1 Post-Capitalist Development in Latin

Post-capitalist Development in Latin America's Left Turn: beyond Peronism and the Magical State

DRAFT

Manuel Larrabure, PhD

Submitted to Development and Change on September 21, 2017 Reference number: DECH-17-421

Abstract

The persistence of struggles by popular sectors in the context of the pink tide has generated ongoing debates about how to interpret the region's left turn. For some, these movements are understood as forming part of a tense but ultimately productive relationship with left governments in the pursuit of post-neoliberal development. For others, it points to potentially irreconcilable political differences, and neoliberal continuities in pink tide governance. In this paper, I address these debates by presenting research on two social movements: Argentina's recuperated enterprises and Venezuela's popular economy. Using a Marxian-inspired, situated case study approach, I argue that these movements can be understood as 'post-capitalist struggles', that is, attempts to articulate new forms of democracy and cooperation that point beyond capitalism. As such, these movements push beyond the politics of Kirchnerismo and Chavismo that reproduce, albeit in new forms, the limitations to post-capitalist development associated with Peronism and the 'magical state'. These movements therefore reveal both the region's potential post-capitalist future, and the barriers that stand against it in the context of the region's latest phase of development. Lastly, these cases highlight the need to both re-assert and re-define one of the pink tide's political goals, namely regional integration.

Latin America's Left Turn

During the first decade and a half of the 21st-century, Latin American politics took a meaningful turn to the left. This 'left turn' first emerged as a flood of social movements that began to contest neoliberal policies in the 1980s and 1990s (Petras and Veltmeyer, 2001; Harris, 2003). By the late 1990s, these movements then became articulated within the electoral arena, providing tacit or active support for the unprecedented wave of progressive parties elected into office throughout the region, a phenomena known as the 'pink tide' (for discussion see Castañeda, 2006; Llosa, 2007; Lebowitz, 2007; Ciccariello-Maher, 2013). In the context of this left turn, the region has undergone what is arguably a reversal of the development trajectory experienced during the neoliberal period, one characterized by widespread social devastation (Portes, 1997; United

1 Nations Development Programme, 1999; Gwynne and Kay 2000; Portes and Hoffman, 2003). Indeed, since the early 2000's, Latin America has experienced significant improvements in a wide range of social indicators, including poverty, inequality, unemployment and women's rights (Friedman, 2009; Bárcena, 2011; Cornia, 2010; Grugel and Riggirozzi, 2012; Lustig and Ortiz-Juarez, 2013; Bulmer Thomas, 2014).

In part, these improvements can be attributed to the economic boom the region experienced during the first decade of the new millennium. This has included consistent levels of growth, a massive expansion in the region's international trade, and a strong improvement in its terms of trade (Bárcena, 2010). Just as noteworthy is the range of 'pro poor' policies introduced by the pink tide, most notably, conditional cash transfers aimed at vulnerable populations. Emblematic examples of these policies include the Bolsa Familia program developed by the Partido dos Trabalhadores in Brazil (Hall, 2006; 2008), Jefes y Jefas de Hogar Desocupados introduced by the Kirchner governments in Argentina (Pautassi, 2004) and Chile Solidario introduced by the Concertación governments in Chile (Serrano, 2005; Larrañaga y Contreras, 2010). Other initiatives combine a pro-poor outlook with participatory governance. These include, for example, municipal participatory budgeting (for specific cases see Fedozzi, 2001; Ford, 2008) and Communal Councils in Venezuela (El Troudi, 2005; Burbach and Piñeiro, 2007; Ellner, 2009).

Central to these changes is also a new role of the state. During the neoliberal period, the Latin American state adopted what became known as the ‘Washington Consensus' (Williamson, 1993). As a result, the state's role in the region became that of extending the market in society through structural adjustment and other policies of dispossession and austerity (Gwynne and Kay, 2000; Saad-Filho et al., 2007; Harvey, 2003, 2010; Soederberg, 2003, 2005). In contrast, under the pink tide, the state in Latin America has played a more active role in social provision and welfare. In large part, this has been possible through increased state spending, taxation, and most importantly, tighter control over the use of revenues from natural resources (Gudynas, 2009, Grugel and Riggirozzi, 2012; Rosales, 2013). Lastly, the highly technocratic and elite character of policy making under neoliberalism was often replaced, or at least somewhat subverted, by calls to mass mobilization by charismatic leaders (Roberts, 2007).

Increased revenues and greater willingness to intervene in the economy, in turn, allowed the pink tide to distance itself from the debt regime of the Washington Consensus. Indeed, since the pink tide came to power, there has been a regional tendency to not renew agreements with the IMF, with Brazil and Argentina even settling its outstanding debts (Moreno-Brid and Paunovic, 2006). This in part explains why, unlike previous global economic collapses, the 2008 crisis led neither to bank failures or a renewed debt crisis in the region (Katz, 2015, p. 14). In addition, left governments introduced a new political outlook that enhances citizenship through cultural recognition, evident in institutional reforms and, in some cases, new constitutions (Grugel and Riggirozzi, 2012). As Jean Grugel and Pía Riggirozzi (2012) argue, an important aspect

2 of the pink tide is its promotion of new forms of democratic belonging by establishing new state–society relationships (p. 3). To some degree, this new political outlook was accompanied by a new sense of regional identity and solidarity (Kellog, 2007; Riggirozzi, 2012), a topic I will come back to in the conclusion.

