My last two months of field research (July-August) took place in Peru, mainly within the Ayacucho and Huancavelica departments. Similar to the Ixcan and Ixil regions of Guatemala,[1] Ayacucho and Huancavelica were widely affected by violence. They were also strategically targeted by Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path) a Peruvian insurgency group that attempted overthrow the state in the 1980s-1990s.

 

Given the absence of the Peruvian Government in these areas, Sendero’s discourse resonated with many of the frustrations expressed by the campesino[2] (farmer) communities and were initially accepted. As Fortunado,[3] a respondent of my research noted, “We are all guilty of participating with Sendero Luminoso at the beginning. At that point we didn’t know what was going to happen.”[4] The arrival of the military and the creation of the Ronda Campesinas[5] however, triggered a fundamental change in Sendero’s strategy. Support and collaboration with Sendero Luminoso became mandatory, and there were extreme consequences for those refused to participate with them. Civilians were were forced to choose sides between the insurgent group on the one hand, or the self-defence units and the military on the other. In many cases it was too dangerous to choose sides and many campesinos secretly collaborated with all of them.

 

The following field reflection examines some of the national and local challenges to reconciliation processes. In doing so, it uses the narratives and experiences of participants of my research to untangle some of the controversies around reconciliation. It also examines some of the ethical dilemmas of doing this type of research in post-conflict Peru.

 

The 20-year-old-period of violence in Peru is seldom described as an ‘armed conflict’. Recollections of the civil conflict are highly politicized and there is little consensus on what happened and why it happened. Most Limeños will speak about ‘terrorism’ while most Ayacuchanos and Huancavelicanos will talk about the years of violence or in simpler terms sasachakuy punchawkwna (difficult times). These different conceptualizations reflect the different strategies and tactics that were employed by Sendero Luminoso. In urban areas, indiscriminate forms of violence, such as car bombs, blowing up buildings and power plants were common. Limeños lived in constant anticipation and fear of future attacks. In turn, campesinos were often blamed and accused of being ‘terrorists’ since the violence initiated within their communities.

 

In rural areas, Sendero initially relied on ideological mobilization to create mass popular support among the campesinos. This strategy, however, was not always successful. In some cases, the Ronda Campesinas and military began to monitor and prevent this type of collaboration, while in others the campesinos no longer wanted to obey and follow Sendero’s rules, especially when they challenged their traditional customs and norms. Sendero Luminoso unleashed extreme forms of violence when their strategy began to fail.[6] In particular, they retaliated against campesinos believed to have joined the yana uma (black heads).[7]

 

The different rural and urban experiences during the armed conflict, have complicated post-war reconciliation processes. Reconciliation means different things at the local and national level, and it is often contradictory among the various stakeholders.   

The word ‘reconciliation’ is frequently used and abused in Peru’s post-conflict context. The word was officially introduced in 2001 by former Peruvian President Alejandro Toledo who changed the name of the Truth Commission to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC). Similar to the Guatemala context, the development, implementation, and conclusions of the TRC have been controversial. Several key informants explained that a major challenge has been the TRC’s work on reconciliation.

Adding the word ‘reconciliation’ changed the mandate, intentions, and implications of the truth commission. As one Limeño told me, “We will never forgive or forget what those ‘terrorists’ did to us. What is worse is that we now have to give money and assistance to terrorist’s family members. This is worse than the violence itself.”[8]

The previous and current disregard for ‘life outside Lima’ is a major obstacle for reconciliation. Overall, I found that there is very little knowledge or recognition as to how the violence unfolded in rural areas. According to many Limeños, the campesinos are not the victims, but the actors of violence. In turn, there is little sympathy as to how the campesinos were affected and survived the violence.

Although animosity towards the TRC is strongest within relatively small sectors of society these also happen to be powerful and influential. The military has attempted to publically discredit the TRC’s findings by referring to the commissioners as ‘leftist caviars’. Beyond these insults and the implied criticism of the TRC, the military rejects any responsibility for the human right abuses during the armed conflict.[9] In fact, former and current military generals are highly offended that the TRC would investigate their actions and “mis-actions” in war-affected communities. From their perspective, they should not be held accountable since ‘they did what they had to do, to defend their country from terrorism.’

 

After interviewing many individuals who have been raped, tortured, abused or whose family member were disappeared or killed by the military, I have a different understanding of the military’s counter-insurgency-strategy. While Sendero Luminoso did pose a greater threat than Guatemala’s URNG, the indiscriminate and systematic levels of violence do require further scrutiny of the military’s action. As Margarita, a mother who lost two sons, explained to me, “After he disappeared, that is all I could think about. I became obsessed trying to find him [her missing son]. Me and the other mothers would go to the hoyada [a body dump] and search through the latest corpses that were thrown in to see if we could find any trace of our sons and daughters.”[10] Margarita, like many other mothers belonging to AMFASEP (Asociacion Nacional de Familias de Detenidos, Secuestrados, y Desaparecidos del Peru), never found her loved one. The group of mothers that searched through a body dump on a regular basis to find their missing children demonstrates the high level of desperation that many family members felt when their loved ones were detained or disappeared by the military. It also demonstrates that human right abuses were frequently committed if the army had designated places to “throw out” the bodies.

