The Cultural Logic of Strangerhood: Subjectivity, Migration and Belonging Among Ghana’S Transnational Zongo Community

The Cultural Logic of Strangerhood: Subjectivity, Migration and Belonging among Ghana’s Transnational Zongo Community

Dissertation

Presented in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree Doctor of Philosophy in the Graduate School of The Ohio State University

By Christopher M. Brown, M.A. Graduate Program in Anthropology

The Ohio State University 2019

Dissertation Committee: Mark Moritz, Adviser Anna Willow Joy McCorriston

Abstract

This anthropological study examines how cultural principles of strangerhood shape perceptions of rights, identity and belonging among the Ghanaian Zongo community, a multi-ethnic population known colloquially as “strangers” throughout West Africa. The project uses ethnographic methods and grounded theory analysis to examine the multilayered social processes through which Zongo migrants in Ghana and the United States perceive, enact and experience their relationships to the institutions, structures and authorities that shape their lives. Although the concept of strangerhood is commonly applied to intra-African migration, it is rarely used to understand the position of migrants in other global settings. Entailing perceptions of difference, legitimacy and belonging that stand in marked contrast to conventional understandings of citizenship, it is nevertheless an alternative basis for claims to rights, recognition and resources. Tracing the ways in which discrepant ideas, practices, values and institutions intersect and shape one another, I argue that although the logic of strangerhood is intertwined with that of citizenship, it nonetheless remains a distinctive, overarching framework through which Zongo migrants negotiate the social and political tensions associated with transnational migration. In this regard, it is a useful concept for understanding emergent forms of subjectivity in an increasingly globalized world.

Acknowledgements

I would like to extend my sincere thanks to my Ph.D. adviser Dr. Mark Moritz in the Department of Anthropology for his unwavering guidance, support and encouragement; to Dr. Ousman Kobo in the Department of History for his insights and advice, without which this project would not have been possible; and to the Department of Anthropology, the Office of International Affairs and the

Mershon Center at The Ohio State University for helping to fund my travel and research in Ghana and the United States.

iii

Vita

2004……………………….. B.A. Political Science, Northwestern University 2009……………………….. M.A. International Studies, University of Connecticut 2012 – 2015, 2018 ………… Graduate Teaching Assistant, Department of Anthropology, The Ohio State University 2016, 2019…………………. Graduate Research Assistant, Department of Anthropology, The Ohio State University

Fields of Study

Major Field: Anthropology

Table of Contents

Abstract……………………………………………………………………………………. ii

Acknowledgements………………………………………………………………………... iii

Vita………………………………………………………………………………………… iv

List of Tables ……………………………………………………………………………… vi

Chapter 1: Introduction……………………………………………………………………. 1

Chapter 2: Literature Review ……………………………………………………………… 15

Chapter 3: Research Design and Methodology……………………………………………. 52

Chapter 4: The Cultural History of Strangerhood in West Africa…………………………. 67

Chapter 5: Citizenship and Strangerhood in Kumasi Zongo………………………………. 94

Chapter 6: Contemporary Strangerhood in the United States………………………………142

Chapter 7: Discussion and Conclusions……………………………………………………. 213

References………………………………………………………………………………….. 235

List of Tables

Table 1: Principles of Citizenship and Strangerhood……………………………………. 93

Chapter 1. Introduction

Concern for the welfare of humanity can be found in numerous cultural traditions, many of them promoting solidarities that cut across the territorial boundaries of states. It is far from clear that this concern is best pursued today primarily through the Western idiom of citizenship. - Hindess 2004, 315

This anthropological study examines how cultural principles of strangerhood shape perceptions of rights, identity and belonging among the Ghanaian Zongo community, a multi-ethnic population known colloquially as “strangers” throughout West Africa. I use ethnographic methods and grounded theory analysis to examine the multilayered social processes through which Zongo residents in Ghana and the United States perceive, enact and experience their relationships to the institutions, structures and authorities that shape their lives. Although the concept of strangerhood is commonly applied to intra-African migration, it is rarely used to understand the position of migrants in other global settings. Entailing perceptions of difference, legitimacy and belonging that stand in marked contrast to conventional understandings of citizenship, it is nevertheless an alternative basis for claims to rights, recognition and resources. Inspired by the assertion that strangerhood is a “powerful tool for analyzing the social processes of individuals and groups confronting new social orders” (Shack et al. 1979, 2), I shake the concept free from its “traditional” roots by exploring how it shapes the subjectivity of contemporary transnational migrants.

The question of subjectivity, of how social actors understand and enact their relationships to the institutions, structures and authorities that shape their lives, is among the most complex issues of

1 the global age. Encompassing raw power, normative perceptions of rights and legitimacy, as well as affective dimensions of identity and belonging, subjectivity cuts to the heart of what it means to exist in an increasingly interconnected social world. In particular, transnational migrants, who are simultaneously embedded in multiple politico-legal and cultural systems, have an outsized impact on the ways in which people perceive the social, spatial and political boundaries of community. While it is by now common place to recognize that erosion of borders and ease of movement is but one side of an equation that is balanced by the building of walls and hardening of hearts against the intrusion of the other, these dual aspects of globalization present significant challenges for theorizing contemporary forms of subjectivity.

The project is a contribution to a burgeoning literature that addresses the accelerating pace of globalization and its attendant processes of migration and de-territorialization. As political subjects and institutions are increasingly dispersed across conventional borders, multiple dimensions of power expand, intersect and overlap (Trouillot 2001). These reconfigurations destabilize the terms and conditions of national citizenship (Sassen 2006), contributing to vitriolic cultural politics that seek to configure immigrants as an existential threat to the nation (Vertovec 2011) and generating sophisticated mechanisms of regulation, surveillance and control intended to reinforce physical and ethno-cultural boundaries (Fassin 2011). Such stark manifestations of boundary-making are evident not only in resurgent discourses of autochthony which seek to excise perceived interlopers from the political community, but also within the bureaucratic and regulatory infrastructures of the state (Geschiere 2009). At their extreme, tensions associated with legitimacy and belonging quite literally define who gets to live and who dies (Petryna & Follis 2016). While much of this literature

2 focuses on techniques of power and control that either shape or exclude certain kinds of political subjects, I explore these processes from the perspective of those who navigate and contest them.

Studies that adopt this perspective overwhelmingly invoke the language and logic of citizenship, assuming that all claims-making strategies and struggles for recognition are either expressions of or aspirations to a subject-position that is best understood as a version of citizenship. This tendency reflects a puzzling aspect of anthropological theory: although it is widely recognized that globalization and transnational migration disrupt territorial borders and state sovereignty, the political conditions on which citizenship rests, it remains the overriding frame of analysis used to understand and assess emergent modes of subjectivity. The impulse to enfold even the most disparate and illiberal ideas and practices into the rubric of citizenship may, in part, be seen as an attempt to disentangle the discursive rhetoric of “citizenship” (an instrument of rule) from the diverse ways it is actually experienced by variously positioned political subjects. Recognizing that citizenship can mean both subjugation and empowerment (Isin 2009), there is certainly a need to wade through the polyvalent meanings and practices associated with it.

Nevertheless, as a result of this “conceptual stretching”, citizenship has ostensibly come to encapsulate all the ways in which social actors are constituted as political subjects (Fox 2005, 175).

This stance, which crowds out consideration of alternate subject-positions, is intimately linked with teleological notions of modernity that view citizenship as the height of social and political progress. “Valorized” as the unrivaled contribution of Western liberal thought (Hindess 2004,

306), it reduces all variations to mere distortions or, at best, partial approximations of the real thing. Thus, rather than helping us to understand the diverse bases on which claims to rights,

3 recognition and belonging may be staked, expansive definitions of citizenship all too often preclude the development of a conceptual and theoretical repertoire that fully captures and explains these phenomena. In this way, citizenship has come to colonize studies of subjectivity, rendering alternative conceptual frameworks illegible and bringing with it a host of problematic theoretical and epistemological assumptions (Rutherford 2011).

This assertion is embedded within broader debates and discussions swirling around the politics of knowledge production. In their influential book Theory from the South Comaroff and Comaroff

(2012) propose to reverse long-standing teleological tropes that configure “the Global South” as a perpetual latecomer to modernity, arguing that, on the contrary, developments in Africa and elsewhere prefigure emergent global processes. The application of supposedly universal theories and concepts that equate global modernity with Western innovations necessarily depicts Africa as a vestigial cultural landscape, consumed by an overwrought adherence to tradition. Mbembe

(2001) asks if “it is possible to offer an intelligible reading of the forms of social and political imagination in contemporary Africa solely through conceptual structures and fictional representations used precisely to deny African societies any historical depth and to define them as…all that the West is not” (17)? Accordingly, studies which seek to meaningfully understand

African cultural institutions and their place in world affairs must proceed from the possibility that

African realities are themselves generative of broadly applicable theory. To this end, this study considers the implications of West African strangerhood and its potential use as a means of understanding the subjectivity of other transnational populations.

Citizenship and Strangerhood in West Africa

In Piot’s (2010) evocative description of post-postcolonial West Africa, he depicts a cultural and political terrain characterized by a “nostalgia for the future”. Confronted by the realization that the neoliberal state is no longer capable of offerings its citizens viable pathways to modernity, political subjects look back with nostalgia at the developmentalist states of the early independence era, whose visions of African renaissance were couched in ideologies of progress and modernization.

Yet, given the striking parallels between the socio-spatial conditions of neoliberal governance and the forms of political organization that characterized precolonial West Africa, it may very well behoove these subjects to direct their nostalgic aspirations even further back in time.

As in today’s world, the conflation of sovereignty and territoriality (the rhetorical basis of the nation-state) did not exist in precolonial Africa. Rather, the attachment of a polity to a given territory was entirely relative. Boundaries were not delineated in a geographical sense but by

“imbrications of multiple spaces constantly joined, disjoined, and recombined through wars, conquests, and the mobility of goods and persons” (Mbembe 2000, 263). Multiple levels of authority, encompassing social, religious and political jurisdictions, operated within a given space so that individuals and localities could be under the control of several “sovereign” powers at once.

Mbembe contrasts “boundaries in the legal sense” with “interlaced spaces…capable of infinite extension and abrupt contraction” (264). Moreover, just as current transnational populations remain “anchored” in specific national territories (Kearney 1995, 548), precolonial space was not a seamless political expanse. Rather, an asymmetrical distribution of rights and social ties

“combined with forms of locality, but at the same time transcended them” (Mbembe 2000, 263).

This fluidity corresponded to multiple, overlapping social boundaries, as persons and groups were defined by their interrelationships with other people and places. It was within this context that precolonial societies developed institutionalized mechanisms for the inclusion and incorporation, appending outsiders to the social body as strangers. Although strangerhood arose from various dimensions of difference and otherness, it was not a means of exclusion, but of inclusion and social growth. Subsumed under the authority of local chiefs, strangers were drawn into institutionalized relations with host society through the distribution of differential rights and obligations. Although they generally held certain social and economic rights, they were formally excluded from participation in the political affairs of the host society. This arrangement extended a generous freedom of movement to people and groups who were enveloped within webs of mutual, if uneven, rights and obligations with local hosts. In this way, precolonial strangerhood managed potential conflicts over land, resources and identities by structuring patterns of mobility and the politics of social construction.

These modes of incorporation, as well as the traditional institutions and authorities that supported them, were significantly distorted under colonial and postcolonial rule (Skinner 1963). The

European-derived system of nation-states superimposed bounded political territories and national citizenship with little regard for existing socio-political realities (Davidson 1992). While strangerhood distributed distinctive rights among different kinds of subjects within overlapping webs of territory and authority, citizenship was predicated on equal rights given to legally-defined subjects enclosed within the borders of a sovereign state. Although, as Mamdani (1996) has persuasively argued, the post-colonial transition from colonial subjects to national citizens masked linked forms of domination and control, the logic of citizenship was, at least rhetorically, adopted

6 by subjects seeking to substantiate their legal rights, as well as national governments seeking to domesticate heterogenous ethnic groups within their territory. Thus, from the start, citizenship in

Africa rested upon a normative framework that sharply contrasted strangerhood.

While, on one hand, current theories of globalization suggest that the global system is coming to resemble the unbounded spatial and political regimes that produced forms of strangerhood, on the other, borders, national governments and citizenship remain powerful factors (Sassen 2006). This dynamic, which Meyer & Geschiere (1999) refer to as “the dialectics of flow and closure”, suggests the need to attend to the ways in which these alternate subject-positions interact and shape one another. If, as Krause & Schramm (2011) assert, the coming together of different demands for rights and recognition causes “new forms of misrecognition” (120), it also makes clear the need to better understand how they fit together. With this in mind, I situate this study of subjectivity among a transnational population that actively navigates the dissonance between the logic of citizenship and the logic of strangerhood. Historically constituted through processes of migration and settlement, the Zongo community offers an instructive view into the ways in which these contrasting logics influence rights-claims and perceptions of belonging.

The Study Population: The Zongo Community of Ghana

The nature and origins of Ghana’s Zongo community are most forcefully illustrated by their historical relationships with the Asante, a powerful sub-group of the Akan peoples of southern

Ghana who rose to prominence in the early eighteenth century. Under the ultimate authority of their king, the Asantehene, the Asante established their capitol at Kumasi. By the early nineteenth century, Kumasi was a “strategic transcontinental crossroads” boasting a population of twenty

7 thousand inhabitants (Clark 2003, 90). Among them were over three-hundred Muslim residents who were “not Asante, not even Akan, and were not subjects of the Asantehene- at least not in the same sense as the Akan” (Robinson 2004, 128). These Muslim strangers controlled trade networks emanating northwards from the Asante capitol. Housed in separate wards close to the royal palace and enjoying a cozy relationship with Asante rulers, many of Kumasi’s Muslim strangers grew rich and influential. In addition to the enormous wealth generated by the taxation of their trade, they provided valuable services to the ruling dynasties. Islamic scholars acted as scribes and advisors, while revered holy-men and healers produced talismans infused with the power of Allah

(Owusu-Ansah 1983). Although the Asante viewed the Qur’an as a “volume of divine creation”

(Depuis 1824 quoted in Robinson 2004,133), Islam was assigned a ritual domain beyond the limits of indigenous cosmology (McCaskie 1995). Thus, reliance on the spiritual acumen of the strangers was deemed “cultural appropriation” on the part of the ruling classes, rather than an intrusive foreign presence (Clark 2003, 90). Yet, despite their relative privilege as “confidants in the palace”,

Muslim strangers were kept under the strict oversite of their hosts (Robinson 2004, 135).

Prohibited from owning land or engaging in unsanctioned commercial activity, they were officially excluded from Asante politics. Deemed apolitical and thus unsullied by the factionalism and infighting that often roiled the noble lineages, Muslims were also valued as fearsome soldiers who could be counted on to carry out the dictates of their patrons (Abaka 2009). In this way, Muslim strangers exercised a good deal of informal influence and were an integral component of the sociopolitical order in precolonial Asante.

The onset of colonial governance profoundly altered the status of strangers throughout West Africa

(Skinner 1963). With its lucrative gold mines, construction projects and cocoa plantations, the

British Gold Coast colony attracted large numbers of migrants from Sahel regions to the north.

These “new strangers” entered “under the aegis of the Europeans” rather than local hosts (309).

Moreover, in contrast to the custom of occupying a specialized economic niche, the newcomers engaged in labor-intensive pursuits that pitted them against local workers. Nevertheless, the norms of strangerhood were not completely upended. Asante political and cultural institutions retained a

“hold on the public imagination” and, at times, even rivalled British administration (Clark 2003,

92). Recognizing that their traditional role as hosts of the Muslim community served to bolster their authority, Asante leaders continued to cultivate stranger-host relationships. Led by an influential Hausa diaspora, the Muslims, for their part, maintained a monopoly over specialized commodity markets by relying on the transnational trade networks, customary business arrangements and relative social insularity organized by the institutions of strangerhood (see

Cohen 1969).

In Kumasi, Accra and other Ghanaian cities, migrant enclaves known by the Hausa term Zongo

(migrant camp or settlement), developed through gradual processes of accretion. The absorbent capacity of Zongo communities pulled newly arriving migrants into the orbit of Hausa “landlords” who controlled access to jobs, lodging and social networks, burnishing the authority bestowed upon them by local chiefs as a means of increasing their clients (Pellow 2002). While universal principles of Islam did not entirely prevent ethnic or sectarian disputes within the Zongo, they

“provided the means for their mediation in the person of various Imams” who collectively presided over a parallel judicial system guided by Islamic jurisprudence (Kramer 1996, 289). Lacking central planning or public utilities, these dense urban neighborhoods were originally conceived as temporary settlements, but over time were haphazardly converted into a permanent cityscape.

While “Zongo” was primarily a spatial designation applied to the segregated urban enclaves inhabited by Muslim strangers, over generations it acquired a distinctive ethno-cultural connotation, coming to symbolize the emergence of a shared identity formed around Islam, use of the Hausa language as a lingua franca and ancestral origins in Sahelian regions to “the North”

(Schildkrout 1978).

Ultimately, it was the nationalist governments of independence who did more to erode cultural traditions of strangerhood than their colonial predecessors. Pursuing a policy of “de-tribalization”,

Kwame Nkrumah, leader of the Ghanaian independence movement and its first president, decreed that all persons living in Ghana at the time of independence from colonial rule were legal citizens of the new country. Yet, in the early years of Ghanaian independence, the foreign ancestry of many

Zongo residents “emerged as a tool of political manipulation” as the transition to party politics exacerbated regional and ethnic competition (Kobo 2010, 68). As the state worked to weaken the authority of traditional chiefs and imams (Ahmed-Rufai 2002), the people of the Zongo were caught amidst bitter political rivalries that forced them to abandon the customary neutrality of strangers and incur xenophobic recriminations. Their increasingly precarious position was mirrored in political discourse: the connotation of “stranger” underwent a precipitous slide, becoming synonymous with “alien”. While the former had implied mutuality and respect, the latter

“derived from the colonial discourses of exclusion from the privileges of citizenship” (Kobo 2010,

76). Tensions culminated in 1969 with the now infamous Alien Compliance Order, a law which targeted Zongo residents for deportation. Although many who were uprooted during these tumultuous times would eventually return, feelings of loss and betrayal at the abrupt severance of communal ties with their hosts are a trauma that continues to shape collective memories (Peil

1979). Nevertheless, through shrewd political maneuvering, the unifying effects of their “hybrid

Islamic culture”, and the resiliency of traditional institutions, Zongo residents not only secured legal citizenship but played an active role in the development of Ghana’s political culture (Kobo

2010, 70).

Today, linked by a common diaspora culture, the people of the Zongo are firmly woven into the social fabric. An amalgam of dozens of ethnicities, most are descendants of colonial-era migrants from the Sahelian regions of Nigeria, Niger, Burkina Faso, Togo, Benin and Mali who have lived in Ghana for several generations. Nevertheless, set apart from their autochthonous hosts, they remain distinct and, to some degree, marginalized in Ghanaian society. As West Africa continues along a path of neoliberal transformation, for Zongo residents in Ghana, as well as the increasing number who are seeking their fortunes abroad, both citizenship and strangerhood retain unique sociocultural resonances.

Organization of the Dissertation

In the next chapter, I review how anthropologists and others have studied relationships between transnational migration and political subjectivity. This discussion includes an assessment of the conceptual and theoretical frameworks employed, the ways in which anthropological thinking on these topics has changed over time and the generalizable conclusions drawn from this work. In particular, I review and compare critical perspectives on the concept of citizenship, showing how and why it is an insufficient framework for capturing the complexities of global subjectivity. At the conclusion of this chapter, I situate my work within the broader theoretical context, explaining

11 how this project builds upon and contributes to the continued development of anthropological theory.

Following the literature review, Chapter Three details the research design and methodological approach employed in the study. I begin by considering the virtues and limitations of using ethnographic methods to study subjectivity, justifying the multi-sited design by arguing that doing ethnography in a “de-territorialized” world requires the unbounding of conventional field sites and a focus on the relational attributes of dispersed, networked communities. I also outline the procedures of grounded theory analysis and the analytical framework of encounter that guided an integrated process of data collection and analysis. After explaining specific methods and techniques, as well as the kinds of data used in the study, I acknowledge some potential limitations.

Chapter Four presents a cultural history of strangerhood in Africa, focusing specifically on the

West African context that shaped the development of the Zongo. Looking at precolonial conceptions of territory and power, I integrate archaeological evidence, historical sources and oral traditions, shedding light on various dimensions of liminality and the constructive role played by strangers in the development of African societies. Although necessarily touching on issues of social complexity, urbanism and mobility, I emphasize cultural meanings and specific forms of social interaction. This chapter elaborates the origins and dynamics of strangerhood, tracing its cultural logic along an uneven yet continuous trajectory that links emergent forms with historical antecedents.

Having laid out the proper historical perspective, Chapter Five presents an analysis of ethnographic data collected among Zongo communities in Kumasi, Ghana. Emphasizing dynamic

12 processes of social construction, I show how collective memory and narratives of migration and settlement contribute to the maintenance of a shared identity. Next, I make the case that it is the lived experiences of Zongo residents, rather than essentialized identities, that constitute the nature of Zongoness. Subsequent sections discuss how the stranger-host dichotomy and traditional authorities continue to shape popular relations between Zongo residents and their Asante hosts; and explore how the contrasting logic of citizenship and strangerhood produces intersecting dimensions of power, agency and authority. In this chapter, as well as the next, I quote liberally from Zongo informants, allowing them to speak for themselves as a way of communicating the rich ethnographic texture of their thoughts and experiences.

Chapter Six, the second ethnographic chapter, follows the same broad themes as the previous one, showing how the elements of Zongoness undergo linked processes of change and continuity in the

US. Focusing largely on the role local Zongo associations play in organizing communities across the US, I show how traditional structures of authority are revised and contested, and how perceptions of home are modified in transnational diasporic space. Finally, I explain how the logic of strangerhood envelopes and inflects citizenship, reproducing forms of difference and liminality while limiting participation in American politics.

Finally, integrating themes and findings from previous sections, Chapter Seven summarizes the results of the study, showing that although models of strangerhood are significantly influenced by conceptions of citizenship in both Ghana and the United States, they remain highly influential in shaping the subjectivity of the Zongo community. Tracing the ways in which discrepant ideas, practices, values and institutions intersect and shape one another, I argue that the logic of

13 strangerhood is the means through which disparate cultural elements are brought together within a coherent framework. Thus, while the logic of citizenship is relevant only in the formal domain of politics, strangerhood spans domains, connecting the institutional power of the state with affective, customary and religious dimensions of authority and experience. For Zongo migrants, strangerhood is a means of adaptation and negotiation that works to attenuate many of the social and political tensions associated with citizenship and migration. In this regard, it is a potentially useful concept for understanding a wide range of globalized political subjects.

Chapter 2. Literature Review

In a seminal article entitled Citizenship in Flux Isin (2009) asserts that “an as yet unnamed figure is making its appearance on the stage of history. It is unnamed not because it is invisible but because we have not yet recognized it. It is inarticulable” (367). Isin’s dramatic and rather mysterious phrasing points to the confusion surrounding emergent forms of subjectivity. As he alludes to, despite ample evidence that processes of globalization produce new kinds of political subjects, difficulty arises from the lack of a conceptual vocabulary that sufficiently attends to the full range of phenomena associated with the de-structuring of political space. While it is clear that as people, ideas, practices and institutions penetrate and/or erode conventional borders, conceptions of place, identity, authority and belonging are reconfigured (Gupta & Ferguson 1997), the full implications are, as yet, inarticulable. The broad consensus that has developed around the need to better understand such processes has resulted in a proliferation of theories and concepts meant to shed light on these enigmatic figures and the local-global interactions that create them.

This chapter first reviews the literature on subjectivity, establishing a conceptual definition that is used throughout the paper. Next, I trace the development of the ways anthropologists and others have thought about citizenship, arguing that overly broad re-conceptualizations hinder grounded studies of subjectivity. The third section reviews concepts and approaches devised to understand the linkages between globalization, migration and subjectivity. Finally, these perspectives are focused on contemporary developments in sub-Saharan Africa. Overall, insights derived from this

15 literature evince the need to conceptualize global forms of subjectivity that transcend hegemonic models of citizenship and belonging.

The Concept of Political Subjectivity

The horrors of World War Two compelled many social theorists to revisit one of the most fundamental questions of political philosophy. If, in the modern world, it was possible for entire populations of people who were previously deemed citizens of one state or another to be completely deprived of any sort of rights, what was the basis of those rights to begin with? Through what means do people and groups come to be recognized, by themselves and others, as political subjects with “the right to have rights” (Arendt (1975 [1951], 260)? At least since the American and French revolutions it was largely taken for granted that rights were bestowed by the governments of territorially-bounded nation-states. Yet, if the world wars had proven anything, it was that these rights are not inherent features of citizenship or any other mode of subjectivity. It was now abundantly clear that we cannot take the existence of political subjects as a given but must ask how individuals and groups come to occupy a social position from which they are recognized as such by institutions and authorities.

Moving beyond normative or idealized constructs, recent scholarship has theorized duel processes of subject-making (Lazar 2013, 10-12). On one hand, social groups are subjected to disciplinary power through an array of policies, institutions, discourses and techniques (see Foucault et al.

1991). On the other, political subjects exercise agency by working to actualize their own visions of power and participation. These duel aspects, described by Ong (1996) as “a process of self- making and being made” (737), are dialectically intertwined. That is, subjectivity is constructed

16 through interactions between acting subjects and the institutional and social formations that

“shape, organize and provoke” them (Ortner 2005, 31). This relationship is not reducible to a simple dichotomy of power and resistance. Rather, each encompasses the other so that discipline always facilitates certain forms of agency and claims to rights always entail, to some degree, submission to the social order (Butler 1997, 2). In this way, “the double face of… political subjectification” simultaneously positions people to claim rights while requiring them to consent to the rules imposed by the authorities to which these claims are addressed (Krause and Schramm

2011, 130).

This view of subjectivity resonates with broader theoretical perspectives which recognize that social agents do not mechanically enact structural imperatives but instead engage in a process of generative social action (Bourdieu 1977). Similarly, Gramsci’s (1971) concept of hegemony shows that while ideology is used to manufacture consent, its dominance is always incomplete and contested. Both arguments benefit from the clarification they receive in Foucault’s (1979) insistence that since power permeates all social relations, forms of resistance are “conjunctural” to

“strategies of power”. Resistance is not opposed or external to power but is manifest within networks of power. Thus power/structure and resistance/agency are never diametrically opposed in a zero-sum contest. Instead, forms of resistance operate within fields of power, simultaneously challenging certain aspects of power while reinforcing or capitulating to others.

To propose that subject-making is an ideologically driven process is to recognize that social actors construct, contest and negotiate not only political orders but also moral ones. Exploring the “arts of resistance” employed by slaves, serfs and peasants, Scott (1990) shows that political systems

17 rest upon moral and ethical assertions that legitimize power and establish the terms of normative political conduct. Hegemonic values are cognized, adapted and, at times, co-opted for use in an

“infrapolitics” through which oppressed classes covertly resistant domination. Under certain conditions, the coercive and performative aspects of power and resistance become indistinguishable features of a moral order that shapes individual and group action. Through the co-production of a moral economy that is, to some degree, shared between rulers and ruled (or subjects and institutions), consent and acquiescence can paradoxically create the conditions for contestation and resistance. Thus, subjectivity entails moral claims-making on the part of subjects themselves, whether by turning the dominant “script” back upon itself (as when civil rights protestors in the US cited the US constitutions to justify their claims) or by the construction of a

“counterhegemonic culture” that legitimizes rule breaking as a means to protect dominant values against illegitimacy and abuse (as when peasants engaged in poaching on royal lands claim that they are merely enacting the king’s obligation to see to his subject’s welfare and, thus, are upholding his right to rule). Scott (1990) notes that the infrapolitics of self-making does not require deliberate political or revolutionary intent. The accretion of small, even self-interested, acts on the part of individuals or groups can have enormous political significance.

In this way, the concept of subjectivity encompasses multiple relations “between the personal, the political and the moral” (Werbner 2002, 3) produced through subjection to power, available forms of agency and the struggle to gain recognition from authorities. This perspective minimizes distinctions between subjectivity in the abstract and political subjectivity as a narrower iteration of the concept. Although some scholars find it useful to disaggregate subjectivity along its psychological, cultural or political dimensions (see Fisher 2007), such an endeavor imposes a

18 conceptual myopia that limits its usefulness as a heuristic device. To the extent that each aspect mutually constitutes the others, it is not possible to characterize political subjects without considering the cultural contexts, social imaginaries and psychological constructs that shape how they situate themselves in the world.

Given all that subjectivity entails, it is useful to think of it as a collection of distinctive, yet interrelated cultural models, a theoretical device developed by cognitive anthropologists to study how cultural ideas and beliefs are translated into practice. Such models provide normative

“scripts”, imposing order on the world through their capacity to “frame experience, supplying interpretations… inferences… and goals for action (Holland and Quinn 1987, 6). Barth (2002) counsels us to think of these models as specific domains of cultural knowledge that people and groups use to interpret and act on the world. While such knowledge constitutes shared systems of meaning, it is diffuse, differentiated and unevenly distributed. In addition, rather than existing as a purely cognitive repertoire of information to be drawn on at will, cultural knowledge arises through situated practice and is thus “continually regenerated within the context of people’s practical engagement, experience, and performance of tasks in dynamic and changing local environments (Ingold 2000, 5). As social groups act with and against power, the cultural models that inform their decisions and behaviors are constantly modified.

Building on these bodies of literature, I conceptualize subjectivity as: 1) processual, an ongoing process of subject-making; 2) dialectical, reflecting interrelationships between power/resistance and structure/agency; 3) incorporating political institutions and ideologies, cultural values and beliefs, and affective notions of identity and belonging; and 4) comprised of cultural models and

19 normative scripts that provide guides for social action. Taken together, these considerations elicit

Ortner’s (2005) conceptualization of subjectivity as “the ensemble of modes of perception, affect, thought, desire, fear and so forth that animate acting subjects” (31). This definition attends to the dialectical workings of power and agency in shaping norms and identities, draws attention to affective and cultural dimensions, and creates conceptual space to consider manifestations of power that exist outside formal political institutions. Thus, (political) subjectivity defines, in the broadest sense, the ways in which subjects experience, make sense of and navigate, as best they can, the tempestuous and often conflicting structural forces that shape their lives.

The Limits of Citizenship and Belonging

Much of the recent literature re-conceptualizes citizenship in terms that are synonymous with subjectivity. Thus, citizenship has come to define and encapsulate the full spectrum of political subjects. In an edited volume on The Anthropology of Citizenship Lazar (2013) asserts that

“citizenship names political belonging… to study citizenship is to study how we live with others in a political community” (1). The stated goal of such expansive definitions is to “denaturalize” citizenship by focusing on the diversity of lived experiences associated with (Lazar 2013, 2), as well as to “generate new ways of thinking about those ways of acting politically that are not easily captured by conventional socio-legal understandings of citizenship” (White 2008, 44). Abstracted from ideological and historical context and stripped of all normative specificity, it has come to encompass all the ways in which subjects think and act politically. This view, we are told, is a contribution to post-colonial theorizing, in that it recognizes the diversity of cultural and historical perspectives through which citizenship is understood and enacted. According to Lazar (2013) this

“analytic openness…allows for emergent rather than predefined objects of study” (4) and is able to account for “the full range of possibilities for the organization of political life that exist in any given context” (5).

