to

higher standards.91 Teachers' classroom performance was evaluated. On a

regular basis, teachers were required to attend special classes a t one of the

89 Ibid., pp. 108-109.

90 Ibid., p. 109.

9 In the 1975 reforms, primary school teachers were required to com plete a five year program of studying beginning after the ninth grade. In 1988 this was changed, only graduates from the tw elfth grade could enter teacher's college. See ib id ., pp. 116-117.


170nation's pedagogical universities, to reacquaint them selves w ith the latest

approaches to classroom instruction. This was supported by a far-reaching

administrative machine.

This was consistent w ith the overall emphasis on state building during

this period, which also included the adoption of a new Constitution in 1976

w hich reo rgan ized th e n a tio n in to new p ro v in c ia l an d m unicipal

administrative units. A new multi-level legislative leviathan was created to

replace the National Assembly. Called the Organs of Popular Power, or Poder

Popular, the new branch of governm ent was responsible for annual budgets,

five-year plans, and m aking laws. It appointed m em bers to the Council of

State. Less conventionally, it also took over a variety of executive powers,

exercising direct control over governmental bodies. The national assembly of

OPP sat at the top of a governmental pyramid, beneath it were provincial and

municipal assemblies, w hich w ere responsible for extending oversight of

government affairs dow n into local settings. They also held meetings with

local popu lations to ex p la in governm ent policy an d hear citizens'

complaints.92 In this way, it usurped the special role that previously had been

left to local CDR chapters. Later, in 1989, concern about the imperfect

oversight rendered by local OPP representatives-w ho were only part-time

legislators-led to the creation of local People's Councils, which were made-up

of full-time adm inistrators, who w orked with OPP representatives to direct

state projects at the local level.

92 Eckstein, p. 27.


171By 1980, w hen the M inistry of Education took a look back at the

previous five-year period in its report to the national assem bly of Poder

Popular, it was able to note w ith satisfaction that most of its adm inistrative

and organizational objectives had been achieved, even if m any of the

classroom results had not yet been realized.93

Full-time school enrollment increased from 800,000 students in 1958-59

to over three m illion in 1982-83.94 In 1953, when the last pre-revolutionary

census was taken, only fifty-six percent of elementary-school-age children

attended school, and only twenty-eight percent of children between 13 and 19

were enrolled in secondary school.95 By 1986, nearly all elementary-school-

age children w ere in school, and eighty-six percent of secondary-school-age

children were enrolled.96 School expansion followed a logic: it d id n 't make

sense to build secondary schools until everyone had access to elementary

school, and university expansion had to w ait u n til everyone had an

opportunity to attend secondary school.97

Over tim e, most Cubans came to possess more than eight years of

educational experience. This helped create an educated population, capable of

taking part in the various responsibilities associated w ith transform ing Cuba

from an impoverished, divided nation, into a developed economy.

93 Informe del Ministerio de Education a la Asamblea National del Poder Popular de la Repubkica de Cuba (Havana, Ministry of Education, 1981).


95 Informe del Ministerio de Education a la Asamblea National del Poder Popular de la Republica de Cuba, p. 14.




172This education, at least a t the prim ary school level, w as rem arkably

un ifo rm . Despite u n ce rta in econom ic resources a n d d is trib u tio n a l

bottlenecks, schools from coast to coast used the same curriculum , framing a

common educational experience. Reading instruction in all elem entary

school classrooms across the island employed the same p hon ic m ethods.

After rudimentary reading skills were acquired, students practiced their skills

on an identical sequence of texts. W hen reforms w ere undertaken -fo r

example, 1988's decision to focus more carefully on the m echanics of reading

in grades one through four before moving on to a wide-ranging application of

skills—they were adopted simultaneously coast-to-coast.98

It is useful to review the m inim um required hou rs o f classroom

instruction across a variety of subjects. For example, a nationalizing project

would be expected to require m ore hours of dassroom instruction in history,

civic culture, and local language. A caste or "proletarianizing" project would

boost the number of hours of instruction devoted to practical skills valuable

to vocational applications. In Cuba, this exercise yields su rp ris in g results.

W hile elem entary school a tten d an ce figures changed enorm ously ,

curriculum changed very little, a t least for the youngest s tuden ts. The

subjects children study in Cuban schools today, w ith a few m inor exceptions,

are the same subjects studied by children in the years before the revolution.99

See Martuza, pp. 111-113.

" See Severin K. Turosienski, Education in Cuba (Washington, D.C.: Federal Security Agency, 1943), pp. 8-12; and Organization of Education in Cuba: Report of the Republic of Cuba to the 45th International Conference on Public Education (Havana: Ministry o f Education, 1996), pp. 14-15. See also Horton, pp. 263-264. Indeed, the curriculum has changed little since 1900. One interesting change: before the revolution the mandatory study of English began in the 4th grade. N ow the required study of a foreign language-usually Russian or English—begins in the 6th grade.


173The distribution of tim e spent s tudy ing the various subjects also rem ains

largely unchanged.100

This m ight encourage an observer to conclude there has been little

change in Cuban schools-and lead to questions about the relevance of my

reflections on the nature of change in Cuban education. In fact, this, in part,

lends credence to my belief that the educational project in Cuba was no t

radicalized by the revolution. Instead, the nationalist p rogram of prim ary

schooling adopted prior to 1959 has been preserved. The change has been the

effort m ade to guarantee universal access to this schooling. Before the

revolution, nearly half of all C uban children d id not attend elem entary

school. The vast m ajority of these students were peasant ch ildren .101 In

addition, prior to the revolution one in ten Cuban elem entary-aged school

children attending school went to private schools.102 These students often

received a very different education. While private schools, in principle, were

expected to conform to state educational standards, form al ru les were

im precise and inspections were rare.103 In most private schools, religious

in struc tion was com mon. W hat this m eant was a fu rth e r d ilu tio n of

universal education. A ll in all, somewhere between forty-five percent and

fifty percent of Cuban children under the age of 12 had access to the nation-

building curriculum taught in public schools.

10° Turosienski, Education in Cuba, p. 12; and Organization of Education in Cuba, p. 15.


102 T u rosien sk i, Education in Cuba, pp. 8 -9 .

1 °$ Ibid ., p. 8.


17 4Indeed, this number is clearly less if one takes into consideration the

m ism anagem ent of the pre-revo lu tionary school project. Before the

revolution, Education M inistry employees, like m any state workers, lacked

dedication and professional competence. They held their jobs through the

good-will of benefactors. The whole system of state employment functioned

as a jobs program for the frustrated middle-class, w ho were unable to secure

employment in commercial operations. In the end, oversight of rural schools

was poorly m aintained, and curriculum supervision was often non-existent.

Rural teachers, often poorly trained, taught what they could (or w hat they

wanted), and no one was looking over their shoulders.

What the revolution d id was boost the num ber of children receiving

uniform instruction to nearly one-hundred percent. All Cuban children,

regardless of race, class, religion, or place of residence now received the same

schooling. Further, the bureaucratization of the M inistry of Education created

an efficient fo rm of nation-w ide organizational oversight-so standards

w ritten in law and p rio ritized in M inistry gu idelines w ere actually

implemented in the classrooms.

The educationa l experience of o ld er ch ild ren changed m ore

extensively. Prior to the revolution, com pulsory education only extended

into the seventh grade. After that, less advantaged students either left school,

or remained in classrooms for tw o additional years of vocational training.

More fortunate students were channeled into a four year junior baccalaureate

program to prepare them for pre-university train ing .104 As I pointed out

104 Ibid., p. 20.


175earlier, only twenty-eight percent of Cuban students made this transition into

secondary school.105

A fter the revolution, u n ifo rm universal education was pushed

forw ard into the ninth grade.106 Furtherm ore, continuation of studies beyond

n in th g rade has been common, m oving above ninety percent in recent

years.107 H ere, however, student experiences diverge, with some students

going to polytechnical institutes o r trade schools and others to college

preparatory programs.108 This is also the po in t where nationalizing

curricu lum gives way to political train ing-students in the pre-university

p rogram are required to undergo m ilitary training and take courses in

m arx ism / leninism ,109 suggesting tha t those admitted into the upper-levels of

educational achievement need to conform not only with conceptions of

Cuban national consciousness, but revolutionary orthodoxy as well.

As more and more young m en and women acquired the prerequisites

for university study, the state needed to begin making some decisions about

w ho could have access to university classrooms. This required the state to

th in k about goals. W hat state p lanners decided was to link access to

university training to the needs of the economy. This direction was formally

fram ed by the new Constitution of 1976. There access to university schooling

was structured to offer training according to "aptitudes, social circumstances,

I 05 Informe del Ministerio de Educacion a la Asamblea Nacional del Poder Popular de la Republica de Cuba, p. 14.

Organization of Education in Cuba, p. 17.

107 Ibid., p. 18.

108 Ibid ., p. 8.

Ibid ., p. 16.


176and the needs of economic-social developm ent."110 This clearly fits under

my descriptive profile of open-door formats for the organization of access to

education resources. Nevertheless, universal incorporationist organizational

schemes still functioned at lower levels of education. W hat w e find then is a

re tu rn to a mixed form for the organization of schooling and citizenship

training. Prior to the revolution, open-door approaches to schooling held

ground in the cities, while caste projects were the ru le in the countryside.

After 1975, instead, one finds incorporationist policies at play in the prim ary

and secondary schools, and open-door practices becom ing institutionalized at

the university level.

Poor technical tra in ing com bined w ith o ther factors to produce

troubling consequences in the late 1960s and in to the 1970s: low w orker

morale, declining productivity, poor product quality, and m aterial shortages.

Throughout this era, workers were exhorted to develop their skills and

devote their labor tow ard the achievement of collective goals, not personal

gain. Distinctions between m anual and nonm anual labor w ere elim inated,

and rewards for one type of work were not significantly different from those

for the other.111 Except for a personal interest in taking on more difficult

work, there was no m eaningful incentive to choose m ore technical w ork

over manual labor, nor any reason to strive to become a m anager rather than

a subordinate. Forgiving workplace "norms," the perform ance requirements

which assured workers basic wages, m eant that w orkers could satisfy their

110 Eduardo Lara Hernandez, "Las Leyes Sobre la Educad6n, Segunda Parte,” Education 9, no. 34 (July-Septemberl979), pp. 77-78.

H I Eckstein, p. 34.


177supervisors and collect their pay w ith very little effort.112 Since there were no

mechanisms beyond m oral persuasion, specifically no m aterial incentives to

encourage w orkers to keep laboring once they fulfilled their required

contribution, workplaces operated far below capacity.

By 1980, problems began to accumulate to a crippling level. In addition

to the inability of m oral incentives alone to motivate productive work,

Cuba's trade w ith the Soviet Union and other COMECON (the communist

world's Council for M utual Economic Assistance) partners left the economy

gasping for m any necessary goods, both consumer products and parts and

materials for w orkplace machinery. Steps taken to address these problems

put Cuban society on a new path.

The failure of Cuba's economic system resulted in a desperate need for

im ported substitutes. This need could not be satisfied by COMECON partners.

For several years the Cuban leadership had refined Soviet oil for sale on the

world market. This provided Cuba w ith a small quantity of hard currency for

purchasing foreign goods. As the need for foreign goods grew, so d id the need

to find hard currency. Cuba's leaders decided to m arket sugar to Western

m arkets and pursue, to a lim ited degree, the tourism w hich ardent radical

voices had previously deem ed anti-revolutionary. Still, these efforts didn't

generate the k ind of foreign earnings Cuba needed to satisfy the country's

needs. So the state began to borrow from foreign banks. The debt rose much

faster than hard currency export earnings, and by 1986 the foreign debt was

112 Ibid., p. 65. See also p. 56. Castro, show ing his practical, problem-focused state-actor's face found a part of the problem to be the long em phasis on building a classless society. Managerial direction and workplace discipline were nonexistent in part because everyone in the workplace w as equal.


178five billion dollars.113 At about this time, prices paid for Cuban sugar and

refined oil dropped precipitously. Cuba was left w ith a massive foreign debt,

and no way to repay; as a result, bank lending dried up, and Cuba was left to

rely on its COMECON trade partners. U nfortunately for Cuba, w ith the

dissolution of the Soviet Union and the fall of the iron curtain, the country's

special trade privileges evaporated, as the newly liberalizing East Europeans

began to demand hard currency payments for their goods.

A t home, a variety of pragmatic m arket, workplace, and educational

reform s were adopted. To attem pt to squeeze out additional agricultural

productivity and overcome distributional problems intrinsic to the state-run

system, growers were permitted to sell surplus goods directly to consumers in

farm ers ' m arkets. To keep autom obiles and tractors and appliances

functioning despite the chronic shortage of parts (and skilled technicians), the

state licensed private citizens to offer for-profit repair services.

On the shopfloor, new anti-loafing laws made it im proper for workers

to fail to devote their full effort to the productive efforts of the workplace.

W om en were encouraged to leave the hom e and find em ploym ent in

factories and shops. The state took on the com m itm ent of expanding

government-run day-care facilities to facilitate women's transition to work.

A new pay-scale-the first since 1963-was adopted. The new wage

structure gave technicians, professionals, supervisory personnel, and highly

productive workers significantly higher wages than most m anual laborers.114

The goal was to attract m otivated people into technical an d skilled

113 Ibid., p. 72.

114 Ibid., p. 44.


179occupations,, and rew ard them for the work they did . W hen these new

incentives were combined w ith greater selectivity in university admissions,

the hope was that those predisposed to intellectual brilliance and technical

competence w ould emerge from the crowd and, inspired by attractive

rewards, achieve great results in the workplace. Material equality and the

fundamentally equal moral value of m anual and non-manual w o rk were

still stressed at least rhetorically, although better rewards were now offered to

the technically skilled and the professionally competent.

In 1986, the governm ent launched the "campaign to rectify errors."

While on the surface the cam paign seemed to return to the egalitarian wage

structures of the 1960s and 1970s, in fact, the goal was som ething very

different. The state had come to see that the enhanced incentives given to

technical and professional w orkers hadn’t improved workplace competence

or economic performance. The new reforms were designed to link better pay

to actual workplace perform ance-both an example of the problem -solving

character of state bureaucratic behavior and a deepening of the open-door,

organic solidarity which played such a prominent role in the period.

This growing preference for a modified (i.e. a greatly more egalitarian)

form of organic solidarity is notable. Why in a society so long dedicated to the

construction of horizontal (cu ltu ral and class-based) so lidarity , w ould

toleration of hierarchical differences emerge? The answer seems to be that as

the state adopted the role custom arily occupied by the bourgeoisie in

advanced industrial societies, it also came to embrace the logic of social order

linked w ith bourgeois industrialization. As the state grasped for means to

boost productivity-and after attem pting and failing to do so with ideological

appeals-it turned to the p revailing model offered by W estern nations.


180W orkers were organized into a hierarchically arranged fram ew ork of

occupational roles and workplace tasks and m arket-like incentives were

offered to encourage occupational achievement.

In the past, much of the educational system was devoted to developing

a com mon educational experience for all Cubans, p rio ritiz ing equality

through uniformity. Now, th rough a series of standardized examinations

and a system of specialized technical and university-level train ing , more

Cubans were encouraged to develop individual expertise, to climb to different

levels of educational achievement, and seek differential rew ards waiting in

the workplace. Universal education was still the rule, bu t beyond the

e lem en tary school level u n ifo rm ity of experience w as no longer

prioritized.115

Table 2 - Cuba: Literacy and Enrollment*Year Literacy rate School enrollm ent51 9 3 1 72% 63% c1 9 5 5 76% 51%1 9 8 1 98% 96% d1 9 9 0 94% 9 8 % (est.)e

a. Data from Berube; Fagen; 1931,1953, and 1981 censuses; and Statistical Yearbook for Latin America and the Caribbean (Santiago, Chile: United Nations Economic Com m ission for Latin America and the Caribbean, 1992).b. School enrollment figures for children 5-14, except as indicated.c. 1926 data.d. Figure for children 6-14.e. Figure for children 6-11.

115 perez, Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution, pp. 348-49.


181

Conclusions

I have argued that the Cuban revolution (and the universalization of

educational opportunity) created for the first tim e a nationw ide culture.

Indeed, the project had revolutionary aims, but they were consistent w ith the

construction of a national consciousness. The literacy project, in particular,

aimed specifically at creating a unification of the east an d the west. The

process of state-building that followed, joined w ith the exodus of opponents

of state authority, gave the governm ent an opportunity to piece together an

educational system which served the citizenship-training preferences of the

state. Because these preferences w ere largely consistent w ith the interests of

Fidel Castro's revolutionary m ovem ent, the state was given considerable

discretion to carry out its policies.

But, the Cuban example also illustrates the next d im ension of my

project: that efforts at state-led incorporation m ust also direct their attention

to economic priorities to satisfy the increased dem and for m aterial benefits.

In fact, in states which choose to use educational spaces (and other

institutional resources) to incorporate additional num bers into the political

life of the nation, the new state often urgently needs to increase national

productivity in order to satisfy the m aterial (and occupational) dem ands of

the state's grow ing constituency.116 In Cuba in the years after 1975, the

educational mission of the state was reconceived to dedicate university-level

116 Samuel P. Huntington, Political Order in Changing Societies (N ew Haven: Yale University Press, 1968). For Huntington the problem w as political instability in a w orld poised at the brink of ideological conflict between competing super-powers. Setting aside Huntington's status-quo concerns, the idea that rapid expansion in educational opportunities can create problems is worth holding on to. See also D avid B. Abernathy, The Political Dilemma of Popular Education (Stanford: Stanford U niversity Press, 1969).


1 8 2instruction to the needs of the economy. This was done during a time w hen

in ternal discontent was emerging and at a point when the United States,

under President Ronald Reagan, was recommitting itself to a policy of hostile

opposition to the Cuban experiment.

T his m u lti-d im ensiona l p ro jec t-in v o lv in g both g o v ern m en ta l

refo rm s an d un iversal public education-changed Cuba's cu ltu re of

connectedness and altered understandings of identity. T h ro u g h o u t a

sequence of organizational and policy shifts-creating new governm ental

structures, deputizing certain mass organizations to carry out specific tasks

(later transfering these responsibilities to new state agents), while effectively

m arginalizing other non-state actors (especially elites and foreign businesses,

but also rival leftist political actors, in particular the PCC)-the Cuban state

consolidated its power to achieve its preferences. Of course, this pow er w as

not absolute. Fidel Castro's July of 26th movement, by the end of this period

a persuasive ghostly presence w ithout organizational form, continued to

express ideological preferences and to w ork within government policies to

secure its political aims.