These changes in the region over the last almost two decades have been the subject of ongoing discussions and debates about how to conceptualize this left turn. Perhaps the most optimistic interpretation has come from the pink tide itself and supportive intellectuals. One influential contribution is that of Alvaro García Linera, vice-president of Bolivia and key intellectual figure within the ruling Movimiento al Socialismo government. According to García Linera (2011), Bolivia can be said to have entered a new phase of development, one characterized by 'creative tensions' between popular demands from below and a responsive government enacting changes from above, a relationship that could be referred to as a ‘positive dialectic’ (for case study see Anria and Niedzwiecki, 2016). Similar perspectives have been forwarded in the cases of Brazil (Sader, 2013), Venezuela (Ciccariello-Maher, 2007; Harnecker, 2010), and Argentina (Wylde, 2016). Somewhat overlapping with this interpretation of the region's last decade and a half is the work of those utilizing a Polanyian framework. From this perspective, Latin America's left turn is a classic example of a double movement: society fighting back against the unsustainable expansion of the market, this time, in the form of neoliberalism (Silva, 2009; Villalba, 2013; Munck, 2015).1

However, there are good reasons to look for more critical interpretations. On the economic front, the high levels of growth and trade achieved have been the result of an overwhelming reliance on the export of primary goods, and have come alongside a decline in industrial production (Bárcena, 2010; Katz, 2015). Indeed as Eduardo Gudynas (2009) argues, the pink tide became an active promoter of extractivism, natural resource extraction geared toward international markets and based largely on mono-cropping (see also Robinson, 2008; Katz, 2008, 2015; Rosales, 2013; Chiasson- LeBel, 2016). As Maristella Svampa (2015) argues, we can therefore understand the period of the pink tide in Latin America as representing at least a partial shift from accumulation based on finance (the Washington Consesus) to accumulation based on the exploitation of land, what she calls the ‘commodities consensus' (see also Borras Jr. et al., 2012). On the political front, although pro-poor and participatory policies have helped lift millions from poverty while building democratic capacities, in many cases programs have been weakly instituted, prone to cooptation, and paternalistic in character (Andersson and Van Laerhoven, 2007; Chavez, 2008, Dinerstein, 2013). Furthermore, in some cases, notably Brazil, social programs have been used to underwrite new forms of financial accumulation (Lavinas, 2017).

1 For a more mainstream perspective with a similarly positive outlook based on western democratic theory see Huber and Stephens (2012).

3 Given this evidence, in contrast to the positive dialectic and Polanyian interpretations of Latin America's left turn, it would be more accurate to understand this period as expressing significant continuities with neoliberalism. As Fernando Leiva (2006, 2008) has argued, using the cases of Brazil and Chile, the changes in the region can be best understood thorough the concept of neostructuralism, a new development model that attempts to combine growth with equity. However, as Leiva underscores, this model remains highly contradictory as it is based on an export drive implemented through alliances with transnational capital and the deepening of labour market flexibility (for other critical perspectives on the pink tide see Aguilar, 2011; Webber, 2011; Webber and Carr, 2012; Féliz, 2012; Lalander, 2016; Zibechi, 2016). Given the contradictions found at the core of the neostructuralist model, sharpened by the recent end of the commodities boom, it is not surprising to see continued and varied struggles taking place in its context (Svampa, 2011; Becker, 2011, 2013; Kowalczyk, 2013; Peña, 2016). Furthermore, in contrast to the more optimistic interpretations of the left turn, these struggles are not always reconcilable with the goals of the pink tide and indeed are often diametrically opposed and hostile to them (Radcliffe, 2015; Webber, 2015).

However, if not wholly compatible with the pink tide's goals, then what kind of development project do these ongoing struggles represent? In addition, what kind of challenges and opportunities do they face in light of the pink tide and the region's development history? These are some of the questions that continue to linger in the current literature on Latin America's left turn. In this article, I address these questions by presenting research on Argentina's Empresas Recuperadas por sus Trabajadores (worker recuperated enterprises, or ERT), and Venezuela's ‘popular economy’, two ongoing examples of popular sector movements in the region. I argue that these cases are best understood as 'post-capitalist struggles'. As will be shown, these movements therefore represent a glimpse into the region's potential post-capitalist future, both pushing beyond and being constrained by the limits of their respective developmental histories. In addition, these cases reveal the differences between left governance in Argentina (under Nestor and Cristina Kirchner) and Venezuela (under Hugo Chavez and Nicolas Maduro), while highlighting the importance of one of the pink tide's political goals, namely new forms of regional integration.

Post-capitalist struggles in Latin America

Argentina's ERTs are worker cooperatives formed out of abandoned and bankrupted businesses that emerged following the country's 2001 political and economic crisis (Vieta, 2014; Itzigsohn and Rebón, 2015). Under the center-left governments of Presidents Néstor Kirchner (2003-2007) and Cristina Kirchner (2007-2015), the ERT sector grew steadily, comprised of over 300 workplaces and close to 15,000 workers, according to the latest and most reliable figures (Ruggeri, 2014). ERTs have proven to be the most long lasting of the various popular organizations to emerge from the 2001 crisis, that is, despite receiving little or no government support, as we will see.

4 Venezuela's popular economy encompasses a constellation of new and interwoven organizations that first emerged in the early 2000s, including cooperatives, Social Property Enterprises, Communal Councils and, most recently, Communes (Harnecker, 2007; Víctor Álvarez, 2007; Wilpert, 2007; Ciccariello-Maher, 2014; Azzelini, 2016). This new sector of the economy emerged with the support of the now deceased former President Hugo Chavez (1999-2013), and became central to the government’s vision of ‘21st century socialism' (de Venezuela, 2007; de la Patria, 2013). Hence, in contrast to the ERT movement in Argentina, Venezuela’s popular economy did not emerge spontaneously from below, but in connection with official state policy.

Argentina’s ERTs and Venezuela’s popular economy form part of the region's ‘social economy’, meaning organizations that operate within the market, but are founded upon a specific social mission (Quarter et al., 2012). However, both are highly combative and political, therefore acting also as social movements. This makes them somewhat of an aberration within the history of the region's social economy, perhaps finding their closest parallel in the Chilean factory take-overs under Salvador Allende between 1970 and 1973 (Veltmeyer, 2017).

Indeed, the poitical and economic roots of ERTs and SPEs can be best situated within the flood of anti-neoliberal struggles that emerged in the 1980s and 1990s. As is well understood, this wave of struggles largely departed from the more traditional forms of resistance associated with the Import Substituion Industrialization (ISI) period. Indeed, during the neoliberal period, it wasn't unions, leftist parties, or guerrillas leading the way, but diverse and often heterogeneous groups experimenting with more direct, communitarian, and local forms of democratic participation (Harris, 2003; Vanden, 2003; Petras and Veltmeyer, 2006; Kay, 2008).