Such re-conceptualizations represent a significant departure from classic liberal theories of citizenship such as that outlined by the influential British sociologists T. H. Marshall (1973

[1950]). Marshall unequivocally viewed citizenship as a legal status conferring legal rights and duties on members of a political community defined by the nation-state. Yet, while it was fundamentally a question of laws, he also understood that the status is thoroughly entangled with affective dimensions of identity and belonging. His vision of citizenship thus entailed civil, political and social rights extending beyond citizens’ relationship to the state and into the realm of civil society (Yuval-Davis 1999, 121). In this regard, Marshall set in motion the development of current theories of citizenship in which the “underlying distinction between emotional attachment and legal incorporation has become blurred” (Krause and Schramm 2011, 118). Nevertheless, his insistence on foregrounding the nation-state as the guarantor of legal rights and the locus around which identity-formation occurs (i.e. nationality), configured citizenship as the result of a distinctive set of liberal principles including territorial boundaries, state sovereignty, and a civil society comprised of individuals who hold equal rights before the law.

From the start, it was these conditions (or at least aspirations to such) that made citizenship a meaningful social and political status. Moreover, the development of these conditions, and thus the roots of citizenship itself, are conventionally located in the social development of Western

Europe. This is why nearly all theories tracing the development of citizenship follow a historical

21 arc beginning in the Ancient Greek polis, curving through medieval Britain at the signing of the

Magna Carta, gaining momentum at Westphalia in 1648 and coming to fruition in the revolutionary fervor of Philadelphia and Paris in the second half of the 18th century (see Wallerstein 2003). At each of these times and places citizenship emerged through legal processes of social and spatial boundary-making, an impulse to clearly define who was or was not included in the community of citizens and the geographic contours within which their legal rights were recognized. The advent of the modern nation-state may be seen as the culmination of this process: it is within the territory controlled by the state that its political, legal and ideological infrastructure holds sway, constructing the parameters of citizenship. Those who are members are drawn together as bearers of equal rights within a shared national territory, while non-members are deprived of rights and excluded from the political community. Thus, defined as a product of specific social and historical circumstances, citizenship does not reflect “the full range of possibilities for the organization of political life” (Lazar 2013, 5), but rather a very specific possibility whose underlying logic is at once assimilative and exclusionary.

Fully aware that what is termed “citizenship” in contemporary literature is a far cry from the empirical phenomena that gave rise to the concept, Isin (2009) calls for “a new vocabulary of citizenship”, offering a nuanced analytic framework for investigating the emergence of new sites, scales and acts “through which actors constitute themselves… as subjects of rights” (371). Isin conceives of an “activist” citizenship enacted by those who are on the outside looking in. In this view, citizenship is an ongoing “process of transformation and becoming” through which “actors transform themselves (and others) from subjects into citizens as claimants of rights” (368). Here, citizenship is constituted through ceaseless struggle on the part of individuals and groups to

22 establish a subject-position which challenges, contests and reconfigures existing power relations.

Isin explains that “the actors of citizenship are not necessarily those who hold the status” (370), but rather those who confront and “disrupt already defined orders, practices and statuses” (384).

In this light, the concept assumes a distinctly insurgent rather than institutional hue: when citizens vote or pursue legal claims in court, their actions do not constitute “acts of citizenship” since, while clearly exercising their rights, they are, nevertheless, treading already beaten paths. Deriving their force from the transformative potential inherent in the claims they make, acts of citizenship are most likely carried out by aliens, migrants, refugees and others who lack the legal status of citizen.

Although Isin rightly emphasizes the processual nature of subjectivity, as well as the various positions from which subjects stake claims to rights, the assertion that citizenship is enacted by non-citizens is at best, semantically confusing and, at worst, calls into question the heuristic value of the concept. Whether broadly defined as “a set of practices understood to constitute membership in a political community” (Lazar 2013, 4) or as the practices of those seeking to gain entry into a political community (Isin 2009), citizenship occupies the same conceptual space as subjectivity.

While the intent may be to denaturalize citizenship by emphasizing the diverse ways it is enacted and experienced, this conflation also serves to perpetuate what Hindess (2004) has called the

“valorization” of citizenship. Within modernist paradigms, citizenship signaled an enjoyment of rights, as opposed to subjecthood, which entails only obligations to authority. Thus, it designated the supposed difference between being a rights-bearing subject of a “modern” state and a rightless subject of “traditional” authority (Fischer 2007, 423). Although explicitly modernist theories have fallen out of favor, citizenship retains its association with progressive politics and ideals and thus “tends to be represented…as a desirable condition for all of humanity, in principle, if not as

23 yet in practice” (Hindess 2004, 308). Accordingly, all claims to rights, political participation and belonging are construed as forms of citizenship.

In efforts to cut through this ideological baggage, Hindess (2004) councils us to ask whether or not subjects experience the institutions and policies rhetorically constituted as “citizenship” as an improvement on their social condition. This view resonates with the work of Foucault (1991),

Scott (2012) and others, who primarily interpret discourses of citizenship as a means of normalizing new techniques of surveillance and control. Given its position as a central ideological pillar of neoliberal governance (Robins et al 2008), as well as the role it plays in organizing regimes of exclusion and rightlessness (Petryna and Follis 2015), there is good reason for the growing disquiet around idealized notions of citizenship. In this regard, if much of the motivation to transmute the concept of citizenship into subjectivity reflects a growing realization that citizens are themselves subject to intensive forms of discipline, it nevertheless carries with it the assumption that alternative subject-positions may be read as iterations of “non-normative” citizenship (Lazar 2013, 12). Thus, while conflating the two concepts may indeed provide a critical approach to studies of citizenship, it also implicitly (and often explicitly) privileges citizenship as the dominant frame of analyzing subjectivity.

As a result, studies of subjectivity all too often perpetuate what Mamdani (1996) labels “history by analogy” (9), referring to an impulse to read the unfolding of history through the lens of

European experience. Rather than historicizing citizenship as a specific subject-position that developed in the context of European history (Englund 2004), it is taken as a universal concept that is equally applicable to all times and places. In fact, citizenship, and the edifice of state-civil

24 society relations on which it rests, represent a particular form of political logic and social organization that spread around the globe through colonialism and were, in this way, superimposed atop existing political systems and modes of subjectivity. In this regard, the “valorization” of citizenship cannot be divorced, conceptually or empirically, from historical forms of colonial domination (Hindess 2004). While citizenship and subjectivity are certainly interrelated concepts,

“inflating them to encompass each other… leads to analytical vagueness” and poses insurmountable challenges to theorizing dynamic processes of subjectification (Krause and

Schramm 2011, 118).

In order to truly acknowledge the diverse processes through which subjects stake claims, exercise agency and navigate socio-political regimes, it is necessary to clearly demarcate citizenship form other kinds of subject-positions. In this way:

Citizenship becomes but one aspect of political subjectivity, and a speciﬁc one, linked to legal and institutional practices and ultimately to the nation-state. Because, if everything is subsumed under citizenship, it becomes almost impossible to distinguish between competing or intersecting forms of institutionalized power (Krause and Schramm 2011, 127).

These forms of power produce distinctive modes of logic, ideas, values and assumptions that rationalize relationships between social groups and the variously construed forms of power they are subject to. Recognizing that for many marginalized groups, the logic of citizenship holds little substantive value or is simply at odds with more salient features of their lived experience, Robins et al. (2008) point out that “in the scramble for livelihoods and security, poor people tend to adopt plural strategies; they occupy multiple spaces and draw on multiple political identities, discourses and social relationships, often simultaneously” (1079). These “tactical improvisations” (1081) give

25 subjects the flexibility to maintain multiple connections to authority through different kinds of relationships and expectations.

Two empirical examples demonstrate the benefits of disentangling citizenship from other types of claims. First, studies of “insurgent citizenship” in Brazil show how marginalized urban residents have confronted entrenched inequalities by articulating claims “within the framework of citizenship and it’s legal, ethical and performative terms” (Holston 2009, 247). For these residents, who had previously claimed limited rights as clients of powerful patrons, the logic of citizenship was quite different than the logic of clientelism. Forming civil society associations, learning to navigate the legal system and adopting the normative discourse of citizenship, they were largely successful in re-inventing themselves as legal subjects of the Brazilian state. This was not simply a matter of holding rights whereas before they did not, but of explicitly conceding to the prevailing norms and institutions of liberal citizenship such as courts, electoral politics and civil society. A conceptualization that includes clientelism as a distorted form of citizenship (i.e. “a set of practices understood to constitute membership in a political community”) would miss the degree to which insurgent citizenship represents the adoption of a completely different mode of logic, one that is inseparable from the institutional framework of the state.

Similar dynamics are evident in Lazar’s (2008) explanation of how indigenous groups in Bolivia make use of extensive patron-client networks to access material resources, jobs and services that are otherwise inaccessible when acting like citizens. During election seasons, politicians compete for votes by distributing material rewards at campaign rallies and political meetings. Co-opted into political coalitions through intricate clientelist networks, residents develop personal relationships

26 with patrons and carefully consider voting strategies as a way to “bring the political process closer to home” (Lazar 2004, 229). While for these indigenous groups, clientelism is a means of actively engaging with the state, it operates according to a logic that is quite distinct from the normative logic of citizenship. Exercising agency as clients, marginalized communities seek to overcome their invisibility in electoral politics by enacting a more direct and substantive means of claiming access to rights and resources.

These examples from Bolivia and Brazil show how contrasting modes of logic shape the overarching framework of subjectivity. Although, in the long-run, contrasting claims can shape and influence one another, these interactions only become apparent when citizenship and clientelism are understood as distinctive aspects of subjectivity. While from an emic perspective, marginalized groups may view acting as clients as a means of “substantiating citizenship” (Lazar

2004, 229), from a conceptual point of view, exchanging votes for jobs and money is a means of claiming rights that repudiates the logic of citizenship. As Holston (2009) notes, clientelism and citizenship “coexist, unhappily and dangerously, creating the mix of contradictory elements”

(253). In efforts to recognize the full complexity of subjectivity, it is necessary to attend to the contrasting modes of logic that shape people’s experience as political subjects, rejecting both the appeal of “citizenship” as a rhetorical device, as well as its conceptual primacy as the vehicle of all rights claims.

Overall, while expansive re-conceptualizations of citizenship rightly draw attention to its complexities and emphasize its emergent qualities, they also tend to stretch the concept past the point of recognition, removing it from any sort of historical specificity and disassociating it from

27 the distinctive social and political rationalities that create and sustain it. Moreover, if citizenship is no longer seen as the exclusive domain of political agency, it leaves space to ponder how noncitizen subjects may themselves claim access to rights, resources and belonging. While there can be little doubt that the meanings and practices of citizenship are manifold, by painting with too broad a brush we lose sight of ways in which contrasting subject-positions interact and influence one another. In contrast, by recognizing that political subjectivities emerge through the interplay between disparate institutional arrangements, social practices and moral discourses, we are able to attend more fully to the relational dynamics of subject-making.

De-Territorialization and Transnational Modes of Subjectivity

In efforts to theorize how contemporary globalization contributes to the emergence of new kinds of political subjects, anthropologists have focused on issues of “place-making”, the social and cultural processes through which geographic space is interpreted and organized as containers of meaning and identity (Gupta & Ferguson 1992, 7). For much of the history of anthropological theory, place served as a framing device, neatly bounding people and cultures by conjuring up primordial identities with clearly defined boundaries. In this regard, “space itself becomes a kind of neutral grid on which cultural difference, historical memory, and societal organization are inscribed” (7). Critiquing these notions of emplacement, or the embedding of political and cultural entities within geographically-bounded territories, Wolf (1982) famously argues that rather than

“a global pool hall in which the entities spin off one another like so many hard and round billiard balls” (6), peoples, cultures and places must be studied as “bundles of relationships” (3). By de-

28 naturalizing spatial boundaries, place came to be seen as a socio-historical construct rather than an ontological feature of human societies.

Thus, current studies seek to understand the construction of place by tracing contested representations of space within fluid economic, political and social systems. The “waning of place as a container of experience” (Peters 1997) and the “unbounding of the ethnographic object”

(Gupta & Ferguson 1997) reoriented studies of place-making towards a focus on the accelerated pace of globalization and its attendant socio-spatial transformations. Castells (1996) conceptualized a “space of flows” through which goods, people, services, capital, technology and ideas freely circulate. As these flows transcend locality and erode static connotations of place, many scholars came to view globalization as a process of de-territorialization in which social, political and cultural practices are increasingly dispersed across conventional borders (Appadurai

2001, Hannerz 2002). These critical approaches to spatiality reveal that meaning/difference are not lost through the erosion of geographic boundaries but are instead re-imagined and re-worked in novel ways. In this regard, place is defined as “the grounded site of local-global articulation and interaction: places are nodes within relational fields” (Biersack 2006, 16). While place was never insular, its relation to other places was generally mediated by geographic proximity (i.e. cultural diffusion, face-to-face relations of exchange, invasion, etc.); whereas today the rapid development of telecommunications and transportation technology produces instantaneous relations with far- flung localities. For Harvey (1989), this “time-space compression” is the defining feature of the global age. In this way, places acquire meaning through a particular set of linkages to other places that are “located differentially in the global network of such relations” (Massey 1993, 68).

Appadurai (1996) argues that global interconnections lead to the proliferation of “imagined worlds” in which a multitude of disparate ideas, images, texts, commodities and styles swirl and interact. These elements are refracted through global media outlets, selectively interpreted and incorporated into the beliefs and practices of local communities. It is through this mélange of contested ideas and representations that people imagine the “modern” and their relationship to it.

In this respect, Appadurai views “the work of the imagination as a constitutive feature of modern subjectivity” (3).

These imaginary worlds are shaped not only by media, but also by the movement of people across boundaries. The term “transnational” was first used to describe immigrants who live their lives across political borders while preserving a distinctive ethnic identity (Low and Lawrence-Zuniga

2003, 27). Appadurai (1996) coins the term “ethnoscape” to describe the maintenance of identity amongst transnational communities. Their “imagined worlds” are shaped by physical mobility and cultural transformations that nonetheless seek to preserve notions of place, especially as regards an ethnic homeland. Appadurai conceptualizes a “diasporic public sphere” in which place and identity are imagined, negotiated and experienced. Smith (1999) adopts a phenomenological approach that views ethnoscapes as “the territorialization of ethnic memory”, suggesting that transnational identities coalesce around remembered and imaginary experiences of the

“homeland”. Thus, the spatial configuration of the ethnoscape, whatever its parameters, forms around shared mythologies, historical narratives and memories of place.

While theories of de-territorialization and transnationalism are important contributions for understanding the full implications of globalization, they run the risk of overstating the degree to

30 which global space is an unbounded, integrated system. Indeed, nearly all forms of de- territorialization are accompanied by a subsequent process of re-territorialization in which localities are restructured and differentiated from others. Ferguson (2006) argues that while the imagery of “a space of flows” implies a wave-like movement covering all in its path, in practice, global flows “hop” from node to node, leaping over vast spaces between them. This is not to say that residents of marginalized places are completely isolated. Yet, neither are they equally global.

Ferguson posits “an inconvenient form of globalization that divides the planet as much as it unites it" (49). This relates to a broader critique of transnationalism that problematizes the emphasis on relational attributes at the expense of the unique characteristics of concrete locations (Biersack

2006, 17). For this reason, globalization and de-territorialization, are best conceived as a “dialectic of flow and closure” (Meyer & Geschiere 1999).

Drawing on these nuanced perspectives on global space, studies of transnationalism have explored practices and institutions that link people and communities in far-flung locales. These connections are comprised of observable relationships and transactions that take place within “transnational social fields” (Glick Schiller et al. 1995). While such linkages transcend geopolitical borders, they nevertheless remain “anchored” in specific national territories (Kearney 1995, 548). These local- global articulations are embodied by trans-migrants, or mobile populations that retain cultural and political affinities with their places of origins and are connected at various nodes along migratory routes. Simultaneously embedded within multiple institutional, legal and normative frameworks, trans-migrants negotiate and articulate contrasting “regimes of power” (Glick Schiller 2005). In this way, trans-migrants upset notions of sovereignty which have conventionally rested on the assumption that territory and political authority are coterminous (Vertovec 2009, 87). In order to

31 examine these “globe-spanning, yet locally grounded networks of power”, Glick-Schiller (2015) calls for a multi-scalar analysis in which “local, regional, national, pan-regional and global are not separate levels of analysis but are part of mutually constituting institutional and personal networks of unequal power” (2276).

Just as political subjects inhabit transnational space, scholars have re-conceptualized the state itself as the organization and deployment of power through a disparate array of practices, processes and effects with no geographic or institutional fixity (Trouillot 2001, Aretxaga 2003). This perspective not only suggests the spatial unbounding of states and constituent institutions, but also compels scholars to “track down” these practices, processes and effects in the widest possible range of institutional forms (Trouillot 2001, 131). Ferguson & Gupta (2002) develop the concept of transnational governmentality to explore the wide variety of institutions, capacities and techniques that work to construct transnational political subjects. At the same time, transnationalism exerts pressure “from below” as subjects make use of global connections to resist, negotiate and adapt to mechanisms of discipline and control (Smith & Bakker 2008). For many transnational subjects, mobility is an effective means of evading debilitating tendrils of power. Although the emplacement of political subjects in a bounded territory is, and indeed has always been, more of an ambition on the part of governments than an empirical reality (Gupta & Ferguson 1997), it is an effective governing technique for exerting control over populations, making them more amenable to surveillance and regulation (Scott 1998). Thus, it is as true now as ever, that mobility (or lack thereof) mediates relations between political subjects and institutions (Lelièvre & Marshall 2015).

Although de-spatialized modes of governance and increasing population mobility make it clear that subjectivities must be conceived at scales other than the nation-state, this realization has resulted in the proliferation of adjectives used to describe de-territorialized or transnational variations of citizenship. Thus, shifting territorial borders and a dispersed state apparatus have paradoxically strengthened a conceptual paradigm that historically corresponded with hard borders and sovereign nation-states. How, Sassen (2005) asks, “can such a radical change in the conditions for citizenship leave the institution itself unchanged” (83)? According to Fox (2005) only a small portion of what scholars describe as “transnational citizenship” qualifies as such if we limit the concept to include legally enforceable rights derived from membership in a cross-border political community. In this regard, many of the ideas and practices that pass as globalized versions of citizenship may in fact be better understood as alternative aspects of subjectivity that posit claims to rights and belonging outside liberal idioms of citizenship (Benhabib 2004).

Nevertheless, several important contributions to the literature do fit within a more precise conceptual framework which views citizenship in terms of the legal rights and responsibilities of the individual in relation to “modes of government that are being set up on a global scale” (Gupta

& Ferguson 2002, 990). The nebulous conglomeration of actors and institutions that comprise such modes include elements of civil society such as NGOs, aid organizations and faith-based institutions; international institutions such as the United Nations, World Bank and International

Monetary Fund; powerful multi-national corporations; and of course national governments.

Together, these institutions are primary mechanisms of neoliberal governance, a global regime of policies and ideologies that emphasize the consuming ethos of free market capitalism. The resulting forms of citizenship emerge as transnational migrants seek to claim rights and privileges

33 from this diverse array of institutions. Ong (1999) theorizes “graduated regimes of sovereignty” that produce a “flexible citizenship” in which citizens occupy transnational spaces that are differently positioned within production and financial systems and in which they enjoy differentiated civil, political and economic rights. Perhaps unsurprisingly, these configurations tend to favor elites while contributing to the “rationing” of rights among popular classes (Vertovec

2009, 92-93).

It is also important to note that theories of transnational citizenship recognize that the logic of citizenship (i.e. in its narrower, conventional guise) is shaped by the activities of non-citizens who work to challenge and reconfigure its terms and conditions. Sassen (2005) speaks of an incipient

“de-nationalized” citizenship in which “informal practices and political subjects not quite fully recognized as such can nonetheless function as part of the political landscape” (80). Although similar to Isin’s (2009) theory of activist citizenship, Sassen does not seek to expand the conceptual parameters of citizenship to engulf all aspects of subjectivity. Rather, she suggests that the efforts of undocumented “aliens” (i.e. those defined by their lack of legal citizenship) to claim rights, whether in the idiom of citizenship or through some alternative logic, have the capacity to reshape what it means to be a citizen. In this way, the activities of outsiders potentially structure the subjectivity of insiders. Taking this idea even further, Das and Poole (2004) argue that it is at the margins of sovereignty, where the state is unable to fully implement control that the contours of its power are defined and the logic of citizenship is susceptible to revision from outside actors.

Perhaps the best illustration of these ideas is offered by sub-Saharan Africa where neoliberal modes of governance have arguably progressed the farthest.

Subjectivity in Contemporary Africa

In contemporary Africa, where the ascendency of neoliberal governance has long since hollowed out the functioning of the developmentalist state, the substance of citizenship and the shifting facets of political subjectivity are increasingly ambiguous (Piot 2010). Political institutions, ideologies, and rationalities proliferate, resulting in an exceedingly wide-range of subject-positions and claims-making strategies. The “weakening of citizenship – and the correlate reconfiguration of citizen into subject” (Gomes & Abreu 2017, 156) has spawned an “immensely complex and diverse constellation of aspirations and practices” (152). While this formulation rightly distinguishes citizenship from other subject-positions, there remains a tendency to view this

“diverse constellation” as a chaotic parody of real citizenship or to romanticize it as heroic resistance to neoliberal domination. For example, where Chabal & Daloz (1999) see “the political instrumentalization of disorder” in which actors seek to “maximize their returns on the state of confusion, uncertainty and sometimes even chaos” (xviii), Diouf & Fredericks (2014) perceive an abiding creativity that animates emergent sites of contestation through which African city-dwellers stake claims to rights, resources and identities. While both perspectives may actually distort more than they reveal, taken together, they forcefully demonstrate the full range of lived and imagined practices that constitute emergent modes of subjectivity. To the extent that conditions of post- sovereignty and neoliberal governance are at their most pronounced in the African context, these processes may indeed presage incipient dynamics of subject-making on a world scale.

Neopatrimonialism

The dispositioning of authority and pluralization of institutional frameworks is, in large part, attributable to what Englebert & Hummel (2005) label “weak sovereign equilibrium” in many

African states. Emulating the trappings of sovereignty, yet in practice ceding many of their functions to international lending institutions, corporations and NGOs, the African state epitomizes transnational governmentality. Although citizens of such states may rhetorically deploy the discourses of “citizenship” that are a central ideological component of neoliberal states, NGOs and donors, their actions and experience are far removed from the normative domain of citizenship

(Robins et. al 2008). As the state retracts, politics is reduced to “the administration of things” as deliberation and contestation are replaced by “technical solutions to technical problems” (Ferguson

2006). With little room for agency and participation within formal institutional spaces, political subjects resort to a host of vernacular practices, drawing on colloquial institutions, strategies and understandings to gain access to rights and resources (Simone 2004). It is therefore not surprising that the accelerating pace of neoliberal globalization corresponds with a resurgence of traditional institutions and practices throughout Africa (Geshiere 1997, 2009). So-called “traditional” authorities, including diasporic ethnic and religious organizations, intersect with institutions of the neoliberal state.

Often, these intersections are understood to reflect the inherent incompatibility of African

“tradition” with Western modernity. This discordance is commonly explained as neopatrimonialism, a political system defined by the coexistence of two “partly interwoven, types of domination: namely, patrimonial and legal-rational bureaucratic domination” (Erdmann and

Engel 2007, 105). Patrimonial authority, associated with African systems of chieftaincy, derives

36 from power differentials within interpersonal relationships. It is thus couched in opposition to legal-rational modes of authority in which a (nominally) dispassionate bureaucracy intercedes between subjects and formal institutions. This conception does not merely posit the operation of patrimonial authority beneath, or separate from, the veneer of legal norms. Rather, the two forms of authority come to “permeate each other” as “the patrimonial penetrates the legal-rational system and twists its logic, functions, and output, but does not take exclusive control” (105).

Fueled by the presumption that neopatrimonialism represents a form of pathology, these duel logics are said to coexist as a volatile mix, producing political systems characterized by insecurity and uncertainty. The exercise of power under these conditions is said to be “erratic and unpredictable, as opposed to the calculable exercise of power embedded in universal rules” (114).

Unable to properly assess or predict the functioning of power, political subjects navigate this treacherous terrain by hedging their bets, relying on both formal and informal manifestations of power to pursue objectives. The “inherent insecurity” of the system is reproduced as contrasting strategies become “mutually reinforcing” such that “one can even speak of institutionalized informality” (105-106). This state of affairs “contributes to the creation of an environment where a disregard for existing laws and the use of institutional prerogatives for private goals is considered not only justiﬁed, but an indicator of power” (Mazzitelli 2007, 1073). Tracing the “historical roots of neopatrimonial rule in Africa” to the reliance of colonial regimes on “traditional” structures of authority and the subsequent “Africanization” of the state bureaucracy after independence (106),

Erdmann & Engel can unequivocally state that “neopatrimonial rule belongs to the realm of authoritarian regimes” while legal-rational institutions find their “logical incarnation in a democratic framework (111).

Yet, while power is always ripe for abuse, such arguments are inextricably weighed down by the malingering influence of neo-evolutionary paradigms. Indeed, tropes of indigenous despotism have a long pedigree and are remarkably durable given their shaky foundations. In fact, the recurrence of dispersed, non-hierarchical and intricately arranged balances of power is perhaps the most prominent feature of political organization in precolonial Africa (McIntosh 1999). Clarifying the oft-misunderstood work of Weber in this regard, Pitcher et al. (2009) show that much of the scholarship on Africa mistakes patrimonialism for a regime-type, rather than a source of legitimate authority. Weber’s intent was to consider “the diverse ways in which the legitimate exercise of power could be culturally framed”, not to produce a typology of political systems (126-127). In this light, patrimonial authority, much like its legal-rational counterpart, rests upon a legitimacy rooted in “the subjects claim to reciprocity” (139). Far from the exercise of raw or arbitrary power, patrimonial norms generate consent through the establishment of mutual obligations and institutionalized mechanisms of accountability:

If by patrimonialism we mean that rulers and subjects in particular times and places understand that the customs and expectations governing their relationships enable subordinates to hold leaders accountable in significant ways, then informal institutions such as patron-client relations or personal ties can complement and even reinforce formal institutions associated with democracy and rule of law while remaining distinct from them (Pitcher el al. 2009, 144).

The tendency to view African tradition as a distortion of Western ideals occludes the degree to which patrimonial norms are themselves modified and abetted through neoliberal globalization.

For many African subjects, for whom citizenship has been drained of substance, patrimonial relationships are an effective means of engaging (or perhaps evading) an otherwise sterile and soulless bureaucracy (Ferguson 2006). Moreover, while corruption is certainly rife, the

“criminalization of the state” is inextricably linked to liberal economic reforms (Bayart 1999).

Even as neoliberal logic consumes the state, it rhetorically configures the rule-of-law as an objective and objectifying deity at whose whim the contours of “politics and crime, legitimate and illegitimate agency, endlessly redefine each other” (Comaroff and Comaroff 2006, 11). Thus, the asymmetrical forms of authority that characterize neopatrimonial regimes, as well as the diverse claims-making strategies they engender, are not vestiges of tradition but constitutive features of modern neoliberal regimes in which the dividing line between public and private interests rhetorically masks the extent to which the two overlap. Whereas in traditional patrimonial systems personal relations between subjects and institutions were legitimate norms that allowed for a degree of accountability on both sides, neopatrimonial authority operates under the guise of impersonal, legal relations and thus undermines possibilities for “the subjects claim to reciprocity”.

Autochthony and Belonging

Just as neoliberal globalization destabilizes patterns of authority, it also impacts the affective dimensions of identity and belonging that shape subjectivity. The political liberalization that swept over West Africa in the 1990s unleashed virulent discourses of autochthony, which seek to excise perceived interlopers from the body politic. As nationalist projects undertaken by postcolonial states unraveled, the continent was increasingly beset by a “general obsession with belonging that seems to be the flip side of the intensifying processes of globalization” (Ceuppens & Geshiere

2005, 386). Even in states with relatively democratic political cultures, ethnic minorities find themselves in increasingly precarious relations with majority groups that mobilize around autochthonous claims to land and citizenship (Appadurai 1999; Bayart 2005; Geschiere 2009).

Seamlessly blending essentialized notions of place, identity and belonging, the concept of autochthony is a “naturalizing allegory of collective being-in-the-world” that makes it “the most essential of all modes of connection” (Comaroff & Comaroff 2001, 648-49). In this sense, claims to autochthony outweigh citizenship. While the latter may be manipulated, the former is impervious to revision.

Such discourses are intended to establish clear distinctions between authentic “natives” and duplicitous “foreigners” who conspire to usurp power and resources. It is thus a reactionary impulse that resists the homogenizing effects of citizenship. Jackson (2006) characterizes autochthony as “dangerously flexible in its politics, nervous and paranoid in its language, unmoored from geographic or ethno-cultural specificity, borrowing energy both from present conflicts and deep-seated mythologies of the past” (96). Yet, the quest for “dead certainty”

(Appadurai 1999) inevitably results in renewed ambiguity as groups that are deemed autochthonous at one geographic scale are rejected as outsiders at another. Although discourses of autochthony are often a product of elite-framing and a technique of state power, the ideas it promotes can circulate widely, fueling outbreaks of communal violence (Marshall-Fratani 2006).

Once again, it is all too easy to interpret these explosions of nativism as a reversion to “tradition” and a retreat into the “local”. Yet rather than the enforcement of closure against the incursion of global modernity, they are intimately linked to globalization, not only in a reactionary sense, but as a strategy of controlling and manipulating access to the global (Mbembe 2001, Simone 2001).

Claims to autochthony and electoral politics go hand in hand, as elites seek to control the state apparatus and, in this way, to position themselves global actors. Recent outbreaks of violence

40 between autochthones and alleged strangers in Cameroon, Senegal, Ivory Coast and Ghana were

“not so much over the terms of territorial encompassment or closure, but rather over maintaining a sense of open- endedness” (Simone 2001, 25). In this way, notions of autochthony mobilize imagined communities in efforts to control access to foreign aid, corporate investment, loans from lending institutions and opportunities for rent-seeking; avenues of power and wealth intimately linked to neoliberal globalization (Ceuppens & Geshiere 2005). Thus, autochthony must be understood as a contemporary feature of subjectivity that arises not from the inherent incompatibility of Africa with modern norms but from specific articulations with global political and economic processes.

Subjectivity as Improvisation

At the heart of both neopatrimonialism and autochthony are questions of legitimacy or what

Schatzberg (2001) calls “the moral matrix of legitimate governance” (201). In this regard, subjectivities are structured as much by underlying cultural dispositions and implicit measures of legitimacy then by formal discourses and institutions. Although these “politically subjacent” principles go largely unarticulated, they define the parameters of what is “politically thinkable”.

In Africa, Schatzberg locates these principles in the cultural models of authority and obligation that structure kinship relations, as well as a larger cosmological framework that incorporates sorcery and other alternative notions of causality. Thus, much of what constitutes the realm of the political in many African contexts is not reflected within purportedly universal categories and explanations of power. In order to understand how variously positioned groups construct their political world, we must attend to the cultural logic that rationalizes power and legitimizes

41 normative relations between subjects and institutions. As Ferguson (2006) argues, “popular legitimacy in Africa requires a perception not simply of 'good government' (efficient and technically functional institutions) but of a government that is 'good' (morally benevolent and protective of its people)" (85).