Powerful outside forces-specifically the geo-politics of the Cold War—

also continued to shape events. Cuba's Soviet ally did not indulge the Cuban

state's preference for industrialization, preferring that Cuba contribute sugar

and agricultural products to the exchange of goods between communist-bloc

nations. The proximity of a hostile United States meant that the Cuban state,

w hatever its preferences m ight have been, was forced to concentrate on

national defense.

Needless to say, many of the state's goals remained beyond its grasp.

H ow ever, it seems certain that m ost non-state actors lost their ability to


183effectively shape policy outcomes. This calls to m ind Tocqueville's argument

that the state prefers equality and un ifo rm ity of sentim ent among the

members of the population, because it increases governm ent's hold on

power.117 This is true for at least two reasons. First of all, when citizens stand

before the law as individuals w ith direct, unm ediated connections to the

state, it is very difficult for them to coordinate their activity to achieve (or

even identify) common ends. Associations help people jo in together to

achieve common ends, and by placing obstacles in the way of assodational

life, the state can discourage the attainment o f objectives outside its own list

of preferences. Second, when men and w om en are of different temperments

and preferences, the state m ust create a w ide continuum of legal or policy

devices to thwart the various private associations they m ight form or the

multiple ways individuals might strive. W hen individuals prioritize their

goals or view the world in similiar ways, the ir preferences and strategies for

acting will follow similar patterns, maldng th e state's job of predicting their

behavior (and where relevant, counter-balancing it) more simple.

The Cuban state took away organizational resources from all but the

most loyal or similar-thinking associations. The public schools distributed

uniform curriculum to all children on the island, while parallel educational

projects sought to make certain that all Cubans, regardless of their work or age

had the reading skills which m ade access to the nation's cognitive union

possible.

117 Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America (N ew York; Anchor Books, 1969), p. 673.


CHAPTER 5

THE CASE OF PERU

D im ensions o f sim ilarity

It is the striking similarities between my Cuban and Peruvian cases th a t

m ake the very different outcom es an inviting puzzle. In both cases, a

colonial past established a historical foundation for economic backw ardness

and social division. The early years of self-government were characterized by

a continuation of pervasive dom ination of trade and political life by foreign

economic powers. This pa ttern of developm ent reinforced in ternal social

divisions first m apped out during the colonial era. In particular, a creole elite

developed the rudim entary beginnings of economic m odernization in the

capital and in surrounding regions, bu t the nation's vast interior rem ained

under the control of traditional systems of dom ination which left people of

color (and other poor and powerless populations) outside the political life of

the 'nation.' In both Cuba and Peru, republican forms of governance came to

be dominated by powerful social actors, committed to the pursuit of narrow

self-interest, and the result was political paralysis. Fear of working-class and

peasant m obilization delayed the extension of political rights an d the

expansion of m em bership in the civic union. This m eant, am ong o ther

things, that elites resisted the adoption of universal schooling. In tim e, the

184


185misery and isolation of the exploited and political disenfranchised masses

found expression in radical politics.

Here is the first point of departure between our two stories. In Cuba,

this radicalism found its expression in a guerrilla campaign which brought

revolu tionary change to Cuban society. In Peru , a reform ist m ilitary

leadership, alarm ed by the continuing disorder in Peruvian society and

convinced tha t political solutions had proven futile, stepped in to take

control of the state.

While m any similarities continued, this difference-the fact of Cuba's

revolution and the absence of revolutionary change in Peru-altered the path

each country w ould follow and, in particular, shaped the fate of universal

educational reforms. Given the continuing influence of elite social actors, the

Peruvian m ilitary was careful to limit the range of its reforms.

As I w ill discuss, like Cuba, Peru 's transitional leadership was

confronted by a U.S. led economic embargo. However, because Peru 's

transition w as non-revolutionary, there was room on bo th sides of the

confrontation for com prom ise, opportun ities w ere found to seek ou t

com m on-ground.

In both cases, plans were undertaken to redistribute property and shift

the control of agricultural production to the masses. However, in Peru these

reforms were repeatedly interrupted by non-state social actors who retained

m uch of their pre-transition influence. In both cases far-reaching social

reform was attem pted, including the transform ation of education. Schools

were rededicated to the fashioning of national unity and social solidarity. In

each country, the state w orked to prom ote universal education, so all

m embers of the civic union could share a com m on com m unicative and


186cognitive culture. However, in Peru, non-state social actors-including radical

social m ovem ents in the interior and far-left teachers' unions, as well as

foreign capitalists, the emerging middle-class and remnants of the oligarchy-

intervened to d isrupt the implementation of incorporationist reforms.

Initial v iew

In m any w ays the agenda undertaken by General Juan Velasco

A lvarado's Revolutionary Government of the Arm ed Forces (GRFA) in the

years after the 1968 coup was as ambitious as the package of social reforms

adopted by Cuba in 1959. One fact, however, foreshadowed the limits that

w ould come to reign in the reengineering of Peru: while Castro and his forces

intervened in Cuban politics to make a revolution, Velasco and his generals

aimed to forestall a revolutionary transformation of Peruvian society. To do

this, they realized, Peruvian society needed to be transformed from the

ground up. This m eant changing how Peruvians interacted on the shop

floor, on the coastal estates that produced commercial crops for export, in the

m oun ta in com m unities where trad itional system s of order had been

crumbling for a generation, and in the new towns that surrounded Lima. To

make all of this work, the state wanted to restructure the communicative and

cognitive culture(s) that joined people together. For the first time in Peru's

history, the state hoped, citizens w ould be jo ined together in a single,

territory-w ide national union. The goal, as in Cuba, was to reorder how

citizens prioritized their loyalties: class-based attachments, local or ethnic ties

(and related regional rivalries), and, perhaps more than anything else, links

to foreign com m ercial allies, were all to be given secondary importance


187beh ind the primacy of national solidarity. To bring this about, universal

education was a priority.

This commitment to break w ith a trad itio n of d iv ision and elite

privilege was made possible because the m ilitary (fearful of the collapse of

o rd er in Peruvian society), the great masses of people organized in unions

an d assodational groups, and the sm all b u t em erging bourgeoisie, saw

national union as an important step along a pa th leading to m odernization,

political harmony, sodal justice, and national security. Indeed, each of these

social actors prioritized these goals d iffe ren tly -w h ile the m ilitary was

p rim arily concerned w ith internal o rder an d geo-political security, the

bourgeoisie hoped the construction of a P eruv ian nation w ou ld lay the

foundation for a m odern economy w hich w ou ld p rin d p a lly profit local

en trep reneurs not foreign corporations, a n d the m asses saw in full

m em bership in the dv ic union the opportunity to achieve the so d a l justice

that, they believed, had been denied them for generations.

The reasons for the failure of th is am bitious a ttem p t at social

reengineering are numerous, but cluster a round a single fact. The military

coup which brought Velasco to power, despite the rhetoric of the generals,

was not a revolutionary shift It was, in m any ways, a continuation of politics

by long established rules. As I will review , the m ilitary had repeatedly

intervened in Peruvian politics. Customarily, these m ilitary p ro jeds were

m otivated by a desire to retrieve Peru from the threat (or actuality) of social

chaos and prevent the ascent of radical political actors w ho m ight initiate a

transform ation of property laws, undertake sw eeping so d a l policy reforms

w hich might endanger the soundness of the state's fiscal resources (and, as

w ell, roll-back defense spending), and underm ine Christian dvilization.


188While there w as a m ore progressive flavor to the Velasco regime's policy

agenda, the GRFA, like earlier military governm ents, wanted to preserve the

institution of p rivate p roperty , sought to contain social reform s w ithin

specified limits, and distrusted the common people. Moreover, while the

leadership w hich held the controls during the first phase of the regime's

twelve years of rule were committed to closing the book on the long history

of oligarchic rule in Peru, there was not unanim ity among the generals who

occupied the seats of power. Indeed, during the second period of the GRFA’s

years of rule, elements w ith closer links to traditionally powerful social actors

worked to tear-dow n m uch of the (incomplete) w ork undertaken by Velasco.

In short, in the absence of revolution, the M ilitary Government of the Arm ed

Forces reigned in social reform and avoided using the resources of the state,

inc lud ing p u b lic ed u ca tio n , to in it ia te a m ore a ll-encom passing

transform ation of Peruvian culture and consciousness. This was, in part,

because pow erful social actors interested in lim iting the construction of

national so lidarity still p layed a role in the day-to-day life of Peru and

continued to pressure the state to lim it the range of reform. While the

military had the capacity to seize power and introduce policy reforms, actual

im plementation and long-term institutionalization of these reforms required

the participation of society, and Peruvian society w as still dom inated by

powerful social actors w ith good reasons to dislike the expansion of political

rights and the construction of a more inclusive union.


189H istory and Legacies

COLONIALISM AND POST-COLONIAL SOCIETY

Like Cuba, Peru's history was decisively shaped by its colonial past.

N evertheless, there were differences betw een Peru and Cuba's colonial

histories. While Cuba played an im portant role in the early years of Spain's

new w orld colonies-serving as a garrison and a transit point—Peru was far

more significant. Peru's mountains were a source of vast m ineral wealth,

and all of Spain's South American territories were ruled by the Spanish

viceroy in Lima. The centrality of Peru in the Spanish colonization of the

new w orld meant that political control-in the form of an adm inistrative state

w ith considerable scope and authority-developed earlier in Lim a than in

Cuba In 1569, Viceroy Don Francisco de Toledo adopted a sweeping package

of adm inistrative reforms.1 These reforms extended the au thority of the

crow n into indigenous communities, w hich had up until that p o in t been

penetrated mainly by lawless exploitation, and inserted the Viceroy into

relations between Spainards, who had previously largely managed their own

affairs (and in the process created considerable disorder and conflict).

The extraction of the immense mineral w ealth of the A ndes, Toledo

realized, required a perm anent population. Native workers, w hose labor

brought silver and mercury and other precious commodities from the mines,

needed to be resettled into new communities. A nd Spanish com m oners-

small-scale farmers and tradesm en-needed to be given land and encouraged

to pu t dow n permanent roots. This was required to introduce order into the

unsettled society which had come to characterize the early years of Spanish

1 See Steve J. Stem, Peru's Indian Peoples and the Challenge of Spanish Conquest (Madison: University of W isconsin Press, 1982), p. 76.


190rule. Adventurers and conquistadors, made lords over their lands, had fallen

into a disruptive series of civil wars and rebellions. The quiet residential life

of the farmer and the m erchant, and their need to attach them selves to the

state as a source of m ediation, order, and administrative watchfulness, was

seen as a remedy to the reckless ways of the early years.

So w ithin forty years of Pizarro's first arrival, the foundation for a

permanent Spanish presence, and the state structure necessary to sustain it,

were firmly in place in Peru. Royal affairs and trade were centered in Lima,

and commercial agriculture took root along the coast. W hite m en seldom

ventured far horn the coastal plain which surrounded Lima. O nly the small

number of Spaniards required to coordinate the extraction of m inerals from

the mines ventured into the interior. This pattern of settlem ent created a

historical legacy that continues to shape the present.

Just as few Spaniards took up residence in the interior, Spanish law, as

well, only had a lim ited day-to-day presence in the A n d ean highlands.

Despite the exercise of sta te-bu ild ing and the success o f im planting

permanent adm inistrative structures in Lima, the geographic reach of the

crown's authority was lim ited. Wealthy individuals and pow erfu l elites

influenced law enforcement in distant localities, and the in d ian tenant on a

large estate, or the indigenous laborer undertaking back-breaking work in the

mines, had to make his peace w ith the hacendado or the m ine forem an

without benefit of the state.2 While the laws to protect ind ians from the

worst extremes of deprivation and exploitation were in place, a n d Lima (and

Cadiz) had an interest in enforcing them as a prerequisite for m aintaining the

David P. Werlich, Peru, a Short History (Carbondale: Southern Illinois U niversity Press, 1978), p. 52.


191flow of wealth from the new world, provincial officials were m ore disposed

to work out self-benefical agreements w ith local elites. This system of order,

too, set a pattern w hich continued to shape behavior into the last half of the

twentieth-century.3

In the early years of Spanish colonial control of the new w orld , Spain's

continental possessions w ere divided into two adm inistrative zones: the

Viceroyalty of N ew Spain ruled Mexico and the isthmus of C entral A m erica

from Mexico City, while the Viceroyalty of Peru ruled all of South America

(except for Brazil, w hich was under Portuguese control). L im a (or, more

specifically, the near-by port city of Callao) became the point th ro u g h which

all the wealth of South America departed (for transport to H avana, and from

there on to Spain), and all of the consumer and comfort item s from Spain

m ade landfall. This p laced state elites and m erchants in L im a in an

enorm ously advantageous position-all trade which passed th ro u g h their

hands moved forward only after paym ent of handsome commissions. These

fees came on top of already considerable profits made by Spanish m erchants

in Cadiz. As a result, as we also saw in Cuba, settlers in the new w orld had to

pay high prices for every-day items. As in Cuba, this provoked irritation and

an emerging sense of distance between creoles and peninsulares. However,

perhaps more im portant, this provoked a turn toward self-sufficiency among

the settlers of Peru: through local farming and intercolonial trad e w ith in the

viceroyalty, creoles were able to supply themselves with much of their day-to-

day needs.4

3 Stem, Peru's Indian Peoples and the Challenge of Spanish Conquest, p. 184.

4 W erlich, p. 53.


192As had been the case in Cuba, the ascent of the Bourbons to the Spanish

throne in the eighteenth-century p roduced new tensions in the relationship

between the royal court and new w orld creoles. First, out of the Viceroyalty of

P eru the crown carved out tw o new , less vast (and, hopefu lly , m ore

manageable) jursidictions: the Viceroyalty of New Granada, governed from

Bogota, and the Viceroyalty of La P lata , ru led from Buenos Aires. While

Lima continued be the adm inistrative seat of power for Peru, state authorities

and merchants found m uch of the w ealth they once controlled slip away.

Second, convinced that m uch of th e un rest am ong native popu la tions

resulted from the selective application of Spanish law by creole officials

throughout Peru-in fact, a justified perspective-the Spanish crow n replaced

m ost creole bureaucrats w ith Spanish-born officials. This reinforced the

em erging sense that the m etropole ru led its new w orld colonies w ith

insufficient regard for the preferences an d opinions of the creole populations

w ho lived there. The prevailing m ood d id not yet favor independence, bu t

greater autonomy from royal authority was beginning to emerge as a shared

hope.

Indeed, the flame of independence burned with such little intensity in

Peru, that when national libera tion cam e, it was largely the unw elcom e

product of a project begun elsew here. There were m ultip le reasons for

acceptance of Spanish rule in Peruvian territory. Lima was a city fu ll of titled

nobles and imperial bureaucrats. W ealth still flowed into Lima from the

surrounding lands, and w ell-positioned elites were reluctant to surrender

these benefits.5 Lima was also the sea t of Spanish m ilitary pow er in South

5 Ibid., p. 59.


193America—rebellion would have been more vigorously opposed in Peru than

elsewhere.6 Finally, the recent rebellion led by Tupac Am aru II frightened

rich creoles and peninsulares alike and encouraged solidarity in the face of

ev iden t indigenous unrest. While much of the new w orld saw greater

security from the threat of slave rebellions and indigenous uprisings in the

idea of an independent, locally governed state, free of the (increasingly liberal)

interference of distant (and out-of-touch) colonial masters, Peruvians (as

Cubans would) saw greater security in the continuation of Spanish rule. The

social divisions which separated creoles from mestizos and indians, while

stubbornly resistant, as I w ill show, were maintained by porous, potentially

unsteady ethnic firewalls. The act of motivating creoles and mestizos to make

com mon cause for a war of liberation threatened to unleash a w ider social

movement, inspiring lower castes to rebel, and, perhaps, refuse to return to

their positions of servitude. Keep in mind, Benedict Anderson's m odel of

creole nationalism posits a "socially thin" movement making w ar against a

w eakened Spanish master. In Peru (as would be the case in Cuba) , the fear

was that the rebellion could not be contained w ithin the limits of the thin

upper-crust of creole society and the presence of a considerable num ber of

Spanish troops would mean a prolonged struggle w ith a poweful adversary.

Indeed, when w ar d id come to Peru, it came because these troops (and

the official presence they represented) provided an inviting target. General

Jose de San Martin, who was caught-up in a slow-moving struggle against

royalist forces in Argentina, came to realize that he could succeed only if he

severed the supply line from Peru that kept the royalist army equipped with

6 Ibid., p. 59.


1 9 4resources.7 Between. 1817 and 1821 San M artin led a campaign which resulted

in the capture of Lima. On July 28, 1821 Peru w as declared "free and

independent."8 However, it w asn 't u n til 1824, follow ing the battle of

Ayacucho, that Spanish forces were decisively driven from the continent.

Independence didn't bring quiet and prosperity to Peruvian territory.

For the next twenty years or so, forces battled over the borders which w ould

separate the newly self-governing populations of Spanish South America.

Federations between Gran Colombia and Bolivia were proposed and rejected

or overturned. M eanwhile, in ternal strugg les betw een Peruvian forces

seeking to acheive dominance resulted in a series of constitutions and a cycle

of military leaders.

It was until the guano boom of the 1840s produced some measure of

affluence that stable rule became possible. Islands off the coast of Peru were

respositories of rich deposits of b ird droppings, which, over the years, had

crusted into a nitrogen-rich substance valued as a fertilizer. As European

nations became eager export m arkets for guano, the state entered into

partnerships with merchants to harvest and transport the product. These

contracts came to be dom inated by E uropean entrepreneurs, and while

Peruvians carved-out a small circle of prosperity, m uch of the profits of the

guano age went to foreigners. In time, as the exhaustible commodity was

depleted, Peruvians were left w ith considerable foreign debt, and very little

investment in more m odem forms of economic activity. Indeed, during this

period other export products began to m ake m eaningful contributions to the

7 Ibid., p. 60.

s Ibid., p . 61.