The novel character of this wave of struggles can be attributed to the historically specific transformations to working class and popular sectors witnessed during the neoliberal period. Neoliberal policies reduced the state's role in social provision and weakened the corporatist structures that gave workers a certain degree of protection and rights in previous decades (Gwynne and Kay, 2000). The result was the growth of precarious and informal labour, along with the widespread trend of labour retreat, evidenced by declining membership, reduction in strikes, ideological vacillation and cooptation by political elites (Murillo, 2000; Drake, 2003; Galvão, 2004; Palomino, 2005). It is in this context of political marginalization that, as Harry Vanden (2003) argued just as the pink tide was sweeping the region, these new movements began to seek new forms of organizations that were responsive to popular demands from below and that they could ultimately "call their own" (p. 310). It is through these new, more horizontal organizations and accompanying popular demands that this wave of anti-neoliberal struggles began to articulate what Cristobal Kay (2008) referred to, in passing, as an emerging post-capitalist development paradigm. Developing Kay's insight, as we will see, will help us better understand not only the character of these movements, but also their relationship to the left governments under which they developed.

Building on Kay's passing insight, I argue that ERTs and SPEs are best understood through the concept of 'post-capitalist struggles'. In contrast to struggles focused on defending or improving the position of a particular section of the working class against capital, these two cases also feature the active construction of new social relations. Specifically, these movements express the latent powers of what Karl Marx (1976a) calls ‘the collective worker'. For Marx, the collective worker signaled a potential post- capitalist society that goes beyond the alienated value relations within capitalism, expressed in the workplace as a sharp division of labour, often despotic control over the labour process, intense competition, identity-based separation, and profound underdevelopment (Braverman 1974; Burawoy 1985; Marx 1976a, Lebowitz 2003, 2006b). A new post-capitalist society would be based rather on cooperation and conscious planning. As Marx (1976a, p. 447) puts it in Capital: “When the worker cooperates in a planned way with others, he strips off the fetters of his individuality, and develops the capabilities of his species”. In expressing the powers of the collective worker, ERTs and SPEs can therefore be said to prefigure a society beyond capitalism, meaning they show us a glimpse of a post-capitalist future within the capitalist present.

To say that a post-capitalist future can begin to be built within the capitalist present therefore takes the position that capitalism does not follow a linear, pre-determined logic, as evident in both modernization theory and orthodox Marxism (De Angelis, 2007; Bhambra, 2014). However, this in no way implies the delinking of development and emancipation from structure and class, as evident in postmodern and post-development theory (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987; Laclau, 1992; Escobar, 1994; Castells, 2010), as well as more recent anarchist approaches (Wald, 2015).2 Indeed, as Michael Lebowitz (2003) argues, we need to understand capitalism as an organic whole. However, in contrast to what Lebowitz refers to as 'one-sided Marxism', we must do this with the understanding that the system is comprised of both the side of capital and that of the workers, each side pursuing its own interests against the other. To reproduce itself, capital must dispossess, fragment and exploit workers. On the other side, workers seek to fulfill their own needs by confronting capital and winning concessions that improve their conditions as wage-workers. Moreover, at times, workers can go beyond winning concessions, struggling to create new circuits of non-wage labour through which they can develop a range of new collective capacities, what Lebowitz (2006a) calls ‘human development'. This means that developing a post-capitalist society does not have to wait for ‘after the revolution', but can begin to be built in the now (Lebowitz, 2006a).

The concept of post-capitalist struggles overlaps with some of the ideas presented by modern autonomist thinkers, many who also focus on recent Latin American social movements. In particular, the concept accepts the autonomist view that value relations in capitalism are inherently contested and that new value relations can be created through new practices and collective forms of learning through which new subjectivities

2 For a thorough critique of postmodern theory from a Marxist perspective see Wood (1998).

6 can develop (Azzelinni, 2011, 2016; Holloway, 2002, 2010; De Angelis, 2007; Motta, 2011, 2012; Dinerstein, 2003, 2013, 2014). However, it rejects two elements of autonomism. First is the view held by some, most notably John Holloway, that these new practices can only be created outside the capitalist labour process. Put differently, it rejects the romantic notion that there is an 'outside' to capitalism that remains free of contradictions. One would do well here to recall Marx's dialectical assessment of the cooperative factory movement in 19th-century England. For him, the cooperative factory simultaneously represented "the first sprouts of the new" and reproduced "all the shortcomings of the prevailing system,” (1976b, p. 440). Given this, building a future post-capitalist society will be necessarily messy and contradictory.

Second, the concept of post-capitalist struggles rejects autonomism's simplistic view of the state. Indeed, for Holloway, the state appears as an impenetrable fortress within which class struggles do not exist. As Holloway (2010) puts it: "The state, by its very form, and independently of the content of its action, confirms and reproduces the negation of subjectivity on which capital is based" (p. 58). Dinerstein (2014) provides more sophistication, conceptualizing the capitalist state as a mediation that shapes social relations, and can therefore act on behalf of the working class (p. 1051). Nevertheless Dinerstein retreats into more familiar autonomist territory by asserting that "the capitalist state ensures that the society of the free and equal remains a chimera" (p. 1051). This rejection of the state in the building of a post-capitalist society then extends to a rejection of political parties and political struggle, a hallmark of autonomism in general. However, this posture is both empirically shaky and methodologically limiting, as it tends to understate and simplify the complicated relationship between subordinate classes and the state in the region's development history and, in turn, struggles to place new movements in this context.

Hence, in contrast to autonomism, my approach takes the position that the state is nothing less than the condensation of the balance of class forces and therefore a strategic field of class struggle (Poulantzas, 2000).3 This however in no way means that the state is a neutral institution. As Poulantzas argued, the state reinforces the capitalist division between mental and manual labour, expressed as the division between worker and politician. Consequently, the state works to ensure the expanded reproduction of capital and ultimately guarantees the domination of the popular masses by the bourgeoisie (p. 185). Indeed, precisely because the existing state is tilted in favour of capital, Poulantzas' strategic outlook therefore consisted of transforming the state through an alliance between social movements and political parties. The goal of this alliance would be to transcend the worker-politician divide through the development of mass democratic capacities, a long-term project he called a 'democratic road to socialism'. Drawing on these insights, post-capitalist struggles are therefore those that at least aim to achieve transformations of the existing capitalist state, an aim that, as we will see through my case studies, took distinct forms in the contexts of the Chavista and Kirchner governments.