Drawing on diverse repertoires of cultural logic and legitimacy, African subjects seek to devise claims-making strategies that resonate within the complex social milieus they inhabit. Many studies, such as Diouf & Fredrick’s (2014) edited volume, emphasize the creative, experimental and even artistic forms of agency through which residents stake claims on space and resources in

African cities. Simone (2008) conceptualizes “the shifting social architectures” that are constantly formed and reformed in ongoing processes of adaptation and interaction (88). These perspectives echo work that highlights the provisional nature of subjectivity in many African cities, where ideas of citizenship contend with a multitude of alternate logics and subject-positions. Simone (2004) vividly illustrates the ways in which residents selectively make use of informal relations, associations and practices to navigate uncertainty and the precariousness of life in many urban settings. These “ephemeral social formations”, developed through experimentation and characterized by their malleability, are depicted as individual adaptations to conditions of extreme insecurity and the general inscrutability of governance. Faced with the vexing opacity of state power and the likelihood that claims made in the legal idiom of citizenship may fail to achieve to results, “identities are multiplied, transformed and put into circulation” (Mbembe 2001, 102) as the postcolonial subject “has to learn to bargain in this conceptual marketplace” (104).

Nevertheless, over the long-term, this improvisational form of subjectivity can contribute to the emergence of more or less stable patterns and trajectories. As particular claims-making strategies gain purchase within contingent contexts, the actions of individuals gradually become routinized as informal rules and expectations lend a degree of structure and order. Thus, although some improvisations are compelled purely by “imperatives of survival” (Robins et al. 2008, 1081), others are the expression of creative and ethical sensibilities with long-term implications for urban politics in Africa (Simone 2010). This recognition of an emergent structure is echoed in Piot’s

(2010) assertion that, despite the apparent disarray, processes of subjectification evince recurring modes of logic, reference points and zones of contestation.

Among the most prominent of these reoccurring themes is the desire of marginalized subjects to re-position themselves and their communities in relation to perceptions of modernity. Ferguson

(2006) shows that many African subjects make claims of membership in a global community as a means of resisting political and economic marginalization in their local context. Grasping for a share of modernity, they are simultaneously victims of and aspirants to globalization. This tragic irony is vividly portrayed in Mantz’s (2008) ethnography of artisanal miners in eastern Congo.

Astoundingly creative and resourceful, the impoverished miners find ways to evade the exploitative policies of state regulatory institutions, as well as the predatory practices of extra- statal warlords and militias who control the mining zones. While supplying the global economy with rare-earth minerals that power the digital age, they live in corroded tin shacks clustered beneath unused electrical wires in hopes that one day they will be connected to the grid.

The complexities of this dynamic are reflected in competing analytic perspectives. Demissie

(2007) asserts that informal, improvisatory practices “superimpose indigenous cultures, institutions, traditions, norms and practices”, decolonizing perceptions of modernity by showing that it need not follow prescribed routes of westernization (8). Others contend that this view romanticizes or, at the very least, glosses over broader structures of global inequality and exploitation. As Ferguson (2006) puts it: “what is lost in the overly easy extension of an ideal equality to "modernities" in the plural are the all too real inequalities that leave most Africans today excluded from the economic and institutional conditions that they themselves regard as modern” (167). Bridging these divides, Youngstedt (2004) does not weigh in on whether alternative modernities are emancipatory or exploitative but attends to the ways in which they are constructed and experienced, showing how Hausa migrants in Niger use traditional conversation- groups to discuss, debate and define “the modern”. Overall, while improvisation and experimentation are central aspects of subjectivity in contemporary Africa, they are not merely short-term, means-to-an-end calculations. Rather, they attain a degree of coherence as attempts to define and re-position subjects in relation to modern values, aspirations and practices.

Mobility and Migration

Perhaps the most significant strategy of pursuing the modern is physical mobility. Actual population movement, as well as an awareness of the possibilities for future movement, have led to an upsurge in migration and experiences of displacement (Mbembe 2008, 108). For many people, especially African youth, the ability to freely cross borders is taken as “a universal right, because the law of persons is superior to that of states and nations. . . There is a natural right, a

44 fundamental freedom of each individual to circulate and live without constraint in the country of his/her choice (Ba 2008, 49, quoted in Whitehouse 2012). These perceptions resonate with Piot’s

(2010) assertion that for many aspirational migrants, self-imposed exile is the ultimate goal of political subjecthood and the only viable route through which they may come to embrace global modernity.

While a burgeoning literature focuses on migratory routes leading out of the continent, “the intricacies of mobilities and identities within Africa are largely ignored” (Nyamnjoh 2013, 653).

Foregrounding experiential aspects, many studies of mobility in Africa explore how the emotional, relational and social dimensions of migration impact perceptions of belonging, as well as attendant re-spatializations of polity and community. While such movement invariably brings new social relations into being, it rarely entails a severance of ties to home and kin. Thus, rather than a rupture, movement is experienced as an elaboration of place and community. Drawing on the earlier work of Kopytoff (1987), Nyamnjoh (2013) argues that the relationship of intra-African migrants to the peoples and places they encounter are defined by constantly shifting “frontier realities… that shape connections and disconnections, and produce, reproduce and contest distinctions between insiders and outsiders as political and ideological constructs” (654). In this way, contemporary mobility in the African context is not merely a process of physical movement, but a cultural vector guiding processes of belonging and becoming.

Recognizing migration and mobility as prominent “sites of transformation” in which new subjects are created, Bird (2016) looks to influential “philosopher statesmen” such as Julius Nyerere, and

Léopold Sédar Senghor, who, at the dawning of the postcolonial era, sought to construct versions

45 of citizenship that extended “beyond the nation-state”. Claiming that “African perspectives are underrepresented in citizenship narratives”, she argues that their ideologies of pan-Africanism contributed to understandings of citizenship tied to the village and the continent rather than the nation (262). Bird’s argument resonates with Balibar’s (2012) assertion that “national identity, however effective it has been in modern history, is only one of the possible institutional forms of the community of citizens, and it neither encapsulates all of its functions nor completely neutralizes its contradictions” (438).

While rightly emphasizing African agency in constructing new spatialities of belonging, these perspectives nevertheless persist in reading all political subjectivities as iterations of citizenship.

In contrast, Whitehouse (2012) argues that the concept of strangerhood more accurately captures the social dynamics of Africa’s internal diasporas. Presenting a detailed ethnographic analysis of migrants from the Sahel living in the city of Brazzaville in the Republic of Congo, he describes strangerhood as “a powerful idea” that shapes interactions between migrants and their Congolese hosts (22). Principles of strangerhood impose distinctive obligations and taboos on strangers, limiting opportunities for integration and restricting their freedom in the host society. In this way:

Constructions of strangerhood have a determining effect on concepts of citizenship and belonging, and constitute an unwritten code to which migrants must conform, influencing migrants’ imaginings of their place in the host society and their relationship with their communities of origin (Whitehouse 2012, 22).

Arguing that these constructions hold distinctive resonance in African societies, Whitehouse amply demonstrates that strangerhood does not fall neatly into the dichotomy of citizens and non- citizens but represents a distinctive social condition that is vital for understanding intra-African

46 migration. Nevertheless, as will be discussed further in the next chapter, his conceptualization largely configures strangerhood as a counterpoint to the Pan-African citizenship envisioned by

Bird. In this regard, he depicts it as a watered-down correlate of autochthony; perhaps stopping short of violence or outright expulsion of outsiders, but nonetheless limiting rights and belonging on the basis of “primordial ties to territory” (220). As will be seen, this perspective significantly misconstrues the original meanings and practices associated with traditional strangerhood.

Moreover, it fails to consider how it may be applied to migrants and other mobile populations outside of the African context.

This broader point underscores a need to not only think through the ways in which strangerhood and/or citizenship may shape the incorporation of migrants into host societies outside of Africa, but also how traditional forms of authority are themselves undergoing significant transformations in response to globalization and transnational mobility. First, it is a mistake to assume that chiefly authority is a lingering remnant of tradition that will inevitably be phased out. Whether “invented, distorted, appropriated or not, chieftaincy remains part of the cultural and political landscapes, and is constantly negotiating and renegotiating with new encounters and changing material realities”

(Nyamnjoh 2014, 5). Investigating the changing institution of chieftaincy in Ghana, Kleist (2011) shows how “return chiefs” who have completed sojourns abroad capitalize on their global connections while struggling to balance a respect for tradition.

Beyond chieftaincy, Simone (2001) has argued that “long-standing traditions of social regulation and collective effort are being reworked as elements in elaboration of spaces…that are trans-local and transnational” (37). A prime example of this process is supplied by Clark’s (2003) discussion

47 of globalized Asanteman, a transnational community based on Asante ethnicity. Rooted in blood kinship, matrilineal descent and Asante cosmology, rights of belonging in Asanteman are irreducible moral imperatives that transcend citizenship. Subordinate to this “naturalized ideology” of belonging, migration and even the acquisition of foreign citizenship do not impinge the “rootedness” of Asante identity in the fertile, cultural soil of their ancestral homeland (101).

Asanteman associations in western cities establish direct linkages to the Asantehene, often participating more actively in the affairs of chieftaincy than the Ghanaian state. As the significance of nationality as a meaningful symbol of identity and belonging is diminished, it is increasingly viewed in a purely instrumental capacity, as either a barrier to be overcome or a tool to be used.

Asante migrants who can secure foreign residence or citizenship strive to extend these rights and opportunities as far as possible, sharing insights for obtaining visas and helping members of their social network to acquire proper documentation. Securing legal residency in Europe or North

America is often valued precisely because it smooths the way for transit back and forth to

Asanteland. Although dual citizenship is increasingly encouraged by the Ghanaian government, some Asante migrants are willing to give up Ghanaian citizenship in exchange for full legal rights in the host country. Since membership in the globalized Asanteman is insoluble, the exchange is made palatable, allowing migrants to substantiate legal rights in the host country without giving up the more meaningful measure of belonging.

As the Asante case amply demonstrates, contemporary forms of African mobility involve connectivity and continuity rather than rupture (Bruijn et al. 2001). For this reason, studies of migration out of the continent focus on the formation of a “diasporic consciousness” linking migrants to an imagined homeland (Manger & Assal 2006) and processes of identity construction

48 that revolve around “negotiations of difference” and “re-definitions of self” that occur in the host country (Okpewho & Nzegwu 2009). While many imagined communities that inflect notions of citizenship and belonging are construed along ethnic and national lines, these forms of difference are often supplemented or even supplanted by other methods of affiliation. For example, Dijk

(2004) traces the emergence of Pentecostalism as an important dimension of diasporic belonging among Ghanaian migrants, while Meyer (2018) posits religion in general as an emergent “frontier zone” structuring cultural encounters between African migrants and European hosts. These diasporic practices can also generate tension, as efforts to rehabilitate traditional ethnic, religious and political communities deviate from recognized norms and expectations of the host society

(Olufunke & Vaughan 2012, 6). For example, West African migrants in New York City contest municipal regulations by claiming rights to occupy public space and to work in the informal economy by virtue of their position within transnational politico-religious networks (Stoller 2002).

Contributions to the Literature

Overall, this literature evinces the need for a broader frame of analysis in thinking about the political subjectivity of diasporic African populations living abroad. Studies of internal migration within Africa have made significant progress, distinguishing between politics as a configuration of formal institutions associated with the de-spatialized (neoliberal) state and the political as a broader domain encompassing the full spectrum of contested claims, power differentials and forms of agency (see Jabri 2013). The framework of neopatrimonialism explains how politics and the political articulate as neoliberal subjects navigate contrasting and intersecting forms of authority.

Similarly, studies that associate discourses of autochthony with globalization show how

49 contrasting perceptions of belonging in the realms of formal politics (a question of citizenship status) and the political (a question of autochthony) inflect one another. The dissonance that characterizes these competing frameworks produces fragmented forms of subjectivity in which claims-making strategies are improvisational and aspirational, giving subjects the flexibility to both engage with and, to some degree, resist forms of domination and control. It is within these spatial and political contexts that intra-African migration creates diasporas and transnational communities. While such social formations may be alternately assessed as versions of citizenship or strangerhood, limiting analysis to one or the other loses sight of the ways they interact and influence one another.

Yet, critical insights yielded by studies of subjectivity in African settings have not been matched by concerted efforts to theorize diverse processes of subject-making in other global contexts.

Although it is recognized that traditional institutions and subjectivities shape patterns of migration and incorporation in Western contexts as well, the logic of strangerhood is neglected (or, at least understood merely as the negation of citizenship). Thus, discussions of diasporic consciousness and negotiations of difference in host societies are largely framed in terms of their relationship

(either convergence or divergence) to citizenship. Given our understanding of how disparate modes of logic guide processes of subject-making in Africa, the inability to conceptualize transnational modes of subjectivity in other settings as anything other than altered or partial versions of citizenship is all the more apparent.

In efforts to clearly distinguish between the myriad meanings, aspirations and practices that shape transnational migrants, the current study takes as its point of departure the possibility that emergent

50 global subjects neither fully conform to the organizing logic of citizen nor engage solely in a host of improvisatory techniques with little coherence or sustainability. What other possibilities for stable social and political formations present themselves? Through what structural dynamics are they produced? How might these constructs facilitate or impede claims to rights and socio-spatial mobility? Subsequent chapters approach these questions through the lens of strangerhood, laying out both the methodological strategy used to do so and the ethnographic evidence they produce.

In this way, I build upon and contribute to anthropological theory by considering how the logic of strangerhood shapes processes of subject-making in contemporary global contexts.

Chapter 3. Research Design and Methodology

Studies that intend to address questions of subjectivity must first come to terms with the methodological challenges such a goal impels. Recalling Ortner’s conceptualization of subjectivity as the interaction between “the ensemble of modes of perception, affect, thought, desire, fear and so forth that animate acting subjects” and the institutional and social formations that “shape, organize and provoke” them (2005, 31), this project eschews stringent procedures of hypothesis testing and the quest to establish statistical significance in favor of an open-ended design more suited to the complexities of human thought and experience. As Schatz (2009) incisively notes,

“insider meanings and complex contextuality cannot be plugged into a regression equation” (315).

Nevertheless aware of the need for rigor and systematic analysis, I rely on the methodological framework of grounded theory, a set of investigative techniques and explanatory procedures that combine inductive and deductive methods of analysis (see Strauss & Corbin 1997). First, data was collected and coded into a set of emergent themes. Using systematic probing and comparisons, these themes were then used to construct a series of analytic memos, which were, in turn, successively expanded, refined and integrated (Miles & Huberman 1994, 134-137). As I collected further data, subsequent collection and analysis protocols were modified to evaluate the ideas, patterns and sub-questions that emerge from the constantly updated memos. Accordingly, data- collection and analysis were not conducted as separate phases of research but were instead integrated aspects of the design. This approach maintained the flexibility to pursue ideas as they

52 developed, thereby allowing emergent themes to shape data collection, as well as the analytic process of coding, memoing and theory-building (see Agar 2006).

In order to reflect the process of grounded theory, the research procedures are here presented in a narrative format that more accurately conveys the iterative, abductive and recursive aspects of my methodology (see Agar 2006).

Methodological Framework

Having reviewed the anthropological literature on migration and subjectivity, the Zongo offered a particularly intriguing study population for several reasons. Although many Zongo residents have been living in Ghana for several generations, their relation to the native Akan communities of

Southern Ghana (including the Ga ethnic group in Accra and the Asante in Kumasi) continues to be defined by traditional stranger-host relations. Second, Ghana is commonly seen as an exemplar of political developments throughout the region. Not only was it the first Sub-Saharan nation to gain independence in 1957, it was also among the first to undergo intensive neoliberal reforms in the 1990s. The Zongo community’s dual status as both citizens and strangers seemed likely to carry important implications beyond the borders of Ghana.

My project is designed with three overarching methodological considerations in mind. These include the types of data needed, the field-sites to include and an appropriate analytic framework.

First, I was aware that the research questions require rich ethnographic evidence. Reflecting on the vital role of ethnography in studying the ways power is produced and experienced, Kubik (2009) compellingly argues for the use of methods capable of attending to the culturally-constructed

“realities” that “locate power…in atypical places, beyond the world of formal institutions” (36).

Thus, data collection would entail immersion in the social and cultural worlds inhabited by Zongo informants, as well as the ability to develop rapport and inspire trust among community members.

With this in mind, I decided to gather ethnographic data in places and contexts where study participants felt relaxed and free to naturally engage in conversation with a minimum of constraints.

The second consideration was the need to conduct a multi-sited investigation. In order to effectively investigate the transnational and global dimensions of Zongo subjectivity, it would be necessary to follow migratory routes from Ghana to the US. While the research questions necessitate that an analytic distinction be made between Zongo populations in Ghana and US, the study is not comparative and thus largely avoids consideration of variation between sites. Instead, the study population is assumed to occupy transnational space, conducting their affairs at multiple sites and scales simultaneously. This assumption is supported by a wide body of literature emphasizing the need to attend to local-global articulations and shifting perceptions of place among transnational communities. Moreover, Sassen (2005) identifies nodal points within integrated global networks as primary loci in which innovative modes of subjectivity are likely to emerge. The methodological strategy of studying complex cultural phenomena by following themes or topics across space derives from the “posited logic of association or connection among sites” (Marcuse 1995, 105). In this case, that logic is constituted through shared experiences of place and mobility, as well as ongoing social intercourse between individuals “anchored” at specific nodes. To this end, a multi-sited ethnographic approach would make it possible to make connections between people and ideas as they shift between social contexts and geographic scales

(see Coleman & Hellermann 2011). Accordingly, I chose to include five separate locations with large and diverse Zongo communities.

The last preliminary consideration was to adopt the analytic framework of “encounter” to incorporate an added degree of focus to the collection and analysis process. Given the goal of understanding how new subjectivities emerge, the genre of research which Faier & Rofel (2014) label “ethnographies of encounter”, which place “relational approaches to power at the center of ethnographic analysis”, seemed particularly apt (364). Within this framework, cultural production and transformation occur through every day “encounters” or “engagements across difference” that bring people and things embedded in distinctive social and cultural worlds into relation with one another. A strength of this approach is that while power disparities are taken as a key feature of the relational dynamics that shape cultural processes, these relations are not understood in terms of domination and subordination but as processes of “negotiation, resistance, awkward resonance, misunderstanding, and unexpected convergence” (365). In this way, the framework of encounter offered a way of thinking about emergent meanings, symbols and subjectivities not as the result of strategic engagement but of contingency, improvisation and unforeseen outcomes. For example, rather than assuming that distinctive cultural worlds are brought together through the creation of shared understandings, Tsing (2005) deploys the notion of “friction” to emphasize the creative capacities of misperception, dissonance and confusion. Drawing insight from these perspectives,

I developed provisional observation and interview protocols, focusing on the ways in which the relational dynamics of encounter are reflected in everyday discourses, practices and interactions.

Putting these considerations into practice, I collected data through interactions with Zongo residents at five field-sites, starting in Kumasi, Ghana and expanding to include cities with relatively large Zongo populations in the US, including New York, Chicago, Washington DC and

Columbus, Ohio. In all five locations, I conducted semi-structured ethnographic interviews and participant-observation methods. Using inductive techniques suggested by Spradley (1979), the interviews were only loosely structured, allowing participants to respond with a minimum of guidance. In this way, each set of responses reflected the proclivities of the individual (s) involved.

The initial interview questions (i.e. before they were revised in the iterative process) asked respondents to describe and explain the rights and responsibilities of the Zongo community. How are they perceived, enacted, enforced, contested and justified? I digitally recorded interviews using a LiveScribe Smartpen and then transcribed them word-for-word into a Microsoft Word document.

Interview durations varied widely, lasting from anywhere between forty minutes to two hours. In addition to the interviews, I used participant-observation techniques to produce richly detailed fieldnotes in a variety of social contexts. Following the advice of Emerson et al. (2011), I first wrote abbreviated “jottings”, capturing purely descriptive details of social scenes, as well as my personal perceptions, insights and questions as they occurred. Later, these notes, supplemented by my recollection of the encounters, were cleaned and edited into narrative descriptions of social scenes, events and interactions. In their final version, I converted these fieldnotes into analytic compositions that described and explained sensory details, specific actions, contexts, behaviors, discourses, social dynamics and perceptions.

Taken together, the finalized fieldnotes and interview transcripts constituted textual data that lent itself to theme analysis techniques designed to identity ideas, patterns, imagery, symbols,

56 reasoning and metaphors contained in the text (see Ryan and Bernard 2003). I also relied on specialized techniques to reveal implicit meanings and unspoken assumptions that underlie patterns of speech (see Quinn 2005). Focusing on instances of “encounter” in which different values, ideas and practices were brought together, I combed through the texts for instances of conflict; contradiction; methods of social control; management of interpersonal ties; the maintenance of status; authority; difference; and problem-solving. This theory-driven approach was balanced by inductive techniques such as: the search for repetitions; indigenous typologies that were unfamiliar or evocative; analysis of metaphors and analogies; assessment of transitions or naturally occurring shifts in the logic and content of speech and behaviors; constant comparisons of similarity and difference across units of data; classifications of kinds of relationships between concepts and ideas; and, assessments of what is missing, assumed or not mentioned. The relative importance, and therefore level of scrutiny, accorded each theme depended on the ubiquity of its force and occurrence across disparate ideas and practices. Finally, following Strauss & Corbin

(1990), interrelationships between themes were taken to represent classificatory schema according to which cultural concepts are compared, contrasted and ordered (61).

Data Collection and Analysis in Ghana

With these broad considerations in place, I carried out the first phase of research during two months of fieldwork in Kumasi, Ghana. Data collection centered on the central neighborhoods of Ayigya

Zongo and Aboabo. Both are densely-populated, informal areas, where many residents lack access to public services. Improvised electric wires adorn the tops of tin-roofed, cement block buildings.

Major roads are paved and lined along both sides with stalls of varying size and sophistication run

57 by small-scale merchants. Branching off from the main roads, the streets are not laid out in any pattern, but instead twist and turn in a confusing network of unpaved roads, alley-ways, and footpaths. Most residents live in small family compounds. Entry through a street-side door generally leads to a courtyard surrounded by separate living quarters for the various families that make up the household. Common public spaces include a number of mosques, informal markets, and dusty fields where local youth gather to play football. There is a frenetic energy in the air; motion and lively interactions abound.

Amidst this social landscape, I collected ethnographic data in situ as Zongo residents went about their daily affairs. Accompanied by two research assistants from nearby Kwame Nkrumah

University, we walked the streets of the Zongo, striking up conversations and answering questions from curious residents. We were a peculiar sight: two university students conspicuously overdressed in slacks and dress shoes and an ignorant foreigner who could only smile and nod when asked questions in Hausa or Twi. When a group of children began singing to us as we passed their schoolyard, the assistants, Joseph and Justice, tried and failed to suppress their laughter.

“What are they singing about”? I ask. “They are singing to you” Joseph replies with a grin,

“because you are an obruni, a white man”! My protestations were drowned out by the second verse.

Over the course of my research, I came to understand that, in Ghana, all lighter-skinned foreigners were called obruni. As an African-American, I was somewhat taken aback to have become a white man at some point during the plane ride across the Atlantic. Although always spoken in a friendly, slightly teasing tone, the label established a social distance between myself and the people I spoke

58 with in the Zongo. Justice and Joseph informed me that, from their perspective, this distance was a good, even necessary, thing. They were initially hesitant to come into the Zongo, a place that can be quite intimidating for non-residents. Yet, as an obruni, I enjoyed special protection since residents were honor-bound to show hospitality to foreigners and guests. In any case, my newly- acquired status proved a useful conversation starter. Not only were people curious about my presence, since few foreigners choose to wander around the Zongo, but as soon as my accent identified me as an American, they were even more eager to talk.

The cultural and racial differences separating me from Zongo residents were for the most part overshadowed by language barriers, which inhibited direct inter-personal discussions. While many

Zongo people speak basic English, few are fluent enough to hold a full conversation. Moreover,

Joseph and Justice did not speak Hausa, the primary language of the Zongo. Therefore, conversations and interviews were often conducted through a series of translations. Shyly approaching people engaged in public activities, either Joseph or Justice would begin with a rather stiff and formal greeting in Twi, the Asante language. Although I could not understand their words as they explained our interests in interviewing the potential participant, I quickly grew accustomed to the patterns of interaction and I knew that when the individual indicated that we should take a seat, they had agreed to be interviewed. Although these circumstances limited my ability to ask follow-up questions or to take an active role in group discussions, I believe they also imbued responses with an added degree of authenticity. Rather than the interlocutor, I was an unobtrusive background presence.

We spoke with craftsmen as they worked the loom or made leather goods; proud matrons as they shopped; Qur’anic students leaving the mosque; youths loitering on corners and football pitches; old men exchanging stories in the shade; oily mechanics fixing motorcycle engines; and street venders hawking their wares. In total, thirty-six formal interviews were conducted with an equal number of male and female participants. Youths younger than eighteen were formally excluded.

Yet, this number belies the actual number of participants. As we largely conducted interviews in public spaces, our discussions often attracted on-lookers who would frequently interject with their own perspectives, corrections, jokes, remarks and insights. In this sense, many of the interviews resembled public focus-groups in which a diverse transection of the community discussed and debated questions from a wide variety of perspectives. Mirroring the linguistic diversity of the

Zongo, these interactions were polyglot affairs, with participants often translating back and forth between English, Hausa and Twi. Although our public interviews quite likely unfolded less systematically than Charmaz (2006) has in mind when she advocates for a constructivist grounded theory in which data is collaboratively produced by researchers and participants, the effect, I believe, was much the same.

After mornings and afternoons collecting data, evenings were devoted to coding and analysis. In the afternoon, we would return to the Nkrumah University campus where Joseph and Justice carefully translated recorded interviews into English. Later, as I listened to the translated interviews, I wrote expanded field-notes from memory, capturing the contexts and describing the participants. After a few days, I began the coding process, identifying recurring themes and ideas.

In order to pursue emergent connections and hypotheses, I progressively updated interview questions and kept a running list of potential contexts to observe. These codes gradually developed

60 into coherent memos. After several had taken shape, we conducted lengthy interviews with Al-

Haji Mohammed Basou, the chief of Ayigya Zongo and Sultan Omar Farouk Saeed, the Sarkin, paramount Zongo chief for the Ashanti region, along with his entire cabinet of ministers. I used these discussions as an opportunity to test ideas reflected in the memos, re-assessing them from the perspective of the traditional authorities who hold sway over the community.

The recursive process of data collection and analysis in Kumasi continued to the point of theoretical saturation, the point at which additional data fit within existing codes and ceased to contribute to the further elaboration of memos (see Glaser & Strauss 2009). This approach is consistent with purposive nonprobability sampling and, in general, serves to justify the internal validity of claims and conclusions based on such methods (Bernard 2011, 154-155). In addition, the pursuit of theoretical saturation allowed me to revise and refine the sampling strategy and data- collection protocols to fill in aspects of the memos that were inconclusive or incomplete. After six weeks in Kumasi, and a few additional ones spent in Accra, I returned to the US with the names and contact information for friends and relatives of people I had met in Ghana who now lived in

New York City.

Data Collection and Analysis in the United States

Initially, the US phase of the study was to focus solely on Zongo migrants in New York City, the largest population outside of Ghana. However, it soon became apparent that in order to truly account for the Zongo experience in the US, it was necessary to expand the inquiry to include other cities and communities. For reasons described in greater detail in Chapter 5, New York holds unique symbolism in Zongo perceptions of place and thus is somewhat unique as compared to

61 other US locales. While many of the same techniques and procedures used in Kumasi were replicated here, there were also significant differences. Whereas, in Kumasi, we approached participants more or less at random in public settings, in the US it was necessary to make connections among a network of specific individuals. In this regard, I was aided by a Ghanaian professor at Ohio State University who is well-known in Zongo communities across the country.

On his advice, I expanded my field-sites to include other cities. I relied on the contacts he provided to initiate the “snowballing” that made subsequent respondent-driven sampling possible. In each city, I set up interviews with a handful of the professor’s contacts and then asked them to connect me with others who may be willing to speak with me.

Although this strategy proved quite effective, it also changed the composition of participants, as well as the social basis on which they participated in the study. In Kumasi, aside from the chiefs and their advisors, Zongo residents presumed to speak only for themselves or, at least, to give their personal take on wider perceptions in the community. In America, since many of the participants were leading figures in US-based Zongo associations, they readily assumed the role of spokesmen, speaking on behalf of others. On one hand, this change provided ready access to specialized informants with a great deal of cultural knowledge and personal insight, yet it also had the undesired effect of skewing the sample towards older males. While at least some younger males

(under 35) were included, female voices were almost entirely occluded from the US narrative. In addition, since all the participants I spoke with in the US were fluent in English, I was able to have more fluid, in-depth conversations and interactions. In addition, roughly half of the US interviews were conducted in a private setting.

Nevertheless, I managed to attain much of the organic, communal feel of the fieldwork in Kumasi by spending time in Zongo masjids in the US. Doubling as mosques and community centers, the masjids provided an opportunity to observe and participate in informal discussions and social interaction. In these settings, when groups gathered to discuss the questions I posed, I would often retreat from the discussion, listening attentively as community members debated and discussed their lives, experiences and perspectives among themselves. These sessions yielded insights that were harder to obtain in formal, individualized interviews. In addition to the masjids, interviews were held at public libraries, restaurants, coffee shops, private homes and, in Chicago, at a

Ghanaian festival. Whether at Sweet Mama’s, a lively soul food eatery in Harlem or a quiet suburban home in Woodbridge, Virginia, participants were eager to share their perceptions of life in the US, the experience of migration and their goals for the future.

Zongo communities are much more dispersed in the US, as compared to the segregated enclaves of urban Ghana. Nevertheless, community members tend to gather in particular neighborhoods or parts of town. In New York, masjid leaders estimate there are seven to ten thousand Zongo residents, with most clustered in The Bronx and Newark, New Jersey. In the Washington DC area, many have moved to the Northern Virginia suburb of Woodbridge, where leaders estimate that up to sixty families are affiliated with the local Zongo association. In Columbus, Ohio a new masjid on the East side of town has attracted several new arrivals to the area, adding to a community that is estimated at thirty to forty families. In Chicago, Zongo residents live on the South Side and boast two or three hundred families. Although each city hosts an autonomous Zongo association, social networks across the country are intricately connected. There is seldom more than one or two degrees of separation between any two individuals. I was personally encompassed within this

63 network: being able to speak of familiar people and places in far-flung locales was an effective means of establishing trust and rapport with study participants. Overall, rather than disaggregating populations or field-sites, my goal was to gain a comprehensive understanding of diverse perspectives. In this regard, the four field-sites are broadly representative of the distinctive, yet interrelated contexts of Zongo life in the US.

At each of the four US field-sites, I once again used semi-structured interviews and participant observation to generate verbatim transcripts and edited fieldnotes, revising later interview and observation protocols to probe for specific evidence and clarify emergent patterns so that insights from each inform the other (Agar 1980). The iterative process progressively combined data and analysis from each site. Thus, I completed collection and analysis in New York before doing so in

Columbus, Washington DC and Chicago respectively. In addition, I conducted six extended interviews for the purpose of constructing life-history narratives for influential leaders including officers in the Zongo associations, family patriarchs and imams. Using interactive techniques developed by Plummer (2001), interviews lasted between an hour and a half and two hours, covering biographical topics such as place of birth, ancestry, migration history, family ties and occupations, as well as personal feelings, motivations, events, circumstances and decision-making.

These personalized narratives were not coded along with the rest of the data, but were analyzed separately, as a means of adding greater time-depth and perspective by considering the roles of structure and agency in shaping the trajectory of life courses.