 

The Peruvian TRC has also been attacked by Fujimoristas, the supporters of former president Alberto Fujimori. This became clear near the end of my field research when civil society, NGOs, and various families affected by the conflict were commemorating the TRC’s 5^th anniversary on August 28^th at the Ojo que Llora monument.[11] Fujimoristas interrupted the ceremony by stepping on and destroying the victims’ name plates that had been placed on the grassy-hill to look like gravestones in a cemetery. This triggered fighting among victims’ families and their supporters that were pitted against the Fujimoristas.   

 

Fujimori’s on-going criminal trial has become an eminent case study within transitional justice, as it represents one of the first efforts to hold a head of state accountable for his actions during an armed conflict. Some academics argue that it sends a message that no individual, regardless of his/her position, is above the law. While these efforts are important and valuable for national and international standards and modalities, they have different implications at the local-level.

 

Many participants of my research in Ayacucho and Huancavelica explained that there was ‘no justice’ for the atrocities committed during the armed conflict. When I would ask them about the significance or implications of Fujimori’s trial, many did not consider this to be a form of justice. Like in Guatemala, ‘justice’ was often associated with socio-economic justice. For example, many participants of my research would often talk about rebuilding their homes and communities as a form of ‘justice’ to what happened to them. They would criticize the government and NGOs for not doing enough of these types of projects. However, this does not necessarily imply that they do not want criminal justice for the actions committed during the armed conflict, but rather I think it reflects the disillusions and lack of confidence in the criminal justice system. In other words, socio-economic justice seems more feasible, than formal criminal justice.

 

To many campesinos, Fujimori was the first Peruvian President to visit and initiate development projects in their communities. More importantly, Fujimori is also credited for ‘ending the violence’, not only by catching Abimal Guzman, the leader of Sendero Luminoso,  but also by giving weapons and ammunition to the Ronda Campesinas. In fact, many campesinos are resentful that ‘justice’ is only served for victims of famous atrocities in Lima, such as La Cantuta or Grupo de la Colina, while ordinary campesinos that were also exposed to high levels of violence for various years are still commonly labelled as ‘terrorists’. As the leader of a victims’ organization told me, “I don’t understand why they always talk about Taratas[12] when it was only one event. In Ayacucho it was Taratas everyday during the violence.”[13]

 

The lack of criminal justice and the socio-economic disparities among rural and urban communities complicate the notion of national healing and reconciliation. Although this inequality has always been present in Peruvian society, from the perspective of the campesinos very little has been done to minimize it post-conflict. One of the inherent notions of ‘reconciliation’ is that it usually requires ‘rebuilding’ relations, in order to move from the past and work towards the future. However, as many respondents pointed out to me, the previous absence of the state makes it difficult to ‘rebuild’ anything.  

 

Community-level reconciliation processes represent a different set of challenges. The Angaraes Province - where I worked during my time in Huancavelica - exemplifies many of these obstacles. Located at the frontier of Ayacucho and Huancavelica, Angaraes was a strategic area for Sendero Luminoso since it provided both training ground and shelter for its supporters. In fact, it was the host of Sendero’s famous Base 21, which was one of its last active bases.

 

Not surprisingly, communities nearby were highly infiltrated by Sendero and it did not take long for the army to utilize their counter-insurgency tactics in this area. What did this entail, I would often ask the campesinos. Many respondents told me the military would come and sporadically massacre the communities. According to their logic, if they killed ten campesinos, then they would estimate that at least three of them would have been part of Sendero Luminoso. Additionally, both Sendero and the Rondas destroyed the social fabric by having secret spies on both sides. People did not know who belonged to each side, resulting in high levels of mistrust and suspicion among community members. Under these conditions, old communal rivalries over land and resources and animosity became dangerous pretexts for violence. One of the most complex yet interesting places to examine these challenges was in Lirccaycasa, Congolla.

 

Lirccaycasa was literally divided into Rondas vs. Sendero zones. The northern part of the plaza collaborated with the Rondas whereas the southern part of the community supported Sendero. These divisions extended beyond Liccaycasa and communities located north of the community were the first to create and mobilize the Rondas while communities in the south supported and mobilized for Sendero. The buffer zone was the community plaza located in the middle of the community. I found that the hardest part of rebuilding social fabric in this context is that although Sendero, Rondas, and army leaders orchestrated the violence, it was ordinary campesinos who were forced to choose sides and carry out the violence. This intimate level of violence is what makes it difficult to trust again.

 

When I asked community members in Lircayccasa about how the violence ended, they told me that ‘they’- referring to family and community members - ‘fought it out’. There was a one-and-half-day battle between the opposing sides. Very few of them had weapons, and they mainly relied on armas blancas, meaning their hands, rocks, and sticks. The community mistrust that was heightened by such an event was also transmitted from generation to generation.  