3 For a discussion of the work of Poulantzas in connection with that of Gramsci see Sotiris (2014).

Methodology and Data Collection

My research is based on a qualitative case study approach that involves situating a particular activity or event with its related social, historical and economic setting (Creswell, 1998, p. 61). It is sometimes also referred to as an 'extended case study' for its ability to extract the general from the unique and connect present, past and future by building on pre-existing theory (Buraway, 1998, p. 5). In conjunction with Marxian theory and methodology, as the work of Bertell Ollman (2003) suggests, this case study approach requires that one treat the particular dialectically, with the understanding that it is necessarily related to the dominant forces and structures associated with the reproduction of capital. Conversely, this approach also needs to treat the categories of political economy (i.e. value, capital, labor etc.) as ultimately dependent on particular experience. Ollman (2003) refers to this dialectical approach to treating the relationship between the particular and abstract as one of 'structured interdependence'.

Within this framework, my specific engagement with the particular draws from learning methodologies that understand learning to be a social practice that takes place both formally and informally within a wide range of institutions or social groups (Hall, 1993; Wenger, 1998; Foley, 1999; Eraut, 2004; Schoening, 2006). In addition, following the insights of critical pedagogy, I understand learning as praxis in which theory and practice are seen as dialectically related. Understanding learning as praxis breaks from vanguardist positions that assume a ‘banking’ model of education in which political experts simply deposit revolutionary knowledge into the oppressed and exploited (Freire, 1970). The reason critical pedagogy is an important aspect of my methodology is because it is useful for identifying subjective and objective changes that might point to the development of social relations that are distinct from those of capital. In other words, to identify learning of the kind suggested by critical pedagogy, that is, learning that challenges existing structures of oppression, is to identify the new forming within the old.

My research also relies on comparisons. It utilizes both the single and multiple forms of ‘incorporated comparison', as outlined by Phillip McMichael (1990). At the most abstract level, I compare the logic of capital with that expressed by social movements. The strategy of comparing the logic of capital with a distinct logic is not new. It is evident in the work of Marx (1976a), Polany (1957) and, more recently, in debates within political marxism (Brenner, 1986; Wood, 1995; Post, 2013). The difference with my approach is that it looks to establish not the historical specificity of capitalism, but rather the historical possibility of post-capitalism. This is in accordance with Marx's philosophy of internal relations in which both the past and future are understood as essential moments in the present (Ollman, 2003, p.121). Following this approach, I therefore also situate my case studies within the history of regional development. However, to do this, I do not begin with the past and progress to the present. Following Ollman, I rather "tell history backwards", starting first with my case studies, and then identifying how historical contradictions specific to the region are expressed within them.

Fieldwork in Argentina and Venezuela was conducted between June 2009 and January 2014. In Argentina I looked at 6 ERTs in the cities of Buenos Aires, Rosario and Neuquén. These are, Hotel Bauen (Hotel), Bruckman (sowing factory) and Maderera Córdoba (woodworking shop), Lo Mejor del Centro (restaurant), Centro Cultural La Toma (community center), and FaSinPat (ceramics factory). In Venezuela, I examined five Social Property Enterprises in the cities of Quíbor, Carora and Merida. These are, Complejo Agroindustrial Socialista de Quíbor or CASQ (tomato processing plant), Tomás Montilla (coffee processing plant), Pedro Camejo (agricultural equipment service centre), Corpoelec (electricity), and Los Comuneros del Paso de los Andes (farming). I also spoke with personnel at related organizations and state entities. In Argentina, I spoke with civil servants at the Instituto Nacional de Asociativismo y Economía Social (National Institute of Associationism and Social Economy, INAES). In Venezuela, I spoke with members of community organizations, as well as personnel at SUNACOOP, the Ministerio de Poder Popular y Comunas (Ministry of Popular Power and Communes), and the Corporación Venezolana Agraria (Agrarian Corporation of Venezuela). A total of 55 Interviews were conducted.

My data collection tools included semi-structured interviews, focus group discussions, observation and the use of a survey that focused on participants' learning. The survey is an adaptation of the one developed by Lerner and Schugurensky (2007) for their study of participatory budgeting in Rosario, Argentina. All interviews were conducted in Spanish at each individual workplace and lasted anywhere from 15 minutes to one hour. Although the qualitative data collected provide a rich account of the specific workplaces studied, these represent only a fraction of each movement as a whole. Therefore my findings are not necessarily generalisable. In addition, an inherent weakness of interviews is that they express the research subject's particular recollection and interpretation of events and not necessarily the events themselves. In other words, interviews are ‘indirect’ sources of information (Creswell 2003, 186) that is less reliable than first-hand observation. For this reason, to maximise reliability, events discussed by any single research subject have been cross-referenced with other interviews and, where possible, with observation.

Argentina's ERT movement: beyond Peronism

At least once a week, workers at FaSinPat, a ceramics factory in Neuquén, stop or slow down production and assemble in the front entrance yard, forming a large circle. At these assemblies, lasting anywhere from a few hours to one or two days, hundreds of workers, with roughly equal salaries, collectively discuss, debate and decide upon a wide range of issues concerning the cooperative. To put forth or discuss a motion, a worker moves to the microphone at the center of the circle. To vote on a motion, workers simply raise their arms. In cases of competing motions, simple majority wins. However, only the most important issues reach the assembly, those that affect the

9 workplace as a whole or carry a strategic importance. Less important issues are addressed at meetings organized by divisions, such as quality control, packing, and shipping. Every division has an elected coordinator and once a week coordinators of all the divisions get together to discuss and try to solve a particular problem. These meetings are open to all workers, allowing every worker to have access to all the same information. FaSinPat is one of approximately 300 ERTs in Argentina, worker- cooperatives founded upon the social mission of preserving jobs. Its name is short for Fábrica Sin Patrón, factory without a boss, an emblem of the movement as a whole.