At the conclusion of the grounded theory process, I had constructed six detailed, analytic memos, each organized under a major theme and containing several sub-themes. While many were directly

64 related to my initial questions regarding ideas, values and practices related to citizenship and strangerhood, some were, on the surface, only tangentially related. Nevertheless, as recurring emic concepts that reflect the collective disposition of informants, I worked to find connections, sorting and re-examining each memo and searching for interrelationships between them. For example, the first memo, entitled “Connotations of Zongoness” included a host of sub-themes that related to the ways in which informants discussed and explained the meanings of Zongoness. Within this memo there were many tangential references to schooling and education, none of which explicitly explained the relationships between schooling and Zongoness. It was not until I examined this issue in relation to another memo, “The Politics of Belonging”, that I began to understand that the experience of going to school is, for many Zongo residents, a defining site of contestation in which the contours of Zongoness are established. In addition to re-visiting earlier ideas and hypotheses in light of later ones, I also sought out and considered cases that did not fit expected patterns and expectations. These “negative cases” challenged proposed explanations and therefore suggested new perspectives and possibilities to be considered and clarified (see Bernard 2011, 436).

Eventually, I developed linkages and relationships between each major theme and several sub- themes. Taken together, these formed the outline of my arguments regarding the logic of strangerhood. In order to present these arguments, I gathered quotes from the transcripts that were particularly illustrative of the broader themes and interconnections. I also sought to add perspective by going back through my fieldnotes to identify the contexts in which they were spoken by informants. In this way, each theme was associated with a series of quotes. As I wrote up the results, the quotes came to serve as a framework around which I based my broader arguments.

Each of the quotations, as they appear in Chapters Five and Six, emerge directly from the social

65 contexts in which they occurred. Rather than providing detailed context for each quote, I have chosen to present them in a thematic way, so that they demonstrate the development of my arguments. For this reason, a quote from a man interviewed in Yankasa Masjid in the Bronx in

March 2017 may appear next to a quote from an informant in Columbus in March 2018. Therefore, the quotations are not organized according to time and place. Instead, I have used them to illustrate themes and to support the logical progression of the analysis. Although this technique distorts the sequence of events and may somewhat impede the narrative appeal of the ethnographic chapters, on the whole, it reflects the integrated, iterative process of grounded theory.

Before presenting the results of this analysis, I offer a critical reading of the literature on the development of strangerhood in precolonial Africa. This chapter will add depth and perspective to the subsequent presentation of the ethnographic material by clarifying what exactly is meant by

“the logic of strangerhood” and what ideas, practices and claims-making strategies may be associated with it.

Chapter 4: The Cultural History of Strangerhood in West Africa

While it has long been evident that mechanisms for the incorporation of outsiders were integral components of social formation in precolonial Africa, this understanding has not translated into greater clarity or precision as regards the concept of strangerhood itself. In the influential work

Strangers in African Societies (1979), Levine laments the ambiguity that had, even then, spawned a “sprawling and confused” literature (22). Forty years later, the concept remains abstracted almost to the point of irrelevance. In contemporary usage it is interchangeable with migrants, aliens, foreigners, etc., encompassing any manner of variously construed “others” (see Cohen 2017).

Moreover, it is often defined in opposition to citizenship, implying exclusion and the denial of rights. In part, this sustained ambivalence speaks to the disparate social and historical contexts in which it is invoked, making it difficult to devise a conceptualization that is applicable beyond limited temporal and geographic scopes. At the same time, it is the undeniable resonance that strangerhood holds with a range of social and cultural phenomena that makes it both intriguing and widely relevant.

Drawing on written accounts, archaeological evidence, oral traditions and ethno-historical material, this chapter offers a critical reading of the literature on strangerhood in precolonial

Africa, seeking to re-situate its emergence within specific socio-historical and cultural context.

First, re-visiting the original concept devised by the German sociologist Georg Simmel, I argue that while it remains particularly insightful, it also set the stage for the vagueness that surrounds the concept today. In order to cut through this ambiguity, I discuss how configurations of

67 territoriality and power in precolonial Africa contributed to the rise of strangers as particular kinds of political subjects. Next, I look at the role of two influential variants of strangerhood in West

African history: the nyamakalaw indigenous craft specialists and the Dyula, Islamic merchant- castes in the southern forest regions. In the conclusion, I argue for a specific understanding of strangerhood as a unique mode of cultural logic that invokes six underlying principles of social interaction.

Re-visiting Simmel

In his ruminations on The Stranger (1950[1908]), Simmel laid the foundations for the subsequent uses of strangerhood in social theory. For him, “strangeness” is a specific form of social interaction characterized by “the unity of nearness and remoteness” (402). In this regard, the stranger is:

The person who comes today and stays tomorrow. He is, so to speak, the potential wanderer: although he has not moved on, he has not quite overcome the freedom of coming and going. He is fixed within a particular spatial group, or within a group whose boundaries are similar to spatial boundaries. But his position in this group is determined, essentially, by the fact that he has not belonged to it from the beginning, that he imports qualities into it, which do not and cannot stem from the group itself (Simmel 1950, 402).

Echoing this view, essayist Rebecca Solnit (2017) points out the inextricable linkages between two kinds of borders, “those that limit where we can go and those that limit what people can do to us”

(5). Here, the intersections of power and mobility are laid bare, showing that Simmel was not simply using a spatial metaphor to describe social relations, but to demonstrate the degree to which social and spatial boundaries are mutually constituted. Strangers are simultaneously near and remote precisely because, in contrast to today’s connotation, they are not unfamiliar to their hosts.

Rather, they are known and recognized elements of society, exotic, yet familiar to the degree that their presence provides a comforting structure according to which the social world is oriented.

Thus, strangerhood paradoxically configures the contours of the very boundaries that it transgresses. In this sense, Simmel’s assertion that the analysis of strangers offers a window into the fundamental ordering principles of society continues to ring as true as ever.

Three particular aspects of stranger-host relations, each with their own “special proportion” of contradictory elements and “reciprocal tensions” (408) are crucial for understanding Simmel’s view. First, the stranger’s cultural otherness does not destabilize the moral and political order of host society. As long as he is considered a stranger, he is not and can never be, an "owner of soil"

(404) and thus is not a threat to existing structures of power. Yet, second, the same otherness that neutralizes the stranger does not render him a subject devoid of rights or reciprocal claims on society. Rather, a peculiar mixture of “indifference and involvement” (404) empowers him, conferring not only a level of trust and openness that “would be carefully withheld” (404) from potential rivals, but also a degree of “freedom” (404) from social constraints. Finally, the stranger does not undergo a process of assimilation, which would be in the interests of neither strangers nor hosts. The stranger’s position in society is “determined, essentially, by the fact that… he imports qualities into it, which do not and cannot stem from the group itself” (402). As these externally derived qualities diminish, so does the capacity of strangeness.

In a bid to resuscitate the concept of strangerhood from what they consider a pattern of misuse,

Shack & Skinner (1979) emphasize the unique characteristics Simmel describes, critiquing attempts to equate it with other kinds of marginalized social classes. Nevertheless, they concede that “ambiguity abounds” (1) in Simmel’s analysis, focusing on two areas of concern. First, it is unclear whether the stranger is an individual or a member of a collectivity, a point that has important implications for its use as frame of analysis. Taking the critique even farther, in the

69 opening chapter of the edited volume Levine (1979) argues that Simmel dealt only with a very specific type of stranger, at the expense of a more comprehensive analysis. Levine offers a complex

“typology of stranger relationships” (31-35) that vary depending on the stranger’s aspirations and the host community’s response. Within this framework, the stranger may aspire to stay for only a short time before moving on, to long-term residence or to full membership, while hosts respond with varying degrees of friendliness or antagonism. In this way, strangerhood is stretched to include, for example, “newcomers” and the “marginal man” who aspire to full assimilation, as well as “intruders” and “inner enemies” who are excluded and expelled from public life.

Although each combination of stranger aspiration and host response entails, to some degree, the

“unity of nearness and remoteness” that is the hallmark of strangeness, Levine’s attempt to specify a typology of strangers is problematic. By asserting that every social relationship that entails such a unity constitutes strangerhood, he reduces it to mere metaphor, expanding its meaning to include relationships that stand in stark contrast to those conceived by Simmel (the migrant who wishes to assimilate but is rejected from the community, for example). Noting that every social relation can be arranged along a continuum of nearness and distance, Simmel distinguishes strangeness not only as a matter of degree, but as a “pattern of coordination and consistent interaction” that constitute a specific kind of social interaction (402).

The specificity of strangerhood can be reconciled with the diversity of institutions and practices associated with it only when it is understood as a mode of cultural logic. In The Stranger Simmel espouses ideas that emphasize the psychological or cognitive aspects of strangeness, rather than concrete social structures or practices that could constitute “types of relationships”. What he had in mind is best interpreted as a form of cultural logic: a set of assumptions, principles and modes

70 of reasoning that shape the ways in which strangers and hosts perceive and enact their relationship to one another. Re-positioning strangerhood as a mode of cultural logic carries a number of important implications. First, the logic of strangerhood is dialectical, reflecting the perspectives of both strangers and hosts. While these perspectives are never in full agreement, they work together to construct a moral economy that shapes normative social and political conduct. This is why, for example, outsiders viewed by the host society as “inner enemies” are not strangers according to

Simmel’s conceptualization. Hosts are “friendly” (to use Levine’s terminology) precisely because they view the groups in question as strangers rather than aliens or enemies. These shared understandings are, of course, subject to change as historical forces and structural conditions change over time. Those who are strangers today may become inner enemies in the future, as the logic of strangerhood gives way to other norms and expectations. Yet, in these cases, they cease to embody the relation of strangerhood.

By thinking of strangerhood as a mode of logic, we are able to see that the typologies suggested by Levine are continuously contested, negotiated and transformed through social action. It is for this reason that the logic of strangerhood plays out differently in different historical contexts. Yet, this capacity to evade fixity is not as ambiguous as Shack & Skinner suggest. Rather, Simmel’s analysis conveys a nuance that defies approaches that view strangerhood as abstract “otherness”, as well as those that would encapsulate it within concrete practices and institutions. While the cultural logic of strangerhood is equally applicable to individuals and groups and may entail a wide range of practices and institutions, it is nonetheless specific in that it proposes a set of core principles and assumptions that remain constant, distinguishing it from other subject-positions.

Yet, even in this light, the question remains: are Simmel’s ideas, drawn from historical examples of strangerhood in classical Greece and medieval Europe, applicable on a wider scale? In seeking to apply the concept to Africa, a new host of issues arises. The question becomes: in what ways is the logic of strangerhood cultural? In order to understand the significance of strangerhood in the

African context it is necessary to position it within the broader framework of political culture.

While Strangers in West African Societies (Skinner 1963) and Strangers in African societies

(Shack & Skinner 1979) focus on how changing political and economic conditions transform host receptivity and colloquial meanings of strangerhood, both works emphasize changes wrought by colonialism and de-colonization. Shack (1979) goes so far as to assert that “historical evidence concerning the receptivity to strangers in different pre-colonial African societies… is scanty” (8).

Much more recently, Cohen (2017) constructs a typology of historical African societies based on distinctive patterns of inclusion and exclusion. Yet, by grouping unrelated kin groups, slaves, refugees and migrants together under the category of strangers, he renders the specificity of strangerhood invisible.

Trans-territoriality and Power in Precolonial Africa

The movement of people across landscapes and territories is, perhaps, the central thematic element of African oral traditions. Throughout the continent, folklore, mythology and collective memory are replete with tales of epic journeys, sojourns through the wilderness, flights from danger and existential wandering. It is no coincidence that nearly all ethnic groups trace their origins to an imagined elsewhere, from whence the seeds of society and culture sprouted before transplantation to the here and now.

Those primarily concerned with accurate reconstructions of the past are often troubled when such traditions run contrary to historical or archaeological evidence. Yet, their veracity notwithstanding, the ubiquity of these claims should, at the very least, signal the prominence of movement and mobility as metaphors that convey essential information about the ways in which African peoples understand themselves and their relationships with others (Olufunke and Vaughan 2012, xx-xy).

Recognizing the narration of history as an ongoing political project, Nyamnjoh (2013) also reminds us that “how far back one chooses to go is indicative of what role one would like history to play in one’s articulation of identity in a world constantly on the move” (660). The pervasive cultural motif of mobility can be viewed as a fundamental ordering principle according to which complex relationships between peoples, places, languages, nature, gods, ancestors and events are made comprehensible (see Newman 1995). In this regard, society, and perhaps even existence itself, begins with the basic act of movement.

“Endogenous conceptions of space” in Africa did not so much reflect the instability of any given border, but rather a general indeterminacy brought about by a plurality of territorial forms

(Mbembe 2000, 263). The attachment of a polity to a given territory was “entirely relative… not delimited by boundaries in the classical sense of the term, but rather by an imbrication of multiple spaces constantly joined, disjoined, and recombined through wars, conquests, and the mobility of goods and persons” (263). These interlaced territories were constituted through a multiplicity of relationships with other places, networks and institutions. As possibilities for mobility and transgression were worked out against forces of enclosure and control, some borders attained significance or were reinforced while others faded away. In this sense, precolonial Africa exhibited an “itinerant territoriality” in which reckonings of power, place and identity were defined by “the forms of contact and interpenetration at work in a given space” (264). This is not to say that among

73 the great diversity of precolonial political systems there were no hardened borders or identities, but only that, in general, spaces were defined by the exercise of power rather than as fixed entities.

For this reason, borders in precolonial Africa are commonly viewed as transitional zones or

“frontiers” on the edges of social, political or economic spheres, where various cultural encounters took place (Olufunke & Vaughan 2012, 49-50). Kopytoff (1987) posits a pan-African political culture characterized by “the continuous reproduction of new frontier polities at the peripheries of mature African societies” (7). “Nestled” in the interstices between areas of centralized political control, frontiers were both a region and a boundary between polities. For Kopytoff, the frontier process depended on two key features: sparse population density that ensured the availability of unsettled land and the tendency of local social formations to “fission and segment” (18). Factional rivalries, struggles over succession, witchcraft accusations and population dislocations through raids, warfare and coups generated an array of “centrifugal forces” that sent a continuous stream of immigrants into the frontier (18). As corporate groups broke away from existing polities, they moved into the institutional vacuum offered by the frontier, constructing a social order that mirrored the society they had left behind.

Kopytoff offers a compelling explanation of the degree to which mobility was “of systemic importance in the shaping of African cultural history” (Kopytoff 1987, 7). This perspective not only sheds light on the ubiquitous oral histories that mythologize immigrant settlers as founding fathers, but also serves to explain why mechanisms for the incorporation of newcomers were defining features of precolonial social formations. Forming around an initial core of settlers, the growth of frontier societies entailed a process of accretion, as more and more migrants arrived from different places at different times and for different reasons. Over time, the frontier became

74 increasingly heterogeneous, encompassing multifarious kin groups who were engaged in relations with distant relatives and, for a time at least, maintained distinctive cultural traditions. This nodal aspect of frontier society, its capacity to serve as “a magnet that grows by attracting to itself the ethnic and cultural detritus of other societies” (7), did not necessarily facilitate assimilation.

Instead, it established connections that linked together differentiated social groupings within a local setting.

The tendency of social formations to split apart was not simply a matter of antagonism and rupture.

It was also the means through which localized social relations could be geographically extended and integrated into wider social networks. The option to simply move away was an effective and culturally legitimate means of settling disputes or remediating unfavorable circumstances without irrevocably severing familial, ritual or economic ties. Aggrieved individuals and groups could, in effect, vote with their feet without sacrificing symbolic and material connections to their original kin-group and place of origin. Fission was, in this sense, a catalyst for the creation rather than destruction of social ties. Indeed, within frontier society, trans-territorial connections were a valuable form of social capital that helped newcomers to assert and establish themselves vis-a-vis earlier settlers.

Despite making important contributions, I argue that Kopytoff’s model misrepresents several important aspects of the frontier process. Probing these weaknesses offers a way to consider how the socio-spatial characteristics he describes relate to other elements of African political culture.

He envisions territory as a series of concentric circles of diminishing control in which power radiates from the core, gradually decreasing in inverse proportion to the relative autonomy of local groups (29). At the point where metropolitan control becomes weak or ineffective, a possible

75 frontier emerges. Thus, “frontiers were a systemic product of the territorial organization of the larger African centralized polities” (28-29). Although cognizant that the borders of such polities were blurry and indistinct, this view nevertheless implicates a neo-evolutionary perspective in which political systems are either swallowed by more powerful neighbors or inexorably evolve towards higher degrees of internal integration and centralization.

Archaeological evidence from West Africa increasingly contradicts this view, showing that the growth of cities, social complexity and long-distance trade were not necessarily associated with centralized political control (McIntosh 1999). While hierarchies certainly existed, they operated in concert with decentralized or “horizontally complex configurations” of power (1). Indeed, the recurrence of dispersed or heterarchical arrangements of power, in which elements are unranked relative to one another or may take on different ranks depending on social, scalar and temporal contexts, was a prominent feature of political organization in precolonial Africa (McIntosh 1999,

Dueppen 2012). Within such systems, hierarchical or exclusionary strategies of control were counterbalanced by the distribution of power among articulated, yet relatively independent corporate groups. While kings, chiefs and priests competed with these groups, they also strove to integrate their own power and authority with secret societies, ritual associations, craft sodalities, age-sets, merchant networks, kin-groups, councils of lineage heads, etc. These cross-cutting associations, each with a different relationship to one another, formed networks of autonomous yet overlapping authority that limited the accumulation of power within a single institution (Kopytoff

1999, Vansina 1999).

The effectiveness of this “horizontal web of authority derives not from independence, but from the interconnectedness of the segments, each autonomous in their appropriate spheres (R. McIntosh

1998, 7). In this way, an intricate balance of power rested upon a discriminating worldview according to which power was only perceived as legitimate when the source corresponded with an appropriate use. A king could not intrude on the purview of a given ritual association precisely because he was not deemed capable of accessing nor wielding the requisite kinds of power without violating long standing tenets of social order and cohesion. McIntosh ascribes the “articulated diversity… that underlay resistance to concentrations of power” to “a shared corpus of deep-time values, a symbolic reservoir of beliefs and canons of authority” that worked to structure appropriate behavior between and among different social groups (4-5). The relationships linking this diverse array of institutions were in turn guided by divergent political strategies that sought to harness different kinds of resources and sources of power (Dueppen 2012, 5). The result was a complex political landscape in which a multiplicity of factions, institutions and interests interacted without necessarily seeking to subsume, dominate or dispossess rivals.

The co-occurrence of hierarchy and heterarchy in West African history thus compels a revision of

Kopytoff’s emphasis on centralized polities and the kinds of socio-spatial organization he associates with the frontier. Even as power emanated downwards from a central authority, it was mediated, intersected or transformed through inter-relationships with alternative institutional domains. Rather than flowing outwards from a center, power shifted among actors at different levels of interaction. In this regard, frontiers were not merely “buffer zones” separating political entities. Instead, they linked together institutions in overlapping webs of interaction and exchange.

A village located at the periphery of a chieftaincies’ ability to exact tribute may house a shrine or grove that constitutes the center of a ritual association’s ability to project its own power and influence. In this way, numerous “centers of power might have authority over a single place, which might itself fall under the control of another place that was nearby, distant, or even imaginary”

(Mbembe 2000, 264). Thus, while interlocking frontiers produced various forms of spatiality, these configurations are not reducible to concrete geographic entities or even to territorial control per se.

Kopytoff expressed unease with “metaphorical” interpretations of the frontier as “any kind of interaction across cultural boundaries” and was therefore keen to retain an image of the frontier as

“a geographical region with sociological characteristics” (9). Yet, in the same way that dispersed arrangements of power problematize the idea of frontiers nestled between centralized polities, they also call into question the sociological features Kopytoff attributes to them. He asserts that ““when immigrants moved out of the metropole to the frontier, they left behind them institutions that had a moral legitimacy and entered what was, morally, an institutional vacuum” (26). To be fair,

Kopytoff rightly conceives of the frontier as a process rather than a state-of-affairs and, in this light, the first settlers to enter an actual wilderness devoid of human habitation were certainly entering an institutional vacuum. More often, however, as Kopytoff himself notes, the portrayal of the frontier as a “no-man’s land” was an ideological tactic deployed to negate the existence of indigenous people and institutions. In this case, as soon as social relations develop between natives and settlers, even when these relations were a matter of coercion or domination, some degree of institutional legitimacy would quickly develop (see, for example, Scott 1990). Moreover, whether or not the first settlers encountered wilderness or “savages”, by the time the frontier became a frontier society through the addition of successive waves of settlers, whatever vacuum may have existed would have been replaced by nascent social institutions and codes of conduct.

Given the heterogeneous provenance of settlers, as well as the multi-stranded social ties that connected them with their places of origin, frontier society assumed a rather ambiguous tenor in which shifting articulations of power and new kinds of social interaction were subject to constant

78 negotiation. A newly arrived lineage segment struggling to establish itself on the frontier was rapidly enmeshed within a web of new social, cultural and political forces. This “multiplicity of allegiances and jurisdictions itself corresponded to the plurality of the forms of territoriality” resulting in “an extraordinary superposition of rights and an interlacing of social ties” that

“combined with forms of locality, but at the same time they transcended them” (Mbembe 2000,

264). Far from a moral or institutional vacuum, the frontier was a space in which an overabundance of institutions, cultural codes and social relations vied to establish legitimacy. It is this pronounced indeterminacy, rather than a lack of institutional control, that confers on the frontier its unique

“sociological characteristics” that distinguish it from “mature polities”.

This distinction - between the frontier as a power vacuum between polities, and the frontier as a space of nascent and uncertain configurations of power – must also be weighed against Kopytoff’s insistence that the social dynamics of the frontier acted to “conserve, reinforce and revitalize the central values of the regional political cultural” (33). While recognizing that a limited degree of structural “alterations” were inevitable, he argues that the initial settlers brought with them “pre- existing conceptions of social order” which, over time, came to “replicate metropolitan patterns”

(33-34). In this view, whatever variation existed between social structures constructed in the frontier and those of surrounding polities is reduced to “idiosyncratic local expressions of common cultural principles” (35).

To the degree that frontier society represented a fusion of identities, groups and practices, each with their own linkages to other places and powers, these linkages surely contained the sociocultural residue of existing models of social order. Yet, rather than the “reproduction of tradition”, as Kopytoff would have it, these aspects of frontier society were constitutive elements

79 in processes of social and cultural transformation. Rejecting deeply ingrained notions of a timeless

Africa, McIntosh (1999) notes that “the static concept of traditional society cannot withstand the historian’s analysis” (3). While it is quite likely that settlers moving into a new region initially drew on familiar models of social organization, the steady accumulation of new migrants, with their own cultural models, ideas and aspirations, could not have failed to interrupt set trajectories of development.

Moreover, while Kopytoff privileges unidirectional migration from polity to frontier, continuous population movements also took place from polity to polity and frontier to frontier (Falola &

Usman 2009). If the broadly-construed “unity” of precolonial political culture arose from a common “frontier-conditioned ideology” (Kopytoff 1987, 7), then it is the heterogeneous composition of frontier societies, in which both old and new possibilities were imagined, measured against one another and put into circulation, that define the contours of shared features. While the social construction of the frontier was certainly not the abandonment of tradition, it is best understood in terms of the ways in which changing political-economic conditions corresponded to shifting cultural symbols and values that imbued institutions, and the kinds of relations they mediated, with meaning. For example, frontier settlements in 17th century Yorubaland were characterized by high levels of entrepreneurship and innovation. Breaking away from centralized polities, Yoruba settlers developed highly dispersed socio-religious institutions that were linked with, yet remained distinct from, political institutions of neighboring states. Absorbing immigrants from other frontier zones and using decentralized religious networks to organize trade, they inserted themselves into commercial relations with European trading posts on the coasts, circumventing the political and economic monopolies held by centralized polities (Ogundiran

2009).

Heterarchical political formations tended to facilitate dynamism and continuous processes of social transformation, as evinced by the fluidity with which West African societies shifted between lineage groups, village headships, regional chieftaincies and kingship (McIntosh 1999, 2). At the ancient village site of Kirikongo in what is now northwest Burkina Faso, archaeological evidence attests to “remarkably complex autonomous villages with extensive social differentiation despite a strong ethos of egalitarianism” (Dueppen 2012, 1). Here, progression towards greater political centralization was rather abruptly interrupted by a “revolution” of sorts, in which concentrations of power were deliberately resisted.

Similarly, the “precocious urbanity” evidenced at the ancient city of Jenne-Jeno in the Inland Niger

Delta region of modern Mali, displays durable and long-standing patterns of horizontal complexity

(McIntosh 1998). Rather than an urban system defined by relations between core and peripheral zones, enucleated settlement “clusters” maintained relative autonomy within a loosely integrated regional network. Yet, these patterns of heterarchy, which persisted for centuries at Jenne-Jeno, were not propelled by rote processes of replication. Instead, McIntosh describes “layered transformations” in which urban growth and development were a matter of adaption and experimentation that maintained a decentralized balance of power in the face of constant political, economic and ecological change.

Although shifting territorial forms and complex articulations of power could, and often did, produce decentralized modes of governance, they also facilitated expanding regional integration.

As linkages between peoples and places proliferated, the exercise of power increasingly required an ability to create and maintain connections between disparate entities, whether in the form of ideas, modes of production or political institutions. Through long-term processes in which diverse

81 networks of authority were gradually stitched together over ever-widening scales, powerful “over- kingdoms” of Ghana, Mali and Songhai developed (McIntosh 1998, 18). More akin to confederations than fully integrated states, these political formations entailed centralized, hierarchical bureaucracies that nevertheless preserved a significant degree of pluralism and local autonomy. In Mali, strict rules detailed the social classes from which specific ministerial positions must be chosen, ensuring that all categories of people were represented in government (Diop

1987).

Regardless of the relationship between heterarchy and hierarchy in a given polity, the balance of social forces depended, in large part, on calculations of cultural legitimacy. Echoing Weber, the political culture of precolonial West Africa depended on contestation and realignment of “the diverse ways in which the legitimate exercise of power could be culturally framed” (Pitcher et. al.

2009, 126-127). Although the direction of change was not dictated by tradition, a degree of continuity was needed so that cross-cutting ties, newly formed associations and intersections of power could be made to align with “deep time values” and widely held understandings of authority

(McIntosh 1998, 5). McIntosh explains the historical continuity that led from autonomous village clusters at sites such as Jenne-Jeno to the sprawling empire of Mali in terms of:

Reservoirs of symbols and ideologies that provide a persistent, often centuries long trajectory to social action and culture change. The emphasis is upon change and upon the processes by which interacting and competing components of a highly heterogeneous society appropriate authority and reinvent beliefs about the historical framework of their present condition (5).

At the broadest level, the ideologies that underlay longstanding principles of legitimacy and authority are related to cultural constructions of power that distinguished between various sources and functions. Africanist scholars commonly explain these distinctions in terms of instrumental

82 power, or the ability to control people’s actions, and creative power, which creates meaning through the use of symbols and ritual practice; “whereas instrumental power compels people to do, creative power invites them to believe” (Monroe 2013, 20). The juxtaposition of these contrasting modes of power produced political systems in which material and ideological resources were mobilized simultaneously, creating alternative “poles of gravity” around which power circulated (20).

Drawing on the work of Fortes & Evans-Pritchard (1940), Southall (1988) labelled these polities

“segmentary states” in which “the spheres of ritual suzerainty and political sovereignty do not coincide” (quoted in McIntosh 2001). Here, the conflation of political sovereignty with instrumental power and ritual suzerainty with creative power is somewhat misleading. Although these spheres were counterpoised to one another rather than fully integrated, each relied upon and propped up the other. Political and ritual elites depended on the ability to harness manifestations of both instrumental and creative power to effective ends. While lineage heads, chiefs and kings could marshal armies, levy taxes and dispense justice, they relied on the power of ritual leaders to construct the webs of significance around which social structure coalesced. Thus, leadership in many African societies depended on the capacity to articulate networks of social and ritual power

(McIntosh 1999, 16). This imperative generated complex alliances, as leaders sought to align themselves with zones of ritual control to bolster their power. A secular leader lacking the necessary ritual support quickly lost legitimacy and, consequently, the ability to rule. Conversely, ritual power used in pursuit of selfish or material ends was deemed highly volatile, the abuse of which could not only destroy the perpetrator but would unravel the bonds of society itself (Arens and Karp 1989, xviii-xix).

The articulation of diverse political and ritual networks necessarily emphasized the creative potential of power to bring together people, ideas, tasks and institutions that were nominally distinct. In this regard, “power must be viewed in part as an artifact of the imagination and a facet of human creativity” (Arens & Karp 1989, xi). Indigenous conceptions of power encoded ideas about the nature of the social and physical worlds, and their relationship to an all-encompassing cosmological order, of which these aspects of reality were only a part. The ultimate sources of power were found in interactions between the natural, social and supernatural realms. As Turner

(1969) noted, ritual practice entailed a suite of strategies, techniques and mechanisms capable of bridging domains “ordinarily separated in experience and practice” (quoted in Arens & Karp 1989, xvii). The role of ritual power was thus to bring emergent social relations, historical circumstances and political institutions into alignment with the inherent forces of the universe. The imperative of managing metaphysical tension was perhaps the predominate feature of West African political culture (Diop 1987, 60).

This worldview rested upon an ideal, universal harmony, in which relations between nature, society and the spirit world were properly attuned. Yet, these beliefs also inspired a keen awareness of the fragility of the universe, the ineluctable possibility that “catastrophic upheaval within the ontological forces” was only an aggrieved spirit or illegitimate succession away (Diop 1987, 61).

African societies “by their recognition of the tenuous nature of their existence, place an undisguised emphasis on power as a means to forestall both the demise of extant social arrangements and create new forms of experience and activity” (Arens & Karp 1989, xix). There is, within the ritual context, a constant need to rework and reinvent tradition, so that structural change upholds, rather than subverts, universal principles. In this way, “disorder is put into the service of order” (xxi) as potentially volatile forces are channeled towards creative ends.

Rather than fundamentally coercive or constraining, power was manifest as a primarily transgressive force, defined by the capacity to bend the rules, subvert established order and bring together domains normally kept apart. The prerequisite of authority was thus an ability to convert power from one form to another, to transform relationships between people, things and ideas and, in this way, adapt to changing conditions. Considering these aspects of power, Monroe (2013) highlights the role of “indigenous political entrepreneurs” in driving social-formation throughout

West Africa. The imposition of a centralized political structure atop dispersed, horizontal networks depended on the absorption of local resources and ideologies into existing power strategies

(MacDonald 2012). Successful elites were those most able to domesticate the esoteric and exotic into their own cultural repertoire, thereby institutionalizing greater degrees of power and legitimacy. The spatial expansion of political control was thus inseparable from the use of ritual suzerainty as a primary integrative mechanism (Southall 1988).

Strangers as Political Subjects

In instances of both greater and lesser degrees of centralization, the ritual incorporation of outsiders did not necessarily lead to full assimilation, but often produced and perpetuated the emergence of differentiated social identities. One of the most prominent distinctions was between the original settlers of an area and those who came after them. The so-called “law of first-comers”, a ubiquitous cultural principle throughout the continent, imbued the first inhabitants of a given territory with inalienable ritual control over the land. These settlers, having struck a sacred pact with local spirits, were granted usufructuary rights over the land in exchange for proper veneration through the performance of prescribed rituals and sacrifices. It was only through the intercession of the ancestors, the revenants of the first settlers, that their living descendants were able to impel the spirits to honor the pact. Since strangers lacked access to the spirits, they were perennially

85 dependent on their hosts to maintain the cosmo-political order and, by extension, the continued viability of society (Diop 1987, 59-63). Uya (1974) writes that “the past ties the living community into the world of the ancestors, those who have left this current reality to the other… laying a claim to authority becomes a correlation between pastness and sacredness (quoted in Bekerie 2007, 454).