 

As Felix explained to me, “My father would always remind me and my brothers that we must never trust them [people living in the southern part of community] because they supported Sendero.”[14] What about now? After all these years, do you trust them now? I asked. He looked down in silence; waited and then looked straight into my eyes with burning cheeks, “I don’t trust them. I will never trust them. In fact, I would never be caught below the plaza after it’s dark.”[15] What if they confessed and asked for your forgiveness, would you trust them then? “No, like my father said, these people were ideologically brainwashed, they can never be trusted.”[16]

 

As I wrapped up my work in Lirccaycasa I began to reflect upon how difficult it is to undo these divisions, especially when they are replicated generation after generation. The resentment and distrust that extends through generations are not properly addressed by the transitional justice discourse and mechanisms. Most of the focus is on short-term transitions from war to peace. The Peruvian and Guatemalan case studies, however, demonstrate that psycho-social transitions, particularly when it comes to changing the attitudes and perceptions among communities, require a lot more time and perhaps different mechanisms than what we are currently relying on.[17]

   

Working in post-conflict communities where there are high levels of mistrust and divisions pose various ethical dilemmas for researchers. The ‘past’ is always a part of the ‘present’ and it is difficult to understand the ‘truth’ when there are conflicting memories of the armed conflict. Talking to community members, however, does not always get you any closer to the ‘truth’. Community members might emphasize or conceal certain parts of the past in order to portray their own version of history.

 

The majority of respondents will be discreet and avoid sharing their past stories with researchers. When interviewed, they often only answered with ‘yes’, ‘no’, or ‘I don’t know’. Fear of talking to a mana riqsisqa runakuna (stranger) or because it was emotionally and physically difficult to talk about the past were common reasons for these silences.  At times, individuals would chit-chat about community members that I had or was planning on interviewing. Discrepancies between the ‘official’ and ‘non-official’ versions were common, and it was difficult to navigate through these competing narratives.

 

Attitudes towards researchers can also change rapidly and for no apparent reason. My experience with Manuel is a key example of this. Manuel and I talked in great depth about his life during and after the conflict, and he explained that he had been ‘forced’ to collaborate with Sendero Luminoso. When he had returned to the community after Fujimori passed the Repentance Law in 1992,[18] there was a public hearing where he was accused of his crimes, forced to admit them, and then punished with three whip lashes. Following this, he had to pledge his loyalty to the Rondas Campesinas and since then has been reintegrated into his community.

 

Manuel’s attitude towards me suddenly changed after he introduced me to his father who was greatly suspicious and hostile.[19] After a few awkward moments, I decided to end the interview with Manuel’s father, but overheard him complaining to his family and neighbours, when I retrieved my umbrella from the house. “How many times are they [researchers] going to come and ask us about the past? We don’t live from those testimonies. We never get anything in return from this. We need to have a community meeting about this. How will we ever break from all of this?”

 

Other than his economic frustrations ‘for never getting anything in return’ for his testimonies, the most revealing message this old man was trying to convey was his strong desire to ‘break from the past’. Similar to some communities in Guatemala, there was a strong need to put the past behind them in order to maintain community harmony. Like Felix noted, “We can’t talk about it [the past] or there would be fighting between community members, like before.”[20]

 

After that episode, Manuel began to monitor my movements. At the end of my experience, I couldn’t shake the feeling that history of past violence was still somewhat alive.

 

What is certain is that small remnants of Sendero are still present within certain regions of Peru. According to my informants, these are splintered into two groups: the first group has remained loyal and supportive of Guzman while the second group rebelled against Guzman and seem to be more active. As I learned from informants, the latter group controls a portion of the selva (jungle), which is also a corridor for the mochileros. [21] Sendero guarantees their safety while the mochileros provide them with money and/or arms. In other areas, Sendero Luminoso has already begun to visit and mobilize community members. They enter these communities with a new strategy and discourse, where they recognize their previous mistakes and pledge for changes.

 

I also discovered that the Rondas Campesinas remain an active and powerful segment of society, although are now referred to as the “Development and Security Unit”. Memories of gross human rights abuses by the Rondas are still strong in these communities. At times, they were more feared than Sendero. It is unclear to what extent the Rondas have put this violent past behind them, and how much of it they want to acknowledge.

 

Given that both Sendero Luminoso and the Rondas Campesinas remain active, to varying degrees, I sometimes felt that I should be studying pre-, rather than post-conflict issues. The high levels of frustration expressed by several communities[22] that I visited also indicate that ordinary campesinos are tired of being marginalized and neglected from the rest of Peru. Perhaps when I spoke and asked about ‘post-conflict’ or ‘post-violence’ life, it did not make sense to them at that point.

 

Doing transitional justice research in this context is particularly challenging because there are competing versions of the ‘truth’. In turn, this affects the meaning(s) of justice, reconciliation, and reparation processes at both the local and national level. Given that campesinos were often forced to participate with Sendero Luminoso and the Rondas Campesinas at the same time, makes it challenging to apply binary categories like victims and perpetrators. It is also difficult to talk about transitional justice issues, when individuals no longer want to explore their past and when they see ‘no benefits’ from these conversations. Perhaps certain research questions are not meant to be asked in certain places.