Working without a boss proved to be nothing short of a radical change for ERT workers. Before the bosses were kicked out during the factory takeovers, workers experienced the typical impositions associated with the capitalist firm. A manager would look over their shoulders, telling them to work faster. He would be "behind you with a whip", as Eliana Carbajal, a worker at FaSinPat put it.4 Workers also lacked basic expressions of autonomy in their workday, unable to drink mate freely or voice their opinions to their boss.5 The boss says no, and it's no", one worker at Hotel Bauen reflected. Workers at Bauen even lacked the freedom to walk to a different part of the hotel. They remained physically divided, forced to stay in their own sections at all times. Control would turn into outright despotism when the boss fired workers arbitrarily, with no justification whatsoever, "as if they were merely numbers", Eliana commented. With the bosses gone, workers are no longer numbers. They are compañeros, as they call each other.6 They drink mate at any time and anywhere, and freely share their opinions with each other, and even with a complete stranger making an unannounced sociological visit.

The transition from being a number to a compañero required a difficult learning process. After all, as Magali from Maderera Córdoba expressed, following the boss's orders is easier than being a cooperative member. No long meetings or debates. "You only do your work, put in your hours and behave as best as possible", she commented. In contrast, at the core of being a cooperative member means developing and exercising a sense of collective responsibility. This means having an explicit awareness that people's actions are interrelated. As Maria Fornari at Hotel Bauen put it, “if you do something wrong it hurts everybody, and if you do something right it benefits everybody, and we are always thinking about that”. This sense of collective awareness is the secret of how then workers at Hotel Bauen are able to regulate work time and effort without the use of managers or punch cards. "Whoever finds himself having to work more, works more, and whoever finds himself having to work less, works less”, Alicia Palomino explained. Her compañera then interjected, “that's why I say the responsibility belongs to each person. A person knows if they find themselves having to work more or less”. And how do they know this? Workers learn this informally, through their daily activities at the

4 Pseudonyms are used for all in interviewees. 5 Mate is a popular Argentinian beverage usually shared among friends. 6 There is no English word for compañero. Its meaning is somewhere between friend and partner.

10 cooperative, as well as the practice of participatory democracy at assemblies, why Marcelo Vieta (2014) describes ERTs as ‘transformative learning organizations'.

Because of their highly democratic character, ERTs depart not only from the logic of the capitalist firm, but also the particular labour structures that developed in Argentina historically. Within Latin American development history, Argentina is considered one of the few early and vigorous adopters of Import Substitution Industralization, or ISI (Bulmer-Thomas, 2014). ISI consisted of a series of state policies aimed at achieving economic growth and rising living standards through the development of domestic markets and the diversification of industrial output (Cardoso and Faletto, 1979; Cárdenas et al., 2000). In Argentina, the implementation of ISI occurred under the leadership of Juan Perón (1946-1955 and 1973-1974) and the Peronist movement more broadly. Peronism represented a political compromise in which organised labour agreed to adopt the top-down and bureaucratic structures of the Peronist state in return for high levels of employment, rising standards of living and a degree of political influence over national politics (Murmis and Portantiero 1971; Jelin, 1979; Gambini 1983).7 The result of this compromise was one of the most successful industralization programs in the region, anchored by a sizable, but highly bureaucratic union movement that became dependent on the state's capacity to provide leadership from above, what Jelin (1979) refers to as 'populist unionism'.

However, Peronism enters in crisis in the 1970s, the result of new divisions within the labour movement, a deepening recession, Perón's death in 1974, and finally, the 1976 military coup (Jelin, 1979). It took over 20 years for the Peronist party to bounce back, this time, under the leadership of Carlos Menem (1989-1999). Despite campaigning on a traditional Peronist platform, once in office, Menem began to aggressively apply the neoliberal policies that had been sweeping the region. Notably, this was accomplished via a wide range of incentives given to organized labour (including key Peronist unions) in return for their support (Etchemendy, 2001; Fair, 2008). In short, by the 1990s, little more was left of Peronism’s traditional alliance with the working class than the top down labour structures that, paradoxically, now helped introduce the neoliberal reforms that were to become so damaging to workers. Indeed, at FaSinPat, as Rafael commented, the union leadership routinely collaborated with the owners, signing productivity and downsizing agreements. Similarly, at Hotel Bauen, the union seemed to be more interested in protecting the owners or themselves rather than the rank-and-file. As Dario Rosales expressed, amidst the 2001 crisis, the union simply helped the owners administer the bankruptcy without putting up a fight. Dario even caught a number of union reps sneaking into the hotel late at night and taking furniture in anticipation of the

7 Although beyond the scope of this work, these demands and expectations held by workers could be thought of as what Thompson (1971) and Lebowitz (2012), in different contexts, describe as the "moral economy.”

11 hotel shutting down. Not surprisingly, close to half of ERTs turned against their unions and sought new forms of representation.8

Another way in which the ERT movement departs from the workplace and labour relations that developed under Peronism is evident in the movement's promotion of community and gender inclusion. This feature of ERTs challenges both the machismo of the typical Peronist workplace, as well as the union movement's traditionally insular character that saw it working mostly within the state's vertical structures. As Eliana from FaSinPat recalls, before the take over, male workers saw women's work as limited to the household. Indeed, men tried to exclude women from the struggle to form the cooperative. However, for Milagro Aguero at Hotel Bauen, unpaid domestic labour and paid work are really "the same thing". The experience of running a household is therefore precisely what gave her and other women the confidence to stand up to men and successfully demand that they struggle and work together. As the gendered division between paid and unpaid labour began to soften at ERTs, women acquired a new sense of equality and empowerment (Fernández Álvarez and Florencia, 2010; Dicapua and Perbellini 2010).9 Inclusion is also promoted in relation to the broader community. This is typically done via a community liaison that assesses needs and coordinates donations. In addition, many ERTs have in-house community programs, such as cafeterias and high schools that cater to the poor. For these reasons, as Vieta (2014) notes, an ERT is often referred to as a 'fábrica abierta' (open factory).