On one hand, this principle would seem to negate the opportunities afforded by mobility. Why move to a new area only to be subordinate to “autochthonous” groups? Yet, precisely because local chiefs were not true owners of the land, but acted as spiritually-sanctioned managers, rent- extraction or the outright denial of land to newcomers was culturally inappropriate. While ecological factors including low population densities and the wide availability of fertile land certainly played a part in these egalitarian concepts of land use, new arrivals were well aware that openly recognizing the ritual potency of autochthonous rulers was enough to substantiate their own claims to land. As Diop (1987) reminds us, in precolonial Africa “land possession… never polarized the consciousness of political power” as it did in feudal Europe (103). In many instances, newer migrants (or invaders) managed to become politically dominant, even while ritual authority over land remained invested in otherwise marginalized autochthonous populations (Haour 2013,

27-49). Thus, rather than a means of excluding outsiders, the law of first-comers facilitated mobility by ensuring that control over land was not central to political power.

Perhaps more importantly, migrants themselves were integral to social vitality and growth. The idea that chiefships tended to be over people rather than land is well established: pursuing “wealth in people”, leaders sought to accumulate clients and followers under their control. Newcomers were subsumed within family networks through the use of broadly inclusive kinship terminology and ritual forms of adoption; specialized initiation rites brought outsiders under the spiritual authority of local religious sects; rulers acquired new constituencies by distributing goods and

86 access to land. Yet, alongside the honor and status achieved through the accumulation of dependents, an underlying concern behind these methods of incorporation was the composition of a “differentiated and expanding repertoire of knowledge” (Guyer & Belinga 1995, 120). Social mobilization (i.e. the power to organize society) required the capacity to synthesize diverse bodies of knowledge, whether ecological, technical, religious or aesthetic. Effective leadership “was the capacity to bring them together effectively, even if for a short time and specific purpose” (120). In this way, the principle of wealth-in-people was based on the supposition that individuals and groups were repositories of specialized, esoteric forms of knowledge; a means to an end, rather than an end in and of itself. The breadth and diversity of knowledge, as well as “its modes of aggregation and elaboration” (117) were key resources necessary for social construction.

While broadly inclusive kinship, exogamous marriage practices and loosely-held ethnic identities

(see Kopytoff 1987) were the expression of assimilative logic, strangerhood stands apart as the institutionalization of social and cultural liminality. Strangers were embodied repositories of exotic ritual knowledge and thus strangerhood was the social mechanism through which innovative ideas, technical prowess and foreign goods were incorporated into local regimes of power. Although their precise origins are “lost in antiquity”, cultural tenets of strangerhood are deeply “embedded in the fundaments of the societies of western Africa” (Brooks 1993, 38). Relations between strangers and hosts were governed by institutional frameworks, normative codes, religious beliefs and behavioral patterns that distributed differential sets of rights and obligations. Hosts were expected to provide hospitality in the form of land, lodging and protection, while strangers were required to yield to the political supremacy of their hosts. While inherently unequal, these relationships were considered morally equivalent in the sense that one naturally compelled the other. Proscribed social and economic roles contributed to an “asymmetrical distribution of tasks” in which strangers

87 were prohibited from activities that were preserved for natives and vice versa (Karakayali 2006,

315). Boundaries were preserved through “the responsibilities of kinship affiliations, by customary law believed to be supported by divine sanctions and reinforced by long usage, by the socialization of children, and by oft-repeated sayings, proverbs and heuristic stories” (Brooks 1993, 38).

Although many strangers were foreign merchants hailing from elsewhere, others were indigenous caste-people. Among the Mande-speaking peoples of West Africa, the nyamakalaw were occupationally-defined specialists who embodied “the paradox of being outside and yet integral to all aspects of society” (Haour 2013, 87-88). Endogamous lineages of blacksmiths, leatherworkers and bards, the nyamakalaw were separate from society, living in a permanent state of liminality necessitated by their control over dangerous ritual power. McNaughton (1988) argues that, as strangers, blacksmiths “lived in two conflicting dimensions. They are at once glorified and shunned, feared and despised, afforded special privileges and bounded by special interdictions”

(quoted in Haour 2013, 87).

As strangers who provided access to outside forces and knowledge, blacksmiths and other nyamakalaw were attributed symbolic power that held significant political implications. Although forbidden from exercising formal political power, they served as spokesmen, advisors and spiritual guides for Mande chiefs. In addition, their perceived neutrality allowed them to effectively act as mediators, negotiating marriages and settling disputes. Thus, although embedded in social frameworks composed of inherently uneven and unequal rights and responsibilities, nyamakalaw capitalized on their liminal status, exercising agency as powerful strangers within society and maintaining external connections through dispersed, caste-based lineages. (Conrad & Frank 1995).

In this way, their relationships with host society were defined by an interdependence derived from

88 the relatively autonomy of each group. Differentiated by innate capacities, social inequalities were

“less matters of rank than of culturally defined realms of power and the conjunction of all these realms constitutes the social universe” (Wright 1989, 42).

The same socio-cultural dynamics structured relations between hosts and foreign merchant- strangers, reciprocities that likely emerged as a correlate of the “far-flung western African trading matrix” that required guarantees of safe passage and temporary lodging for travelers (Brooks 1993,

39). Although there is now significant evidence of urbanization, craft specialization and regional trade well before the advent of Islam in West Africa (McIntosh & McIntosh 1981), from its inception, the spread of Islam into lands south of the Sahara was inextricably linked with long- distance trade (Lewis 1980). As elements of Islamic thought spread throughout the bilad-al-Sudan

(Arabic: “land of the blacks”), entrepreneurial merchant-castes adopted Islam as a level of cultural belief superimposed atop deeply ingrained social and religious systems. Through the development of this syncretism, the continent-spanning solidarities of the ummah merged with indigenous cultural systems for accommodating strangers. Drawing on these complementary social frameworks, stranger communities of Islamic traders became fixtures of non-Muslim societies in the southern reaches of the sub-continent.

This phenomenon is largely associated with religiously-inspired trading companies known as

Dyula (or, alternately, Wangara). Emanating from the same Mande-speaking regions as the nyamakalaw, the Dyula were a professional caste of merchants only loosely configured along ethnic lines. Instead, their networks, which coalesced around involvement in long-distance trade and adherence to Islam, reflected a socioeconomic niche which later gave way to the construction of an ethnic identity. Haour (2013) notes that “the most interesting part of the story of the Wangara

89 is how widely they appear to have ranged, and how finely they balanced innovation and conservatism in their host societies” (65). The Dyula retained control over lucrative trade networks by remaining distinctive and aloof, cultivating the role of strangers with social, cultural and economic ties to foreign lands. Amongst themselves, groups were differentiated with reference to the indigenous hosts under whose protection they lived (Wilks 2011). Drawn by the lucrative trade in gold originating in non-Muslim lands, Dyula traders from the Inland Niger Delta region (modern day Mali) enjoyed hospitable and productive relationships with host societies in the forest regions to the south (McIntosh 1988).

Despite the emphasis these traders placed on their Islamic identity, their ambitions in the south revolved around gold rather than the saving of souls. Although many were also religious scholars of the Maliki school of Sunni Islam, the spiritual doctrines that guided their efforts reflected the precepts of a renowned 15th century Malian cleric named Salim al-Suwari. While conducting research in Ghana in the 1960s, the British scholar Ivor Wilks assiduously used isnads, records kept by Islamic scholars to verify their credentials by tracing their line of teachers backwards in time, to trace the spread of Islam in Ghana. He was surprised to find that “with one exception all

30 or so chains converged, by many different routes, on al-Hajj Salim Suwari (Wilks 2011, 15).

Suwari, who lived at the height of Imperial Mali and travelled extensively, spreading his interpretations of Maliki jurisprudence, had a profound impact on the development of West

African Islam.

The basis of Suwari’s teachings was that since Allah had appointed specific times for individuals to convert to Islam, non-belief was merely a temporary state reflecting His will. To presume to change this timetable was to interfere in the divine plan. In this regard, Suwari taught that Muslims

90 living in non-Muslim lands must respect the authority of native rulers and should endeavor to live peaceably among non-believers as long as they were not constrained from following Islamic Law among themselves. Since this view configured host societies as, in their own way, followers of

Allah’s plan, it made social and economic cooperation not only possible, but a requisite of faith and devotion. With their reputation for being “law-abiding, peaceful and strict believes in predestination”, the Dyula enjoyed freedom of movement so that even when rival states warred against each other, the Dyula were free to carry on their trade without hindrance.

Wilks’s ethno-historical work confirms that these doctrines were firmly embedded in the religious ethos of Islamic strangers situated in the hinterlands surrounding the Akan gold fields controlled by the Asante. Tracing the isnad lineages back through specific malams and imams among the

Dagomba, Gonja, Grusi, Mamprusi, Mossi and Hausa ethnic groups, he demonstrates the profound and far-reaching influence of the teachings of al-Suwari. For example, a 19th century letter written from Imam Malik of Gonja to the Asantehene spells out what is, according to Wilks, an

“overenthusiastic statement of the Suwarian position” (56). This missive was kept in the

Asantehene’s archives and periodically taken out to remind the strangers in his domains of their obligations. Today, it is the descendants of these groups who had subscribed to the doctrines of al-

Suwari that comprise Ghana’s multiethnic Zongo community. In this way, the Suwarian tradition may be seen as the Islamic complement to even older principles of strangerhood and social construction.

Conclusions: The Cultural Logic of Strangerhood

Amidst shifting territorial configurations and continuous population movements, strangerhood was a source of stability as well as social flux. Preserving the cosmological authority of “first-comers”

91 and the distinctive social identities of strangers and hosts, it provided a route to social incorporation that required neither assimilation nor conflict. As an institution that was widely recognized and respected, it contributed to the emergence of a social and spatial landscape of open borders, far- ranging social networks and integrated forms of authority. Thus, strangers embodied the transgressive and creative capacities of power to bring together diverse people, places and ideas without losing their distinctive characteristics. This arrangement, beneficial for both strangers and hosts, balanced competing impulses for conservatism and innovation and, in this way, was a method for effectively controlling the terms and trajectories of social growth.

Precolonial strangerhood was thus defined by six underlying principles of liminality: (1) the deliberate maintenance and manipulation of social difference. Not only did strangers not aspire to assimilation, difference was wielded as a strategic resource; (2) the role of cultural mediators. By virtue of their liminal position, strangers were cultural nodes, connecting the host society with outside resources and managing processes of cultural encounter; (3) the cultivation of transborder networks. The ability to serve as conduits to other people and places required forms of affiliation and communication through dispersed social networks; (4) free movement across borders. As members of communities that were external to the host society and that spanned multiple territories, strangers presumed the right of transit; (5) political neutrality. The transgression of borders, as well as settlement in host society required obedience to local laws and authorities; (6) differentiated rights and obligations. Neutrality was not rightlessness. Instead, it conferred a right to make claims on authorities that neither espoused nor practically pursued equal rights with hosts.

Taken together, the interconnections through which these principles compel, support and reinforce one another constitute the cultural logic of strangerhood, which may be contrasted with the logic of citizenship:

Principles of Citizenship Principles of Strangerhood Social and cultural assimilation Deliberate maintenance of difference Rigid standards of inclusion/exclusion Liminality (cultural mediation) Community is the nation Transnational community Regulation of borders Free movement across borders Active participation in politics Political neutrality Equal rights Differential rights

Table 1: Principles of Citizenship and Strangerhood

Thus, strangerhood can be said to shape subjectivity to the degree that subjects perceive and enact their social and political relations from within this underlying matrix of rights and obligations. Drawing on this conceptual framework, I used ethnographic methods to determine whether and how the ideas, practices and claims-making strategies of contemporary Zongo communities invoke these modes of logic.

Chapter 5. Citizenship and Strangerhood in Kumasi Zongo

In the reception chamber of a modest compound situated near Kumasi’s central mosque,

two large, gold-framed images sit prominently displayed on the wall. One depicts the Sarkin

Zongo, al-Haji Omar Farouk Saeed, being cordially received at the court of the Asantehene,

at once paying homage to the ultimate authority of the Asante king while asserting the

Sarkin’s own legitimacy as the paramount chief of the Zongo in the Asante region. The other

picture shows al-Haji Saeed at an official state function posing amicably with the President

of the Republic. As my research assistants and I sit nervously in chairs reserved for guests,

the Sarkin’s ministers file in and take their seats. When they are properly arranged, al-Hajji

Saeed himself enters, regally adorned in a blue turban. He solemnly sits in the most

prominent position, with the two paintings looming directly over each shoulder. With an

almost imperceptible nod to his spokesmen, the Sarkin Zongo signals that the audience may

begin…

The social and political relations so dramatically expressed in the images reflect the two distinctive models of belonging according to which Zongo people stake claims, relate to leaders, access resources and participate in public life. The first, strangerhood, is structured by customary norms and obligations mediated by the authority of traditional chiefs. The second, citizenship, entails the politico-legal authority of state institutions, as well as popular conceptualizations of democracy.

Although the logic and ideals of strangerhood sharply contrast those of citizenship, their symbolic

94 positioning in the Sarkin’s performance of authority illustrate how Zongo people simultaneously draw on each model as they confront complex social and political realities. In the varied contexts of everyday life, values and perspective blend and interact as they are recast to resonate most forcefully with circumstantial perceptions of legitimacy and standards of political correctness. Yet, these moral and cultural valences are often imprecise, contradictory and unstable, their incongruity forcing actors to improvise and experiment with new ways of formulating claims. In this way, intersections of strangerhood and citizenship, as well as the indeterminate conceptual space between them, generate new tensions, possibilities and constraints.

Drawing on ethnographic data collected in Kumasi, this chapter analyzes how the contrasting cultural logic of strangerhood and citizenship shape the subjectivity of Ghana’s Zongo residents.

Engaging with several interrelated themes, I first show how the qualities and characteristics of

“Zongoness” emerge from processes of social construction that constitute the community. I then examine how conditions and behaviors associated with “the Zongo lifestyle” create a system of urban villages with distinctive socio-spatial characteristics and cultural traditions. Next, reflecting on the contextual dynamics of stranger-host relations, I explore how social differentiation impacts the lived experience of Zongo residents, focusing on the politics of belonging, crime, schooling and religious practice. Finally, I examine how perceptions of authority structure configurations of power and the ways Zongo residents interact with the political institutions that shape their lives.

The Social Construction of Zongoness

The Zongo ethos is anti-essentialism, an identity born out of contingency and social change rather than an organic marker of status and identity. Given this fluidity, the meaning of the term is perhaps

95 more solid and definitive from the outside looking in than it is for the people of the Zongo themselves. While for indigenous groups it is clear enough that if you are Muslim with ancestral roots elsewhere, you are, by default, a Zongo person, those who live the Zongo life continuously wrestle with the existential terms of Zongoness. When a long-time community leader states that

“sometimes I ask myself if I am really a Zongo person,” others nod in knowing agreement. Does it denote a place? A culture? Socio-economic status? By what parameters or social calculus is authentic Zongoness established?

While the connotations are indeed wide-ranging and, to some degree, open to interpretation, they nevertheless reflect deeply-seated beliefs that situate those who claim Zongoness within a shared structure of thought and a distinctive orientation to the world. In some ways, this orientation is more meaningful and personally compelling than an essentialist “naturalizing allegory of collective being-in-the-world” (Comaroff & Comaroff 2001, 648-49) since it represents a deliberative self-awareness subject to constant scrutiny and potential revision. While the strategic modulation of identity is a central facet of urban life in postcolonial Africa (see Simone 2004), the ambiguous subtext of many self-descriptions of Zongoness strikes one as a genuine act of introspection rather than calculated performance.

Yet, this collective self-inquiry should not be interpreted as diffidence. It instead reflects an awareness that the cultural politics of social construction are always open-ended. For those who live it, the question of Zongoness is, first and foremost, a question of the fraught relationship between origins and belonging. For this reason, historical memory and popular narratives of migration and arrival are fundamental aspects of current social relationships. The Zongo was

96 created by “those who come into a society or country that doesn’t belong to them.” The fact of their foreign provenance made them “different from everybody” so that “the people of the town knew about them and they rarely dealt with them.” Kept at a social distance, residents of the Zongo

“created their own society… a community within a community but ruled by their own culture.”

British colonialism, the nation-building projects of the postcolonial era and the sublimation of

Zongoness within the framework of Ghanaian nationality, have not altered this fundamental raison d’etre. Patiently explaining the intricacies of Zongo identity, an elder confidently punctuates his remarks by concluding that “so, you see, that is the whole thing… the [origins of the] Zongo is foreign.”

Residents are careful to position these narratives of foreign origin within the legitimizing terms of strangerhood. They describe the initial immigration from abroad in terms that presume a universal freedom of movement unconstrained by territorial boundaries and predicated on the rightful authority of local chiefs. In the present-day, the rights that proceed from these sociohistorical circumstances are reaffirmed by the circulation of narratives that describe the conditions under which specific neighborhoods or parcels of land were given to Zongo patriarchs to settle. In

Kumasi, the Hausa elders of Ayigya Zongo proudly recount their ancestors’ loyal service to the

Asantehene, who, before his departure for battle, left his favorite wife in the care of Hausa strangers camped there. Upon his victorious return, he bequeathed the land to the Zongo chief who had so diligently watched over her. In Accra, many of the residents who live around Cow Lane are direct descendants of a renowned Yoruba cattle trader who was given the land around his kraals to settle by local Ga chiefs. Indeed, these origin stories, replete with larger-than-life personalities

97 and detailed social histories, are a vital source of urban folklore that continues to shape identities and social relations in contemporary Ghana (see Pellow 2002).

From their start, historical norms of strangerhood and settlement in Ghana are extant sociocultural arrangements that require no further referents beyond themselves. It is taken for granted that

“whenever you come, they have to give you a place to live… so that you can move on with your culture.” Looking back from the present, the arrival of newcomers, acceptance by local hosts and settlement under the authority of a Zongo chief is a sequence of events whose appropriateness and legitimacy are rarely called into question. For the most part, this same cultural logic carries over to the present day: “Whenever we find a stranger in the city, we know where to tell him to go, we tell him to go here, and the Zongo chief is there and he will give you a place to live. It’s the same for everybody…” When discussing the creation of Zongo communities, there is little effort to distinguish the present from the past. Despite the fact that, in current times, Ghanaian citizenship is highly politicized, the idea that a noncitizen or undocumented migrant could be turned away from the Zongo is a possibility that few would countenance. Unless they are pressed, residents see little need to justify or explain such openness, casually asserting that “that is something we do. As far as you have something in common, that is how we do it.”

It would be easy to attribute the routinized assimilation of newcomers to the unifying principle of ummat al-Islām, the universal community of Believers. “We are many here” nods an older man as he carefully arranges a prayer rug amidst a polyglot array of fellow worshippers. Yet, although

Islam is by far the most prominent aspect of Zongo identity, it does not fully account for the unique qualities of Zongoness. Instead, it is religious underpinnings operating alongside the shared social

98 and cultural tenets of strangerhood that bind together heterogeneous elements. Though many scholars choose to include Ghana’s Lebanese and Pakistani expats in their conceptualizations of strangerhood (see Shack et al. 1979), this reflects the imposition of an abstract analytic category rather than emic models used in the Zongo. While Arab or South Asian Muslims would likely be welcome in Zongo neighborhoods, they are not considered as people of the Zongo. True, the community “accepts everybody, it doesn’t matter who you are or where you are from, as far as we are all living in peace, that is all that we need… If you are Muslim and you come to Zongo, they have to accept you… and all live together.” Yet, this ideal is articulated within a context in which few expatriates “come” to the Zongo, figuratively or literally. It must certainly be said that most are wealthy enough to live in more affluent areas. Yet, rich Hausa, for instance, who do not live in the Zongo remain deeply committed to it as a symbol of identity. For Muslims who lack a shared socio-historical heritage of strangerhood, ethnicity and nationality occlude religious affinity, showing that Islam itself is not the full measure of Zongoness.

For those who fit the model, Zongo identity is a broad ethnocultural umbrella that overlays, but does not occlude, ethnicity (Schildkrout 1978). Although myriad “tribal” identities retain significance and coherence in the social imagination, in practice, ethnic boundaries are often quite blurred. Intermarriages between individuals from numerous Zongo ethnicities have, with few exceptions, been common for generations, so that individuals, households and families rarely fit neatly within ethnic categories. In Kumasi, the Sarkn’s spokesman confirms that “you can hardly see a person and say ‘this man’s grandfather was born here, he is a pure Hausa, he has no other tribe’…. No, it is not possible… no one who calls himself a true Zongoman will ever tell you that in his house there is no other tribe.” Indeed, the striking diversity of the community not only sets

99 it apart from ethnically-based enclaves but is integral to the cultural meanings of Zongoness itself.

While it would be a mistake to overlook the ways in which ethnic and sectarian power struggles have shaped social and political trajectories, even the bitterest rivals would not deny that, aside from Islam, diversity is the core principle of Zongoness. The idea of internal strangers within the

Zongo is imponderable; social difference is the premise, rather than modifier, of belonging: “I am happy because I can see some people migrated all the way from the north, some are not citizens, but immediately when they get to the Zongo they feel they can come and stay here… we are all one… and we always treat such persons like we are brothers.”

Zongoness must also be understood to reflect the dynamics of social construction. That is, its meanings arise in relation to the means and circumstances through which Zongo communities grew and developed. Noting the flexibility and instrumentality of the diasporic Hausa identity in the colonial era, Cohen (1969) describes it not as an ethnicity but as the organizing principle of regional trade. In a similar sense, the Zongo identity emerged as a means of “building communities for people coming from elsewhere.” Residents describe it as a built-in support system, a way to accommodate newcomers physically and culturally, and to facilitate assimilation into Ghanaian society. The historical processes of accretion that occurred as disparate waves of migrants became a part of the Zongo are not only conceived as a literal description of the community’s origins, but actively shape its affective dimensions in. These processes contribute to the fluid, improvisational overtones of Zongoness, an acute awareness of contingency and the unfolding of chance. A community elder explains that “if you go into the Zongos, right? Maybe a trailblazer came and settled… people come from all over… different areas…. You go looking for work and somebody says, ‘hey I just went to this Zongo in Accra and you can come and do this or do that’… they invite

100 you.” Social ties, and even kinship, are equally circumstantial: “you will be surprised, somebody will be living together and there is no blood relationship, but they call each other family… that’s how it is… somebody will just come from nowhere and you will be growing up thinking it is your uncle or something, but there is no blood relation.”

A decidedly emergent quality pervades all manifestations of Zongoness, from its urban landscapes to personal and family narratives. In an internet café in Kumasi, when I tell a group of young men that I am studying Zongo areas, they pull up Google Maps to show me potential sites. Huddled around a glowing computer screen, they identify various Zongos by scanning the map for the most dense, chaotic areas. Zooming in, a confusing maze of roads, alleyways and footpaths is abruptly interrupted by a sprawling array of rusty tin roofs. A particularly insightful young man points to the images on the map, saying that “you can see the more organized districts as opposed to the layout of the Zongo… people just build wherever. That is how they do.” He then pauses, adding,

“but even there, they always leave an open space for public functions… the community must come together to recognize itself.” Indeed, the haphazard physical imprint of the Zongo seems to perfectly evoke the improvisational social processes that characterize it. The composition of the community, as well as the spaces it inhabits, is defined by ongoing autoconstruction (see Holston

1991) that defies categorization and control.

This central attribute of Zongoness equally pertains to individual family backgrounds. Every story, in its own way, is atypical and people are proud to share the often-convoluted details of how they or their family became Zongo. A talkative older man shares an instructive family history that has all the makings of an epic. His grandmother, a Kassena women from Burkina Faso, was captured

101 by raiders and taken to the infamous slave market at Salaga in Northern Ghana. Heart-broken, her son undertook a perilous journey to Ghana, determined to find his mother. Eventually he joined the colonial police service because of the opportunity it afforded to travel to different districts to continue his search. Although he never again saw his mother, he met a girl and decided to convert to Islam in order to marry her. They settled in the Zongo and their youngest son, the now elderly interlocuter, was born a Ghanaian. While, from a historical point of view, this story depicts the social and historical strands that populate the Zongo, the old man sees the unfolding of fate according to divine plan. With a smile, he explains that “if they had not taken my grandmother, we never would have taken Allah into our hearts.”

Many who hold the Zongo identity emphasize self-actualization. For descendants of the Dagomba chiefs who settled the district of Tunga, on the western outskirts of Accra, the active memory of their family’s migration from Yendi in Northern Ghana continues to shape their social relationships generations later. “Our family name is Bako, it means foreigner or like a guest… our grandfather migrated and settled here, so people related to him has a guest and that is how we are known to this day.” The active construction of Zongo identity is also evident in intensely personal narratives of conversion to Islam. An elderly Ga man explains that after his parents died when he was quite young, he went to live with his grandmother who was married to a wealthy Muslim man.

“So, my Islam was built in my grandmother’s home.” Perhaps the most striking example comes from a man in his forties, a scion of a branch of the Asante royal family. As a teenager in Kumasi, he moved in with his father who happened to own a home in the Zongo. Moved by the faith and generosity of the people he encountered there, he announced his intention to embrace Islam. His father, bewildered, promptly sent him back to his mother’s home where, in accordance with the

102 matrilineal customs of the Asante, he was sure that the boy’s maternal uncles would disabuse him of such foolishness. Yet, against all resistance, the young man persisted, sneaking into the Zongo to study the Koran. Today, he insists that “I know my culture, the indigenous Asante culture, but

I am a Zongoman, I have been with them since childhood and I will always be with them.”

What these narratives illustrate most forcefully is that Zongoness is a process of becoming, a confluence of choices and events through which disparate threads of alterity find meaning and coherence. While many family histories are perhaps not so dramatic, on the whole, they undergird a sense of community that requires activity and constant nourishment to sustain itself. In the absence of a distinctive homeland or inborn ethnic solidarity, membership is achieved and maintained through practice and active engagement with Zongo institutions: “When we say

‘Zongo’ it is really like a way of life.” One must attend prayers in the local mosque, participate in feasts, wedding and funerals, and have a sustained “presence” in the community. Even Christians or “indigenous” Ghanaians who are active in Zongo affairs can be considered “Zongo.”

Conversely, a person who neglects his obligations and distances himself from the affairs of the community can rapidly deplete his stores of Zongoness. It is thus a cultural landscape of syllogism and degrees, rather than inalienable social facts.

In this way, the ambivalence of Zongoness is at once the source of its diversity, unity and ambiguity. Community members are themselves often at a loss to define the Zongo. Asking about the nature of Zongoness in a public setting touches off informative (and entertaining!) debates:

Can a man who has never lived in the Zongo truly be a Zongo person? What about a youth who has attended private Catholic schools and cannot recite the Koran? What if your mother is Hausa

103 and father Asante? An incisive market-woman shrugs, explaining that “we have a lot of people who migrated from other regions and other tribes… then they come and form a community here…

So, I don’t know how you describe the Zongo!” Perhaps, this assessment is as good as any, a tacit assertion that no explanation beyond the diverse perspectives and experiences of the Zongo people is necessary or even possible. If, where some perceive the enduring legacy of strangerhood or the historical effects of colonial-era migration, others see fate and the inscrutability of Allah’s will, this very ambiguity is vital to the construction of Zongoness.

The Zongo Lifestyle

Despite a multitude of derivations, the term Zongo retains its etymological foundations, designating an urban zone inhabited by the descendants of Muslim migrants. While there is certainly variation within and between Zongo areas, on the whole there are enough similarities to justify generalizations, both in terms of symbolic connotations as well as social realities. The preponderance of one ethnic group in a given area, the details of its social history and the influence of individual chiefs and imams give each Zongo a unique character that is nonetheless subsumed within a broader sociospatial configuration. Although not all residents are impoverished, it is generally a crowded urban area with low levels of socioeconomic development where many residents lack access to public services. Improvised electrical wires adorn the tops of tin-roofed, cement block buildings. Major roads are paved and lined along both sides with stalls of varying size and sophistication run by small-scale merchants. Branching off from main roads, streets are not laid out in any pattern, but instead twist and turn in a confusing network of unpaved roads,

104 alley ways, and impromptu footpaths. “The thing about our area” a young man explains, “is that there is no planning… people build randomly.”

Compound homes are entered through a street-side door leading to a small courtyard. Here, domestic life unfolds, surrounded by the separate living quarters of the various families that make up the household. Common public spaces include ubiquitous mosques, street corners, informal markets, and dusty fields where local youth gather to play soccer. Pausing their raucous match, a group of young men laugh when asked about the Zongo, unsure how to respond. “Well”, one ventures, “it is where you find poor Muslims, it is very crowded… not that it is bad, but that is the situation.” “Zongo?” another calls over his shoulder as he skillfully bounces a ball off his knees,

“we need money!” he shouts with a grin, causing the other players to dissolve into laughter. The frenetic physical space, haphazard layout, lack of paved roads, pipe-borne water, or public toilets are discussed matter-of-factly with an air of self-deprecating humor. “When you see such things, you know you are in the Zongo” explains an old man, gesturing to a nearby herd of goats strolling arrogantly through traffic.

Studies of urbanization in contemporary Africa suggest that a critical mass of rural migrants, as well as the make-shift informality that permeates social and economic life, are “re-villagizing” cities by superimposing traditional practices, institutions and notions of place (Demissie 2007).

While this is, perhaps, an overly romantic view of the often desperate conditions that prevail in such places, it rightly points to the ways in which “tradition” is re-evaluated and re-invented in urban settings. In this regard, conceptualizing Zongo areas as urbanized villages is a useful way of thinking about the past and present development of its socio-spatial characteristics. Although, in

105 this case, the sequence is reversed: the village is being swallowed up by the city, forcing its residents to reckon with contrasting values and perspectives. Throughout urban Africa the moniker

“villager” is used to denigrate someone who is naive, uncouth and unschooled in the modern and often ruthless ways of the city. Yet, there is also a sense in which villagers are valorized as the embodiment of a traditional way of life that is seen as a palliative to the antisocial and homogenizing effects of city life.

Many Zongo areas, especially those in major cities such as Accra and Kumasi, were originally settled on land that was isolated or remote (see Pellow 2002). In Ayigya Zongo in Kumasi, the older generation remembers when the community was “in the bush” and residents lived in fear of the wild animals that would lurk around its edges at night. In Tunga, a Zongo that grew on the margins of the great salt marshes that punctuate the Western border of Accra, elders recall having to navigate crocodile-infested swamps to reach the city proper. Although urban sprawl has overtaken these areas, the sense of being distinct or set apart remains to varying degrees. On one hand, this distinction can be seen in the infrastructure, a state of underdevelopment that residents attribute to a mentality passed down from forefathers who, intent on returning home, never bothered to invest in the physical development of a settlement that they viewed as temporary.

While most Zongos are not as differentiated socially or spatially from surrounding areas as they were in the past, collective memories of the community’s social and historical development continue to shape the psyche of those who trace their roots in the community. As wistfulness clouds his expression, an older man explains that “now when I go there, I get lost, because it’s all grown up… but when I close my eyes, I can still see every house, where every family lived… I still have it in my mind.”