195Peruvian economy, but these products-sugar and cotton and a handful of

precious m inerals-w ere prim arily raw m aterials, and the cultivation or

extraction of these resources profited only a tiny community of Peruvian

elites and foreign companies.

All-in-all, this period of national 'prosperity ' contributed to a further

deepening of the economic and social divisions which separated the coast

from the rest of Peru. Profits from the export boom were retained primarily

by those a long the narrow strip of land near the Pacific coast, while the

burden of foreign debt which accom panied the period of economic growth

was shared by all. The adm inistration of General Ramon Castilla, who ruled

for most of the period between 1845 and 1862, the height of the guano boom,

attem pted to expand public services and extend the benefits of membership in

the civic union. This included the first attem pt to organize a national public

school system.9 Unfortunately, in part because of the burden of foreign debt,

the state could not devote funds for the operation of the schools. This task

was left in the hands of local politicians. In the distant communities of Peru's

mountains and Amazonian jungles, w here education was feared by elites and

rem ained a questionable luxury for the poor, who were more concerned with

extracting a modest living from the earth, little was done to institutionalize

public schooling. Four years after the governm ent's plea to begin the

construction of a national system of schools, only 16,000 students were

enrolled in public schools.10 A vast majority of the students who found their

9 Ibid., p. 87. The Ordinance of Instruction, passed in 1855, created a General Bureau of Studies which prescribed a national curriculum and devoted som e funds to school construction.

Ibid., p. 87.


1 9 6way to school were from Lima and surroundings regions; the interior of the

country remained hidden away behind a curtain of public indifference.

In subsequent years, the nation-build ing intentions of the Castilla

government were taken-up by rulers w ho followed, but again and again, the

combination of limited public resources and local hostility and indifference

doom ed educational reforms.11 By 1877 there were 650 public and private

schools in Peru, together these schools educated nearly 39,000 students-a tiny

portion of the country's 2.7 m illion people.12 One can estimate this was

betw een seven and eleven percent of the school-age popu la tion of the

country.13 No literacy figures are available, but given the low school

1 1 1 am specifically thinking about the reforms undertaken by Manuel Pardo between 1872 and 1876. Pardo's reforms were undone, in part, by a paradoxical commitment to both national unity through improved schools and greater autonomy for local officials. In short, w hile Pardo devoted limited public funds to building schools, he left oversight in the hands of local leaders w ho had very little interest in expanding public education. See ibid., pp. 96-97. For a more wide-angle perspective on this process, see Jose Carlos Maridtegui, Seven Interpretive Essays on Peruvian Reality (Austin: Univesity of Texas Press, 1971), pp. 47-48.

12 Clements R. Markham, Peru (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle & Rivington, 1880), p. 191 and p. 62.

There is no breakdown by age given for the census figures of the era. If, however, the population between 5 and 15 was about twenty percent of the total population-a fair assum ption given the demographic profile for Peru over many years-then about seven percent of the school age population of about 540,000 w as enrolled in schooling. For comparison with m y estim ates, one reliable source gave the population of Peru that was between 5 and 15 at the turn of the century as between 579,749 and 599,749. This w as after the disastrous War of the Pacific, w hich w as bloody and costly to Peru. However, despite the loss of three southern provinces, Peru's population grew rapidly following the w ar-m ostly through immigration. A s a result, the total population of the country in 1899 w as estim ated at 4.6 million; meaning the school- age population between 5 and 15 years of age w as about thirteen percent of the total. Using the thirteen percent figure, about 351,000 Peruvians were between 5 and 15 in 1877, and therefore about eleven percent were in school. See,Sinopsis, Geografica Y Estadistica del Peru 1895-1898 (Lima: El Tiempo, 1899), p. 92.


197enrollment rates and the lack of official attention devoted to vast areas of the

country, it seems likely that very few Peruvians could read in 1877.14

Beyond prim ary education, the system of secondary education was

limited in its reach. While there were twenty-one public secondary schools

and tw enty-four p rivate secondary schools, a vast m ajority of these

institutions served specialized purposes-offering the sons and daughters of

the well-to-do pre-university training in theology, medicine, and law -and

were generally concentrated in and around Lima.15 There w ere six

universities in the country, only one of w hich-the University of San Marcos

in Lima-m atriculated a meaningful num ber of students and offered a wide

range of course-work.16

Tensions over the imperfectly defined borders that resulted from the

wars that followed independence combined w ith em erging competition for

control over commercially valuable resources to produce the War of the

Pacific between 1879 and 1884. The war, fought between the Peruvian and

Bolivian alliance and Chile, was devastating to Peru. Lima fell to Chilean

troops in 1881. Peru lost control of three southern provinces (while Boliva

lost access to its corridor to the Pacific). Most commercial activity ground to a

halt during the w ar, and the destruction of m anufacturing, mining, and

agricultural facilities depressed economic activity for the next decade. The

humiliating defeat destabilized politics for years after.

14 For a discussion of the role o f the state in the interior of the country, see JJ. VonTschudi, Travels in Peru During the Years 1838-1842 (London: David Bogue, 1847), p . 382. See also A.J. Duffield, Peru in The Guano Age (London: Richard Bentley and Son, 1877), p. 12.

15 Von Tschudi, pp. 123-127; and Markham,, p. 191.

16 Markham, p. 191.


198Nevertheless, the Peruvian population grew after the w ar and the state

(and some of the elites who stood behind it) came to recognize the need for a

m ore carefully educated popu la tion and a m ore keenly felt sense of

nationhood .17 In 1899 there were nearly 1,500 prim ary schools across the

country, educating at least 70,000 students, or about twelve percent of the

population between 5 to 15 years-of-age.18 W hile this represents a sm all

jum p in the percentage of school-age children in school, it represents a

massive wave of school construction and a considerable jum p in the absolute

num ber of students. Indeed, there is reason to believe that the expansion of

education was managed w ith care to make certain that lower castes remained

locked-ou t of schools-for fear tha t en ligh tenm ent m ight threaten the

continuing dominance of rural elites—while better sectors of the population

were being led to classrooms.19 Even w ithin this m ore lim ited objective,

there is reason to question the success of this initiative to im prove the

intellectual character of Peruvian society. Few additional secondary schools

were opened in the years after the w ar and the num ber of universities (and

m atriculated students) actually declined. Of the four universities in the

17 For a discussion of this sentim ent in Peru see Werlich, pp. 141-143. For a general discussion of the role of defeat in war in the provocation of nationalist educational reforms see John E. Craig, y/The Expansion of Education," Review of Education 9,1981, p. 166; and Barry R. Posen, "Nationalism , the Mass Army, and M ilitary Power," International Security 18, no. 2 (Fall 1993), pp. 80-124

18 Sinopsis, Geografica Y Estadistica del Peru 1895-1898, p. 92.

19 For a far-ranging discussion of education in Peru and the fear of the link between schooling and social unrest see Robert S. Drysdale and Robert G. Myers, "Continuity and Change: Peruvian Education," in Abraham F. Lowenthal, ed., The Peruvian Experiment (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1975), pp. 254-301.


1 9 9country at the tu rn of the century, only the University of San Marcos had

more than one-hundred students.20

By the tu rn of the century a new Peruvian economy was emerging.

Commercial agriculture, especially the cultivation of cotton and sugar, grew

in importance and efficiency. Copper became an important export product,

and the extraction of coal and silver increased. Oil production began at

m eaningful levels for the first time. To su p p o rt all of this commercial

activity, a banking and financial services sector took root in Lima. W hile

m uch of this economic growth benefited foreign firms, considerable profits

rem ained behind to enrich a new Peruvian capitalist class. These new

economic actors joined w ith the old land-holding aristocracy to create a new

oligarchy which would control Peru's economic and political fate for the next

several generations. Their authority w ould be protected by political rules,

including literacy requirements which lim ited suffrage to slightly more than

100,000 people.21 Outside of this circle of affluence, few Peruvians played a

role in the political life of the country. The continuing rule of this economic

elite served the interests of foreign business leaders, who had m uch to gain

from their on-going exploitation of Peruvian resources, and the m ilitary,

which valued the relative quiet this period of history brought w ith it.

This was changing. Despite the political control exercised by property-

owners and the business elite, the early years of the twentieth-century saw the

growth of radical politics in Peru. In the first twelve years of the century,

20 See Sinopsis, Geogrdfica Y Estadtstica del Peru 1895-1898, pp. 87-91.

21 Mariategui, p. 127. See also Ruth Berins Collier and D avid Collier, Shaping the Political Arena (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991), pp. 130-132.


20 0nearly ninety strikes shut dow n sectors of the economy in Lima.22 M uch of

this activity occurred prior to a systematic growth of union m em bership—it

was an expression of worker dissatisfaction, not an organized m obilization of

labor. A n im portant conceptual framework for Peruvian class politics began

to emerge in the writings and political activity of Jos£ Carlos M ariategui and

Victor Raul Hay a de la Torre. Nevertheless, it would be several decades

before sustained , organized m ovem ents would begin to rep resen t the

interests of workers.

In this environment, the elites and the state began a process to prevent

the working class and the peasantry from gaining a meaningful place in the

politics of Peruvian life. Combining reforms designed to alleviate the most

wretched miseries of the laboring class w ith sustained repression directed at

delaying the em ergence of an organized lower caste response to the

oligarchy’s dom ination of life and prosperity, the top echelons of Peruvian

society m anaged to hold on to rule for the first half of the century. This

period w asn't always tranquil, and, indeed, following the transform ation of

Haya de la Torre’s Alianza Popular Revoludonaria Americana (APRA) into

an organized voice for workers in 1930, Peruvian politics became a struggle

between the forces of order and agitators of change. Still, the oligarchy held

on to the levers of power.

CASTE SCHOOLING AND THE LAST DAYS OF OLIGARCHY (1948-1968)

By 1939 the battle of wills between the oligarchy and APRA had become

so troubling to the peace and prosperity of Peru that President M anuel Prado y

Ugarteche attempted to reach-out to APRA to begin a process of incorporating

22 Collier and Collier, p. 90.


2 0 1the working class into the political life of the nation (in, of course, a

subservient role). This informal alliance w as given overt form in 1945 w hen

Jose Luis Bustamante i Rivero, w ith the backing of the more m odern and

progressive sectors of the ruling oligarchy, ran for the presidency in coalition

w ith APRA-a remarkable developm ent for a party which had spent so many

years banned from participation in the electoral process.23 Bustamante and

his backers hoped to create an opening for initiating a new era in politics, one

in which the disciplined participation of the working class in the political life

of the nation (and their gradual economic improvem ent) would produce a

prom ising future, defined by political o rd e r and an expanding consumer

market (which could sustain a growing local m anufacturing sector, bringing

profits to the bourgeoisie).

Unfortunately, AJPRA’s years in the political wilderness had narrowed

the party leadership 's field of vision. Incapable of seeing beyond its

competition with political rivals, the party used its new position w ithin the

halls of power to gather state resources an d introduce social reforms which

would benefit APRA in its struggle w ith parties on both the left and the right.

More specifically, the party, w hich was w restling w ith the Communists for

control over union memberships, directed its attention to policies designed to

secure loyalty from w orkers in the m o d em sectors of the economy. The

peasantry was largely ignored. All-in-all, the period d id little to significantly

expand membership in the civic association of the nation.

Additionally, APRA's successes in im proving its hold on unions and

expanding its presence on university cam puses and in the state bureacracy

22 Ibid., pp. 318-322.


2 0 2caused concern am ong the economic elite which had initially supported

Bustam ante and APRA's joint project.24 Worse, APRA's schizophrenic

policies—the party continued to pursue extra-systemic political violence even

as it held power—resulted in a reaw akened concern among the m ilitary ,

w hich had stifled its long dislike for APRA during the few short years of

Bustamante's presidency.

In 1948, General M anuel Odrfa led a coup against the Bustam ante

governm ent and initialized a re tu rn to oligarchic rule which lasted un til

1968. The oligarchy in the years after W orld War II was a multi-headed beast.

W here m em bers of the elite club m ade their w ea lth -on trad itio n a l

agricultural estates, or large-scale com m ercial farms; in export-oriented

businesses, or small-scale manufacturing for the domestic market; w ithin the

m odem coastal zone or in the more backw ard regions beyond the ridge of the

A ndes-m ade a difference in how they view ed the role of the state and the

appropriate objectives of governmental economic policy. O ther factors, such

as w here elites were educated-in aristocratic academies in Lima or overseas

in America and Europe-m attered too. These characteristics shaped how elites

v iew ed their interests and evaluated the ir available political strategies.

Reformists continued to hold prom inent roles, even if conservatives seem ed

to be ascendant in the years after 1948. This tug-of-war, shaped as well by the

ev e r-p resen t in fluence of fo re ign deb t-h o ld ers and m u lti-n a tio n a l

corporations, produced a lurching historical process, which opened doors for

the incorporation of excluded popu la tions one year, only to see these

openings slam shut the next.

24:Ibid.r pp. 328-329.


203Between 1948 and 1956 Manuel Odrfa was at the center of this political

choreography. A lthough, like the military he served and the oligarchy he

backed, Odrfa was determ inedly anti-APRA, he was w illing to m ake appeals

to the popular classes, as long as these projects avoided any contact with

estab lished w ork ing class parties , un ions, or s im ila r autonom ous

organizations. In the highlands, Odrfa developed a paternalistic program for

aiding the peasantry. In the workplace, governm ent-ordered w age increases

benefited workers (even as business-owners and the state w orked to exclude

union leaders from the affairs of the shop-floor). In the squatter settlements

spilling outward from Lima, Odrfa extended social benefits and state welfare.

Through much of the country, public schooling expanded. All this was done

in a spirit of reform designed to quiet the voices of dissent and to cultivate

direct links w ith d isadvan taged populations who m ight otherw ise find

something stirring in the appeals of agitators and revolutionaries. This was

classic clientelist politics-each side benefited to some ex ten t from the

exchange of wages and services for acquiesence, but the relationship between

parties rem ained unequal. All policies flow ed from the state (which

remained the agent of economic elites), and the poor populations of Peru,

w ithout cognitive and com m unicative so lidarity and in the absence of

organized unity, were vulnerable to the w him s of governm ent decision

makers. When economic dow n-tum s made the continuation of government

largess impractical, the laboring castes of Peru could do very little about it.

As had been the case throughout Peruvian history, the m ilitary stood

poised to restructure political affairs when it became convinced that disorder

threatened. Following Odrfa's presidency, APRA again came to pow er in 1956

as the partner of an alliance governm ent headed by M anuel Prado and


2 0 4supported by Odrfa and the oligarchy.25 The hope among the progressive

elements w ithin the oligarchy and in the military was that APRA, under the

oversight of Prado and his elite supporters, could reinvigorate the integration

of the m a rg in a liz ed poor into the political life of Peru. Instead, what resulted,

as some analysts have observed, was the grow ing conservativization of

APRA, reducing the party's effectiveness to serve as a meaningful agent for

change.26 M oreover, and perhaps more troubling, neither APRA-which

focused its work on the factory floors of Lima, on the docks of Callao, and in

the export enclaves outside of L im a-nor the oligarchy-which continued to

hold traditional assumptions about the backwardness of native populations

and hoped to avoid their m obilization-made any serious attempts to link the

indigenous peasantry into the w ider political and social life of the country.

The continued isolation of this population from the political process,

combined w ith their on-going impoverishment by the expansion of capitalist

institutions, resulted in a grow ing wave of unrest.27 This unrest took a

variety of forms, bu t was perhaps best characterized by land invasions

initiated by poor, landless peasants who carved out for their own use plots of

soil on the estates of the ru ra l elite. These invasions, while driven by

desperation, were politically astute actions, customarily undertaken at points

in tim e w hich carried im portan t symbolic m eaning or which provided

unique windows of opportunity.

75 Ibid., p. 474.

26 Ibid., pp. 696-697.

27 See ibid., p. 482 as w ell as pp. 715-717 and Stem , pp. 184-185. For overviews of this process, see Jeffery M. Paige, Agrarian Revolution (N ew York: The Free Press, 1975), pp. 124-210; and Hugo Blanco, Land or Death: the Peasant Struggle in Peru (N ew York: Pathfinder Books, 1972).


205Fernando Belaunde Terry was elected presiden t in 1963 after the

m ilitary stepped in to cancel the results of the 1962 elections, w hich w ould

have given the presidency, for the first time in his long political career, to

APRA leader Haya de la Torre. As land invasions, and political disorder in

the countryside as a general problem , became increasingly troublesom e,

Belaunde introduced programs designed to encourage rural developm ent and

initiate land reform. However, a new oppositional coalition w hich jo ined

APRA w ith Manuel Odrfa blocked these m easures (and o th er efforts at

reform) in Congress.

A t the same time, Belaunde's efforts to begin to nationalize im portant

sectors of the Peruvian economy dom inated by foreign ow nersh ip , in

p a rticu la r his attem pt to extend sta te contro l over th e U.S. ow ned

In ternational Petroleum Company, w ere frustrated by econom ic pressure

from the United States. The em erging im pression was that the Belaunde

adm inistration was ineffective and could not negotiate the shifts required to

preserve order in Peru and accomplish autonom ous (and self-benefiting)

economic development. As d isorder spread throughout the central and

sou th ern highlands, eventually tak ing the form of a stu b b o rn guerilla

insurgency which threatened internal security, elements in the m ilitary came

to believe that the political system could not provide solutions to Peru 's

problem s. The oligarchy had dem onstrated an unw illingness to surrender

their privileges. The left, both APRA and the extra-system ic m ovem ents in

the highlands which had resorted to arm ed insurgency, refused to play by the

rules of the game and, in the process, had greatly expanded the circle of chaos

and disorder. Foreign economic actors had p roven them selves to be

stubbornly resistant to adapting to new policy directions designed to retain for


206Peru more of the benefits of commercial enterprise. Only by excluding social

actors from policy-making could adequate solutions be found.