However, despite their post-capitalist characteristics, ERTs remain embedded within capitalist social relations. The clearest expression of this is that they remain in a highly precarious legal status in relation to Argentina's private property laws. As a result, ERTs operate under the permanent threat of eviction. Hence, the ERT movement continues to mobilize and struggle to acquire legal ownership of the businesses. This means having to continuously confront the state both in the streets and through its formal structures. However, this demand for formal ownership goes beyond the legal realm, stemming from workers' deeply held believe that the state, as it had done during the Peronist era, should do its part to guarantee the dignity and well being of the working class. This explains the small piece of paper that Milagro, carries in her wallet. It reads: "In moments like these, in which one's work is valued, recognized, it is when one recognizes that so much effort is not in vain.” These words belong to Raquel Morales, an artisan in the outskirts of Buenos Aires. They were Morales' response upon receiving the news that it was her mate that President Cristina Kirchner gifted the Pope in their

8 As Ruggeri (2014) notes, 90 per cent of ERTs were unionised workplaces under the former bosses. However, currently, only 54 per cent of ERTs maintain some kind of link to a union. The two organisations now representing the majority of recuperated factories in Argentina are called Movimiento Nacional de Fábricas Recuperadas (National Movement of Recuperated Factories) and Unión Productiva de Empresas Autogestionadas (Productive Union of Self-Managed Enterprises). 9 This in no way means that the challenges associated with traditional gender roles and divisions inside the workplace have disappeared at ERTs. Indeed, as Bancalari et al. (2008) argue, women's experience of patriarchy and empowerment appear to co-exist inside ERTs.

12 historic meeting in 2013. The words are vintage Peronism. For Milagro, a self-described Peronist, they represent both the profound connection between dignity and work held by Argentina's working class, often referred to as the 'culture of work', as well as the hope that the Kirchner government would grant the workers full legal ownership of the hotel by formally expropriating it from its original owners.10

Milagro's hopes did not materialize, however. Although containing much of the classic Peronist discourse, the Kirchner governments (2003-2015) pursued a neostructuralist development model that, contrary to classic Peronism, was anchored by the continuation of labour precarity as a strategy for accumulation (Féliz, 2012, 2015), that is, despite an overall reduction in unemployment (Wylde, 2017). Indeed the Kirchner government's relationship to the ERT movement is emblematic of this strategy. Under the Kirchner governments, two significant changes in relation to the ERT sector were implemented. First was the creation of a new division within INAES responsible for providing ERTs with legal assistance, education and small subsidies. However, as Marta Firelli, head of this new division commented, they are unable to support the demand for expropriation, as this would require a constitutional amendment. Second, the Kirchner government modified the country’s bankruptcy law in 2011. The law is supposed to help workers legally form cooperatives in situation of potential bankruptcy. However it only applies to new cases, not already existing ERTs. Furthermore, the new bankruptcy law, as Ruggeri notes, has benefited prospective ERTs in merely 10 to 20 per cent of disputed cases (2014). In short, the Kirchner governments did little to address the precarious status of the ERT movement, revealing the limitations of neostructuralism in Argentina. As a result, ERTs are now facing a reinvigorated offensive led by the right wing government of Mauricio Macri, in power since 2015 (Ruggeri, 2016).

Although the ERT movement's demands for state recognition and support are at odds with the neostructuralist model pursued by Kirchnerismo, ERTs, as we have seen, also challenge the verticalism and bureaucracy of classic Peronism. Hence, while sectors of the ERT movement remain politically loyal to Peronism, others are pursuing new paths that better reflect their struggle. The most important of these comes out of FaSinPat. For almost a decade, FaSinPat has been building a new political party in the province of Neuquén. This new party, Frente de Izquierda y de los Trabajadores (Workers Left Front), rejects Peronism and, to an extent, models itself on the cooperative values of the ERT movement. For example, their single seat in the provincial legislature (won in 2011) is rotated among three different allied parties.11 Two workers from FaSinPa have held the seat, Raúl Godoy and Alejandro López. While in office, their salaries were capped to that of a worker at FaSinPat. The remainder goes to a 'struggle fund'. These innovations

10 For similar findings about how ERT workers understand their relationship to work, see Itzigsohn and Rebón (2015). However, the authors don't detect, as I do, that workers' views about work are in turn connected to specific demands and expectation of the state. 11 Further electoral gains were made in the 2013 legislative elections, where the Workers Left Front achieved historic results throughout the country.

13 are an example of how the transformations achieved by ERTs within the workplace are extended to the state, helping to erode the division between mental and manual labour incarnated in the capitalist state in general, and expressed by Peronism in the form of a centralized and vertical bureaucracy. Put differently, Raúl Godoy and Alejandro López are embodiments of an emerging unity between politician (intellectual labour) and worker (manual labour), one which is attempting to transform the state from below, while transcending the limits of Peronism, both in its classic and neostructuralist form.

Venezuela's Popular Economy: beyond the magical state

"It is our turn, compañeros y compañeras, to be the midwives of the new era, the midwives of a new history...to give birth to socialism of the 21st century, a new socialist historical project." (Discurso, 2005). These words by Hugo Chávez, from his well-known speech on November 4, 2005, in Mar del plata, Argentina, reflected a qualitative shift in the country’s ‘Bolivarian revolution’. It was that year that Chávez first began to openly discuss and outline the concept of '21st century socialism' as his government's central political goal (el Troudi, 2005). In contrast to socialism in the 20th century that emphasized the formal socialization of the means of production via centralized state power, 21st century socialism emphasizes the building of 'popular power' through the active and democratic participation of workers and communities. It is the popular economy that became the central vehicle in this process, with Social Property Enterprises (SPEs) and Communes having acquired an increasing degree of strategic importance for Chavismo in recent years. In light of this, "Qué viva Eva Perón!", Chavez's call at the start of the same 2005 speech, can in retrospect be taken not as a confirmation of Chavismo's authoritarian tendencies, evidence that Chavez is simply "Perón with oil" (Castañeda, 2006, p.7), but rather as a subversive ode to Peronism, one which ultimately sought to transcend, however unsuccessfully as we will see, its top-down limitations.