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Urban culture in Africa is often explained as a loss of tradition, an almost desperate attempt by displaced and rootless urban masses to develop new forms of sociality that can replace the traditional anchors of village life. Simone (2008) conceptualizes “the shifting social architectures” through which heterogeneous city dwellers are brought into relationship with one another (88).

These relations are, by necessity, ephemeral and improvisational. Yet, in the Zongo, close-knit communal bonds and expansive idioms of kinship retain their potency as a cultural ideal, even if, in practice, they too have somewhat faded over time. Even as they become increasingly integrated with surrounding areas, residents and outsiders alike perceive the Zongo as a place in which traditional behaviors and values hold sway. In Kumasi, Asante refer to Zongo residents as “twins” in colloquial Twi, alluding to a familial closeness that is all the more striking given the tremendous amount of ethnic and linguistic variation in Zongo communities.

Norms of strangerhood continue to facilitate hospitality for newcomers and the provision of aid to visitors, strangers and guests represents the height of social correctness. As her efforts to sweep charcoal dust are undermined by swirling eddies of wind, a young Togolese woman shyly explains that when she arrived in the Zongo several months ago looking for work, “even if they do not know you, you will still be taken care of. It’s a very tight community, everybody tries to take care of each other and help each other out.” An Asante man who converted to Islam when he was a teenager recalls being moved by the generosity he encountered in the Zongo: “We were Christians living among them, but everything we need they are ready to helps us… their hearts were open.”

While conflict and competition certainly exist as well, these sentiments are significant. In the

Zongo, traditional norms of hospitality and mutual aid are idealized even as contemporary

107 processes of urbanization configure social life as temporary alignments of interest that will sooner or later give way as individuals grasp at their share of modernity (see Ferguson 2006).

Communal life in the Zongo is epitomized by the saying that “it takes a village to raise a child,” a phrase that is as apt as it is cliché. Invoking the bucolic sensibilities of village life, it is not only a comment on child rearing, but a much broader assertion that frames all interpersonal relationships in cultural idioms of kinship. For outsiders, it is nearly impossible to distinguish biological relatedness from the fictive kinship that seems to define every interaction. “We don’t say ‘cousins’, we just say brother…yes… your aunts are your mothers, everybody is your uncle, everybody is your brother.” Capable of incorporating (but not assimilating) nearly all forms of difference, the complex social milieu of the Zongo generates an intricate web of interrelationships that are often contradictory, irregular and ill-defined. Recently arrived “aunts” and “uncles” are inducted into lineages whose roots go back generations; Ghanaian citizens rely on patronage networks controlled by undocumented migrants; socially-enforced age-grades structure patterns of deference and authority that intersect other axes of power. In these circumstances, communities, extended families and households maintain stability and coherence by condensing a multitude of social relations into familiar idioms of close biological kinship. In this way, overlapping forms of relationality, as well as the roles, statuses and obligations they entail, are made both legible and symbolically commensurable. Thus, your fictive uncle’s (an unrelated male in a higher age-grade who has been a lodger in your father’s house for the past twenty years) sister’s (biological or fictive) classmate who went to school with her in Ouagadougou (Burkina Faso) before moving into an adjoining compound in Kumasi, becomes your “sister” whose school fees, it is understood, you should now contribute to.

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In other respects, as well, the intensity of feeling provoked by communal living and the abundance of social obligations manifests as a lack of boundaries that would, in other contexts, constitute private life. Personal affairs are, for good or ill, considered grist for public consumption. Just as in the village one’s comings and goings, petty animosities and daily dramas are impossible to conceal, life in the Zongo is carried out under the gaze of the community. Since “everyone knows you and your issues, there’s a lot of gossiping, backbiting and talking. People don’t mind their business… that is the Zongo life.” In these circumstances interpersonal and family rivals can spiral out of control, ensnaring others in webs of jealousy and intrigue bred of intense familiarity. A young woman braiding hair explains that she was a good student and could have gone to secondary school but “some people get jealous and don’t want you to succeed.” Slander and loose talk are lamented and remarked upon with a disapproval that is often accompanied by the recitation of an appropriate Koranic verse. Yet there is also an underlying awareness that these issues are corollaries of the social intimacy that defines Zongo communities. This dynamic is apparent in several analogous phenomena that transform rivalry and discord into expressions of familiarity and affection. Joking relations that exist between members of particular “tribal” groups defuse historical animosity by turning past conflict into a source of amusement. Taken out of context, the audacious teasing that goes on between friends and family may appear as gleeful cruelty. Yet, for those familiar with the cultural codes of the Zongo these verbal jousts symbolize easy familiarity and unbreakable bonds.

Yet, these aspects of the Zongo that can be compared to village life are also sources of nostalgia and a collective unease that Zongo traditions are being irrevocably altered. For many, it is now necessary to distinguish the “real Zongo” from its present forms. In the real Zongo, as in the

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“traditional” village, everyone knew everyone else and people were related in bonds of kinship

(fictive or otherwise). Now, as Zongo neighborhoods are becoming more intermixed, more fully integrated into the broader urban fabric, the distinctive qualities of Zongoness are increasingly diluted and, in some instances, even called into question. A man in his 30s explains that “before, where we live, it was isolated. You hardly find different people there, but now it’s more merged.

I don’t think you call it a Zongo anymore… that Zongo lifestyle is going away, its fading out.”

The reverberating echoes of the drums that used to accompany the arrival of chiefs and make public announcements are heard less frequently. The praise singers who, at public events, would extol the virtues of family lineages going back generations are now content to sing about the current generation alone. In some areas, the melodious notes of the call to prayer now contend with strains of gospel music wafting along the narrow streets. While some areas have changed more than others, the Zongo community is gripped by a balancing act between continuity and change. Stroking his grey beard, an old man muses that “they are there, the Zongos are still there… but not the real tradition.”

These transformations are not viewed as an inevitable or natural progression. Rather, their implications are consciously assessed and debated. Just as the construction of Zongoness itself has always been understood as an ongoing process of adaptation and becoming, current trajectories of change are subject to debate and deliberation. Perhaps the best example of active attempts to manage cultural change have to do with the maintenance of age-grades and, in particular, the role of children. In traditional Zongo culture a customary social segregation based on age-sets structures inter-generational relations. While members of each set fraternize with their peers, they are expected to abide by rigorous standards of deference and respect when interacting with their

110 elders. Among local residents it is widely known which spaces are reserved for particular groups.

Pointing to a group of elders gathered under a tree, a young man explains that “you don’t see your parents sit talking like that and just go and say ‘hello daddy’… no, it doesn’t work like that, oh my god!” To casually interject yourself into a conversation between elders or to call them by their first name is an act of obscene intransigence. Most children do not even know their parents age or birthday, for to ask would be a breach of decorum. In the Zongo, “you will see them on their side and us on our side. That is how we group ourselves. It’s about creating boundaries so that children have their limits.”

As the rigidity of these age-grade obligations declines, there are wide ranging implications not just for families but for the community as a whole. Echoing the gripe of elders worldwide, many older residents find it disgraceful that the youth do not respect their elders the way they used to. Among all generations, disrespecting one’s elders is given a prominence that has come to symbolize the break-down of communal values and a general deterioration of public morality. Whereas in the past, any adult could discipline a child misbehaving in public, this is no longer the case.

Remembering a youthful indiscretion, three men tell how they once stole fruit from a tree owned by a grumpy old man who promptly gave chase, beating them with a stick. Although they escaped relatively unscathed, upon returning home that evening they found that word had spread to their father who quickly “got us straight” with a switch. The willingness of youth to openly defy or disrespect their elders and the fact that “aunts” and “uncles” in the community are not as free to punish children are, for many, not merely signs of changing values, but of the dissolution of the village mentality that has defined the Zongo. To whatever extent the revolt of the youth is either real or imagined, there is a growing sense that selfishness, greed and individualism are eroding

111 communal and familial ties, causing more and more people to stray from the path of Allah. A spry older man attributes all the social problems that plague the Zongo to the fact that youth “are no longer brought up in the right way. Now, because of something they call ‘human rights’ you can no longer whip them!”

Alongside the perceived watering down of traditional values, another factor that yields an equally significant impact on the nature and pace of cultural change is the movement of affluent households out of Zongo areas. Contradictory values that, on one hand, laud wealth and upward social mobility and, on the other, disparage the abandonment of tradition, attach an ambiguous duality to those who move beyond the physical confines of the Zongo. In the past, wealthy traders and powerful landlords chose to keep their dwellings in the community where they could freely practice their culture and religion while maintaining the traditional socio-spatial arrangements of strangerhood (Pellow 2002). Now, as Zongo elites are increasingly embedded in social and economic relationships that transcend these traditions, they often re-locate to more affluent surroundings. Such transplants walk a fine line, physically distancing themselves from the lowly socioeconomic conditions in the Zongo while striving to preserve identities and social connections.

Having spent his formative years in Nima, a rather infamous Zongo in central Accra, a young professional explains that “I can’t live inside [the] Zongo like before. You see, once you are doing better, you know your standards kind of improve. You move out… so that is what is happening.”

He is quick to add that his mother and siblings still live in Nima where “everyone still knows me.”

The abandonment of Zongoness represents a form of social death that is anathema to the vast majority of those with roots in the community. Ensconced in his estate in the suburbs of Kumasi,

112 a businessman asserts that “Zongo describes how we built our character, it is a part of our identity that cannot be erased. You could go live anywhere, but you have to identity yourself as Zongo… you have to come back, you cannot run away from that.” It is vital that those who have moved out continue to attend social events and participate in the public life of the Zongo. Although diligent maintenance of a public persona can improve one’s standing, those who no longer live in the community are inevitably subject to intensified scrutiny and must be careful that their actions do not leave them vulnerable to malicious gossip and, potentially, public censure. Thus, while upward social mobility does not preclude Zongoness, it entails a physical and social dispersal that substantially impacts its contours and perceptions.

As the social and spatial characteristics customarily associated with the Zongo become less definitive, one of the most prominent ways in which Zongoness is recognized and performed is use of the Hausa language. Ubiquitous on the streets of the Zongo, it is an unmistakable signature of culture and identity. While in domestic settings many families continue to use an ancestral tongue, the public use of Hausa is the linguistic equivalent of Islam, uniting those who speak it while distinguishing them from those who don’t. Its emergence as the lingua franca of the Zongo mirrors the social and historical processes that created the community itself. Thus, it “is not an indigenous language in Ghana… but when you come, you adopt the language… it stays in the community.” Although rare for those who did not grow up or live in the Zongo, “indigenous people who stay within the community speak Hausa the same way we do… unless he tells you ‘oh, my father is Asante’ you will not even know it!” Yet, ironically, a person arriving from Hausaland would be hard-pressed to understand the Hausa spoken by denizens of the Zongo. The local dialect has taken on a life of its own, incorporating a host of idiomatic words and phrases that reflect the

113 unique social and cultural circumstances of its germination. In this way, at least, the language of the Zongo has achieved its own version of indigeneity.

Stranger-Host Relations

In Ghanaian society, the vernacular term “stranger” carries a generally pejorative connotation.

While it is not always disputed when used by outsiders to describe Zongo people, it is an appellation they rarely claim for themselves. For most, the term does not evoke the full socio- historical significance implied by the analytic concept of strangerhood. Rather, it describes individuals who lack social ties in the community and are unfamiliar with local cultural norms.

Since these characteristics are not applicable to any but the most recently arrived Zongo residents, most strongly deny being “strangers.” It is this colloquial interpretation that informs assertions that

“I have never been a stranger because both my parents were raised in Kumasi” or “I really don’t see myself as a stranger because I know the culture… I know the people and I can easily mingle with them.” Yet, the connotations reflected in these statements must be contrasted with the meanings that are intended when the label is applied by other Ghanaians to Zongo residents. Here, there is clear reference to immigration and foreign ancestry as essentialized, collective attributes that cannot be erased biographically. While, in some ways, this usage more closely reflects the academic concept of strangerhood, in the contexts in which it is most often deployed it is more akin to the politico-legal category of “alien”, a terminology which strays sharply from historical manifestations of strangerhood as a means of inclusion and social accretion. Despite this semantic complexity, an underlying cultural logic distinguishing “indigenous” Ghanaians (or “People of the

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Land”) from the people of the Zongo retains a potency that continues to shape identities, social relations and configurations of power.

Although ethnicity, or “tribe” in the local parlance, is the constitutive element of society, it is the broader dichotomy between indigenes and variously construed others that most prominently mediates popular interactions. In Kumasi, for example, one is either Asante and therefore indigenous or not Asante and therefore a stranger. Ethnic distinctions are conflated with other forms of difference such as regional origin, language and religion, all of which are in turn conceived at scales that map onto divisions between strangers and hosts, producing bundles of stereotypical traits. Thus, Zongo people are collectively “Northerners”, “Hausa-speakers”, or

“Muslims”, set apart from “Southerners”, “Twi-speakers” and “Christians”, with each identifier signaling a taken-for-granted boundary marker. The fact that many Ghanaians are quick to expound on possible permutations of difference that readily dissolve such categorical boundaries

(Asante who convert to Islam, for example) does little to dampen the tendency to gloss over such remainders in popular discourse. The persistence of neatly-bounded stereotypes despite a keen awareness of their insufficiency, indicates the degree to which indigeneity in integral to the social imagination of both groups.

The social and cultural reproduction of strangers and hosts is effected through prescribed norms and interactions. Laden with symbolism, these rituals cultivate and display inter-communal ties.

Zongo chiefs formally consult indigenous hosts before making decisions that would affect their respective communities. Both groups attend weddings and funerals in each other’s neighborhoods and exchange food and gifts at Ramadan and Christmas. A Zongo elder explains that “whenever

115 we do our festivities they are elaborate. We will slaughter a whole cow or lamb and a group of people will move from one house to another to share food. The Christians will be on the side… they look at that and they like it because we always invite them. We say ‘come’ and they come and eat with us and see our lives.” For younger men, there is no greater evidence of good relations than the fact that inter-community football matches (often) end peaceably. Aside from acknowledging tensions generated by party politics, Zongo residents consistently describe relations with neighboring communities as “perfect” and “cordial”. After the paramount Sarkin of the Asante region was interviewed by the BBC Hausa service, he received calls from across West

Africa asking for advice on achieving peaceful stranger-host relations. He speaks proudly of mutual tolerance, understanding and respect. Such sentiments “took a long time to build” and have

“cemented good relations between us” so that “we consider ourselves children of Asante, as well as citizens of Ghana.”

Nevertheless, while it is true that in most areas everyday relations between Zongo people and members of host groups are generally friendly, assertions of perfect harmony in any context call for a healthy dose of skepticism. Recognizing that the tenets of strangerhood require adherence to symbolic norms of friendship and reciprocity, many Zongo residents are hesitant to expose any semblance of conflict or discord. In order to preserve these norms, they often emphasize the positive aspects of inter-community relations, while subtly acknowledging difficulties. What may, at times, manifest as a tendency to paint a rosy picture, is a culturally-appropriate means of conveying ambiguous sentiments. For example, the oft-heard expression “we have peace” summarily communicates the absence of overt conflict while being just vague enough to make it clear that some thoughts are left unspoken. Similarly, when asked about their personal

116 relationships outside of the Zongo, many residents offer fond remembrances of playing with

Christian friends as children. Though not clear-cut, these flashbacks leave the impression that, as adults, such relationships are lacking. Indeed, while personal friendships across the stranger-host divide certainly occur regularly, there is a general sense that less formal kinds of fraternization are, in the words of one Zongo man, “scant”.

In this regard, the relative peace that prevails does little to bridge the social distance that can often reduce stranger-host interactions to rather brittle enactments of etiquette. This air of formality arises from a shared awareness that the potential for conflict lurks just beyond the next perceived slight or overstepping of bounds. A Zongo elder explains that “the differences are there, but if no problems crop up, nobody tells anybody anything… unless there is a problem and then they want to know why or what and they go into your history to know the truth… otherwise they stay in peace.” There is neither inbred hostility nor, for the most part, long-running disputes. Instead, acute conflicts of interest result in attempts to discern and instrumentalize “the truth” (i.e. one’s heritage, pedigree, belonging, etc.) as a strategic maneuver that can legitimize or invalidate competing claims. Rather than a repudiation of the stranger/host framework, these altercations are contests to define how the circumstances and issues at hand fit within competing frameworks of belonging.

As strangerhood, ethnicity, citizenship and nationality are weighed against one another and put into circulation, relationships are defined by the interpenetration of moral and cultural valences.

Thus, while actors may share similar understandings of each category, it is nearly impossible to reconcile divergent perspectives since the “truth” becomes a matter of degree, partial resonance and overlapping modalities.

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This dynamic is vividly portrayed in a story shared during a discussion between a group of men who are struggling to explain the place of the Zongo in Ghanaian society:

I was in Egypt Airlines, going to Ghana from Cairo… I saw two Asante guys fighting with this Lebanese guy… they even tried to snatch his passport from him! So I walked up and asked them what was wrong. They said, “this so and so” (I don’t want to use their language) … “we have been in his country, Lebanon, and they have been abusing us, beating us… but this guy is holding a Ghana passport”! So, this Lebanese guy, they were attacking him, but he was standing calm. He spoke Asante very well. He said “please, sit down and listen… I own a shop in Kumasi and a lot of Ghanaians work for me. I know how you guys feel, but my people back home are ignorant, they do that”. The guys were still mad, but they calmed down because he was lecturing them in the Asante language.

In their subsequent assessment of this narrative, the discussant’s opinions diverge widely. A few argue that although the Lebanese man held a Ghanaian passport, he is not a “true Ghanaian.”

Although the majority feel that he is indeed a “Ghanaian”, some attribute this to citizenship while others point to his fluency in the Asante language. At this, one man responds with feigned indignation, saying that although he himself grew up in Kumasi and speaks the language, he is a proud Hausa man and most certainly “not Asante.” Others make the point that the traveler has “a right to be considered Ghanaian” by virtue of the fact that he provides jobs to Ghanaians. While everyone expresses sympathy for the Lebanese man and accepts that he is not responsible for the abuse that the aggrieved Asante men had suffered, it is taken as self-evident that “his country” is

Lebanon and “his people” are Lebanese. Although this debate is punctuated by jokes and laughter rather than anger, it amply demonstrates the messiness and imprecision inherent in attempts to calculate the parameters of belonging.

The positioning of Zongoness within these overlapping matrices of difference and belonging requires keen attention to the cultural logic that is evoked, as well as semantic discrepancies and,

118 above all, the context in which claims are made. Asked about the rights of Zongo people, an elderly man pounds his cane on the ground for emphasis, asserting that “there are certain rights that you don’t have somewhere and others that you do… because traditionally you are not a citizen of that place… customarily you don’t originate from that place. So there are certain things that they do as

People of the Land, that you do not do, even though you think you belong… these are some of the things… you see?” Here, although the logic of strangerhood is clearly expressed, the word

“citizen” is used to denote legitimacy in the context of claiming rights. Conversely, a Dagomba man from Tamale in Ghana’s Northern region resents the fact that “people in Kumasi feel like we are strangers. Even though I am a Ghanaian, because we are from the North, people still think that we are foreigners from outside Ghana.” The Dagombas are a southern branch of the Mossi ethnic group from Burkina Faso, but Dagbon, their customary homeland, is on the Ghana side of the border. This man thus rejects being labelled “strangers”, which in this case is taken to connote foreign nationality. Yet, it must be noted that according to the customary logic of strangerhood, a

Dagomba in Kumasi, whether from Ghana or Burkina Faso, would not qualify as a Person of the

Land.

Amidst a discursive landscape of shifting meanings, contexts and scales, all claims of belonging are inevitably fraught with a host of implications, intended and otherwise. Sitting on plush carpets in a quiet mosque, I asked two community leaders if Zongo people are still seen to be from somewhere else. One is, at first, quite adamant that “they do not see us like that. We are Ghanaians!

Like, my father is from Niger, but I was born in Ghana. You are gonna tell me that I’m from

Niger?” He contrasts his experience in Ghana with the treatment he received in Japan, where he lived for nearly a decade. Despite holding a residency permit, he tells us that he was constantly

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(though politely) asked when he would return to his own country. “You see” he exclaims, “do we say this to each other in Ghana?” Although his friend concedes that this is not generally said, he paints a different picture, explaining that “there is no doubt that you are a Ghanaian, but you are not an Asante, or not a Ga…. They will look at you and say, if you are staying in the Zongo, you are not an indigenous individual from the community.” For example, “Ghana typically doesn’t have the Yoruba tribe, so whatever Yoruba you see here migrated from Nigeria… they are different from the community that they are in… so there is always that eye that people look at you with if you are from the Zongo.”

Although these competing narratives do little to clarify ambiguities in the discourse, they help to unravel the contrasting modes of logic that undergird claims to belonging. Although most

Ghanaians understand that a large proportion of Zongo residents are legal citizens, this knowledge does not necessarily translate into popular perceptions of nationality, which are inextricably tied to “tribal” identities. To the degree that ethnicity shapes interpretations of national identity, the

Zongo label inherently alludes to the processes through which migrants “became Ghanaian.”

Regardless of whether or not such a transformation is deemed legitimate, the significance it is accorded attaches a vexing asterisk to Zongo claims of Ghanaian nationality. The following vignette, supplied by a Hausa man, illustrates this point: as he is shopping in a bustling market in

Accra, he gets into an argument with a market-woman who exclaims “oh, you Zongo people come from Nigeria and don’t know how to act!” He replies that he was “born and bred” in Accra, even switching to the Ga language to demonstrate the veracity of his claim. When she continues to call him a Nigerian, the man, who is well-travelled, pulls out his Ghanaian passport and asks her to do the same. Feeling that the tables have turned, he shouts that since he has proven his citizenship and

120 she cannot do the same, perhaps it is she who is the foreigner! Now, other market-women come to her aid, surrounding the man and asking: if you are Ghanaian why do you speak a foreign language and have a foreign name? If you are from Accra, you should take a Ga name!” Aware of the ferocious reputation of the market-women, he finally decides that discretion is the better part of valor and retreats into the crowd.

While these sorts of inter-personal confrontations are not necessarily rare, they are more an indication of how “foreignness” is strategically deployed than of widespread antagonism or ethnic nationalism. More often, the othering of Zongoness takes the form of casual prejudice and derogatory stereotypes. When I would explain my research in taxis and cafes around Accra or

Kumasi, mention of the Zongo often elicited talk of “slums” and perhaps a few caustic references to the mannerisms and characteristics of its inhabitants. Perhaps thinking to save me the exertion of conducting research, a helpful taxi driver matter-of-factly states that the people I will find there are “rowdy, loud and ignorant.” Popular representations often portray Zongo residents as low- class, uneducated or intrinsically suited to manual labor. Such stereotypical views reflect longstanding regional prejudices (see Shildkrout 1979). In the precolonial economy, the Northern regions, where many Zongo residents trace their descent, were sources of slaves. Later, British administrators further institutionalized the underdevelopment of the North. As a result of these historical disparities, there is a tendency among southern Ghanaians to construe the North as backwards and uncivilized. Despite increasing levels of socioeconomic achievement and integration, Zongo communities are still seen as a source of cheap, migrant labor. Some residents report that during the tenure of President John Mahama (2012-2017), whose family is from the

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North, it was not uncommon for the President of the Republic to be referred to as the “chief porter” on the streets of Kumasi.

Zongo residents are understandably quite sensitive to such views and do not take them lightly. A young man explains that “as soon as they see you, they say ‘this is a Zongoboy’… it makes you feel angry… sometimes the way the person says it makes you feel insulted… it will mean you are nothing… the way they say it, they want to underrate you.” An older man angrily remembers that when he sought a leadership position in the tro-tro driver’s union he was informed that “you don’t belong here… you are just a Zongo man, just keep quiet!” In efforts to counter negative perceptions, residents construct descriptions of themselves that directly contravene the accusations levelled against them. Instead of quarrelsome, they are tough; instead of ignorant and lazy, they are hardworking; and instead of having an uncertain allegiance, they are proud Ghanaians. Yet, such self-affirmations cannot overshadow a degree of ambiguity. Pride and resentment exist alongside resignation and self-deprecation. In colloquial discourse, both Zongo and non-Zongo people deploy “Zongo” as an adjective in much the same way that American youth would say that something which is shoddy, ignorant or uncouth is “ghetto.” These equivocations are further evidenced by the ways that residents describe their personal feelings related to being called a

Zongoman/woman. Expressions of pride are prefaced with assertions that “I don’t feel bad”, “it is not an insult” or “I am not bothered.” Impulsive denials of negative sentiment convey an uncomfortable self-awareness, the knowledge that being a Zongo person is, to the wider society, a questionable status that demands further proof of one’s worthiness and legitimacy.

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Latent social tension bubbles to the surface often enough to give Zongo communities a not entirely undeserved reputation for rowdiness. What, from an outside perspective, is seen as a quarrelsome disposition, is, from their own point of view, interpreted as a measure of respect, and perhaps even fear, based on the knowledge that Zongo people will not back down from a confrontation. Sitting with other community notables on the stoop of his “palace”, a neighborhood chief wearing an immaculate robe sums up this perspective:

One thing that we hate as a Zongo community is cheating! If you want to cheat us, no! We won’t allow you at all… that is why people from other communities are saying we don’t understand issues easily… but our thing is: we don’t like stupidity and you can’t cheat us… whenever you want to face a person from Zongo, that person will stand and face you! There will be no retreat and no surrender.

Cognizant of the repercussions, those from outside the community seldom attempt to come into the Zongo to impose their will. Even police and security forces meet with local chiefs and talk with them before entering a Zongo area. As one young man puts it: “you don’t just come into a

Zongo and do what you want to do. No, they will tell you ‘this is Zongo!” If a kid from the Zongo is beaten or harassed in a surrounding neighborhood, a retaliatory strike is mounted so that

“everyone knows not to touch a Zongo kid.” In disputes that take place outside the community, speaking Hausa or wearing Muslim garb is enough to garner the support of passers-by who happen to be from the Zongo.

In contrast to these sorts of conflict, which arise largely from happenstance, soccer matches between Zongo areas and neighboring groups are an almost institutionalized form of inter- community violence. While the intensity of the fighting has significantly decreased over time, these battles retain a symbolic importance. Gathered in the courtyard of their family compound at

123 dusk, several generations describe their exploits in gladiatorial terms. “The Zongo boys?” says a man with a wry grin, “you beat us in football, we beat you! We hardly accept defeat!” When a venerable older man brags about his past prowess, the others tease him since he is now well known for being exceedingly gentle and kind. “You have to fight” he explains, “or you will lose respect in the Zongo. You have to fight alongside your peers so that they know you are with them.” These ritualized mixtures of sport and combat are pivotal events that put the social and psychological complexities of the Zongo on public display. Since, for the most part, there are no serious injuries or lasting animosity, the matches reinforce boundaries as well as inter-community ties. In this regard, they are a microcosm of broader stranger-host relations, in which customary norms of amity and reciprocity are upheld, even while masking undercurrents of rivalry and even violence.

While some forms of controlled violence are generative, criminality subverts the carefully balanced norms of strangerhood and stands outside of legitimate institutional structures. It is perhaps for this reason that the association of the Zongo with crime, particularly armed robbery, is especially galling to Zongo residents. In the wider society, two narratives which at first appear contradictory are, in fact, two sides of the same coin. On one hand, Zongo people are known for their honest dealing and aversion to any form of theft. In the dense housing blocks and maze-like streets, a kind of “eyes on the street” (see Jacobs 1961) policy prevails. Close-knit residents maintain an informal system of surveillance. In Aboabo, a Zongo area of Kumasi, a young

Christian woman tells me that she comes to sell her cell phone accessories because here “you cannot be taken advantage of since people are always sitting on their benches.” Accusations of theft are taken extremely seriously, and it is not uncommon for accused thieves to be brutally beaten on the spot. “The worst thing you can do is go in the Zongo and steal” a young man explains,

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“not in that area… you will not fare well.” Yet, on the other hand, the perception that Zongos are dangerous places is widespread and tends to resonate with stereotypical assertions of the generally uncouth and unruly nature of Zongo people. Such prejudicial discourses are sustained by local media, which seem to delight in sensationalized reports decrying the criminality which is said to emanate from Zongo areas (McCaskie 2008).

Although many residents would like to emphasize the former perspective while downplaying the latter, there are varying degrees of truth in each. While it is true that media representations often cater to popular prejudice, it is impossible to deny that many Zongo areas are disproportionately afflicted by the presence of criminal gangs. Amongst residents, resentment against prevalent stereotypes is balanced by genuine fear and frustration. At night, moral imperatives enforced by elders, chiefs and imams give way to a more ruthless calculus of survival. Outsiders refuse to enter or pass through at night, and even residents lock their doors and are hesitant to venture out onto the darkened streets. While many people rather disingenuously insist that the gangsters are not locals, but come from outside to cause trouble, such explanations are tempered by Zongo elders who openly lament the wayward youth who have turned to robbery and extortion, and young people who admit that a few of their peers would rather gamble, steal and smoke marijuana than go to school. An insightful young woman selling plates of rice by the roadside observes that when there are no jobs or opportunities people will “do evil things to make money.”

The occurrence of crime in Zongo communities is inseparable from their social and economic marginalization. An incident that took place in Kumasi in 2013 illustrates how “the criminalization of urban space” contributes to a cycle of poverty, illegality and scapegoating (see McCaskie 2008).

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In a large tract of land just north of Ayigya Zongo, and bordering several other neighborhoods, row after row of half-built apartment buildings sat empty and unused. The housing project, branded the

Affordable Homes, was intended to relieve congestion in surrounding residential areas, but when the government changed hands, funding for the project dried up. In a thoroughly ironic twist of fate, the Affordable Homes, many of the cement frames lacking walls or even roofs, were taken over by squatters. While during the day families cooked and washed clothes as children chased each other along the dusty lanes, it was rumored that at night, a notorious gang used the Affordable

Homes as a base to plan heists and evade the police. Eventually, the police mounted a raid, treating the squatters, as well as residents of Ayigya Zongo (where they assumed the gangsters were from) with a heavy hand. In response, local youths set up barricades on major roads, preventing police access and blocking the flow of traffic. Counter-narratives circulated across the city. For some, the raid and subsequent roadblocks were further proof of the criminality of the Zongo. Others claimed that the police had sat by while the gangsters terrorized the people of Ayigya Zongo, only to hold peaceful residents collectively responsible when the crime spree targeted other areas. Whatever the truth, this incident reflects broad patterns of repression and resentment that further stigmatize

Zongo communities. Asked about their relationship with surrounding neighborhoods after the

Affordable Homes incidents, a young man in Ayigya Zongo shrugs resignedly, “they look down on us and if any crime happens, they think it is people from here.”

A similar cycle of stigma and marginalization shapes access to educational opportunities for residents of the Zongo. Yet, in this case, the community itself imposes an alternative value system that contributes to the belief that Zongo people are ignorant and uneducated. For generations, parents refused to allow their children to attend secular schools, fearing that they would be

126 indoctrinated with “western” values that would cause them to stray from the path of Islam. While these fears were not unfounded, since most primary and secondary schools in Ghana were run by

Christian missionary organizations, they prohibited Zongo youth from acquiring a formal education. Moreover, many families simply did not have the resources to pay school fees or to lose out on the income to be gained by putting children into the workforce at a young age. As an alternative, those that could afford to do so would send children to Koranic school for a few days a week, where they learned basic principles of religion and memorized passages from the Koran.

Perhaps more than any other factor, the lack of formal education has contributed to social and economic stagnation in the Zongo community.