Throughout this period between 1948 and 1968, m odest gains were

made in education and literacy. The 1940 census, the last reliable measure of

Peru's hum an capital before the start of this time period, showed that thirty-

five percent of the population, almost entirely concentrated in the m ountains

and the A m azonian jungles of the north-east, could no t understand

Spanish.28 Sixty percent of all Peru was illiterate, w ith the population in the

sierra, where nearly seventy-five percent of the peasantry was illiterate, even

farther behind (in Lima, by contrast, more than sixty percent of residents

could read).29 W ithout doubt, this m iserable perform ance w as partly a

consequence of the low school enrollm ent rates which characterized the

period. From border to border, only one-third of Peru's children w ent to

school.30 Again, there were considerable regional differences: while seventy

to seventy-five percent of children in Lima went to school, only about fifteen

percent of the ch ildren in the southern highlands attended classes on a

regular basis.31

Some sm all im provem ents were undoubtedly made between 1940 and

1948. H ow ever, exact figures are not available. M anuel P rado 's

adm inistration m ore than tripled the Ministry of Education's budget between

1939 and 1945 (reflecting the results of an economic boom which came to Peru

28 Werlich, p. 227.

29 Ibid., p. 227.

30 Ibid., p. 227.

31 Ibid., p. 227.


20 7w ith W orld War II).32 The problem is, as I show ed in the case of Cuba,

increases in government spending on education can produce very lim ited

im provem ents in system-wide performance. Indeed, it seems likely that a

share of the increased spending on education circulated only among top

bureaucrats and never found its way into the classroom. Nevertheless, there

w ere brick and mortar improvements that suggest that some real progress

was attempted. During Prado's time in office, 4,000 new primary schools were

built and 27 new teachers' colleges were opened.33 Unfortunately, no follow-

up study was made, so the actual improvements m ade by these projects can't

be known. If the rural poor continued to believe that education offered little

hope for a better life-due to persistent social barriers to m obility-then the

availablity of additional classrooms m ight not have m ade a significant

difference in enrollment. In fact, there is reason to believe this sense of

hopelessness continued to pervade the schools. Several authors have

pointed to the role the schools played in encouraging the poor to accept their

subordination.34

W e are som ew hat m ore fo rtu n a te in f in d in g evidence of

im provem ent in literacy under Prado. The governm ent began an adu lt

literacy campaign in 1944. More than 360,000 illiterates enrolled in the

program , which conducted one-on-one and sm all group training in 7,200

32 Ibid., p. 228.

33 Ibid., p. 228.

34 See Susan C. Stokes, Cultures in Conflict: Social Movements and the State in Peru (Berkeley: U niversity o f California Press, 1995), pp. 18-19. A lso Steve Stein, Populism in Peru: the Emergence of the Masses and the Politics of Social Control (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1980), p. 27.


208literacy centers.35 About forty percent of the participants learned to read-a

figure which translates into a total of about 144,000.36 Given the beginning

num ber of about four million illiterate Peruvians, about two million of

whom were adults, this was modest progress. This suggests the considerable

difficulty of m obilizing sup p o rt and resou rces for a com prehensive

intervention into educational im poverishm ent. The greatest increase in

educational spending in Peruvian history had produced a tiny five percent

improvem ent in literacy rates. Compare this to th e success of the Cuban

project in 1961, which was undertaken by a sta te relatively free of the

interference of elite social actors. In Cuba, over 700,000 people learned to read

during the literacy campaign and the nation-wide literacy rate jum ped from

about seventy-six percent of the population to ninety-six percent.37

It seems safe to assume that something m ore than one-third of Peru's

children were enrolled in school in 1948 and abou t forty-five percent of the

total population was literate, with considerable regional variation across the

country’s territory.38

Political paralysis and unsteady econom ic tim es prevented the

sustained undertaking of additional large-scale educational initiatives over

the next twenty years. Still, incremental gains resulted in improvements. By

35 Werlich, p. 228.

36 Ibid., p. 228.

3 7 See Richard R. Fagen, The Transformation of Political Culture in Cuba (Stanford: Stanford University Press), p. 54; Censos de Poblacion, Viviendas y Electoral: Informe General 1953 (Havana: O fidna N ational de los Censos Demografico y Electoral, 1953), p. xxxix; and M ethods and Means Utilized in Cuba to Eliminate Illiteracy (Havana: Cuban National Commission for UNESCO, 1965).

33 This figure is supported by other data which show the literacy rate in 1950 to be about forty- seven percent. See Drysdale and Meyers, p. 258.


2 0 91961, the last census figures available before the 1968 coup, a little less than

sixty percent of the population was literate.39 This improvem ent, w hich isn 't

trival, very likely can be linked to continuing efforts to build new schools.40

Nevertheless, regional variation remained: nearly sixty percent of the ru ra l

population rem ained illiterate, while only about eighteen percent of the

urban population was illiterate.41 Across the dem ographic expanse of the

country, particular groups were disproportionately disadvantaged. More th an

seventy-five percent of rural wom en still could not read.42 A nd am ong

Peru's population, about sixteen percent could not speak (or read and write)

Spanish; almost all of these people spoke indigenous languages and lived in

the country's m ountains or selvaA3 Here, considerable im provem ent had

been m ade in just tw enty years. It seems safe to guess that the need to

un d erstan d Spanish in order to find m eaningful em ploym ent m ade a

significant contribution to the progress. While ninety percent of men, w ho

often had to travel beyond familiar surroundings to find work, could speak

Spanish, only about eighty percent of women could.44

39 Sexto Censo National de Poblation: I Volumen de Resultados de los Censos Nationales(Tomo 3) (Lima: Instituto N adonal de Planificadon, 1966), p. 53.

40 See W erlich, p. 254 and p. 282. Both presidents Odrfa and Belaunde tried to set aside portions o f the national budget for education, within the constraints of the military's dem ands for arms, the elite’s dislike of taxes, and the uncertainties of economic growth.

41 Sexto Censo National de Poblation: I Volumen de Resultados de los Censos Nationales (Tomo 3), p. 53.

4 2 Ibid., p. 53.

43Ibid., p. 48.

44 Ibid ., p. 48.


21 0Surely, improvements in school enrollment rates in the country made

a difference too. Recall that in 1940 only about fifteen percent of children in

the poorest com ers of rural Peru w ent to school; by 1961 this num ber was

forty-four percent.45 The school enrollm ent gains in Lima and other cities

were considerably sm aller-jum ping from about seventy-five percent to

eighty-three percent.46 It seems sensible to hypothesize that the in-flow of

illiterate peasants from the in te rio r reduced the gains m ade in u rban

enrollment rates (but that question will not be taken up here).

THE VELASCO REGIME’S ATTEMPTS AT INCORPORATION (1968-1975)

When the m ilitary took on the task of restructuring Peruvian politics

and society, an imperfectly defined process of far-reaching reform was begun.

While profound in its sweep, the Velasco government clearly placed limits

on the possibilities of change. The coup of October 3, 1968 was motivated, at

least in p art, by a p ecu lia r P eru v ian in te rp re ta tio n of the "new

professionalism" w hich came to shape military responses to civil disorder

throughout Latin America in the 1960s.47 Early statements of policy from the

military government reveal a belief tha t the excessively narrow pursu it of

45 Ibid., p. 184.

46 Ibid., p. 184.

47 For the general concept of "new professionalism" in the military see Alfred Stepan, "The N ew Professionalism of Internal Warfare and M ilitary Role Expansion," in Alfred Stepan, ed., Authoritarian Brazil (N ew Haven: Yale U niversity Press, 1973), pp. 47-65. For the Peruvian version of this more general phenomenon see Alfred Stepan, The State and Society: Peru in Comparative Perspective (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978), pp. 117-155; Collier and Collier, pp. 717-719; and Luis P£sara, "When the Militry Dreams," in Cynthia M cClintock and Abraham F. Lowenthal, eds., The Peruvian Experiment Reconsidered (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), pp. 309-343. N ote however that Pasara makes the persuasive argument that more than "new professionalism" w as at the heart of the m ilitary’s project; the military was dominated by the m iddle-class, and its proposals for reform can be read as an expression of class preferences (or point-of-view ). i l l return to this point in the pages ahead.


211personal wealth and class privilege (and the penetration of Peru 's economy by

powerful foreign economic actors) was making impossible the m ore complete

integration of the Peruvian people into a single national com m unity.48 The

solution to the problem was to exploit the m ilitary's role in the state to

employ its resources for transforming social and economic affairs, and to do

so w ithout the ineffectual (and, in fact, obstructive) interplay of politics. One

author has summ arized the military's initial program, which came to define

the efforts (if not the successes) of "phase I" of the long m ilitary period, in the

follow ing points.49 First, the military w anted to elim inate the pervasive

influence of the oligarchy in the day-to-day affairs of Peru; in particular the

goal was to eradicate the more backward elements of the oligarchy, those who

obtained their wealth (and influence) from the ow nership of marginally

productive land in the vast interior of the country. Second, the state wanted

to lim it the influence of the United States (and other trans-national forces) in

the economy of Peru. The goal was to engineer a new economic pact which

more directly benefited the local bourgeoisie and allowed Peru to retain more

of its national wealth. Further, once restored to Peru's purse , this wealth

needed to be dedicated to the cause of national economic developm ent, not to

the narrow benefit of a small economic elite. In taking steps tow ard realizing

this goal, the state nationalized a number of foreign-ow ned properties,

resulting in a U.S. economic embargo against the Velasco regim e. As I will

discuss later, the non-revolutionary character of the military government, the

^ See "Manifesto of the Revolutionary Government of Peru,” in Brian Loveman and Thomas M. Davies, Jr., eds., The Politics of Anti-Politics (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1978), pp. 208-210; and Juan Velasco Alvarado, "Speech on the First Anniversary of the M ilitary Takeover in Peru," in Loveman and Davies, pp. 210-216.

49 Pasara, pp. 310-311.


2 1 2regime's continuing respect for the concept of private property, and the on

going role of economic elites in the day-to-day political economy of Peru,

meant that this dispute was eventually resolved. Finally, the state needed to

initiate a series of reforms designed to "homogenize" the country, by reducing

the play of class differences in the politics of the nation, by seeking (or

creating) shared perspectives, and by m anufacturing a single cognitive and

communicative culture w hich would shrink social distances and generate a

common language to explore and comprehend national problems. In this last

effort-which w ould provide a solid foundation for the collective endeavor to

accomplish and preserve the first tw o tasks—universal schooling was a

necessity.

The first step in the m ilitary's m ulti-dim ensional project was a far-

reaching program of state-building. The agency at the center of this

undertak ing was the N ational System to S upport Social M obilization

(SENAMOS). The fascinating hybrid character of this program is revealed in

the language of the law that officially positioned SENAMOS in the Peruv ian

firmament. SENAMOS w as designed to both organize the population into

"functional and territorial units of com munal and cooperative nature" and

"stim ulate the d ia logue betw een the governm ent and the national

population."50 This suggests a fusion of a D urkheim ian division of labor,

mediated by the interplay of associational groups, and a national union,

which collects together u n d e r one um brella the entire citizenry of the

realm.51 There is no reason to believe that these approaches to social

50 Stepan, The State and Society, p. 121

51 Notice that Stepan's conception of Peru's "Organic-Statist" approaches to social order is more expansive than a simple econom ic division of labor. A ll types of social difference became foundations for associational life, not just occupational groups or professional organizations.


213organization are entirely incompatible. At the occupational level or, in the

case of organizational efforts in the shanty-towns around Lima, in various

localities, individuals w ould be jo ined together in in terest-representation

groups, which, in turn, w ould be collectively organized under the national

oversight of the state. However, there are certain unavoidable tensions in

this vision. The state seem ed to be u rg ing the fashioning of a prim ary

attachm ent to local or occupational groups. The problem was tha t these

groups, far from adopting a pattern of harm onious cooperation, could fall

into inter-group competition. Second, there was the risk that these groups

could, in fact, become effective organizational vehicles, and w ith in them ,

workers and the disadvantaged could begin to make unpetitioned dem ands

on the state. Finally, the state, in its original vision for SINAMOS, allow ed a

confusing and misleading message to be transmitted: the state encouraged the

association of people of sim ilar types, and in these associations the state

hoped solutions to the problems of society could be found, bu t the state also

encouraged direct "dialogue betw een the governm ent and the national

population."52 This seem ed to p ropose an unm ediated link betw een

individuals and the state and, as I w ill discuss later, this created a rights-

oriented pattern of political behavior w hich eventually led to unsatisfied

expectations and political instability.53

And the state attempted to control m ost of these associational groups. See ib id ., pp. 3-45. See also, A lexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America (N ew York: Anchor Books, 1969), pp. 507- 517 where he discusses the role o f associations in politics.

52 Stepan, The State and Society, p. 121.

53 For a discussion of this idea, see Stokes, p. 11 and pp. 32-84.


2 1 4The way SENT AMOS was supposed to w ork is fairly easily described. In

the first few m onths following the 1968 coup, Velasco and his generals

im provised plans for the reorganization of the social landscape. SINAMOS

was bom as a result of the perceived failure of these efforts. This recalls the

process which unfolded in Cuba. There, too, im provised projects gave way to

more carefully organized alternatives. The state's project to reorganize the

day-to-day life of the squatter settlements around Lima w as placed at first in

the hands of the National O rganization for the D evelopm ent of Young

Towns (ONDEPJOV).54 Along with several private agencies working in the

squatter towns, ONDEPJOV hoped to coordinate the self-help projects

undertaken by local residents. At the same time, the state sought to sort out

the ambiguous legal status of squatters' claims to ow nership of the land they

occupied. The military also played a direct role in m aintaining order in the

young towns and enforcing the government's new policies designed to lim it

the on-going cycle of land invasions.

The state's role, then, was lim ited to coordinating self-help programs

undertaken by residents, clarifying property righ ts, an d enforcing order.

Occasionally the state would attempt to mobilize squatter-tow n settlers for

shows of mass support for state policies, b u t these stage-m anaged street

demonstrations seldom generated an effective display of public passion.

In 1971 a wave of land seizures outside Lima produced violence and

disorder. This em barrassing challenge to th e governm ent's au thority ,

combined with strikes and other crises throughout the country, served as a

clear indication that existing blueprints for coordinating social change were

M See D avid Collier, Squatters and Oligarchs (Baltimore: Johns H opkins University Press, 1976), pp. 97-101.


215failing. In response, the state u n d erto o k a m uch more am bitious

reorganization of society. This project was to be coordinated by SINAMOS.

Nearly every effort at reenginering Peruvian life was clustered u n d er the

organizational umbrella of SINAMOS-the routinization of affairs in Peru's

squatter settlem ents, the im plem entation of the governm ent's ag rarian

reforms, and th rough these activities and many more, the in tegration of

Peru's m arginalized populations in to the life of the nation. One of the

lessons of the ONDEPJOV era was th a t state-coordinated 'self-help' left too

m uch room for interference by political parties and other outside agitators55.

By more directly managing the incorporation of the masses into the nation's

political and economic affairs, the military hoped to completely exclude these

parties from the project.

SINAMOS was organized hierarchically. Peru was divided by the

government into five military zones, which also served as SINAMOS’ top-

level adm inistrative districts. Customarily, the generals responsible for the

coordination of the military zones also oversaw the work of SINAMOS.56 At

the next level below, a similar relationship existed: of the twenty-six regional

directors, twenty-three were military officers. So, at the top reaches of the

agency, the s ta te -in the form of the m ilitary chain of com m and—was

inextricably cemented into the formal authority of SINAMOS.

Below this structure, several layers of elected civilian committees,

extending dow n into indiv idual neighborhoods, selected an executive

55 Ibid., pp. 107-108.

56 Ibid., p. 108.


216committee which w orked directly with the regional director.57 Since these

executive committee m embers were the principal po in t of contact between

the state and the masses, the government had a keen in te rest in preventing

unw anted connections betw een these elected officials an d parties, trade

unions, and other potentially disruptive social actors. Candidacy rules

contained seemingly neutral and uncontroversial provisions (i.e., candidates

were required to have a good police record), which, in actual application, were

used to screen-out candidates w ith histories of activism o r past associations

with banned organizations.58

The governm ent's corporatist project w as characterized , as many

corporatist projects are, by a m u lti-d im ensional p ro g ra m of social

mobilization and political control. State-building was central to this, but the

regim e also "colonized" or co-opted existing o rg an iza tio n s where such

strategies presented themselves.59 As a means of penetrating the workplace,

and in an attempt to isolate the APRA-affiliated C onfederation of Peruvian

Workers (CTP), the military recognized the Com m unist party-linked General

Confederation of W orkers of Peru.60 This was to become p a rt of the state's

official organizational presence on the factory floor, in the mines, and in

57 See Stepan, The State and Society, pp. 172-173.

58 Ibid., pp. 172-174.

59 For a illuminating discussion of corporatist "colonialization" of existing organizations, see Robert Bianchi, Interest Groups and Political Development in Turkey (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984).

Stokes, p. 35. The fascinating thing is, it seems that elem ents of the le ft w ere already rapidly abandoning APRA, so the state's project to isolate and bleed APRA m ay have been unnecessary. See Florencia E. M allon, "Chronicle of a Path Foretold? V elasco's Revolution, Vanguardia Revoludonaria, and 'Shining Omens' in the Indigenous Com m unities of Andahuaylas," in Steve J. Stem , ed., Sinning and Other Paths: War and Society in Peru, 1980- 1995 (Durham, N.C.: Duke U niversity Press, 1998), p. 98.


2 1 7other venues w here workers organized for collective bargaining. As I will

discuss later, this policy ultimately had negative consequences for the state's

efforts to institutionalize a new policy of public education.

The reorganization of public schooling was an important parrallel

state-building project during the first phase of the military government. For

the first couple of years after the coup the governm ent improvised a policy of

educational reform. This period was most clearly distinguished by increases

in the educational budget. Goals were imperfectly defined.

A more coherant approach to the project began in 1970 with the seating

of a com m ittee charged w ith the task of identify ing Peru's educational

shortcom ings, conceptualizing reform w ith in the context of w ider social

change, and establishing new policies structured by these reflections. The

result was 1972's General Law of Education. The new policy’s principal

objectives were to enable "every person to be prepared adequately to perform

a useful role in society" and to "bring all the Peruvian peoples together as

members of one nation conscious of its national identity."61 Again, one sees

two separate b u t intertw ined hopes: that P eruv ians could find in their

national union a harmonious solidarity and that individuals could acquire

skills useful to the division of labor.