Like in Argentina's ERTs, Venezuela's SPEs feature an assembly style political body, known as the Workers' Council, through which workers democratically debate and decide upon a wide range of issues affecting their workplace. However, unlike ERTs, SPEs are publicly owned enterprises also managed by the state and local communities. The state is represented at each SPE through at least one appointed 'coordinator' that is responsible for carrying out the political vision of the related state corporation and government ministry, as well as that of the executive branch of government. The community is represented in the SPE through the 'Socialist Council of Participation', which brings together local producers with Communal Councils, democratically run neighbourhood organizations. Like ERTs, SPEs are founded upon a social mission. However, reflecting its multi-level management structure, their social mission is more complex than that of ERTs. At the workplace level, their explicit mission is nothing less than to overcome alienated labour by promoting radically democratic and horizontal forms of participation. Beyond the workplace, their mission is to transcend market

14 relations by promoting community development and overcoming the country's historic dependence on oil-funded development.

In contrast to Argentina, Venezuela was not an early adopter of ISI, opting instead for an outward-oriented development model based on the export of natural resources, particularly, oil (Bulmer-Thomas 2014). It was not until President Rómulo Betancourt's second term (1959-1964) that the country began an industrialization campaign (Myers, 1990). However, as with other latecomers to ISI in the region, Venezuela adopted a 'mixed model' in which industrialization was merely superimposed on the already dominant export model (Cárdenas et al., 2000, p. 3). Indeed, by the 1970s, Venezuela's oil sector had become the centerpiece of national development, fueling a dramatic increase in state expenditures and, in turn, notable improvement in a wide range of social indicators (Lander, 2005, pp. 25-26). Hence, in sharp contrast to Argentina, Venezuela's industrialization approach was not based on the incorporation of a large and well-organized working class, but rather on the state's seemingly infinite capacity to harness oil revenues to fund a myriad of often-outlandish development initiatives with no organic endogenous links. As Fernando Coronil (1997) argues, this gave the Venezuelan state the illusion of possessing 'magical' properties that created the expectation among broad layers of society that the state, on its own, could solve any number of social and economic problems (pp. 4-5). This expectation could not be in sharper contrast to the 'culture of work' that developed in Argentina through Peronism.

Not surprisingly, one of the central concepts guiding SPEs, and the popular economy more broadly is that of 'protagonism', meaning becoming a leading figure or active participant. The concept expresses the conscious goal of trying to overcome the undemocratic and top down character of 20th century socialism, as well as the culture of dependency created by the magical state. In short, to be a protagonist of 21st century socialism means to be both a radical democrat and engaged in productive activity, a particular combination that challenges the form in which capitalist relations of production developed in the country. Yet, the goal of protagonism at SPEs relies on the financial support of the state. Since their creation in the late 2000s, SPEs receive what can be called a 'triple subsidy'': workers' wages are well above the minimum; inputs from local producers are purchased at above-market prices; goods produced are sold at below market prices.12 These subsidies come from the state-owned oil company, Petróleos de Venezuela S.A. or PDVSA, tasked in 2006 to help SPEs through, among other things, preferential contracts, and financing (PDVSA, 2006). SPEs therefore express the contradictory character of the 21st century socialism, being tasked to overcome the 'magical' state through the protagonism of workers and communities, while being dependent on funds from the state controlled oil industry, and by extension, the highly volatile global market in oil.

12 The sale of subsidized goods takes place through Mercal and PDVAL, state-run discount stores located throughout the country.

15 Expressing this contradiction, SPE workers initially encountered a culture of what is known as 'jefesismo', from the word jefe, or boss. The word captures the top-down tendencies exhibited by the state appointed coordinators that, for Juan Cortez, at CASQ, mimicked those of a typical private company. Conversely, jefesismo also refers to the passive attitude taken by many workers in response to this top-down culture. However, as Juan noted, him and his co-workers began reading, studying, and debating, a learning process that produced what he describes as nothing short of a "radical change". This change, as Enrique Machado, one of Juan’s co-workers noted, also involved engaging in difficult discussions with management, a process involving "sweat and tears", as he put it. At issue was workers' desire to put in practice one of the values of '21st century socialism', namely participatory democracy, outlined in the official state literature found in the small library in the plant. Through this process of learning, workers were able to implement a system of collective management in which, as Enrique described, work responsibilities became the result, not of an imposition from above, but of workers' own decisions made democratically at the assembly. Confirmation of workers' new-found sense of protagonism occurred when, during a 6 month stretch without a coordinator, workers where able to almost double their monthly production output, proving, as Juan put it while referencing the coordinator, that "there is no need for ‘an enlightened' one to come and decide things!"

However, the contradictions between protagonism and jefesismo sometimes boil over into more acute struggles. One of the more contentious issues is the existence of wage hierarchies that reproduce the division between mental and manual labour, with manual workers at the bottom and coordinators at the top. It is the state that determines these ranks, with a 3:1 ratio existing between the lowest and highest-paid employee.13 As a response to this situation, workers at some SPEs brought forward to management an initiative called the ‘integral worker', which would abolish salary ranks. As Marisa Magas, an administrative worker at Pedro Camejo, put it, the goal is that “the accountant and the tractor driver are considered equal.” However, management has resisted the initiative, justifying the existing ranks on the basis of educational merit. Frictions with management are also evident in the hiring process, in which Communal Councils nominate candidates in coordination with the SPEs 'community committee'. However, in many cases management ignores the community nominations and arbitrarily hires somebody else. As a result, as Enrique Machado at CASQ commented, communities feel deceived. "There hasn't been much unity", Alegre Ávila, also from CASQ, lamented in reference to the hiring process. Workplace occupations and plant shutdowns are not an uncommon response by workers and communities to these impositions from above that evidence what Juan refers to as the continuation of "capitalist thinking" in the form of an encrusted bureaucracy within the state.

Following the death of Chavez in 2013, a new iteration of SPEs, known as 'direct' SPEs, began to emerge. Their emergence came alongside the development of communes,

13 It should be noted that by any cooperative standard a 3:1 salary ratio is extremely egalitarian.

16 new territorial and political entities that, as the director of the Ministerio de Poder Popular y Comunas in Merida commented, are meant to do away with the bourgeois state, while consolidating a new 'communal state'. Today, there are 1500 communes throughout the country (Ciccariello-Maher, 2016). Direct SPEs are managed solely by their workers and are owned, not by the state, but by the commune members. To form a direct SPE, citizens must present a project to the communal parliament, the commune's most important decision-making body. Direct SPEs therefore hint at a new subject in the country's history, a 'producer-citizen' whose political existence and fate is dependent, not on the bureaucratic and top-down structures of the 'old' state, but on the democratic life of the commune and individual workplace. This new emerging unity between politician and worker therefore points to a further break from the legacies of the magical state, which featured neither participatory democracy nor a culture of work.