Today, residents cite greater respect for the benefits of formal education as one of the most profound changes in “the Zongo mentality.” For parents and children alike, education is not only seen as an individual choice, but is considered a moral imperative that can improve standards of living and lead to the socioeconomic development of entire communities. Although change is slow and sporadic, it is gradually leading to increased levels of integration as residents experience social mobility, move to more affluent districts and form bonds with students from other neighborhoods.

“Before going to school, all we knew was the Zongo life” says a young man in a freshly-pressed school uniform. Improved access to education is also having a profound impact on traditional gender norms. “Before you did not see females getting educated” notes another student, “our sisters did not have that opportunity because they [parents] thought that she just needs to learn to cook and take care of kids.” A young woman behind the counter in a tiny grocery store explains that she and her siblings take turns attending school since they cannot afford to go all at once. Even the imam at a small mosque perks up when I ask him if secular education is a good thing for the

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Zongo. “Oh yes!” he responds instantly, “now we have children going to the US and to university and becoming doctors. But it is still changing, and it will take some time.”

Yet despite a good deal of progress, the majority of Zongo residents still lack formal education.

Those who do choose to attend a secular school face intense pressure from all sides. In the classroom, Zongo students are often mocked and ridiculed for their humble upbringing and Zongo ways. At the same time, many in their own community accuse them of abandoning Islam and being ashamed of their Zongo heritage. The emotional pain is evident on an older man’s face as he tells of the harsh treatment his parents endured when they sent him to school beyond the confines of the Zongo. “When I started going” he recalls, “they would say ‘you have sent your child to school?

We are going to lose this child, he will be an unbeliever.” Another man remembers that when he was offered a scholarship to a prestigious school in Accra, his father would only allow him to attend if he was able to memorize the Koran. Although he managed to pull off this feat, he was bullied so badly by other community members that he turned his back on the Zongo entirely, only reclaiming his heritage years later in the United States. Although today’s youth do not face the ostracism and coercion experienced by their elders, they too must navigate conflicting cultural values. A young man who attends a Catholic school says that while many people are proud of him, others say that “you will burn in fire.” Other critics simply feel that going to school is a waste of time. “There are people who try and discourage you. You have to be really a very strong person to get through those negative things and just go. But it is a hard thing to bear.”

Students from the Zongo who are able to weather disapproval from within the community are then pressured to conform to the social etiquette and religious doctrines of the institutions they attend.

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They are often forced to learn hymns, recite prayers and study scripture even though “they know that you are Muslim and are not supposed to do that, but they still push you. They try to indoctrinate you.” A young man who had attended a Methodist school in Accra recalls his anguish when, kneeling in the pews, he was doubly terrified that his peers would hear him muttering the Fatir

(the Muslim statement of faith) and that Allah would not forgive him for having attended church.

Even when attendance at church services is optional, Muslim students are exposed to the scrutiny and reproach of teachers, peers and administrators. Reflecting on his schooling experience years later, a man who had attended Catholic school shamefacedly admits that on one occasion he even took communion. When his friends begin to tease him for this transgression, he redeems himself by telling how he led a boycott of the church services, even forcing the school to provide Muslim students with a place to pray. “Sometimes you have to rebel to get them to understand.”

While there is a general feeling that school policies discriminate against Muslim students, most

Zongo residents see this as a problem with the educational system rather than the expression of generalizable religious friction. Nevertheless, since schooling intersects many other aspects of life, it has emerged as a central issue that symbolizes the position of Zongo communities within

Ghanaian society. The tragic death of a Muslim student who fell from a window while being chased by a teacher who was trying to force him to attend church, has, in recent years, galvanized political activism on the part of Zongo leaders and community associations. A Zongo chief explains that “before, there were few Muslims from the Zongo going to school. But now, there are many who are being educated. So I think things will change. Our population is increasing and we are becoming developed, so more people are starting to see that we have the same rights as all

Ghanaians.”

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Power, Agency and Authority

As Schatzberg (2001) has pointed out, the dynamics of power depend on perceptions of authority, the modes of cultural logic that render the exercise of power legitimate in the eyes of those who are subject to it. Indeed, internal power struggles within the Zongo are, above all, contests to mobilize popular support and convince strategically placed actors that one set of claims is more legitimate and should thus override others (see Shildkrout 1978, Kramer 1996, Pellow 2002).

While disputed chieftaincies, revolts against Hausa dominance and sectarian rivalry nominally occur on the even cultural terrain of traditional authority, in the broader political landscape alternative forms of authority and measures of legitimacy inevitably come into play. This dynamic is not lost on Zongo leaders, who understand that competing visions of authority can often clash.

In Kumasi, a Zongo chief warns me that in the course of my research I may come across people who will speak against him. If this happens, I should inform him who these people are since “they do not understand that a chief is not a politician.”

Throughout Ghana’s history, many political projects have in large part been driven by a desire to either eliminate incommensurable forms of authority or to leverage one form into another. It is not coincidental that when Nkrumah, Ghana’s first president, granted citizenship to the people of the

Zongo, he also abolished the position of Sarkin, recognizing that their authority stood in the way of the politico-legal state he envisioned. After his removal from power, the architects of the Alien

Compliance Order weaponized (a distorted version of) the logic of strangerhood, deporting Zongo residents in a bid to consolidate control over state institutions. While in the decades after independence these competing frameworks were interpreted as a clash between tradition and modernity, in the present, the teleology is reversed: social convulsions driven by the

130 neoliberalization of the Ghanaian state contribute to a “retribalization” of society as subjects seek to re-form stable institutions and authorities in the vacuum left by the privatization of state functions.

Among Zongo residents, interpretations of citizenship rarely adhere to the narrow limits of the law. Yet, although it is only within the context of formalized legal domains and discourses that such an understanding is invoked, the requirements for legal citizenship are widely known. An illiterate young woman who has never attended school can confidently state that “you have citizenship status if you were born in this country” or “if your parents and grandparents were living in Ghana at the time of independence.” These direct references to statutes enshrined in the constitution are often supplemented with detailed knowledge of naturalization processes and immigration policy. In a community defined by constant comings and goings this is important knowledge to have. Precisely because unequivocal legal requirements are quite well known, the prevalence of much more loosely construed explanations does not signal ignorance, but the salience of alternative understandings.

These broad visions of citizenship, which emphasize customary residency, social ties and participation over legality, are inflected by the cultural logic of strangerhood. Popular sentiments assert that “since we are all in this country, we are citizens” or “it means being a member of the town where you live.” Likewise, the view that “a citizen is someone who is from Ghana” leaves open possibilities that fall outside a legal purview. The metaphorical imagery of “having roots” in one’s locality is especially prominent. For instance, “someone who can trace his roots within a particular community is a citizen” and if “most of their relatives… father… mother…

131 grandmother… are all within that community or country… this is a citizen.” Roots are demonstrated by being “known” in the community or by speaking a local dialect. Here, citizenship is an allusion to the extended family connections, deep social ties, and cultural fluency that distinguish community members from those whose social obligations and orientations remain affixed to an elsewhere. A common refrain throughout the Zongo is that “we have nowhere else to go.” This phrase, adamantly asserted, affirms primary allegiance to Ghana and is therefore a powerful claim of belonging. Nevertheless, even with residency and roots, citizenship must be continuously substantiated through social action. Participation in the decision-making processes, communal project and social events that constitute public life proactively legitimate claims of belonging, reversing the standard logic of legal citizenship in which one must first hold the status in order to be allowed to participate. In this regard, those who “engage in activities that will bring about development in our communities” are citizens. Even personal livelihoods may be understood as a form of citizenship: “I think we all have our own duties... for me, I sell drinks… someone else may be selling food… all citizens have different responsibilities” a young woman says proudly.

Multiple symbolic valances coalesce around shared moral codes that infuse citizenship with many of the strongly-held ethical assertions associated with strangerhood. “A citizen?” asks a tro-tro driver with a mischievous grin, “do you mean a citizen or a good citizen?” Social ills, understood in relation to ideals of hospitality and generosity, are often described as a breach in the terms of citizenship. Her voice tinged with emotion, an elderly woman explains that “citizens should help their brothers and sisters… if you are staying in your neighbor’s house, it is like you are staying in your own.” “We, as citizens, are guilty for a whole lot of issues” concedes a youth organizer whose fellows have not shown up to a public forum. As a young woman sells plates of rice by the roadside,

132 news arrives of armed robberies that have occurred the night before. “See?” she exclaims, “some people don’t know how to be citizens.” Many people, especially in the older generations, also equate good citizenship with overt displays of loyalty. A wizened old man points his long fingers, saying “freedom of speech doesn’t mean that you can insult people in power!” Others are adamant that “if the government is doing something, we should give our full support” since “a citizen doesn’t have the right to go against the state.” These perspectives show that citizenship is inflected by several of the normative dimensions of strangerhood, at times including the stranger’s compulsion to remain a loyal servant of power.

Yet, in the same way that strangerhood is built on a framework of reciprocal obligations, the enactment of good citizenship in turn requires good governance. Espousing belief in a representative political system, nearly all Zongo residents succinctly describe their relationship with the government in positive terms. Although only a handful explicitly speak of a “social contract”, prevailing opinion is that “we chose them, so they are supposed to represent us.” Many people express pride at Ghana’s relative openness, contrasting the political freedoms they enjoy with the repressive policies of neighboring countries. Nevertheless, they harbor no illusions that the government is ideal. Although rare, some readily air tales of impenetrable bureaucracy, blatant nepotism, and corruption. There are significant undercurrents of cynicism, especially among the older generation. One old man memorably describes governance as “adding zeros to figures in order to get rich.” The only way to end corruption, another argues, is the return of military government to “put things in order for this country.”

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Obvious discrepancies between ideals of good governance and the realities of neoliberal Ghana give rise to several permutations of citizenship and strangerhood that are not as contradictory as they may first appear. Although Zongo residents strongly believe that the primary responsibility of the government is to “give us development” through sound economic management, job creation and the provision of infrastructure (schools, roads and sewage systems loom especially large), they tend not to blame the government for the fact that these public services are conspicuously absent in most Zongo areas. It is in large part accepted that these responsibilities also fall on the shoulders of residents themselves. “Don’t wait for the government to come in… you can do something on your own” says a white-robed Qur’anic-school student. “Our level of commitment to help ourselves must be very high” he adds, his comrades nodding in solemn agreement. This fend-for- yourself mentality positions the illegal electrical wires, vigilante justice, and makeshift dumps that pervade the Zongo as legitimate undertakings, rhetorically absolving the government of sole responsibility while leaving residents free to operate without regard for legal and bureaucratic restraints.

This emphasis on civic responsibility instrumentalizes symbolic acts of deference. Even while good citizens are expected to abide by the law, the performance of “respect” makes it possible to maintain propriety while operating extra-legally. Using correct discourse and showing public support for government officials does not merely cloak the failure to obtain a vending license or the withholding of taxes but legitimizes these activities as the prerogative of citizens in good personal standing with the authorities. Although Zongo residents generally feel that cloistered government bureaucrats are irresponsive to their needs, making a show of channeling grievances through the proper channels is a strategic maneuver that justifies recourse to informal (i.e. illegal)

134 tactics. This arrangement casts a veneer of tranquility over state-citizen relations. There is, to be sure, hesitancy to openly challenge the government or to expose discord. Far more often, dissatisfaction is expressed through platitudes laden with implicit meaning. Asked when an assemblyman last visited their neighborhood, residents smile serenely and reply that “we have peace.” A soft-spoken young man deftly working a loom pauses and gazes into the distance before offering his thoughts: “different communities have different ways of relating to their leaders… that is how this world is.” Choosing to express criticism in oblique fashion is not simply attributable to a fear of reprisal or an attempt to cover up problems. Rather, acknowledging difficulties without burning any bridges protects existing relationships and leaves open future possibilities.

The techniques Zongo residents use to balance competing impulses of agency and obligation are on skillful display when it comes to party politics. Everyone agrees that “when we speak of citizenship, and it is time to go and vote, you have to vote so that this country can move forward.”

Most people affiliate with a specific party and profess to vote whenever elections are held.

Although party loyalty is generally quite strong, many folks speak proudly of their independence, upholding their right to change affiliations or to question the decisions of party leaders.

“Sometimes I don’t support what they do, but I belong to the party and it is in my heart” a young woman explains. Many Zongo residents are hesitant to broadcast their affiliation or speak out since doing so could jeopardize their businesses, friendships or reputations. Although voting is, in theory, highly valued, elections are associated with conflict. There is palpable tension on the streets as scuffles and arguments break out. In efforts to avoid intimidation, choosing a time and place to

135 vote is a strategic decision. The community looks forward to the end of election season since “that is when we begin to enjoy our peace.”

In Kumasi, where there is a strong Asante majority, the general assumption is that Zongo residents support the National Democratic Congress (NDC). Historically, most Asante have opposed the

NDC, and thus tend to view Zongo neighborhoods as bastions of their political rivals (Kobo 2010).

In their eyes, support for the NDC is a gross violation of the neutrality expected of strangers. For this reason, it is in the realm of partisan politics that the inherent contradictions of citizenship and strangerhood are thrown into stark relief for many residents. The cultural logic of strangerhood, which in other contexts facilitates peaceful intercommunal relations, now constitutes proof that by

(presumably) supporting the NDC, Zongo residents are overstepping their bounds. Gingerly negotiating these inflection points, many assert that “we do our own politics. We do not go to where the Asante are to do politics.” In this sense, citizens are disaggregated as strangers and hosts, with both groups conducting an insular, internal politics. The Sarkin’s spokesman outlines a voting strategy which clearly presumes the collective ethos of strangerhood:

For a party to form a government in Ghana, that party must have the support of the Muslims and Zongo. We are very much aware of our political power, but we must use it wisely... while we are using it, we are not blind to the men on one side. We do not put all our eggs in one basket… some of us are NDC, NPP, PPP, CPP… aha! So that whichever party wins we have our presence there…yes…yes… they will have to reckon with us.

Thus, even as Zongo leaders engage discourses of citizenship to pursue political interests, they affirm essentialist boundaries between strangers and hosts. While the balance-of-power between parties is subject to change, the basic relationship with their Asante hosts remains constant.

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Although citizenship holds important moral and practical resonance, for many Zongo residents it is largely associated with the narrow domain of politics. While, from an analytic point of view, power permeates every aspect of society, according to the cultural categories of the Zongo, politics specifically signifies power struggles that occur in the context of formal state institutions. This equivocation is made possible by the maintenance of strict ideological boundaries between politics and customary forms of authority, a division codified by legal doctrines that nominally restrict chiefs and religious figures from direct participation in party politics. Of course, despite these restrictions power seeps easily between contexts. Nevertheless, within the popular imagination politics is a specialized, autonomous domain. In contrast, customary authority and the social etiquette of stranger-host relations are far more integral to the management of quotidian affairs. “I am not involved in politics because I am a leader in this community” a Zongo chief explains.

Everyday life is structured by ethnic identities and the categories of stranger and host into which they are placed, as well as the forms of authority that mediate relations between groups. Customary authority is enacted within a nested hierarchy of horizontal and vertical relations, so that each position within the web of power depends on the perceived legitimacy of every other position.

Recognizing the authority of a local chief who is in turn recognized at each rung of authority ultimately reinforces the structure. Conversely, a leader whose authority is challenged or contested is a weak link that can threaten the entire edifice. On one hand, this dynamic breeds conservatism, since each chief has an interest in protecting the structure of chiefly authority. Yet, on the other, it can also facilitate compromise and power-sharing agreements that augment perceptions of legitimacy. In Accra for example, traditional arrangements reserve influential imam positions at

137 various mosques to specific ethnic groups, leaving their constituents with little incentive to buck the system (Pellow 2002).

In the Zongo, authority is distributed among imams and traditional chiefs who oversee the day to day affairs of the community. Although the imam’s power is generally asserted through informal influence, there is no real distinction between secular and religious authority in a strict sense. The decisions and decrees of both are derived from the interpretation of Islamic Law. While Zongo residents are adamant that Islamic Law in no way contravenes the laws of the state, there is also a strong feeling that problems and issues should be taken care of within the community since this is the only way to ensure the proper application of Islamic principles of order and justice. The Sarkin

Zongo “has big authority, honestly… anything that happens in Zongo goes to him… he is the judge” explains a respected elder. In addition to burly security men clad in flowing red garments who can “come and call you” to account for your actions, the Sarkin has “his people, his councilors, all the people in his palace who sit on mats and chairs and discuss matters… and rule.” In general, the Sarkin, imams and ministers are held in high esteem and venerated as an element of Zongo custom that must be preserved in order to counter the ongoing loss of tradition. The old man is not too concerned by this prospect. “The chiefs like their authority” he says, “They cannot do away with it… they like it too much!”

In the wider society, the Sarkin acts as a representative of the Zongo people. The institution of

Sarkin is an interface, connecting the community with various state institutions as well as traditional chieftaincies. While Zongo chiefs make use of numerous means, direct and otherwise,

138 to exercise power, influence and authority both inside and outside the Zongo, their position vis a vis “indigenous” chiefs is significantly constrained by the normative expectations of strangerhood:

Now you see, the Sarkin Zongo in Kumasi… he may have a seat in the Asantehene’s palace, but he doesn’t belong to the Asante Clan. This {arrangement} is everywhere… in my village where I was born, the people who own the land, they have their paramount chief and the Sarkin Zongo has a seat there… when they are holding meetings, he goes as a representative of the Zongo people and if there is anything {to report} he brings it back. But he doesn’t belong… he is a representative… that is it.

This description of the Zongo chief’s role invokes a cultural logic that is mirrored and reinforced by the mantra “we know ourselves”, an explicit acknowledgement of otherness that carries the full weight of strangerhood. This simple phrase reflects self-awareness and signals the maintenance of customary sociocultural boundaries, norms and values. In popular discourse, these relations are naturalized through idioms of ownership and fictive kinship. In Kumasi, for example, Zongo residents blithely explain that “we live under the Asante… it is the Asante to whom this place belongs.” In this regard, the question of legitimate authority overwhelmingly brings to mind

Otumfuo Osei Tutu II, the current Asantehene and, in the eyes of Zongo residents, the rightful ruler of Kumasi. While politicians are, through the appropriate means, subject to criticism and debate, the Asantehene and his appointed representatives are beyond reproach. Residents hold social standing in their capacity as “children of Otumfuo.” Giving a look which indicates that he is not too impressed by my question, an old man explains that “he [the Asantehene] acquired authority because the power belongs to Asante… that is all I know… in Kumasi here, he is the overlord.”

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Nevertheless, chiefly authority is not merely a matter of power and deeply embedded cultural beliefs. The power of chiefs to enforce customary law and the “natural” rights over land ascribed to indigenous hosts are also seen to “emanate from the people.” Many Zongo residents go into detail describing procedures for the selection of chiefs, the proper balance of power between social institutions, and the obligation to rule through consultation and delegation. This emphasis on popular legitimacy reveals an understanding of authority that echoes the language and logic of citizenship. It is believed that even “he [the Asantehene] acquired authority from our great grandparents. They gave him the right to rule in Kumasi.” This formulation positions Zongo people as architects of a long-standing social contract that rests upon reciprocal obligations between strangers and hosts. Although these obligations are not equal in the legal sense of the term, they amount to a concept of “rights” in everything but name. Moreover, at least in principle, a failure to live up to the terms of the contract would justify the revocation of authority.

Expectations surrounding the social roles, interpersonal dynamics and standards of correct behavior are remarkably standardized among the Zongo population. This high degree of cultural consensus tends to routinize everyday social encounters. Shared convictions form a cultural backdrop against which rights claims are weighed and contested. In this sense, although the customary, ritualized obligations between chiefs/subjects and strangers/hosts certainly engage a personalist politics associated with clientelism rather than liberal democracy, they are no less formal than those of a President or Assemblyman to their constituencies. It is precisely because these expectations are such a salient feature of the Zongo worldview, that a failure to satisfy them often results in a process of conflict and/or negotiation meant to re-establish legitimate authority.

Fully aware of the strong expectations of political correctness, Zongo residents may paradoxically

140 lavish extravagant praise on authority figures as a means of drawing attention to shortcomings. By highlighting their own conformity to the norms of strangerhood, public displays of loyalty subtly invoke the reciprocities residents expect in return.

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Chapter 6. Contemporary Strangerhood in the United States

Along a narrow side-street just off Jerome Avenue in the Bronx, a dark green awning set above the front entrance identifies a rather unremarkable brick building as Yankasa Masjid.

It is not an easy place to find. Exiting the subway stop at 176th Street and Jerome, I walk past several car repair shops with garage doors open to the street, all of which seem to be blaring the same reggaeton song as loud as possible. Further along, I pass a crowded barber shop with a massive Jamaican flag in the window and weave my way between several men speaking in Mexican-accented Spanish in front of a small storefront advertising live poultry.

Turning off the main street, I begin to question my sense of direction: am I going the right way? Yet, since the older Dominican men playing dominos on the sidewalk seem too engrossed in their game to be bothered, and I am not entirely comfortable approaching several tattooed young men loitering on the corner, I continue my search without asking for directions. Rounding a corner, I am somewhat relieved when I am finally able to make out the words printed on the green awning. As I approach, a young man beckons me to enter the masjid. Men in long robes sit together, talking and reading the Koran as the familiar (yet for me, indecipherable) cadence of Hausa fills the air. When I am introduced to the chief imam, he gives a polite nod but does not speak; he is preoccupied with the ringing cell phones he clutches in each hand. Five thousand miles from the Sarkin’s palace in Kumasi, across the expanse of the Atlantic, I have returned to the Zongo…

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Despite its rather inconspicuous setting, Yankasa Masjid is the focal point of the Zongo community in all of North America. Serving as a mosque, social club and community center, it epitomizes transnational space, anchoring the Zongo presence in place while situating them within a dispersed, yet highly interconnected, global network. Ghanaian chiefs and politicians woo supporters in the masjid before crossing the Harlem river on the way to the consulate in Midtown Manhattan.

Renowned malams from Accra, Kano and Newark debate esoteric suras from the Koran before rushing to JFK to catch their flight to Jeddah. Transcontinental marriages are arranged and gossip from “back home” (perhaps a remote village without so much as an internet café) exchanged. In this way, Yankasa is a meeting point of thresholds, a cultural landmark whose symbolic resonance extends far beyond the polyglot streets of the Bronx. For many Zongo residents in Ghana, Yankasa assumes almost mythic proportions, coming to represent the sum of their aspirations for social and geographic mobility. As I sit in a quiet corner of the masjid, a middle-aged man with an authoritative bearing asserts that when a Zongo person steps off the plane in New York the first thing they ask is “Where is Yankasa Masjid? Where are my people?”

Yet, for Zongo communities throughout the US, Yankasa’s symbolism is reversed. From their perspective, it is a gateway of customary norms and practices leading not to global modernity, but back, towards a traditional past rooted in ideals of strangerhood. An elder reflecting on his experience living in Columbus, Ohio is surprised to learn that I have spent time at Yankasa, “that place is really Zongo!” he chuckles. Taken together, these competing perspectives configure

Yankasa as a symbolic representation of the encounter between Zongo norms and the vicissitudes of life in America; an encounter through which the past articulates with the present, the here with the elsewhere. Collective and individual engagements with and orientations toward these

143 articulations are nodes, cultural inflection points that structure emergent forms of subjectivity.

Focusing on these fields of encounter, this chapter examines the cultural and political dynamics that shape the lives of Zongo migrants in the US.

The first section examines the social construction of Zongo communities, focusing on the pivotal role of formal Zongo associations as platforms for managing cultural tensions. Next, I explore how perceptions of place mediate local-global interactions, arguing that even as Zongo migrants navigate national citizenship and immigration regimes, they posit notions of rights and belonging that transcend territorial boundaries. The third section assesses popular relations with elements of host society. Although they remain relatively insular, Zongo cosmopolitanism matches and, in some ways, exceeds that standards of U.S. civil society. In the fourth and final section, I show how contrasting notions of authority influence political ideas, institutions and practices among the

Zongo community, limiting participation in formal politics while expanding the bounds of the political. Overall, this chapter makes the case that in the American context, Zongo migrants emerge as contemporary, global subjects guided by underlying precepts of strangerhood.

The Social Construction of Community

Coming to America

With the largest Zongo population in North America, the New York City/New Jersey conurbation is by far the most common point of arrival, providing the setting for the initial experience of living in the United States. In this regard, the area holds an indelible prominence of place for Zongo migrants, many of whom view it as a proximate homeland from which intrepid settlers venture

144 further into the American “bush.” “Most of us first come to New York” explains a man in a masjid in Columbus, Ohio, “you probably know somebody over there, so you end up going to New York or New Jersey. But some of us travel further.” Yet, New York’s role as the gateway to America is gradually decreasing as the presence of established Zongo communities in other cities facilitates more diverse patterns of movement. Echoing Stoller’s (2002) analysis, dispersal across the U.S. is largely a matter of contingency, happenstance and opportunity rather than concerted strategies or discernable trends. Short term plans to visit friends or relatives in other cities often turn into permanent re-locations. Among the men gathered in the Columbus masjid, one moved from

Tamale (Northern Ghana) to Virginia where “we were packed into a spot. I came to visit a friend in Columbus seventeen years ago and never went back.” Another explains that “initially I was in

New York… but after a few months, a friend of mine was here, and I came to visit and preferred it. In New York, I felt like the buildings were squeezing me!”

Personal narratives from the earliest Zongo settlers to arrive in the U.S. further corroborate how exigent circumstances and the vagaries of fate have profoundly shaped the development of the community. In 1967 Al Haji Imam, now in his 80s, was among the very first Zongo residents to arrive in Chicago. Seated in his living room on the south side, he recounts how he initially came to the U.S. on a student visa that had to be renewed every year. Fifty years later, Al Haji shakes his head in wonderment as he tells me that shortly before his visa was set to expire, he somehow managed to secure a coveted position at General Motors. The job offered permanent residency and financial stability, as well as vital social connections that developed as he worked alongside

American colleagues at the plant. Making the most of this opportunity, Al Haji became the founding father of the Zongo community in Chicago. As others in the room lavishly praise his

145 wisdom and generosity, Al Haji modestly lowers his eyes: “All I did, Allah was helping me. It was nobody but him. When you have faith, everything will work out.”

Although Mohammed, a Zongo patriarch in Columbus, does not explicitly attribute his success to

Allah, his story, and the impact it would have on those around him, is no less fortuitous. Arriving in January 1981 on a student visa to attend college in Dayton, Ohio, he recalls being met at the airport by a representative from student services who promptly announced that they must stop by his sister’s birthday party on the way back to campus:

In Ghana, at the time, there was no CNN, no foreign news. Now, before people leave Ghana to come to the US, they know a lot about it. But, back then? You didn’t know anything! So this guy stops on the way and takes me to this birthday party. One black person and all white, females and all! Keep in mind, I had never met a white person before! Everybody was questioning me, but I don’t even know if they understood me at the time because my accent was really strong. That was the first day I ate pizza, the first day I knew something called pizza exists.

After only a year or two in Dayton, Mohammed’s student status was jeopardized by geopolitical matters beyond his control. In efforts to preserve its dwindling foreign currency reserves, the military government in Ghana imposed strict limits on the amount of cash that could be sent out of the country. Since his father, a Zongo chief in Accra, could no longer send him money to live on, Mohammed was forced to move to New York where it was possible to find “informal” work.

There, he managed to earn a degree from City College while driving a cab and working as a gas station attendant.

In the early 1990s, Mohammed submitted a long list of names to the Green Card Lottery, the very first iteration of the now well-known program run by the U.S. State Department meant to diversify

146 immigration to the U.S. “I put in like 50 names” he explains, “all the boys I knew from the old neighborhood.” Mohammed’s younger “brother”, sitting beside him, picks up the story from his perspective:

I arrived here in Oct. 1995. And it was through Mohammad. He brought all of us. Mohammad put everybody’s name in and I was a lucky one… One day I was just sitting in front of my house in the Zongo and this thing came in my name [a letter from the U.S. embassy]. I said, “what is this?” There were a lot of scams, so at first, I just put it aside. I didn’t know! Because Mohammed didn’t even tell us that he had put our names in!

Over time, Mohammed provided both the means and the guidance for a new generation of arrivals from the Zongo. An unlikely chain of events, from that first day in the U.S, eating pizza and meeting white people, through the incredible stroke of luck in the Green Card Lottery, resulted in several generations of an extended family from a small Zongo on the outskirts of Accra living in comfortable homes in the quite suburbs of Columbus. Reflecting on their journey, one of his

“brothers” says that “if you had told us when we were growing up, that we would be here, like this? We would not have believed you.” At this, a lull settles in the room as everyone’s thoughts travel back to a different time and place. Finally, Mohammed breaks the silence: “But, even while you are here, you are still in the Zongo.”

These patterns of migration, characterized by the role of contingency, the pursuit of wealth and the guidance of a local “landlord,” are a continuation of the same social processes that first attracted migrants to Ghanaian Zongo communities. In this sense, coming to America is not viewed in terms of rupture, but as an extension and elaboration of arrangements that have long constituted the basis of Zongo social organization. Although migrants unequivocally come in pursuit of money, jobs and education, their experiences and decisions related to the crossing of territorial borders presume

147 that access to these resources depends on appropriate measures of legitimacy. While green cards, residency permits and visas are seen as important tools gleaned from the host society, these documents merely instrumentalize the broader legitimacy conferred by inalienable freedom of movement, the twists and turns of fate (or Allah’s will) and the legacy of a founding father, whose heroic strivings form the basis of the community’s continued growth. In this way, mobility is the constitutive element of social construction. Shared understandings that seek to maximize possibilities for movement and migration establish the sociocultural conditions that knit together diverse peoples into a unified body, contributing to the inherently dynamic character of Zongoness.

The Role of the Zongo Associations (The new landlords)

The development of a Zongo community in a new city takes time and often proceeds in fits and starts. In the early stages, many arrivals are unaware of the presence of Zongo groups beyond their immediate social circle. “It took me almost a year to know that there were other [Ghanaian]

Muslims in this area” a man in Columbus says, “even though some people were meeting and getting together, there was no organization.” In Chicago, Al Haji remembers that “when we first came you could count on your fingers how many of us were here. So it’s difficult to use the term community.” While social connections invariably increase over time, it is not until formal Zongo associations are established that the community, as such, comes into existence. Another important milestone is the acquisition of a masjid to serve as a practical and symbolic focal point. The administrative capacity needed to manage and pool the resources necessary for a dedicated Zongo masjid proves, more than anything else, that the community is coming into fruition. A new masjid on the east side of Columbus signals maturation and continued growth: “people can easily point to

148 it… pretty soon you will see people start to move in to the neighborhood around this place. That is how the community grows” explains a man in the masjid.

It is, above all, the occasion of a funeral that provides the stimulus through which nascent communities begin to coalesce. While honoring the dead, connections are made, relationships established and common interests defined. Al Haji traces the beginnings of the Zongo association in Chicago (Gaskia) to a sudden death in 1979. Lacking the necessary facilities for a traditional

Muslim burial, the family was forced to rely on Al Haji’s friendship with a Pakistani imam to ensure that their loved one was properly laid to rest. “Allah reminded us with a death in the family.

He woke us up, so that we start to realize when something happens, we have to help ourselves.