More specifically, the government established measurable goals, to be

achieved by 1980: (1) a reduction of illiteracy to insignificant levels; (2)

universal schooling through ninth grade; an d in particular (3) incorporation

of under-privileged groups, especially rural children, at rates of enrollment

61 Beatrice A valos, Educational Change in Latin America: The Case of Peru (Cardiff:University College Cardiff Press, 1978), p. 41. See also Reforma de la Educacidn Peruana: Informe General (Lima: Ministerio de Educad6n, Com ision de la Reforma de la Education,1970).


218approaching other segments of the population.62 To achieve these goals the

governm ent proposed a variety of reforms designed to reconceptualize the

typical student's educational career, build a new administrative structure, and

provide necessary investments in construction and teacher training. Public

schooling was reorganized to provide a new three level educational sequence:

the first level offered optional day care and kindergarten up through age six;

the second stage provided m andatory schooling for children betw een six and

fifteen; the final level, elective higher education, collapsed high-school and

university training into a single coordinated cycle offering both a vocational

non-university track and a college-preparatory/university track.63 In

addition, reflecting the hopes for truly universal schooling, the state funded

special programs to reach out to adult illiterates, children w ith handicaps or

learning disabilities, and, addressing one of the country's persistent problems,

non-Spanish speaking populations in the sierra and the selva.

W hile all schooling p rio r to university train ing was free, colleges

charged a pay-as-you-could fee structured to require the wealthy to pay more

for schooling and the poor to pay less. At the university level, special care

was taken to remove students from participation in curriculum planning and

campus governance. The concern was that university students tended to

em brace radical politics and w ere more likely to belong to political

organizations. All partisan political activities were banned from campus.64

After 1972, however, following unrelenting conflict w ith students over these

62 A valos, pp. 43-45. See also Werlich, pp. 327-329.

63 A valos pp. 46-48 and Werlich, pp. 328-329.

64 W erlich, p. 329.


219limitations, the state opened up a space for student input in university affairs.

Still, most aspects of university life w ere governed by the N ational Council of

the Peruvian U niversity , w hich h ad considerable la titu d e in setting

curriculum, admission standards, and faculty rules.65

The educational sector was organized much like SENAMOS. At the

local level, each educational district served a community of betw een two to

four thousand.66 The educational infrastructure for each district consisted of

a Directing Centre, where upper-prim ary schooling was offered, and 5 to 15

elementary schools. The oversight of each district was left in the hands of a

regional director appointed by the state. Implementation of policy was carried

out by the director in coordination w ith elected C om m unity Educational

Councils, composed of teachers an d community members. A lthough there

was a national cu rricu lum -w hich required studen ts to s tu d y units of

Spanish, Mathematics, N atural Science, Social Science, Physical Education,

Art, and Religion-local councils and directors could adop t modifications

appropriate to the circumstances of the community. Regional directors were

ultimately answerable to the M inistry of Education, which brought under its

umbrella of control not only day-to-day operations of the schools, bu t also

statistical evaluation of perform ance, curriculum developm ent, and the

creation of educational program m ing for television.

The construction of new schools and the im provem ent of existing

facilities consumed significant portions of the growing educational budget. In

the first two years under the new reforms, the educational budget jum ped

65 Ibid., p. 329.

66 The discussion which follow s draws from A valos, pp. 48-52.


2 2 0from fifty-eight m illion Intis in 1971 to sixty-nine m illion in 1972 an d

seventy-five m illion in 1973, before slowing to more m odest gains in the

years that followed.67 In 1971 investm ent in education consum ed a little

more than a quarter of the total government budget, but by 1973 it was nearly

a third of state spending.68 This reflected the new commitment to education

and resulted in the construction of 2,800 classrooms69 in more than 1,000 new

prim ary schools and the training of nearly 5,000 new teachers over the two

year period.70 The number of students enrolled in primary school jumped by

a quarter of a million between 1971 and 1973.71

Em phasized among the m ultiple educational reform projects was an

effort to reach into the sierra through a far-reaching bilingual schooling

program. This was a real world expression of a sentiment voiced by President

Velasco:

The educational reform of our revolution aspires to create an educational system that satisfies the necessities of the whole nation, that reaches the great masses of peasants....72

T h roughou t Peruvian h istory , educational p lanners had largely

ignored the language issue. The language of instruction, textbooks, and tests

was Spanish. This continued, despite occasional concerns among the m ilitary

07 See Peru: Compendio Estadistico, 1988 (Lima: Instituto N ational de Estadistica, 1989), p. 89. N ote all figures in constant 1979 Intis. The 1979 exchange rate offered .31 Intis to the U.S. dollar.

68 Ibid., p. 89.

69 Avalos, p. 51.

70 Gonzaio Portocarrero and Patricia Oliart, El Peru Desde la. Escuela (Lima: Instituto de A poyo Agrario, 1989), pp. 186-188.

71 Ibid., p. 188.

77 Quoted in D rysdale and Meyers, p. 254.


221that the lack of national unity made Peru vulnerable to external enemies, and

contrary to the indigenista school of social com m entary, w hich saw the

problems of the native population of Peru as central to the country's on-going

social calamity. In the end, it seems clear that the land-holding elites who

controlled much of day-to-day life in the highlands never pressured policy

makers in Lima to attem pt more ambitious bilingual policies.73

The Belaunde adm inistra tion began to take sm all steps tow ard a

bilingual educational policy. M inistry of Education policy-planners built on

the work of earlier public and private efforts to create a w ritten text for the

Quechua language (which was the daily language of about eighty-four percent

of Peru's indigenous people74) and formulate a workable bilingual system of

instruction. The results w ere m odest-a handful of bilingual teachers were

educated and a some experimental projects were begun-but they provided a

foundation on which the Velasco regime could build.75

The reasons the Velasco regime took on the task of building and setting

into motion a bilingual schooling project are multiple. First, some observers

have pointed out that the m ilitary had w itnessed the isolation and misery of

life in the sierra during their efforts to put-dow n the guerilla campaigns of

the early 1960s, and this experience distinguished the generals who ruled

73 Ibid., p. 273.

74: Avalos, p. 71.

75 Drysdale and Meyers, pp. 274-276.


222from 1968 to 1975 from, all rulers who came before.76 Others have taken the

analysis one step further, to poin t out that the m ilitary 's officer corps,

prim arily made up of m em bers of the small middle class, was in a unique

position to translate their experience in the guerilla w ar into a nationalist

program .77 Third, others have offered perspectives which support my own

views tha t the m ilitary took advantage of opportunities which expanded

momentarily the autonomous range of action available to the government.78

This allow ed the GRFA to overcome the normal rules of politics, which

required a politically relevant segm ent of the population to petition for

government action, and to act in the interest of the state. In this case, the

military acted against the preferences of the traditional land-holding elites of

the interior, who for generations had opposed the expansion of educational

services in the sierra, to im plement a policy of bilingual schooling designed to

enhance national so lidarity an d construct the social prerequisites for

economic development. The fact that this policy served the interests of

m ultiple constituencies—the state's security agencies, the marginalized poor,

and the Peruvian bourgeoisie—worked to its advantage. Indeed, as I will

argue later, in the absence of a more revolutionary transformation of society,

only policies which served the interests of at least some segments of society

could succeed.

76 Ibid., p. 277. Also Julio Cotier, "Democracy and National Integration in Peru," in McClintock and Lowenthal, pp. 3-38. N ote, the absence of any discussion of special school reforms for the indigenous Amazonian populations o f Peru's se lva isn’t an oversight. This region of Peru continued to occupy the margins of official policy. See Nelson Manrique, "The War for the Central Sierra," in Stem, Shining and Other Paths: War and Society in Peru, 1980-1995, p. 217.

^ W erlich , pp. 303-304; and Pasara, pp. 312-313.

See Liisa L. North, "Ideological Orientations of Peru's Military Rulers," in McClintock and Lowenthal, pp. 248-249.


223The bilingual program had a fairly sim ple organizational framework.

Classes w ould meet in bilingual education centers th roughout the Quechua-

and A ym ara-speaking regions of the country. P rim ary instruction (in

m athem atics, history, social studies, religion, a n d so forth) w ould be

undertaken in the vernacular language. The hope w as that this system of

pedagogy w ould perm it indigenous children to beg in learning at an earlier

age the m odem cognitive (and occupational) skills required of Peru's young

people. The teaching of Spanish would occur sim ultaneously, as a way of

beginning the process of incorporating the s tu d e n ts in to the dom inant

linguistic culture of the w ider nation.79

Teacher-training would include language training. As the difficulty of

educating teachers in native languages became clear, em phasis was shifted to

exclusively recruit for bilingual instruction teachers w ho grew up speaking

one of the indigenous languages. This meant that universities in the interior

of the country, those which educated the sons and daughters of indigenous

peasants, were vital to the success of the program . A s I w ill discuss, this

provided opportunities for Sendero Luminoso, a revolutionary group which

began its project of consciousness-building in the south-central highlands in

just this type of university.

T hroughou t this m assive reorganization of education, parochial

schools and private education remained largely untouched. This represents

one of the limits the military placed on reform. This is largely a consequence

of continuing elite influence, partly b rought to b ea r th rough links w ith

79 See Avalos, pp. 69-74; and Drysdale and Meyers, pp. 278-280.


2 2 4m ilitary leaders,80 and the decision by the m ilitary to embrace publicly

Christian values and support the Church (which rem ained an influential

player). This suggests a significant break with the Cuban experience, where all

private schools were shut dow n after the revolution, and the state, as a result,

possessed considerably more control over the content of curriculum. In Peru,

the better-off could send their children to private, usually religious schools.

This continued to divide the educational experiences of the rich and the

poor—w hile the poor w ere receiv ing a re la tive ly uniform course of

instruction w hich increasingly em phasized new principles and the unity of

the Peruvian people, the children of the upper classes were still educated in

separate instructional spaces and schooled in traditional values.

A nother challenge to the comprehensive reorganization of schooling

in Peru came from teachers. As described earlier, one of the state's strategies

to reorganize the workplace was to deputize com munist-affiliated unions to

im plem ent the government's program at the shop-floor (or classroom) level.

The hope w as that this strategy could both advance corporatist control over

the process of collective bargaining and push APRA out of union affairs and

labor politics. In the case of the teachers, in 1972 the state created a new

union, the unified Syndicate of Educational Workers of Peru (SUTEP), which

was linked w ith the Maoist Red Fatherland party.81 The union membership

increasingly separated itself from the nationalizing objectives of the state and

sought to radicalize schools as well as use its organizational weight to oppose

8° Peter S. C leaves and Henry Pease Garda, "State Autonom y and Military Policy-making," in Cynthia M cClintock and Abraham F. Lowenthal, eds., The Peruvian Experiment Reconsidered (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), p. 229.

Stokes, pp. 45-46.


225conservative projects undertaken by the governm ent in other sectors.82 To

the point: non-state actors continued to play a direct role in the schools and to

shape instruction and policy to fit their interests. U niversal schooling was

not the only goal pursued by participants in the educational sector, and this

hampered efforts to institutionalize incorporationist reforms.

What were the results of this period of reform? The best data available

for evaluating the educational health of the country d u rin g the period

between 1968 and 1975 is the 1972 national census. D uring the first four years

of rule, the governm ent m ade-do with an im provised educational policy.

D uring these unscrip ted years, the governm ent increased spending on

education, m ade concrete im provem ents in facilities an d instructional

materials, and began to identify schooling as an essen tial righ t of all

Peruvians, and a responsibility of the state. As a result, the 1972 figures can be

seen as both a measure of the success of these catch-as-catch-can policy shifts,

and as a starting point for evaluating the accomplishments of the new reform

package.

In 1972, seventy-two percent of the population betw een 5 and 14 years-

of-age was enrolled in school.83 This compares to the forty-eight percent of

the population of that age in school in 1961.84 The school reform s

undertaken by Belaunde prior to the 1968 coup laid a foundation for the

jump, and the (rudderless and piecemeal) reforms of the early Velasco years

82 Ibid., pp. 45-46 and p. 92. See also Pisara, p. 321.

83 Certsos National: VII de Poblation, II de Viviendo (Tomo 1) (Lima: O fidna N ational de Estadistica y Censos, 1974), p. 564.

84 Sexto Censo National de Poblation: I Volumen de Resultados de los Censos Nationales (Tomo 3), p.p. 184-185


226consolidated these gains.85 Indeed, the gains in the countryside can largely be

credited to the m ilitary, since Belaunde's reform s largely stopped at the

W estern edge of the A ndes.86 In the country 's interior, prim ary school

enrollment had risen from forty-four percent in 1961 to fifty-six percent in

1 9 7 2 .87 Urban enrollment levels remained virtually unchanged.88

Literacy rates also reflected improvem ent. Across Peru, about seventy-

two percent of the population was lite ra te .89 Regional variation still

persisted-about eighty-seven percent of city-dwellers could read, while only

about half the ru ra l population could. C ertain dem ographic pockets

continued to lag behind the rest of the population. W omen-both in the city

and in the countryside-were less likely to be able to read than were men. In

rural communities illiteracy among w om en persisted at alarm ing levels:

seven in ten campesinas could not read.90

Against this challenge, the m ilitary 's new educational policies were

promulgated. W hen the government's educational p lan was published in

1972, it became clear that many hands played a role in shaping the new policy.

Private school spokesmen and church officials, teachers, and social elites all

complained about provisions of the reform law as it worked its way through

For a persuasive argument that Belaunde began a process o f reform the military completed, see Dry sd ale and M eyers, pp. 271-286

86 Ibid., pp. 271-286.

87 Censos National: VII de Poblation, II de Viviendo (Tomo 1), pp. 564-567.

88 Ibid., pp. 564-567.

89 Ibid., p. 327. See also Peru: Series Estadisticas 1970-1992 (Lima: Instituto Nacional de Estadistica e Informatica, 1993), p. 53.

9° Peru: Series Estadisticas 1970-1992, p. 53.


Illthe h ands of the reform -planning executive com m ittee to w ard public

declaration.91 Their complaints clearly had consequence: private schooling

was preserved, teachers w ere given greater autonom y, and the num ber of

instructors in secondary schools and universities grew m ore rapidly than did

the num ber of teachers in prim ary schools.92 Still, desp ite the restraints

placed on the reforms by critics, the law offered profound changes in the

educational m ission of Peru 's public schools. S haped by the w ork of

liberation theologians and Brazilian educator Paulo Freire, the new policies

sought to develop "critical" consciousness am ong P eru 's y o u th .93 The

generals had the final w ord on the shape the reforms assum ed. The military,

despite its willingness to take a leap the previous oligarchic governm ents of

Peru had clearly avoided, reigned in the reforms, choosing to construct a

group consciousness w hich anchored collective solidarity in the nation, not

merely w ithin a community of the oppressed.

Over the next few years, improvements in system perform ance were

gradual. Between 1972 and 1975, the percentage of 6 to 12 year-olds enrolled

in prim ary schools increased by about four percent.94 A t the end of this

91 See D rysdale and Meyers, pp. 260-261.

92 See Peru: Series Estadisticas 1970-1992, p. 49.

93 D rysdale and Meyers, p. 262. For liberation theology as a body o f social thought see the work of Peruvian theologian Gustavo Gutierrez, A Theology of Liberation (M aryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1971/1973); also the useful summaries and commentaries by Rebecca S. Chopp, The Praxis of Suffering (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1986), especially pp. 46-63. For an introduction to Freire's work see Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed (N ew York: Continuum, 1983); see also the helpful essays by Colin Lankshear, "Functional Literacy from a Freirean Point o f View,” and Ira Shor, "Education is Politics," both in Peter McLaren and Peter Leonard, eds., Paulo Freire: A Critical Encounter, (London: Routledge, 1993), pp. 90-118 and pp. 25-35 respectively.

94 Population growth was calculated from census data between 1972 and 1981. See Censos Nacional: VII de Pobladbn, II de Viviendo (Tomo 1), p. 1; and Censos Nacionales VIII de Poblacion, III de Vivienda (Tomo 1) (Lima: Instituto Nacional de Estadistica, 1982), p. 13.


228period, abou t eighty-three percent of 6 to 12 year-olds were in school-

meaningful progress tow ard the government's goal of universal schooling by

the year 1980. A m ong elem entary school-aged children, increases in

enrollment were keeping ahead of population grow th. This would change as

the governm ent sh ifted in the years a fte r 1975 and adop ted more

conservative policies. As I will show, by 1981, enrollm ent growth in primary

education was only keeping pace with population growth.

Beginning in 1972 and ending in 1975, enrollm ent grew even faster in

secondary and higher education. Compared to 1972, by 1975, thirty percent

m ore studen ts w ere studying in secondary school classrooms and on

university cam puses.95 W hat does this su g g est about the goals of the

military's educational reform package? As m any authors have argued, the

m ilitary governm en t here obviously se rv ed the in terests of a new

bourgeoisie. Im proving access to university tra in ing (and the secondary

Growth over this period w as slower than earlier governm ent projections. See, Sexto Censo Nacional de Poblacion: I Volumen de Resultados de los Censos Nacionales (Tomo 3), pp. XYIHa- XVmb. Enrollment grow th figures came from Portocarrero and Oliart, pp. 186-188; and Peru: Series Estadisticas 1970-91 (Lima: Instituto Nacional de Estadistica e Informatica, 1992), p. 45. See Appendices A and B for estimated population and enrollm ent tables for 6-12, 6-14,6-15, and 6-11 year-olds between 1972 and 1975. Comparisons are awkward, because under the 1972 reforms, the pre-reform school system , which linked K-5 prim ary schooling with 6-10 secondary schooling shifted to a new sequence which joined 1-9 primary schooling with 10-12 secondary schooling. The shift from the earlier system to the new system was introduced over time. I choose to define primary and secondary schooling under the definitions of the new system. Children in primary sd iool are classified as those 6-12 years-of-age, and children in secondary school are 13-17. For purposes of testing the significance of age groupings, I checked a variety of age group clusters (5-14,6-14, 6-15, 6-11,12-16,13-1715-17, and 16-18) to determine if the type of grouping selected had meaningful consequences for the measurement of enrollment The 6-12 grouping seem ed to match most clearly w ith the existing primary-school enrollment data for 1972. For the use of the techniques I em ployed-m ainly survival factors and contextualized short-term estim ation-see Peter R. Cox, D em ography (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), pp. 234-263.