However, economically, direct SPEs remain dependent on the state that provides the initial funds for the project. In 2008, with oil at historic highs, this would not have been a problem. However, the dramatic fall of oil prices that began in 2013 radically changes the picture. Indeed, to paraphrase a community member helping to launch a direct SPE in Merida: if a project proposal is budgeted to cost one million Bolívares, by the time the money arrives from the government, it won't be close to enough. At the time, late 2013, this was merely a half-joke, drawing semi-polite laughter from the 30 people assembled. Today, with oil at around $50 a barrel, triple digit inflation, and scarcity in basic gods, her comments speak to the profound fragility of the Bolivarian process. Indeed, under the weight of inflation and uncertainty, the government-run discount stores that comprise the distributive channel for much of the popular economy are progressively becoming spaces for individualism and competition, rather than solidarity, as they are overrun by the popular practice of 'bachaqueo', highly profitable speculation in subsidized goods (Prieto, 2015; Purcell, 2017). In this context of growing cynicism within popular sectors, it is unclear what the Asamblea Nacional Constituyente (National Constituent Assembly, ANC), elected in 2017, can accomplish. Although the ANC further transfers political power to popular organizations, it can do little to address the country's historic oil dependence that continues to erode the popular economy, and is at the root of the country’s continuing legacy of top-down, magical development.

Conclusion

By articulating new forms of cooperation, democracy and social property, Argentina’s ERT movement and Venezuela’s popular economy can be said to point to a new society beyond capitalism. In the case of ERTs, this has meant pushing beyond the boundaries of Peronism, both in its classic and contemporary forms. Departing from classic Peronism, the ERT movement posits a radically horizontal workplace that rejects the top-down labour relations structures that first developed in the ISI period. Challenging Kirchnerism, ERTs defend the culture of work, as they struggle to overcome their precarious status and acquire state recognition. This novel combination of demands and values, namely radical democracy and state recognition, is perhaps best expressed in

17 the leading role that FaSinPat has played in creating the Workers Left Front in the province of Neuquen, an innovative political party that seeks to transform the state on the basis of cooperative values.

Similarly, Venezuela's popular economy challenges the top-down legacies of the magical state by fostering a sense of protagonism in new forms of workplace and community democracy. Their highest expression is perhaps found in the emergence of what I called the ‘producer-citizen’ that hints at a unity between political life of the commune and productive labour within SPEs. However, unlike ERTs, whose central demands were ignored by the Kirchner governments, Venezuela’s popular economy is central to Chavismo's vision of 21st century socialism. This means that the movement remains in a highly contradictory situation, tasked to build a new state while being dependent on the existing one for its survival. This contradiction has only become more acute, and increasingly untenable, as the recent end of the commodities boom confirms Chavismo’s incapacity to even moderately ameliorate Venezuela’s historic oil dependency.

These findings demonstrate that in the cases of Argentina and Venezuela, it is difficult to see a symbiotic, even if somewhat troubled, relationship between movement and left government, as the ‘positive dialectic’ and Polanyian theses discussed earlier argue in relation to Latin America’s left turn. In other words, my findings confirm the antagonistic character of this relationship that, as I have shown, can be explained by the post- capitalist content of the movements examined. However, my findings should also give pause to accounts of the region’s left turn that write it off as merely the effective cooptation of movements by the pink tide (Prieto, 2015; Webber, 2015; Zibechi, 2016). Indeed, as I have shown, the two movements examined here have been able to articulate and sustain new radical political horizons that simultaneously co-exist and go beyond the limitations of Kirchnerismo and Chavismo: Milagro, a Peronist, supports Cristina Kirchner, but her work at Hotel Bauen expresses a radical break with Peronism; Enrique’s struggle for workplace democracy at CASQ in Venezuela targets the state that created his workplace, the very state that now finds itself increasingly unable to cope with its own limitations.

Lastly, the challenges associated with post-capitalist development, as presented in my findings, highlight the need to assess the left turn’s regional dimension. Although a full analysis of this dimension is beyond the scope of this paper, some key points can be discussed. From a regional historical perspective, my two cases express opposite, yet potentially complimentary problems. As an early and relatively successful industrializer, Argentina does not lack working class protagonism, evident in the spontaneous emergence of ERTs. However, ERTs do lack a state capable of legitimizing their existence as well as providing adequate support and recognition. In contrast, Venezuela's popular economy is the direct result of Chavismo's project of 21st century socialism. However, Venezuela's history of 'magical' oil-based development means building workplace protagonism is an ongoing challenge. These challenges seem to re-

18 vindicate one of the pink tide's political goals, namely new forms of regional integration based, not on the competitive imperatives of the Washington Consensus, but on a vision of solidarity and complementarity (Riggirozzi, 2012). Particularly noteworthy in this respect is the Alianza Bolivariana para los Pueblos de Nuestra América (Bolivarian Alliance for the Peoples of Our America, ALBA).

Created in 2004, and with Venezuela as its strongest promoter, ALBA holds the promise of building alternative forms of trade and development. Under this vision, ALBA could've, in theory, served as the framework through which ERTs and SPEs might cooperate to overcome their distinct challenges (Argentina's lack of participation within ALBA not withstanding). However, ALBA's focus was always on immediate standard of living concerns, such as health and education (Kellogg, 2007; Muhr, 2012), not on long- term structural issues of the kind highlighted by my case studies. Despite ALBA’s limitations, cooperation between the two movements did take place. However, it remained highly insufficient, consisting of scattered meetings between workers and ad hoc financial and political support. Hence, If the region's left manages to re-articulate itself in the face of the current political and economic turmoil and emergent right wing, putting forth a new vision of regional solidarity that prioritizes the difficulties faced by my two cases will prove essential in overcoming the long-term developmental challenges that today continue to serve as a barrier for a future beyond capital.

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