95 Portocarrero and Oliart, pp. 186-188. Magnitudes of increase confirmed by Peru: Series Estadisticas 1970-91, p. 45


2 2 9schools th a t served as a first step) m eant more to the upw ardly-m obile

professional and business classes than it d id to the unschooled peasantry.96

Before the wholly untrained could make use of a high school and university

education, they had to work their way through primary schooling. As I will

show below, this tendency of disproportionately focusing on higher levels of

schooling to the detrim ent of prim ary education became more pronounced

after the 1975 transition of power from Velsaco's progressive governm ent to

the more conservative regime of Francisco Morales Bermudez.

THE SHINING PATH AND TRANSITION TO DEMOCRACY (1975-1980)

In 1975, phase I of the period of military rule ended and a transition to

renewed democratic rule began. Alongside this negotiated political transition

was an unanticipated explosion of radical politics, in particular the emergence

of the Shining Path's guerilla cam paign. At each end of this political

continuum, political interests underm ined efforts to build universal (and

nationalizing) schooling. The Morales regime (and the social actors standing

in the wings) all but abandoned efforts to make universal schooling a realistic

goal, while the Shining Path undertook a plan to radicalize the bilingual

education program in the highlands.

As discussed previously, the m ilitary government lacked autonom y

from social classes. Many officers came from the m iddle sector and went

about the w ork of prom oting the interests of the m iddle class. Moreover, as

some au thors have pointed out, d ifferent officers in the governm ent

96 In addition to sources cited previously, see D avid G. Becker, The New Bourgeoisie and the Limits of Dependency: Mining, Class, and Power in"Revolutionary” Peru (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983).


230represented various social actors along the political spectrum .97 W hat served

to hold the officer corps together through the early years of the first phase of

m ilitary rule was a consensus around several common concerns. I have

touched on these shared goals previously: geo-political an d internal security,

enhanced cultural (that is, cognitive and com m unicative) solidarity , and

economic growth. Most m ilitary leaders regarded these goals as legitimate

and to achieve them they were w illing to undertake efforts to mobilize the

popular sector and incorporate the masses into the political life of the nation.

However, as was inevitable, crises widened fissures in the m ilitary command.

Officers (and the social actors they represented) sought to lim it reforms that

eventually, in the light of evidence of risks to cherished interests, seemed to

threaten valued patterns of social order and the continued accum ulation of

wealth.

The fall of the Velasco government and the rise of the Morales regime

(and the decision to begin a transition to democratic rule) can be attributed to

a variety of factors. The state 's effort to silence critical voices in the

newspapers (and the outrage this policy provoked), the new geo-political risks

associated with the rightw ard sw ing of Peru's neighbors and the efforts of

Chile and Bolivia to find a Bolivian corridor to the sea (and the fear that the

armed forces' role in the failures of government w ould w eaken support for

military efforts), and economic recession (which th reatened profits for the

rich and overturned profit- and ownership-sharing arrangem ents previously

granted to workers): all these th ings shook confidence in the Velasco

governm ent (as d id the P residen t's poor health, since the outcome of

97 Cotier, p. 30.


231straggles over succession could not be predicted).98 However, in the end, the

explanation becomes a sim pler one: in the absence of a revolutionary

reconstruction of governm ent and society, too many social actors, practicing a

narrow politics of self-interest, were able to voice their demands and express

the ir dissatisfaction. Economic elites w ere concerned by the economic

dow ntu rn and the sigh t of growing popular restlessness. The officers who

represented the elite classes understood tha t popu lar incorporation was

desirable only as long as it did not threaten the underlying preferences of the

upper-class. The industrial and land-owning classes of Peru (and their trans

national business partners) w ere not supportive of the idea of a truly

em powered popular class and feared the foundations of their wealth could be

threatened by on-going economic chaos.99 On the other hand, the popular

classes, introduced to a new rights-based political culture, were reluctant to

surrender gains and w illing to use new avenues of expression to preserve

th em .100 The Velasco regime had failed to insulate itself from elite social

actors and had given new tools of political pressure to the poor. As long as

good times continued, rewards could be distributed along the entire political

spectrum. Once crisis and disorder emerged, the balancing act was doomed to

fail. Society was no t reengineered to construct a sim ilarly ordered list of

com m on objectives and to perm it shared opinions over the appropriate

prioritization of loyalties. Instead, a politics of distribution delivered valued

goods to the w id e range of relevant actors: schooling and political

98 For more comprehensive discussions of these issues see Ibid., pp. 24-36; Stepan, The State and Society, pp. 290-316; Stokes, pp. 44-47; and Werlich, pp. 352-373.

99 See Mallon, p. 111.

100 This is the core of Stokes' argument, which is echoed in Cotier, p. 33.


2 3 2incorporation for the poor, access to upw ard mobility in a growing economy

for the middle class, and order and the prom ise of the protection of private

property to the well-to-do (and their overseas business allies). Once economic

recession and social unrest forced social actors to lose confidence in the long

term security of their contract w ith the state, actors took steps independently

to protect their separate interests.

In August of 1975, under the unrelenting pressure of social agitation,

and reflecting the crumbling solidarity of the military leadership, Morales

assumed control of the state and pushed Velsaco to the side. This initiated a

series of cabinet shake-ups w hich resulted in conservative voices replacing

progressive ones. Within a year, the cam paign to eliminate radical influences

in the government led to purges in the m ilitary and throughout the state's

bureaucracy.101

The earlier, ambitious Industria l Com m unity Law, w hich sought to

give workers fifty-percent ownership of industrial firms, was scaled back to

benefit capitalists-now w orkers could have no more th an one-third

ownership of any firm. Furthermore, ownership was now to be transfered to

workers in the form of indiv idual shares of stock; under the previous law

workers collectively held half-ownership in the firm and selected spokesmen

to represent them, which significantly increased their clout at the Board

level.102 This suggests the increasing influence of the industria l class in

policy-making. On top of th is, the m ilita ry reversed the Velasco-era

legislation which required all foreign industries to sell-off their P eruv ian

101 Werlich, p. 369.

102 Stepan, State and Society, p. 276.


233holdings. Under the new regulations, only those companies which wanted to

participate in the A ndean Pact (and, under its um brella, benefit from

im proved term s of trade w ith neighboring countries) were required to be

Peruvian ow ned.103 As a result, foreign business continued to hold

meaningful influence in the economy and in Peruvian society. Cooperation

w ith the wealthy nations of the northern hemisphere was reinforced by the

ouster of radical Foreign M inister Miguel Angel de la Flor an d a new

conciliatory approach to the United States.104

A long w ith these sh ifts, Morales intensified the cam paign of

intimidation and arrests against uncooperative elements of the left. Critical

newspapers remained closed, union leaders and others working to promote

social mobilization were jailed, and SINAMOS, the Velasco governm ent's

grand experiment to build participatory corporatism, was dism antled. All of

this pointed to a rapid slide tow ard conservative policies.

In the educational sector, this rightward drift in policy was reflected in

a pronounced change in the beneficiaries of public expenditure on schooling.

Spending on education p lum m eted under M orales, an d w ith in this

shrinking budget, secondary schools and universities reaped almost all of the

benefits.105 Under Morales, the number of students in prim ary schools grew

a m odest nine percent, w hich only kept pace w ith population growth.

Meanwhile, secondary school and university enrollment continued to inflate

I® ib id ., p. 276.

104 W erlich, pp. 369-370.

105 Peru Series Estadisticas 1970-1991, p. 44. Controlling for inflation, spending on education declined by thirty percent between 1976 (the last Velasco budget) and 1978. Spending then began a slight up-tum , before the explosive growth which followed in the first years of renewed democratic rule.


2 3 4by twenty-five and thirty percent respectively. This expansion in the upper-

levels of pub lic education resu lted , in p a rt, fro m m eaningful sta te

investments in educational infrastructure: between 1975 and 1980 the m ilitary

increased the number^of secondary schools by alm ost sixty percent; and while

the num ber of universities rem ained about th e sam e, the num ber of

professors teaching on university campuses rose from 8,000 to nearly 11,000—a

jump of around thirty percent.106

N ot everyone gained even w ith in this n a rro w sector of enhanced

opportun ity . H igher educational p rogram s se p a ra te from trad itio n a l

university schooling-program s created to offer occupational credentials for

am bitious members of the working-class seeking to climb up out of the

laboring masses th rough the m astery of ad v an ced technical sk ills-lost

funding and instructors during this period .107 M oreover, specialized

program s-like adu lt training, special education, an d bilingual schooling-

were either eliminated or significantly scaled-back. Secondary education and

arts and science university schooling-segments of the educational system

w hich tend to disproportionately benefit those w ith w ealth and p rio r

educational advantages-grew while primary education stagnated. What this

meant was a reversal of the transformation w hich h ad begun in 1968 under

the first phase of military rule.

The transition to democracy resulted, to a la rge extent, from the

m ilitary's need to extricate itself from politics in o rd e r to preserve the

106 Portocarrero and Oliart, p. 188.

107Pera Series Estadisticas 1970-1991, pp. 46-47.


235authority and historical legitimacy of the armed forces.108 The generals came

to believe that politicians should be perm itted to frame policies and fail and

suffer the consequences-it was too costly to allow the arm ed forces to

continue to be ta in ted by the im possib le game of ru ling P eru and

m odern izing a peripheral economy. In addition, as more conservative

elements of the m ilitary-w ith direct links to the elite dasses-began to guide

policy, the upper-class' d islike fo r surrendering the w ork of defining

collective consciousness to the state began to be felt.

W ithin months of taking office, Morales began to promote the idea of

quickly returning local control to civilian politicians and restoring democratic

rules at the national level w ithin six years.109 In 1977, the decision was m ade

to hold elections in 1980, and a Constituent Assembly was seated in 1978 to

begin the w ork of writing a new constitution.110

In 1980, Fernando Belaunde Terry, who had been pushed aside by the

m ilitary in 1968, was returned to office by national elections. The election

featured the participation of a w ide spectrum of actors. APRA was perm itted

to run candidates and the new left, which began to gather numbers during the

period of military rule, campaigned w ith passion. Upon election, Belaunde

returned to the work he had been doing prior to his rem oval from office

twelve years before, promoting national solidarity and proposing a program

of econom ic developm ent heavy on m arket mechanisms. E ducation

rem ain ed an im portan t part of th is undertaking. D espite economic

108 Cotier, p. 35.

109 Werlich, p. 366.

HO Stepan, State and Society, pp. 293-294.


2 3 6difficulties that resulted in cuts in state spending, expenditures on education

continued to grow under Belaunde.111 In part this was a reflection of the new

political realities of Peru. The politically integrated masses, now imagining

politics as a process of dem anding essential rights from the state, agitated for

continued spending on education; and the state, seeking to quiet this

potentially disruptive segm ent of the population, continued to deliver

educational benefits.

However, as was the case under the second phase of military rule, not

all sectors of the educational system benefited equally. While the number of

primary school classrooms did grow, the number of secondary school facilities

grew twice as fast, and the number of university professors continued to grow

by impressive leaps.112 Despite the country's failure to reach its goal of

universal primary schooling by 1980, resources were being directed toward

other objectives. Specifically, the system of schooling was being redirected

toward the manufacturing of skills useful to a m odem division of labor.

In 1985, A lan Garcia Perez became the first APRA candidate ever

elected President of Peru. During his term of office, Garcia significantly cut

educational spending. The seemingly odd juxtaposition of a populist leader

slashing educational spending isn't truly so unusual.113 In Peru, economic

crisis and internal war drained state resources and held the governm ent's

attention.

111 Peru Series Estadisticas 1970-1991, p. 44.

113 Portocarrero and Oliart, p. 188.

113 See Orlando Albom oz, Education and Society in Latin America (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1993), p. 53. In many populist regimes, educational reform becomes a permanent aspiration, an ever evolving objective for which the governm ent is always laying the groundwork.


237When. Belaunde took power in 1980, he inherited high inflation and a

foreign debt of nine billion dollars. By the time Garcia was elected, the debt

had grow n to 14 billion dollars and dom estic production had slowed to a

craw l-sixty percent of the country's industrial capacity sat idle.114 In an

attem pt to increase the spending power of the laboring class as a strategy for

invigorating industrial activity, Garcia boosted workers' wages and cut taxes.

G arcia’s strategy, w hile offering short-term solutions, ultim ately failed

because the government d id little to lim it the in-flow of im ports into the

Peruvian economy.115 Without protective tariffs, Peruvian industries had

little chance to compete against foreign manufacturers. Employers laid-off

w orkers, and the cycle of recovery was cu t short. The overw helm ing

advantage enjoyed by foreign manufacturers com bined w ith their clout in

Peruvian politics (in part th rough the influence of the ir local business

partners) m ade more agressive solutions unlikely. Further, Peru's massive

foreign debt gave international banks and transnational financial institutions

considerable power over policy-making in Peru.116 Garcia's industrialization

projects were dependent on foreign loans, since direct investm ent by multi

national firms was both hard to come-by (given Peru's uncertain economic

future and corporate actors' fears about the Shining P ath insurgency) and

114 See D avid P. Werlich, "Fujimori and the D isaster' in Peru," Current History 90, no. 553 (February 1991), pp. 61-62.

115 Ibid., p. 61.

116 See Barbara Stalling s , "International Capitalism and the Peruvian M ilitary Government,” in McClintock and Lowenthal, p. 147; and Laura Guasti, "The Peruvian M ilitary Government and the International Corporations," in McClintock and Lowenthal, pp. 181-205. Here Guasti makes the w ise observation that autonomous industrialization which is dependent on foreign banks for capital is doomed because such a strategy places the industrialization effort at the mercy of agents hostile to autonomous local development.


2 3 8view ed negatively by the policy-planners who hoped to generate locally-

controlled development. As a result, Peru's foreign debt burden continued to

growr under Garcia, nearing twenty-four billion dollars before he left office.117

W hat this produced was drastic slicing of state expenditures, an d

spending on schooling was greatly reduced. State investment in education

dropped by thirty percent during the period.118 The expense of fighting the

Shining Path (and containing the spreading influence of narcotics traffickers)

m ade it difficult to reengineer the national budget to find spare change for

education. Further, even in a time of peace, it isn 't clear that the political

situation-i.e . the continuing influence of the economic elite (and th e ir

g row ing fear of po p u la r m ob iliza tion )-w ou ld have m ade ex p an d ed

investment in education a very likely possibility.

D uring this period, private universities, fortresses of upper-class

priv ilege and elite isolation, expanded m ore rap id ly th an d id p u b lic

universities.119 The wealthy were increasingly m oving to detach them selves

from Peruvian society, establishing under the new democracy separate social

spaces entirely their own. The dream of a united Peru, joined by com m on

schooling, viewing the w orld through shared perspectives constructed by

uniform educational experiences, was being lost.

Indeed, this perception-that the continuing division of P eru v ian

society seemed a persistent fact-partly explains the dismay which gripped the

117 vVerlich, "Fujimori and the D isaster’ in Peru," p. 62.

118 Peru Series Estadisticas 1970-1991, p. 44. N ote however that spending on education retained its relative importance in the overall budget priorities of the state; a little better than one- quarter of all spending by the central government w ent to schooling.

11 Richard Webb and Graciela Femdndez Baca de Valdez, eds., Peru en Numeros 1990 (Lima: Cuanto S.A., 1990), pp. 150-156.


239poor populations of the A ndean highlands and provided the Shining Path

with a constituency. The educational initiatives of the m ilitary government,

continued imperfectly under Belaunde, had failed to reach into the remote

interior of the country to create a single people w ith a shared cognitive and

communicative culture. W hile illiteracy in Lima had been reduced to a

minor problem (only about four percent of the population in the capital could

not read), in the countryside (and in particular for ru ra l women) the problem

rem ained staggering. A bout forty percent of the ru ra l population was

illiterate, and nearly sixty percent of all women in the countryside couldn't

read and write. In the departm ents of Ayacucho and Apurfm ac, where the

Shining Path first gained its foothold, illiteracy rates were the highest in the

country, rem aining a t abou t fifty percent.120 M any residents, especially

women, still spoke only or prim arily indigenous languages.

Without the cognitive and language tools to participate in the life of

the wider society, it was difficult for the poor to pursue solutions to their

problem s w ith in the po litica l system . Radical so lutions seem ed more

promising. Ironically, the fears of the upper classes were w holly misplaced: it

wasn't the power and solidarity of a territory-wide Peruvian cognitive and

communicative culture w hich encouraged rebellion, rather, it was the fact

that these populations rem ained separate from a unifying national culture.

Because they couldn 't successfully participate in official political processes,

peasants searched for radical alternatives. Of course, the people of Ayacucho

and Apurfmac d id share a com m on cultural fram ew ork, and while they

remained excluded from full participation in Peruvian culture and politics,

120 Ibid., pp. 138-139.


2 4 0their language, com mon traditions, and shared perspectives tended to

promote solidarity in the face of the dominant national culture.

It can be argued, as some authors have, that one aspect of the new

national political culture did penetrate the interior: like other Peruvians, the

populations of the south-central highlands had begun to th ink of the

governm ent as a political actor from whom they could dem and certain

benefits.121 All citizens, because of their m em bership in the national

community, could expect protection from lawlessness, freedom from unfair

exploitation, remedies for abysmal poverty, along w ith schooling and other

government services. This was the new language of political rights.122 And if

the state rem ained unmoved by the community's needs, organized political

action was a legitimate vehicle for demanding state action.

In fact, the perception that the state's efforts consistently fell short of

outcomes dem anded by the lower-classes produced a p rofusion of new

organizational projects. Often these new organizational vehicles were built

on chassises supplied by the state. Local SINAMOS projects were seized and

directed toward new purposes. Typically, these new organizations were m et

w ith indifference or, more often, hostility by the state. W hich com m only

produced more radical responses by the increaseingly dissatisfied masses.123

This cycle of action, counteraction, and radicalized response pushed m any

poor Peruvians—especially peasants—toward revolutionary politics.

121 Mallon, p . 98.

122 See Stokes, in particular pp. 61-110.

122 See Mallon, pp. 97-112, for the dearest account of this process.


24 1Sendero Luminoso (the Shining Path)124 began as an am algam ation of

coffeehouse revolutionaries an d committed Marxists on the cam pus of the

public University of San C risto b a l de H uam anga in A yacucho. The

movement's leader, Abimael G uzm dn Reynoso, was a philosophy professor

at the university. The Universiy was reopened in 1959 after being shuttered

for seventy-five years by cautious local elites.

Like much of Latin Am erica, in the years after 1959 the university was

swept up in the hopeful radicalism given life by Castro's victory in Cuba. In

1962 it became home to the H uam anga125 com m and of th e Ejercito de

Liberacion (ELN), one of th e guerrilla groups at the cen te r of the

revolutionary campaigns of the early 1960s. Guzman a rriv ed in 1963 and

quickly became involved in rad ical politics, leading a M aoist faction of the

local committee of the Peruv ian Communist Party.126 G uzm an, like Mao,

believed that above all an advanced territorial base had to be developed and

peasant support actively cultivated before arms were taken u p against the

state. As a basic blueprint, G uzm an envisioned a five stage strategic program:

(1) advanced conversion of backw ard areas into solid bases of revolutionary

124 The movement's name comes from a quote of Jose Carlos Mariategui, w ho asserted that revolution would lay out the shining path to better opportunities for the poor and powerless.

125 Huamanga was the original name for the colonial city which became A yacucho after independence. For a review of the lon g history of rebellion linked with the area, see Stem, Peru's Indian Peoples and the Challenge of Spanish Conquest.

There are many worthwhile w orks on the origins of the Shining Path. On th is point see, Carlos Ivan Degregori, "The Origins and Logic o f Shining Path: Two V iew s,” in D avid Scott Palmer, ed., Shining Path of Peru (N ew York: St. Martin's Press, 1993), p. 34; and D avid Scott Palmer, "Rebellion in Rural Peru: The O rigins and Evolution of Sendero Lum inoso,”Comparative Politics 18 (January 1986), pp. 127-128; as w ell as Cynthia M cClintock, "Peru’s Sendero Luminoso Rebellion: Origins and Trajectory," in Susan Eckstein, ed., Power and Popular Protest: Latin American Social Movements (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), pp. 61-101. A valuable recent resource is the collection of essays in Stem, Shining and Other Paths: War and Society in Peru, 1980-1995.


242activity (requiring both the cultivation of consciousness and the laying of

groundw ork for sustained m aterial support), (2) launching of attacks upon

the symbols of the bourgeois state, (3) the developm ent of guerrilla war, (4)

te rrito ria l expansion, and (5) the collapse of the state th ro u g h the

immobilization of the cities.127

Guzman's first step was to begin the transformation of the university

itself. The university had grow n rapidly. Most students came directly from

the department of Ayacucho, many were the children of peasants and the first

in their families to attend university-level schooling.128 To find their way

from modest beginnings to the university classroom, through under-funded

elementary and secondary schools offering instruction in an unfam iliar

language, despite illiterate parents who couldn 't help w ith school work,

students needed to hold on to the hope that a university degree would offer

the promise of a better life. The reality, how ever, was bleak: in Peru's

stagnant economy there were few opportunities for young campesinos w ith a

degree from a provincial university.129 One chance, however, emerged with

the school reforms of the early 1970s. The m ilitary's new bilingual education

program needed teachers who had native fluency in Quechua. This fateful

confluence would have far-reaching consequences.

In his early years at the university, G uzm an w ent carefully about the

business of taking control of all available organizational resources-as one

au thor has sum m erized : "the studen t m ovem ent, the adm inistra tive

Palmer, p. 129.

128 McClintock "Peru's Sendero Luminoso Rebellion: Origins and Trajectory,” p. 71.

Ibid., pp. 71-72. See also Manrique, pp. 199-200.


243structure, and the academic program of the university."130 Guzm dn assum ed

the position of Director of Personnel and constructed a faculty com m itted to

the spread of revolutionary thought.131 Classroom instruction served to

introduce students to new views of the w orld and the system of dom ination

which, it was argued, held the highlands in a state of perpetual poverty and

powerlessness.132 In particular, the School of Education was controlled by

Sendero. When students moved on to teach in the countryside, they carried

w ith them Sendero's ideology.

As other leftist parties began to prepare for participation in the 1980

elections, Guzman took Sendero underground to prepare for arm ed rebellion.

In 1980, as Peruvians went to the polls to vote in national elections for the

first time in twelve years, Sendero launched the next phase of its struggle.

Sendero's earliest acts of rebellion, as suggested by Guzman’s revolutionary

program, were directed at the symbols of the bourgeois state; and the first of

these bourgeois institutions to come under attack was the newly democratic

system.133 Senderistas burned ballot boxes in Ayacucho.

The timing of this step in Sendero's revolutionary struggle can be

explained by a couple of factors. First of all, G uzm an felt the prelim inary

130 gee Gustavo Gorriti, "Shining Path's Stalin and Trotsky," in Palmer, Shining Path of Peru,p. 161.

131 Raymond Bonner, "Peru's War,” The New Yorker 63 (4 January 1988), p. 35. Guzman used teaching evaluations and university discipinary routines to silence or drive out faculty members opposed to the radicalization of the university. Likewise, student opponents could be harassed through administrative routines, for example by preventing students from keeping dormitory rooms or receiving meals to which they were entitled. See Gorriti, pp. 152-163.

132 Gorriti, p. 162.

133 See Cynthia McClintock, "Sendero Luminoso: Peru's M aoist Guerrillas," Problems of Communism 32 (September-October 1983), p. 29.


2 4 4preparations for active revolution had been accomplished-through the work

of Senderista trained teachers loyal to Guzman, an em erg ing "radical

solidarity" had been constructed throughout communities in the Quechua-

speaking regions of the southern highlands. Further, other links had been

fashioned betw een the m ovem ent and the masses th rough grass-roots

organizing outside the university campus. Second, G uzm in understood that

the new dem ocratic governm ent w ould be more constrained than the

military in its use of force. While all regimes rely on a balance of coercion

and consent to maintain their rule, democracies, especially new and unstable

ones, are overwhelmingly dependent on the consent of the people. The use

of force, especially on a large an d imprecise scale, threatens to underm ine

popular support for the new democractic government and advances political

instability. Chances were, the state would respond tim idly to Sendero's

provocation. If it responded m ore aggressively, all the better, since popular

confidence in democratic rule w ould be shaken.

I won't say much about Sendero's military tactics; m any have w ritten

on the subject.134 While Sendero's early efforts were characterized by a

seem ingly sym pathetic point-of-view , combining an u n d erstan d in g of

peasant suffering w ith familiarity w ith local language and tradition , in time

the m ovem ent's program becam e almost entirely dom inated by opaque

violence and indiscriminate terror. The state's response, especially under

Garcia, was equally as b ru ta l, and the indigenous com m unities of the

southern highlands became caught between two w arring parties.135 The

1'34 In addition to the previously dted w orks see Carlos Ivan Degregori, Que Dificl es Ser Dios: Ideologta y Violencia Politico, en Sendero Luminoso (Lima: El Zorro de Abajo Edidones, 1989).

135 Manrique, pp. 193-196.


245conflict served to end the provision of m any state services to the w arring

departm ents. Schooling, in particular, became difficult to deliver. In the

absence of public education, Sendero opened "popular schools," w here

senderista slogans substituted for m ore coherant education.136 These schools

ten d ed to offer a very lim ited curricu lum : som e m athem atics, some

in stru c tio n in m arxism -lenin ism , m ilita ry -sty le a th le tics , and "labor

training," consisting of w ork sewing uniforms, backpacks, and the fashioning

of bandages.137 In districts were state schooling continued, guerrillas often

forced teachers to teach a senderista-flavored curricu lum an d in terrupted

instruction for "popular assemblies" w here the m ovem ent w ould recru it

youngsters into the war. As they had at the university years before, Sendero

w ould intim idate uncooperative teachers and students.138 O f course, as

suggested in my earlier discussion, most teachers throughout the region were

sym pathetic to revolutionary goals, either because they belonged to the

communist-linked SUTEP union or because they were educated by Guzman

and h is followers years before in A yacucho. Still, Sendero 's narrow

ideological orthodoxy and its extreme violence tended to trouble even left-

leaning instructors.139

136 ib id ., p. 204. Manrique discusses the unevenness o f this process. W hether Sendero provided social services, like schooling, in their conquered territories seem ed to depend on a variety of factors, including the organizational cohesion and tactical playbook of particular Shining Path units.

137 See James Brooke, "Shining Path Rebels Infiltrate Peru's Schools," The New York Times (30 August 1992), p. 8.

13* Ibid.

139 The extreme radicalism -dass-focused-character of Guzman's project can be seen in his decrees and public statements. For example: "the rights o f people are the rights and obligations of class, superior to so-called human rights...." Guzman drew a very tight circle around his project; only dass-spedfic goals were legitim ate, only loyalty to d ass struggle


2 4 6The state’s attem pts to end Sendero's reign of terror consistently fell

short, until 1992, w hen the governm ent o f President A lberto Fujim ori

captured Guzman in his Lima hideout. The Shining Path had expanded its

w ar by opening an urban front, and the spreading disorder played a role in

Fujimori's decision to seize power in an autogolpe in April of 1992. Fujimori

had unexpectedly w on election in 1990, benefiting from the disintegrating

pu b lic confidence in Peru 's m ajor po litical parties. G arcia 's APRA

governm ent had concluded in a cloud of failure and scandal-the economy

was a mess and the w ar w ith Sendero seem ed unwinnable, while many in

G arcia's governm ent had enriched them selves through state resources.

However, Fujimori took office w ithout an organized political party behind

him and faced a deteriorating situation. A happy outcome seemed unlikely.

Fujimori instituted a shock program of economic reforms, which hit the self-

em ployed and the poor-sources of Fujim ori's support in the previous

election—especially hard. By 1992 he faced grow ing conflict w ith the

legislature, and any hope for cooperative political solutions to Peru 's

problem s dimmed. In April, Fujimori took m atters into his ow n hands and

form ed an emergency governm ent, sending the legislature home, arresting

some opponents, setting aside civil rights guarantees and other limitations o n

state action, and ruling w ith the cooperation of the military. Six m onths

later, unexpectedly (but perhaps benefiting from the enlarged circle of action

allow ed the police), G uzm an and hundreds of Senderistas w ere arrested.

secured one's right to life and the benefits of struggle. See Carlos Basombrfo Iglesias, "Sendero Luminoso and Human Rights," in Stem , Shining and Other Paths: War and Society in Peru, 1980-1995, pp. 431-432.


2 4 7W hile the Shining Path 's war strugg led on for some tim e after, the

m ovement never recovered from the blow.

What was left behind was considerable social disaster. The isolation of

the highlands was perpetuated by the twelve years of war. State services,

which m ight have played a role in integrating more of Peru’s peoples into the

civic union, were disrupted. Schools were closed or, as discussed, were placed

in the service of non-integrative projects. The consequence of this was clear

in the state's statistics on educational achievem ent. The percentage of

students enrolled in elementary school actually dropped between 1975 and

1992. More than a third of children between six and nine years-old had never

been to school.140 Illiteracy remained a serious problem . Territory-w ide

about eleven percent of all Peruvians were illiterate, b u t the rate was much

worse in the southern highland departm ents where the war h ad paralysed

education-about a th ird of all residents of Ayacucho, A purim ac, and

Huancavelica could not read.141 This was an im provem ent over the rate of

ten years earlier-a drop from fifty percent illiteracy to about thirty-three

percent. Part of this change can probably be explained by m igration. The

poorest peasants, w ith little to gain from rem aining, had packed up and

m oved to Lima, playing a part in the explosive g row th of the country's

capital. Absorbed into the day-to-day life of the city, adults began to pick-up

reading skills in the workplace and children, free to attend school w ithout

fear, were able to develop literacy skills denied them in the highlands.

I4® Compendio de Estadisticas Sociales 1992-93 (Lima: Sistema N ational de Estadistica e Informatica, 1993), p. 108.

141 Ibid., p. 128.


248

Table 3 - Peru: Literacy and Enrollment*Year Literacy rate School enrollm ent151 9 4 8 45% (est.) 33% c1961 60% 48%1 9 7 2 72% 72%1 9 9 2 89%d 82% (est.)

a. Data from Werlich, 1961 and 1972 Peruvian national censuses, Peru Series Estadisticas 1970-92 and Compendio de Estadisticas Sociales 1992.b. School enrollment figures for children 5-14.c. 1940 data.d. 1991 data.

Conclusions

In the end, the Peruvian incorporation project left a mixed legacy.

Stable government was never achieved. In fact the nation was thrown into

twelve years of civil war. Democratic rule collapsed in Fujimori's autogolpe

of April 1992. In reality, however, democratic ru le was never constructed

throughout much of Peru's poorest areas, as the Shining Path (and the state's

military response) brought terror and disorder to the south central highlands.

The disruption of public services, including state-schooling, further delayed

the full incorporation of this region into the cognitive and communicative

life of the nation.

Nevertheless, the state's project d id change the composition of the

politically relevant population. Common people acquired new political tools.

The failure of the military's corporatist project left many actors free to carry

forw ard w ith their self-interested pursuit of narrow ly conceived objectives.

Elite actors and foreign businesses, never fully excluded from the state's

policy-making calculations, were moved by fears of growing social disorder to

reclaim their political self-assertiveness. Political agitators, in particular


2 4 9APRA, also never fully dealt out of the political project, continued to d isrup t

governm ental affairs. Now, too, new marxist parties, nourished, in part, by

the state's efforts to seek alternative organizational vehicles to supp lan t

APRA, became meaningful participants in the conflict of Peruvian politics.

Unlikely Castro in Cuba, the m ilitary never found a viable w ay to s trip

political rivals of their influence. In fact, as suggested, it even played a role in

distributing new instruments of power to new actors.

T he architecture of connectedness in Peru was no t significantly

changed (although some actors in the social structure now m ade use of new

political tools). The result was a noticeable absence of fellow-feeling am ong

Peruvians. A gain turning to Tocqueville, we can see the effects of the politics

of caste.142 Social superiors and subordinates are joined by ties of obligation,

not ties of fellow-feeling. Their relations are colored by resentm ent an d

hostility. The elites fear the possibility of an aw akening am ong the

subordinate classes and resent the unw illingness of the low er orders to

perform loyal service. The lower ranks hate their subjugation and resent the

social classes they view as the source of their misery.

O ddly, some authors have argued that the long w ar against the Sh in ing

Path has im posed a new commonality of purpose.143 All classes now, it is

said, exhausted by civil war and the politics of social division, seek to find

com mon solutions to Peru's problem s. Perhaps civil society-this broad

horizontal com munity of sufferers-can finally achieve what the state failed

so miserably to do.

142 A lexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America (New York: Anchor Books, 1969), pp. 561-565.

143 See Hortensia Munoz, "Human Rights and Social Referents: The Construction of N ew Sensibilities," in Stem , Shining and Other Paths, pp. 447-469.


CHAPTER 6

CO NCLUSIO NS

Social landscapes

In 1963, at the M arch on Washington, Martin Luther King, Jr. surveyed

the landscape and said:

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hilland mountain shall be made low....

Taking these w ords from their original context, an d putting them to

my own use, this is a perfect methaphor for capturing the meaning of the

stories I have been telling over the past several chapters. The metaphor

seems to work best for Feru, where any reconstruction of the history of social

organization has always required an understanding of m ountains and valleys

and coastal plains. But as an abstract m apping of society, politics, and

economic life, it works just as well for Cuba.

What radical politics does is level the terrain; it bu ild s up the valleys

and brings down the mountains. What nationalism does is less wrenching in

most cases. Nationalists hold the dream that it will com e to be seen that

m ountains and valleys exist side-by-side on the sam e terra in , within

common borders, and despite the great differences in topography, they are

made of the same substance.

2 5 0


251Since 1959, the Cuban state has attempted to offer this image of Cuba in

order to construct, for the first time in the country's history, a foundation for

national solidarity. Of course, as I have argued, at the same time this message

was being shaped by universal schooling and other public initiatives, voices

of radical politics, both w ithin the state and alongside it, were attempting to

remap the face of Cuba by tamping down m ountains and building up the

valleys. These two projects existed side-by-side. I have chosen to focus on the

universalization of public education, which has draw n my attention to the

first of these projects, perhaps, unfortunately, to the relative exclusion of the

second.

In Peru, the R evolutionary G overnm ent of the A rm ed Forces

attempted to use the schools and other public resources to move forward a

similiar nationalist rem apping of Peru. They failed, however, at least in so

far as the success of such a project can be measured by the dissemination of a

shared cognitive and communicative culture through public education. W hy

did they fail? I have argued, in essence, that they failed because the lack of a

sweeping revolutionary shift left standing, in the lowlands and along the

mountains of Peru, collectivities and individuals who refused to see the

unity of their placement on the map of a single Peruvian nation.

I also discussed two other approaches to the construction of citizenship

and solidarity. The open-door approach imagines that all citizens occupy the

same landscape, bu t to gain the full benefits of membership in the civic

union, those who reside in the valley m ust begin the climb upward. The

benefits of citizenship are disproportionately distributed to those who occupy

the higher levels of social organization, with those occupying successively

lower realms forced to make-do with less generous rewards.


252On the other hand, the caste m odel imagines two com m unities co

existing within the same geographical space. One com m unity m akes its

home in the valleys, and has very little chance of ever escaping its fate. This

community works very hard, b u t acquires few benefits of its labor. Indeed, it

is m isguided to th ink of th is am algam ation of ind iv iduals a n d local

collectivities as a com m unity—it lacks the cultural coherence com m only

associated with the term. The other community lives in com fort at the

highest reaches of society. They share common experiences an d sim iliar

educations, and their (more or less) identical histories (and shared interests)

form a cognitive and com m unicative un ion which helps fash io n their

solidarity (and separates them from those beneath them).

Cuba and Peru: shared starting points, different outcom es

As my narratives suggested, Cuba and Peru once sh a red sim ilar

social/political landscapes. In each, two systems of order co-existed. In the

cities, a more modem, open-door system of education and citizenship was pu t

in place, while in the country sides a rigid caste system was reproduced. This

regional variation was at least partly conditioned by the effects of global

capitalism. Havana and Lima w ere the points of entry for foreign influence

and the local headquarters of m ulti-national firms. The local bourgeoisie and

the professional adm inistrative classes which benefited from external trade,

along with the state, permitted, and even encouraged, the expansion of urban

public schooling. In the countryside, w here traditional land-ho ld ing elites

(and, in the case of Peru, m in ing com panies) were pow erful, an d state-

building was lim ited, public education was almost invisible. Few poor


253children rem ained in school for more than a few years and illiteracy was

widespread.

The historical legacy of colonial political economy contributed to this

pattern of development. Colonial authorities built adm inistrative centers in

H avana and Lima to help support the system of trade w hich carried wealth

from the new world to the Spanish court. As for the vast interiors of these

territories, where, in fact, m uch of the production of the w ealth occurred, the

Spanish were interested in constructing a system of order, not in encouraging

a firmly anchored foundation for development. As time rolled forward, even

through the years of the post-independence republics, these choices became

institu tionalized in politics an d economic life. D esp ite the m istaken

prognostications of the m odern ization theorists of the 1950s and 1960s,

change is not an autom atic phenom enon. Intervention into the politics of

society is required to accomplish change; and in Cuba and Peru, social elites,

w ho dom inated the state, w ere not willing to in itia te this process of

transform ation by perm itting , for example, the ad o p tio n of universal

schooling.

Summary o f argum ent

Why doesn't the state prom ote universal schooling earlier? I have

argued that there are three m ain explanations. First, the social classes which

dominated the state feared that popular mobilization w ould bring a threat to

their position and wealth. G iven their fears, elite classes, prim arily rural

landlords, w ere unw illing to perm it the state to take over the work of

constructing collective consciousness. Second, the state itself, given its

lim ited capacity to restructure the social landscape and bring order out of


2 5 4cacophony, feared unchanneled popular mobilization. Or, more precisely, the

state feared that other more immediate, more highly valued objectives could

be pu t at risk. Third, the tiny local bourgeoisie-a class which m ight accept the

risks of a reengineered national consdousness-was too insignificant to play a

role in the political contests which shaped national policy. In the dties, the

one small circle of influence available to the bourgeoisie, education was

reformed and near universal schooling was offered.

In Cuba, revolutionary change sw ept aw ay actors hostile to a

reengineered collective consdousness and in troduced new conceptions of

connectedness, new models of solidarity. In the end, tw o visions of

connectedness emerged side-by-side, one radical and one nationalist. The

nationalist project tended to dom inate in educational policymaking and in

school dassrooms. The radical project took hold in other public spaces-in the

Schools for Revolutionary Thought, in the neighborhood CDRs, and in the

party affiliated unions and student associations. But the power of this radical

project to employ the resources of the state to advance its cause was limited by

corporatist reorganizations of the politics of government.

In Peru, a "revolutionary" military government half-heartedly began

the work of building a universal public schooling project, bu t found its

objectives blocked by non-state actors. Elites (including foreign business

leaders) and the poor separately undertook efforts to overturn the state's

project.

In Cuba, the new ly po litica lly re levan t poor becam e a new

constituency, with material (and educational) dem ands they communicated

to the state. This, along with continuing fears of foreign enemies and plans

for industrialization, encouraged a reevaluation of incorporationist logics. As


255the need to create m ore efficient and sophisticated regimes of production

inspired the state to m anufacture individuals w ith specialized skills, new

educational reforms were adopted. Further, to encourage individuals to take

up technical specialization, rewards for technical proficiency were introduced,

altering the architecture joining citizens together in society.

I identified three relevant mechanisms. Elite preferences delayed the

introduction of universal education in the pre-revolution era, when upper-

class actors dominated the state and played a central role in shaping policy.

Second, in Cuba, but n o t Peru, revolution helped clear the way for the

implementation of universal schooling (and the subsequent reengineering of

collective order). T h ird , state-led efforts to industria lize contributed

additional pressure to adop t mass schooling, bu t also served to initiate a

process of change w hich reconceptualized goals, focusing attention on the

need to abandon uniform schooling for increasingly specialized training.

Throughout this process of political struggle, four different approaches

to structuring connectedness and access to schooling are possible. Two

projects lim it or ra tio n access to schooling. Radical projects aim at

constructing class-consciousness. Caste policies seek to preserve the special

benefits (and the power) enjoyed by the elite-classes. Open-door approaches

embrace universal schooling, but imagine an architecture of order that

preserves vertical class and occupational differences. Only incorporationist

projects offer universal schooling and broad horizontal citizenship.

General applications o f issu es studied

Revolution produces a change in the social landscape which makes the

im plem entation of u n iv e rsa l schooling possible. H ow ever, the way


256revolution does this-by eliminating sodal actors opposed to an enhanced role

for the state in constructing an expanded collective un ion an d by

transforming cultures or conceptions of connectedness-can be reproduced by

other types of social and political events. This is im portant to consider, since

revolutions are fairly ra re political events. C om prehend ing how sub

mechanisms clustered w ith in revolution function to p roduce universal

schooling may open up the available case-study landscape. Civil war between

ethnic groups can result in the defeat of a m inority w hich had for generations

dominated life and politics in a country, and result in a new social/ political

elite w illing to use pu b lic education to co n s tru c t a new national

consciousness w ith the hope that a reengineered collective union w ould

institu tionalize the m arg inalization of the fo rm erly dom inate ethnic

minority. Along a different path, the U.S. Civil W ar resulted in the defeat of

a segment of the political/social elite which opposed universal schooling and

was conditioned to fear or distrust the role of the state in the construction of

collective consciousness. Further, it so lid ifed the successful rise of a

bourgeoisie comfortable (even pleased) w ith the idea of a broad, horizontal

reorganization of collective consciousness. T he resu lt w as the gradual

democratization of education in the last part of the 19th and the early 20th

century (with, of course, southern blacks left behind until the 1950s/ 1960s).

Further, the threat of foreign intervention could produce incentives to

shift toward universal schooling even w ithout revolutionary changes. This

has been studied by other scholars, and I have devoted little attention to the

question here. The interesting thing, as Stephen W alt has shown, is that

revolution can make foreign w ar more likely . T herefore, revolution


25 7encourages the adoption of universal schooling for a variety of complexly

interrelated reasons.

Future directions

The last section of th is conclusion, which focuses on suggestions for

future research, includes tw o proposals. First, future research could expand

the number of cases studied to determ ine if other countries in Latin America

(or throughout the post-colonial world) follow the patterns I sketch out in my

research. Chile and N icaragua, I already know from incomplete research I

gathered on their histories, seem to fit. But what about cases like Argentina

and Mexico, where populist regim es introduced universal schooling w ithout

revolution (or, in the case of Mexico, long enough after revolution that the

connection between the two events is questionable)?

Second, researchers could focus on the second dimension of my model.

My dissertation is about success or failure in the achievement of universal

schooling. However, I largely leave untouched the question: How are

changes in the architecture of connectedness institutionalized? Again, I th in k

revolution plays an im portant role, by emphasizing collective struggle and

shared histories o f suffering. This delegitimates individualist or class-based

conceptions of connectedness and institutionalizes collectivist conceptions.

But the mechanisms which produce this outcome need to be m ore carefully

detailed.

U niversal schooling and nationalism

I have trea ted the connection betw een universal schooling and

nationalism as relatively uncontroversial. This is largely true because there is


258a considerable body of literature which already establishes (or at least

assumes) the importance of the connection between the two phenomena. In

short, I haven't felt the need to argue in support of a theory I believe has been

already persuasively defended.

However, I have left unfinished something w hich perhaps required

greater care. W hile the connection betw een un iversa l schooling and

nationalism has been previously established, how the first produces the

second clearly has not. My emphasis has been to argue that common

educational experiences create shared cognitive and communicative cultures.

Uniformity of cultural practices and sim ilarity of in tellectual processes

produce common behavioral routines, shared interpretive frameworks, and,

in the end, fellow-feeling, w hat Dewey called "like-mindedness." States seek

to produce like-mindedness, but not necessarily nationalism. Nationalism is

a contingent outcome of the process, an unintended (if not unwelcome) by

product.

Yet, surely, this educational project, in many cases, also intentionally

seeks to promote patriotism, or loyalty to the state and the collective union

with w hich it is linked (and, through it, to a lan d and a historical

community). Or, to use a phraseology employed earlier, the content of the

curriculum is designed to teach citizens to prioritize their loyalties in new

ways. W ithout a doubt, this was a part of the citizenship training initiatives

upon which I have reflected in previous chapters.

Clearly in C uba-w here the teaching of English was replaced by the

teaching of Spanish (and later Russian) and M artf-and in Peru-w here

urbanidad was replaced by stirring patriotic lessons-we can see shifts which

suggest a purposeful attem pt to promote attachment to the nation. I have


2 5 9not preoccupied myself w ith this dim ension of the Cuban an d Peruvian

projects, and this seems to be a valuable direction for future study. How do

the two dimensions of the educational project-building a shared culture and

promoting patriotism-relate? How do they conflict?

In the case of Cuba, it was clear that the state took advantage of the

deeply institutionalized conception of Cuba as an integrated nation-state to

build its claim as the legitimate voice of the Cuban people in their struggle

against foreign enemies. In Peru, fear that the impossibility of successfully

governing Peru w ould taint the im age of the m ilitary, the arm ed forces

decided to leave to politicians the ungainly affairs of rule. The state became,

again, an ineptly managed bureaucratic circus, not the focal-point of the

nation's loyalty. The military, caught up in a bloody war w ith the Shining

Path, and responding w ith m isguided brutality, directed at the peasantry

caught in the middle, also lost the opportun ity to rem ain the historical

protector of the nation's honor. Meanwhile, day-to-day classroom schooling

ground to a halt through long stretches of the country. There was no

common educational experience, and no standard-bearer. The effort to

construct a common cognitive culture collapsed, and no single identifiable

entity could be held up as the legitim ate recipient of the country's patriotic

love. This did not mean, of course, that the idea of Peru, or an abstract love of

its history, inherited culture(s), and "people" faded. It had only become very

difficult, if not impossible, to attach this love to any particu lar political

project.

This redirects my attention to an issue left aside at the end of chapter

two. W ithin the construction of a shared cognitive and com m unicative

culture, is any "consciousness-building" occurring? The lim ited objectives of


260my project and the difficulty of establishing proof of changes in consciousness

led me to shelve this concern.

W hat I w an te d to s tu d y w as how a sh a red cognitive an d

communicative culture was constructed where such an undertaking w as

made difficult by social forces. Once this broad cultural homogeneity is given

form, the population is available to consciousness-building projects, but they

may not be successfully transformed by them.

There are some good examples of works which tackled the enorm ous

task of documenting the "success" of consciousness-building projects in the

two countries I studied.1 These works employ different methods, bu t arrive

at similar conclusions. Attempts at consciousness-building in Cuba and Peru

were only imperfectly successful. While, w ithout a doubt, populations d id

absorb lessons about the world and "legitimate" forms of political behavior,

the lessons they learned were often different than those being peddled by the

state, and populations d id not become passive or acquiescent. Actors never

ceased being strategic competitors. Clearly, there is much to be learned about

how consciousness-shaping projects create complex outcomes, p roducing

"successes" and creating opportunities for targeted populations to em ploy

new resources to overturn these successes.

1 See Susan C. Stokes, Cultures in Conflict: Social Movements and the State in Peru (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995) and Susan Eva Eckstein, Back Prom the Future: Cuba Under Castro (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994).


APPENDIX A: POPULATION GROWTH ESTIMATES, PERU: 1972-1975 (5-15)

AGES (5-14): (6-12) (1972) AGES 1-4 (1972)#[5@ 427,638 (.9535)+ (.0465)++ (.0051666)+++( -2209)* ] 1 423,666 (1.0279)+6 428,858 (.9088) (.0912) (.0101333) (-4346) 2 420,791 (1.0279)7 416,498 (.8953) (.1047) (.0116333) (-4845) 3 428,682 (1.0279)8 402,748 (.9443) (.0557) (.0061888) (-2492) 4 452.956 (1.0276)9 346,998 (1.1234) (------ ) (--------- ) (+4759) Total: 1,726,09510 359,592 (.8762) (.1238) (.0137555) (-4946) AGES 10-13 (1981)11 333,744 (1.0799) (------) (----------) (+2964) 10 (1)* 435,486 (-------)12 384,672 (.7967) (.2033) (.0225888) (-8689) 11(2) 432,531 (+1,304)+13 323,464 (1.0358) (------ ) (----------) (+1289) 12(3) 440,642 (+1,329)14 312,038 (.9802) (.0198) (.0022000) ( -686) 13 (4L 465.458 (+1,389)

[15 294338 (.9718) (.0282) (.0031333) ( -924)1 Total: 1,774,117Total: (5-14) 3,736,250; (6-12) 2,673,110 * Age in 1972[Enrollment rates: (5-14) 71%; (6-12) 72%]§§

t Survival factor for age group over nine years (’72-’81) t+ Mortality rate over nine years t+ t Mortality rate for one year* Expected annual increase or decline in population for age group@ Note: five year old survival rate is an estimate based on the average survival for the age cohort (6-14) n Note: because age-by-age data w asn’t available for the 10-13 year-old cohort on the 1981 cenus tables,

survival rates are calculated on the basis o f the 10-14 collectivity (subtracting the 14 year o ld population from the total). This indicated an overall growth for the collectivity: from 1,726,095 in 1972 to 1,774,361 in 1981, a 1.0279 survival rate. This average w as used for calculating growth for each population, except for 4 year olds, which were assigned a 1.0276 survival rate to compensate for the excessive growth predicted by the equations w hen numbers were run.

§§ Enrollment data from Portocarrero and Oliart AGES 15-23/24 (1981) AGES 5-14/15 (1973)

[14 (5)* 407,753] 5 (4)* 454,34515(6) 389,786 6(5) 425,42916 (7) 372,174 7(6) 424,51217 (8) 380,326 8(7) 411,65318 (9) 389,829 9(8) 400,25619 (10) 315,088 10 (9) 351,75720 (11) 360,426 11 (10) 354,64621 (12) 306,481 12 (11) 336,70822(13) 335,067 13 (12) 375,98323(14) 305,872 14 (13) 324,753

f24 (15) 288.4881 15 (14) 311352Total: (14-23) 3,562,802; (15-21) 2,514,110 Total: (5-14) 3,860,042; (6-12) 2,704,961

AGES 5-14/15 (1974)5 (3)* 431,3406(4) 455,7347(5) 423,2208(6) 420,1669(7) 406,80810 (8) 397,76411 (9) 356,51612 (10) 349,70013 (11) 339,67314 (12) 367,294

[15 (13) 326.042 1Total: (5-14) 3,948,215; (6-12) 2,809,908* Age in 1972

AGES 5-14/15 (1975)5 (2)* 424,7036(3) 432,6697(4) 457,1238(5) 421,0119(6) 415,82010(7) 401,96311 (8) 395,27212 (9) 361,27513 (10) 344,75414 (11) 342,638[15 (12) 358305 7

Total: (5-14) 3,997,228; (6-12) 2,885,133

261


APPENDIX B: ENROLLMENT ESTIMATES, PERU: 1972-1975

POPULATION AGES 6-14 /6-12(1972)6 428,858 (.9088)t (.0912)++ (.0101333)+++ (-4346)+7 416,498 (.8953) (.1047) (.0116333) (-4845)8 402,748 (.9443) (.0557) (.0061888) (-2492)9 346,998 (1.1234) (-------) (-----------) (+4759)10 359,592 (.8762) (.1238) (.0137555) (-4946)11 333,744 (1.0799) (-------) (----------) (+2964)12 384,672 (.7967) (.2033) (.0225888) (-8689)13 323,464 (1.0358) (------- ) (---------- ) (+1289)14 312.038 (.9802) (.0198) (.0022000) ( -686)Total: (6-12) 3,273,770§§Number in primary school: 2,369,480^ / 2,566,301° / 2,787,400® (average: 2,574,394) * Enrollment (6-12): 79%

"1 Survival factor for age group over nine years ('72-'81) I I Mortality rate over nine yearsI I I Mortality rate for one year 4- Expected annual increase or decline in

population for age group§§ Includes 600,660 13 and 14 year-olds still in Basic Education (i.e. primary school); 94.5% o f the 13-14

population.# From Portocarrero and Oliart ° From census data @ From Peru: Series Estadisticas 1970-1992• For estimated enrollment totals for 1973-75, an average of the Portocarrero & Oliart and Peru: Series

Estadisticas 1970- 1992 figures w ill be used AGES 15-23 (1981) AGES 6-14 (1973)

15 (6)* 389,786 6(5)* 425,42916(7) 372,174 7(6) 424,51217(8) 380,326 8(7) 411,65318 (9) 389,829 9(8) 400,25619 (10) 315,088 10(9) 351,75720 (11) 360,426 11 (10) 354,64621 (12) 306,481 12 (11) 336,70822(13) 335,067 13(12) 375,98323(14) 305,872 14 (13) 324.753

Total: (15-21) 2,514,110 Total: (6-12) 3,367,156§ §No. in primary school: 2,7;Enrollment (6-12): 81%

AGES 6-14 (1974) AGES 6-14 (1975)6 (4) 455,734 6(3) 432,6697(5) 423,220 7(4) 457,1238(6) 420,166 8(5) 421,0119 (7) 406,808 9(6) 415,82010 (8) 397,764 10 (7) 401,96311(9) 356,516 11(8) 395,27212 (10) 349,700 12(9) 361,27513 (11) 339,673 13(10) 344,75414 (12) 367.294 14 (11) 342.638

Total: (6-12) 3,477,992§§ Total: (6-12) 3,534,718§ §No. in primary school: 2,817,590 No. in primary school: 2,943,435Enrollment (6-12): 81% Enrollment 6-12: 83%

* Age in 1972§§ includes 94.5% of 13-14 year-olds.

2 6 2


263APPENDIX B (CONT'D.): ESTIMATION PROCEDURES FOR APPENDIX B

1972 Population data (from census)6-12 year olds: 2,673,11013-14 year olds in Basic Education 600,6606-14 year olds eligible for primary school 3,273,770Students in primary school 2,574,394Percentage of eligible students enrolled 79%

1973 Population data (estimated)6-12 year olds 2,704,96113-14 year olds in Basic Education (94.5%) 662,1956-14 year olds eligible for primary school 3,367,156Students in primary school§ 2,738,850Percentage of eligible students enrolled 81%



§ Average of enrollment data from Portocarrero & Oliart and Peru: Series Estadisticas 1970- 1992


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