From there, we started to organize the people.” In Zongo communities across the U.S. funerals provide opportunities for dispersed groups to recognize themselves as a collective entity, to bear witness to their numbers and to envision the formation of shared institutions. Although Geshiere

(2005) has commented on the increasingly political function of funerals in many African societies, where they are used to demonstrate allegiance, prove belonging and claim authority, this function is somewhat diminished in the U.S. Since Islamic custom requires the deceased to be buried as soon as possible, funerals generally do not draw in mourners from long distances. Instead, they are more bounded affairs, establishing the parameters of membership in the local community.

Building on this impetus, communities seek to address issues and pursue collective goals by forming Zongo associations with well-defined institutions and structured leadership. Despite variation, there is a discernible pattern of development characterized by the varying degrees of emphasis placed on four broadly defined functions: social events, mutual aid, cultural education

149 and institutionalized leadership. The first entails organizing social events and gatherings.

Weddings, funerals, naming ceremonies and Islamic holidays are occasions that bring the community together and work to sustain long-term interpersonal relationships. Many life-long friendships connecting families and individuals in Zongo communities across the US can be traced to the soccer fields of Lehman College in the Bronx, where, since the early 1990s, social networks connected to Yankasa have organized weekend matches. For many Zongo youths, these games, which parallel those held in Kumasi and Accra, are the entry point for long-term participation in the associations. In Woodbridge, Virginia, outside of Washington D.C, a leader of the local association explains that “we have a lot of activities that we do around here… to bring us together.

The same as in Ghana.” Pulling out his smartphone, he eagerly shows me pictures of a recent gathering to celebrate a women’s return from a pilgrimage to Mecca. When I ask him how events are publicized, he quickly pulls up WhatsApp on his screen, telling me that he can send a message to all of the sixty families that make up the community in just a few seconds. “So you see” he announces with a grin, “we do not use drums as we would in the old days.”

Ongoing social events, as well as the communication networks and social connectivity they inspire, constitute the basis of subsequent organizing and can therefore have significant long-term implications. An almost mythologized occurrence at Ghanafest, an annual gathering in

Washington Park on the south side of Chicago, solidified the burgeoning Zongo community and bolstered their standing with the wider Ghanaian diaspora. In the 1980s, the Ghana National

Council, seeking to establish itself as an umbrella organization for all Ghanaians living in the U.S, organized Ghanafest. Pooling their meager resources, the small and isolated Zongo community bought a cow to contribute to the event, which they ritually slaughtered a few days before. Al Haji

150 took the meat to a friend who owned a halal butcher shop, to store until the big day. When they went to retrieve it, the owner, a devout Pakistani man, gave them their cow along with his entire supply of halal meat. As he recounts this story, the elderly Al Haji cannot suppress a rather undignified giggle:

So when we came to the park? Oh, Man! All the tribes said, “those Zongo people, they are only a few but they know how to feed people! After that, they all knew us. That is how we started, we start small and grow and grow until today. What we did at the park that day really opened up the community… Allah works in mysterious ways!

The second function of the Zongo associations is to provide institutionalized mutual aid, helping to situate new arrivals and offering guidance and support as community members adjust to life in the U.S. “They help you to settle in and find out [about] where you are” explains a man who is active in the Columbus association, “previously we didn’t have something like that… so you may go to an African market and get lucky to meet a Ghanaian or somebody who is attuned to your situation. But now it is easier.” The associations help new arrivals to procure housing and find employment using the same idioms of fictive kinship, informal arrangements and cultural expectations that catalyze the social construction of Zongo communities worldwide. An acquaintance of an acquaintance arriving in a new city can expect to be invited into a local household until he or she is able to secure their own apartment. Job opportunities at a trucking company in the Columbus suburbs draw in new arrivals from around the country who are ready, at a moment’s notice, to capitalize on the mobility that norms of hospitality afford. “I can leave here and go to any city and ask for where I can find a few of the folks. And I will feel that I belong, because they will feed me, they will help me” says a young man from Accra living in Columbus,

“once that connection is established, it is very hard to break.”

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The associations also dispense local knowledge, acclimatizing newcomers to social norms and expectations in their new environment. “When a new guy comes, we have to give him direction… do this, do that… if you live here, don’t do this… all these things we have to tell him, so that he stays away from trouble” says a man in the Bronx. Different areas come with their own hazards.

In the Bronx, migrants must quickly develop an appropriate “street sense” to avoid being targets for armed robbers. In Columbus, it is the police who are a peril; many Zongo migrants have incurred stiff penalties for driving without a license. To cover such eventualities as theft, legal fees, health care or funeral expenses, association members contribute small amounts of money to a fund for people in need. “We put in 20 dollars a week or 50 a month or something” explains a young man, “so just in case something happens, people will not be alone.” Through these activities, the associations act as intermediaries, integrating Zongo migrants into the fabric of host society.

A third goal, that generally emerges only when a minimum level of development has been achieved, entails overseeing efforts to preserve Zongo cultural traditions. While organizing social events and providing mutual aid are pivotal elements of Zongo society that are reproduced more or less similarly in America, this aspect of associational life represents a newer, emergent phenomenon. Immersed in what many see as the seductive influence of American society, the imperative of protecting Zongo culture takes on added urgency. These concerns focus largely on the socialization of children, those born in the U.S. as well as those that have accompanied their parents from Ghana. In the recently acquired masjid in Columbus, an affable elder suddenly becomes solemn when asked about the next generation, asserting that “we are in a foreign country… with a foreign culture… and we know how our children our being brought up… they

152 change, they become something different you cannot understand. So we organized and formed an

Islamic school.”

On weekends, Zongo masjids assume the role of a madrassa; young voices chant Koranic recitations, while learned ulama teach the principles of Islam. Although these classes are framed as primarily religious undertakings, students also learn unique aspects of Zongo culture and are encouraged to speak Hausa among themselves. This form of cultural and religious education is often cited as the raison d’etre for Zongo masjids throughout the U.S. Yet, the significance of such efforts is given contrasting explanations. A leader of the Zongo association in Woodbridge,

Virginia asserts that “we want to raise our kids in an Islamic way so that they will be good people and won’t be a burden on the American government.” Here, Islamic education is a means of attaining the ethical standards that will ensure the fulfillment of obligations to political authorities within host society. Later, another community leader explains that “we want to instill our beliefs because we don’t want our kid to go astray. We want them to be Muslims and to know each other, so that they can marry from within the community.” In this formulation, the function of the madrassa is to maintain the social insularity that preserves communal boundaries. While, on the surface, these explanations imply a transpositioning of values and priorities, they both express aspirations that recall ideals of strangerhood.

The fourth and most contentious function of the Zongo associations is to institutionalize sustainable leadership that can guide and organize the continued development of the community.

While the first three functions are, in general, a source of unity, efforts to adopt a formal bureaucratic structure often arouse intracommunal tensions. Institution-building rarely unfolds as

153 a smooth, uninterrupted process. Rather, groups form, dissolve, lie dormant, split apart and re- organize themselves as disputes and differences of opinion are amplified and refracted by intersecting interests. In principle, an Executive Committee comprised of a president, vice- president, secretary and treasurer preside over meetings and establish the protocols by which the associations function. Yet, in practice, the Executive Committee system challenges traditional models of authority. Whereas reformers perceive “a different kind of operating system” more appropriate to life in the U.S, traditionalists see creeping “westernization” that is the beginning of the end for authentic Zongo culture. In many areas, factionalism has favored small, loosely affiliated organizations. In the Bronx, “people from different Zongos and different parts of Accra or Kumasi will have their own associations, under the umbrella of Yankasa” explains a young man, “each group forms a sub-committee to represent it in the Yankasa organization.” Although such disputes and fragmentation are, in many ways, counter-productive for the broader mission of the associations, they also produce parallel structures of authority that afford competing groups with a degree of autonomy. The effect facilitates ongoing debate and contestation rather than a wholesale severing of ties with the wider Zongo community.

Overall, the functions of Zongo associations in the U.S. – to organize social networks; provide guidance and mutual aid; socialize children and institutionalize leadership – both replicate and reconfigure customary forms of social organization. On one hand, the associations are taken for granted as a continuation of mechanisms that facilitate hospitality, the integration of newcomers and the maintenance of a distinctive identity vis a vis host society. On the other, these functions, and the ideas that inspire them, acquire a new tenor in American society. Thus, while it is tempting to interpret the formation of Zongo associations as a means of preserving cultural integrity, it is

154 not that simple. Instead, the associations are an ongoing forum in which Zongo migrants discuss, navigate and contest their new circumstances and conditions. The consolidation of dispersed social networks into a recognized community, the acquisition of a masjid that physically anchors the community in place, and the establishment of institutionalized forms of authority do not materialize “traditional” communities, but rather represent attempts to elaborate the meanings and practices of strangerhood on new grounds and according to new parameters.

Zongo Cultural Identity in the US

Before looking in greater detail at contestations over political culture within the formal Zongo associations, it is important to consider the personal dynamics of Zongo identity in the US. In general, the contours of community are shaped by a higher degree of choice and personal agency than exists among Zongo residents in Kumasi or Accra. “Here, everybody goes their own way… the American system” says Al-Haji, the venerable elder in Chicago, “but the community is the thing that pulls people to become more conscious of their identity.” Whereas in Ghana, the Zongo exists as a segregated neighborhood enclave, in the US its bounded sociospatial features are lost, diluting the immediacy of Zongo identity as the primary frame for social interaction and experience. Moreover, from the perspective of host society, Zongo identity is drained of meaning as it is subsumed within broader racial (black) and geographic (African) constructs.

Nevertheless, distancing oneself can paradoxically result in a greater appreciation for the role of the community. Many of those who stray return like the prodigal son, reclaiming their identity and embracing it more fully than ever before. It is not uncommon for an individual’s proficiency in

Hausa, adherence to cultural norms and Islamic faith to be amplified in U.S. settings. Caught

155 amidst centripetal and centrifugal forces, individuals seek to alternatively evade, reconstruct and re-imagine their own Zongoness.

The motivations for pulling away, whether for a short time or long term, are the subject of intensive speculation among community members. While “forgetting where you come from” is, in general, disgraceful, choosing to prioritize work or education does not incur the same wrath, even while its detrimental effects on the collective are acknowledged. “It [the communal ethos] breaks down once you get here. Its not as united as back home… people get caught up in the American hustle and don’t have time to be a part of the community… everybody is doing their own thing” concedes a young man in the Columbus masjid. Yet, if the pursuit of wealth is valorized, absence due to an attempt to shirk financial obligations is nothing short of shameful. Nevertheless, while few would care to admit it, “the American hustle” can be a convenient excuse that obviates the responsibility to contribute to mutual-aid projects, to fund lavish feasts or to take care of friends and relatives in need. Indeed, while strangerhood and Islam itself are thoroughly imbued with a capitalist spirit, they impose stringent social and financial obligations that are equally applied to wealthy Hausa patrons in Kumasi and middle-class professionals in the suburbs of Columbus, Ohio.

Increased opportunities to rebel against social norms and traditional forms of authority also draw people away from the community. Malicious gossip, jealousy and internecine feuds can cause individuals to remove themselves from “the Zongo life.” Exhausted by bickering and petty rivalries, Mohammed no longer attends prayers at the masjid. Disputes between different families or Zongos “move with them here and then, all of a sudden, you get pulled in” he laments, “as much as you may want to assimilate with your own people, you also have to keep a distance.” For his

156 part, Yahya has withdrawn for a different reason, as a protest against what he views as entrenched authoritarianism within the Zongo association. “They think I am against them, but I just want things to be done in the right way” he says with a resigned shrug, “the best I can do is withdraw and see what happens next.” The option to partially or temporarily “withdraw”, often justified as a principled stance, is made possible by an increased valuation of individual freedom that many

Zongo migrants deem appropriate in the American context. Moreover, as a practical matter, since social pressures to conform are relaxed, individuals can be generally aloof while maintaining personal friendships and selectively attending events. In this way, it is possible to exist on the periphery without being fully expelled.

Beyond conscious decisions to withdraw, individual identities become fraught with cultural tension generated by incompatible norms, lifestyles and values. Although Zongo identity is quite flexible, for many, daily realities of life in the U.S. entail mounting compromises and concessions that lead further and further away from Zongoness. “You try to bring the way we used to do things back home here, to balance what the western culture will impose on you. But that can only go so far” says Rabeu, an active member of the Columbus masjid, “once you come here it [western culture] supersedes everything… you have to protect yourself and not be overly influenced.” The specter of westernization looms large, impeding efforts to calibrate an appropriate balance between traditional values and cultural adaptation. An underlying fear that Zongo identity is incapable of sustaining itself against a daily litany of transgressive values and practices renders American culture a corrosive, seductive force. “Before you know it, you will be Americanized!” warns a man in Al-Haji’s living room, “that’s one of the biggest problems we’ve got. It’s a weakness. Once you start living here and watching TV and things, it will change your mind. It will corrupt you.”

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Displaying an aversion to all things “western” is, in certain instances, a means of laying claim to authenticity. “When we meet together and discuss matters… going through things… you can tell who realizes where they are coming from and who does not” asserts a community leader in

Columbus, his intensity making others in the masjid a little uncomfortable. In the ensuing silence, an older man feels the need to verify which side he is on: “Hamburgers”? he exclaims, apropos of nothing, “I don’t eat those things!”

The degree of cultural estrangement felt by many Zongo migrants living in the US can also act as a centripetal force, pulling stragglers back into the fold. A leading figure in the Columbus association recounts how, when he first arrived, he actively avoided contact with the Zongo community. “I was young” he explains, “and I wanted to go out and do me and I knew they would condemn some of the stuff I was doing.” For a time, he refused to speak Hausa or attend Friday prayers at the masjid, preferring instead to live “the American lifestyle.” Eventually, he came to realize that “I could not run away from it. You need a support system, your people, who will be there for you.” “Now?” he laughs, “I speak Hausa more in Columbus than I did in Ghana!”

Similarly, the architect of the Columbus Zongo association, Dr. Ousman Kobo, had all but abandoned his Zongo identity while attending secondary school in Ghana and university in the

US. His “western” education isolated him to the point where he no longer felt accepted. Yet, over time, he too, was drawn back, becoming a key advocate and organizer. It is neither ironic nor coincidental that these men, who initially conceptualized Americanization as an alternative to

Zongoness, would come to play central roles in the construction of the US Zongo community.

Their willingness to engage more fully with American society brought fresh perspectives and

158 facilitated forms of adaptation that eschew the false choice between iconoclasm and blind adherence to tradition.

The ritual practices of Islam, which routinize communal gatherings, also serve to reinvigorate

Zongo identity. At Yankasa, I sit among community members discussing those who have come to the US and “forgotten about us”, becoming “unbelievers” who drink alcohol and even neglect to fast at Ramadan. “As a Muslim, you must discipline yourself” a young man who has been silently listening to the conversation explains to me, “back home, when the call [to prayer] comes everybody rushes in and if you don’t go, everybody knows it. But in America we don’t have many mosques, so it is harder.” For the religiously-minded, the primary benefit of organizing the Zongo associations is an increased ability to leverage social pressure on individuals who are, in their eyes, neglecting the faith. When I describe this Yankasa discussion to Al-Haji in Chicago, he nods emphatically, “that is exactly what happened here. When our people came, everybody was having fun. But when we started maintaining ourselves as Muslims, those people started being shamed.

Those who might otherwise have fallen apart.” In masjids around the country, community members share stories of “cousins” who had stopped praying but are today models of faith and piety. These tales of redemption are not only religious in nature, but more broadly signify re- admittance to the social life of the community. To forsake Islam is to sacrifice connections to the past, present and, potentially, the afterlife: “If you don’t pray, even your own family will refuse to bury you when your time comes.” Although Al-Haji has been sitting quietly for some time, he perks up at the mention of individuals who do not attend Friday prayers. “Who do you think you are cheating?” he shouts with an energy that belies his age, “you are only cheating yourself!”

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The complex interplay of culture and identity is compounded for Zongo youth, many of whom struggle to define themselves in American society. While those born in the US tend to wear their hyphenated American identity more easily, this is especially true for kids who move from Ghana as adolescents. The mindset of “the youth” is a ubiquitous topic of discussion and a source of angst among the Zongo community. It is widely felt that youth bear a tremendous responsibility and, as such, are subject to criticism and reproach. These sentiments must be understood in the context of a strong gerontocratic tradition that requires obedience, holding all adults responsible for the raising of children. “Kids here become selfish” says a man in admonishing tones, “they will think only of themselves and won’t have time for you.” “But how can you blame them?” interrupts another, “that is the system of the country they are being raised in.” A younger man recalls being verbally attacked in public by an older Ghanaian who called him “one of those silly kids who come here and no longer know how to speak our language.” While many youth flourish under constant scrutiny and appraisal from their elders, others deal with the stress by pulling away from the community.

Zongo identity also runs up against a youthful compulsion to fit in with American peers. In the

Bronx or the southside of Chicago, places considered “rough” even by Zongo standards, migrant youth are susceptible to the lure of drugs, violence and criminality. Sitting in his quiet suburban home in Woodbridge, Virginia, a leader of the local Zongo association tells me that “if you go to

New York, some of the kids are like that… they are full of bad poison. And, in our culture, if you go to jail and come out you won’t even be happy in your own home…you are an outcast.” Since both the code of strangerhood as well as Islamic Shariah law require unerring respect for the “laws of the land,” criminal behavior is considered an egregious violation that threatens the standing of

160 the entire community vis a vis host society. While only a small number of Zongo youth engage in crime, their activities scandalize the community and reinforce a belief that even small deviations from tradition lead down a path immorality and unbelief.

Over coffee at a Tim Horton’s on the eastside of Columbus, a man in his 30s who recently became

Vice President of the local Zongo association explains that “kids who were brought here when they were young end up wilding out even more than kids that were born here… because they feel like they have to do so much to fit in.” A spate of arrests, jail sentences and even revelations of a

Ghanaian gang have caused an uproar and prompted much soul-searching among the Columbus area community. Although many people argue that these shameful developments should be hidden away and kept secret to protect the community’s reputation, the Vice President is determined to openly confront these painful truths, which he sees as the manifestation of a failure to allow youth to adapt in their own way: “Some people get caught up and don’t even know who they are anymore.” Together with a group of friends who, as individuals in their 30s, occupy a social space between youths and elders, he made a movie entitled Lost Souls of Africa, which depicts the plight of migrant youth squeezed between the rigid ideals of Islamic piety and nihilistic pursuit of wealth by any means. Denied the freedom to adapt on their own terms, lost souls are unmoored from traditional values and trapped in a spiral of self-destruction. While the film received criticism for

“making us look bad,” the Vice President is hopeful that it will prompt elders and youth alike to work towards the construction of an identity that more fully integrates Zongo and American perspectives. Sipping a hot chocolate that has long since gone cold and staring out the Tim

Horton’s window as large snowflakes begin to fall, I get the impression that he is no longer speaking to me, but to himself: “it [the Zongo] is still in us, no matter what… even when you know

161 you are wrong… those that go astray, deep down inside, they know better… it has been ingrained into us.”

Demonstrating the wide spectrum of experience, a precise counterpoint to the “lost souls” perspective is provided when, entering the room, Al-Haji’s youngest son is startled to find a conclave of Zongo notables (and a random ethnographer) gathered in his father’s home. One of his “uncles” promptly puts him on the spot, asking what it is like to be a Ghanaian-American.

Although clearly caught off guard, it is as if he has been practicing for just such an occasion:

I guess you kind of intertwine the cultures to get different understandings and perspectives. I can understand the problems that affect African Americans or the African or Muslim communities… all those different things that make up my identity. That’s who I am. I can’t just put one of those things to the side and say ‘well today I’m going to be African and tomorrow African-American’. It doesn’t work that way. You don’t get the chance to differentiate. But, for me, I can always identify where I came from. I can look directly to my father. In 2011 he took me to Ghana and we went through the community he grew up in ... So I could gain a true appreciation. I am grateful for it and right now, my kids are in Ghana with my mother and she is showing them the Zongo tradition. So even though I was born here, myself and my kids will always know where we come from.

The gathered elders nod in approval at the young man’s insightful response and begin sharing their own stories of sending children and grandchildren to live in Ghana for a time to learn about “their roots.” Al-Haji’s son demonstrates that, for the second generation at least, there is no inherent contradiction in being Zongo and American. Nevertheless, their Zongoness is significantly altered, conceptualized as a titular heritage, not much different from any second generation American with ancestral roots abroad. For those born in Ghana, it is much more; not merely an identity, but a cultural code that establishes the terms and conditions with which the entirety of one’s social relations are to be carried out. In this sense, while American-born members of the community may

162 attend services at the local masjid, visit relatives in Ghana and perhaps even be conversant in

Hausa, somewhere in the inter-generational process of becoming American, an integral component of what constitutes Zongoness in the crowded streets of Kumasi or even the prayer rooms of

Yankasa is lost (or perhaps more precisely, abandoned). “We may be strangers here” says a prominent imam in Al-Haji’s living room, gesturing to the assembled elders, “but for our children

America is home.”

The Logic of Global Strangerhood

Zongo migrants living in the US commonly use two kinds of discursive imagery to describe their relationships to the places they inhabit. The first, as described above, invokes varying degrees of liminality in which identities, social relations and cultural values are fractionalized, existing as a tenuous collection of parts, none of which are entirely whole. The other envisions two (or more) separate lives, each with contrasting, yet individually coherent, modalities and conditions. Taken together, these perspectives differentially situate migrants in a network of global spaces and relations. Expressions of liminality emphasize a social space that is, for them, defined by the struggle to articulate distinctive cultural systems. Alternatively, the imagery of having multiple lives or living in multiple worlds disambiguates one socio-spatial formation from another, often as a means of preserving Ghana (and Zongoness) as a clearly defined entity to which one aspires to return. This dialectic, of liminality and pluralism, finds expression in Zongo perceptions of home, ideals of return and processes of de-territorialization, concepts that are at the heart of conceptualizing a global form of strangerhood.

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The Ideal of Returning to Ghana

Even as migrants work to acquire the social and cultural capital needed to achieve their goals in the US, they are “also trying to do something back home”: sending money to relatives in Tamale, building homes in Accra or managing businesses in Kumasi; regularly travelling back and forth across the Atlantic; maintaining relationships with parents, spouses and children who increasingly inhabit a social world further and further removed from the daily realities of their own lives in the

US. In this context, perceptions of home involve both a cognitive mapping of place, as well as affective dimensions of belonging.

Among the US-based community, discourses of “home” unequivocally refer to Ghana, and in most cases a specific city, neighborhood or village. Whether an individual has lived in the US for fifty years or six months, there is no question that Ghana is home. When I ask the gathered members of an extended family at what point they will consider the US home, all heads turn to Mohammed, the patriarch. “Home is always home for us” he states as a matter of fact, “that will never change because we are always looking back.” “This place” he adds, pointing to the ground as the others nod in agreement, “will only be home to you if you should end up dying and are buried here.”

Such sentiments, equally reflected in casual conversation, are thoroughly ingrained. A man in his mid-forties tells me that even though “I turned 26 here, it is always homesick… I always want to go home.” Locating home elsewhere not only differentiates migrants from their American-born offspring, but continuously accentuates the possibility of actually going home.

For this reason, the ideal of eventually moving back to Ghana is ubiquitous; not merely a marginal aspect of migration, but a central, pervasive trope heavily structuring the actions and aspirations

164 of individuals, as well as the Zongo associations themselves. A respected elder at Yankasa describes the US as “a transitional place” where people come seeking opportunities to “create something [i.e. acquire wealth].” On the whole, community leaders estimate that eighty to ninety percent of Zongo migrants come to the US with the explicit intention of making money and going back home. While Ghana’s marginal position in the global economy makes it only natural to seek

“greener pastures” abroad, it retains a prominence in the social and cultural imagination that makes it “the center of its own universe” (Clark 2003, 105). For this reason, mobility is a means of gaining access to global resources that in no way abrogates aspirations that are defined and ideally realized at the place of origin. Whatever capital (be it financial, social or cultural) potential migrants envision acquiring overseas is valued to the extent it can be re-invested back home. This dynamic emphasizes mobility (i.e. the potential for free movement across borders) over migration (which implies both restricted access and permanent re-location). “I am ready. I have my house in Kumasi, so I am ready to go anytime” says a man in Virginia, glancing towards the door as if right at this very moment there is an Uber waiting to drive him to the airport.

Nearly all US-based residents are pre-occupied with funding the construction of a large family home in Ghana. The completion of this project, or at least progress towards completion, is a sign of status, signaling to those in the US and back home that not only has the sojourn abroad been successful, but that cultural expectations have been fulfilled. Al-Haji remembers having broken decorum by prioritizing the funding of a mosque instead of a home in Accra. “People would say:

‘what kind of man are you if you are not even building a proper home?!’ But, if you have faith,

Allah will not cease to bless you” he says serenely, “do you know, even before the mosque was done, I had started building a house as well.” Yet, for many, these financial obligations are

165 burdensome, necessitating an austere and sometimes even bleak life in the US. To complicate matters, there is no guarantee that the money sent back is being used for the intended purposes.

According to an elder in Columbus, it is not altogether unusual for a person to sacrifice, diligently sending money home for years only “to go [to Ghana] and see nothing [i.e. the home has not been built].” This risk understandably preys on the mind of many migrants. Nevertheless, for their relatives in Ghana, it seems selfish to expect them to use the money for a lavish house when they are struggling simply to get by. The Zongo association in Columbus encourages people to visit home periodically to “see where their money reaches.” While some are inevitably disappointed, others proudly survey the fruits of their labor.

Overall, despite constant allusions to the ideal of returning home, there is a keen awareness among migrants that it is easier said than done. Seated among his comrades at Yankasa, a man describes his fervent wish to return home as all heads nod in agreement. But when he rhetorically asks, “is it easy?” the room erupts in uneasy laughter. One of the main impediments is money. Although

US dollars go quite far in Ghana, to meet expectations migrants must engage in conspicuous displays of wealth. Due to rather unrealistic assessments of the riches to be made in US, many underestimate the cost of living and overestimate the amount they will be able to save or send home. As years pass and your showpiece home sits half-finished, with no money to complete construction, plans for a triumphal return are continuously pushed farther and farther into the future. To move back to Ghana without much to show for you time abroad, is a public failure that few migrants are willing to fathom. “We see people all the time who grow old and they are still here. So, if you are not careful, you will fall into that trap” warns another man at Yankasa. Even those who accrue more than enough to live quite comfortably in Ghana often fall victim to their

166 own success. Wealthy returnees are socially obligated to prove their status by dispensing largesse to their “brothers” in the neighborhood. “When you go back, the money is never enough” laments a man in a traditional Hausa robe, “people are always asking for more!” Failure to dole out money is interpreted as either a sign of selfishness or that you are perhaps not as successful as you claim, accusations that can severely undermine prestige and social standing.

Family ties to the US also complicate the ideal of return. For children born and/or reared in

America, Ghana is an imagined homeland understood through inherited nostalgia, not a place to which many aspire to live. “For kids, America is what they know… so even though you may yearn to go back, your roots here hold you back too” says a man in the Columbus masjid. While it is widely recognized that the vast majority of American-born children will not want to move to

Ghana, either as minors or adults, for some migrants an unquestionable resolve to return is so powerful that they nurture rather far-fetched hopes that their children will choose to return with them. Others are more realistic, reluctantly conceding that “our children have their own lives here in America.” At best, those who leave grown children in the US, split their time between the two locales. “We will definitely be going back and forth” asserts Mohammed, “one way or another.

But we all gear up and if it comes to it, I will [go back to Ghana] one day, as long as I know my children are here and are doing OK.” In Chicago, Al-Haji’s experience would seem to confirm

Mohammed’s prescience: after retirement, when he announced his plans to move back to Ghana, his wife objected, preferring the freedom of a mobile existence. “You want to go back home? ‘No!’

That’s how it is” he says with a resigned shrug.

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On the whole, this combination of financial and familial exigencies results in temporization, a kind of stasis brought about by an idealized return that is perpetually delayed. Interestingly, it is the religious leaders who most clearly perceive the pitfalls of a myopic and unrealistic fixation on returning “home”:

Our preachers and scholars are telling us, look, don’t behave like those Zongo people who came [to Ghana] and said ‘we are going, we are going” [i.e. back to Nigeria, Burkina, etc.]. They never developed the Zongos. They were born there and stayed there and died there, but the Zongo is even today underdeveloped because of that mentality. You have settled here [in the US] and you haven’t gone. So better to settle… to know that you belong here... that this is where you eat and drink and pray.

These calls to reconsider the retrograde mentality are largely expressed in economic terms, encouraging migrants to invest money and resources into land, homes and businesses in the US.

In an appeal to family sentiment, it is also framed as an act of admirable foresight that will pass along advantages to future generations. In several different cities and different occasions, I was told of a man who worked for years, diligently sending money to relatives to build a fancy home in Accra, only to die on the plane ride home, leaving his children in the US bereft of their inheritance. While this incident may or may not have actually occurred, it circulates as a contemporary folktale that reflects the collective fears and aspirations of Zongo migrants.

“Whatever you think you are trying to do sending money over there, you might just be wasting your time” warns an association leader in Columbus, “so you had better change your mind.”

Although this perspective seems to be “taking root little by little,” it is a relatively recent development that has, so far, done little to re-orient perceptions of home. Much of the hesitancy to accept what seems, on the surface, to be quite pragmatic advice, is an undeniably astute realization

168 that doing so will set in motion a process that can only result in a loss of identity. Linking current settlement in the US to historical settlement in Ghana is an attempt to show the benefits of

“building where you are,” a lesson that was learned only gradually among the various migrant populations that originally formed Zongo settlements (see Schildkrout 1978). For current migrants, this analogy holds significant implications. It is not lost on them that in the process of becoming

Ghanaian, the gradual decline of the “we are going” mentality culminated in a decisive shift whereby the connections Zongo residents maintained with their ancestral homelands steadily eroded. Moreover, while this earlier process unfolded over several generations, it is now drastically accelerated, producing the intergenerational differences described above. Thus, acceptance of the new doctrine requires a much more personal, self-conscious reckoning with the adoption of a new home. Nevertheless, for the vice-president of the Columbus Zongo association, such personal struggles are beside the point. “We are going to be here long-term” he says, “and whether we want to admit it or not, this is home.”

Shifting Perceptions of Home

For Zongo migrants living in the US, frequent travel to and from Ghana (as well as other locations overseas) mediates the experience of place, re-mapping the social and cultural terrain that separates home from elsewhere. While the ideal of moving back to Ghana is an abstraction projected into the future, trips “back and forth” are a definitive, immediate aspect of life that erases the experiential boundaries between being home and being away. While, in the past, the initial visit to

Ghana after moving to the US often did not occur for years, it is now common for even recent migrants to travel home. Community members constantly come and go. Nearly everyone I spoke

169 with reports having visited Ghana in the past year or planning a trip in the near future; a frequency borne out during the course of research by the necessity of arranging meetings and interviews to fit between busy travel schedules. Older community members often travel for extended periods, splitting their time between Ghana and the US. Quite often, I eagerly looked forward to an appointment only to learn that the person in question had extended their trip “back home” for a month or two. Even those who lack the time or resources for travel engage in constant interaction with others who do. As a result, the home to which migrants aspire to return is never far removed from daily experience.

Rather than simply maintaining connections to Ghana, this transnational intercourse facilitates a new level of encounter, as evidenced by the ways in which migrants’ perceptions of Ghana change after living in the US. For many, the appeal of moving back or routinely visiting is a tangible sense of “comfort” associated with Ghana, a feeling of release from the cultural tensions and relative social isolation associated with life in the US. “I just feel something” explains Mohammed, “you are more comfortable. Over here, everything is a hassle… it is better back home.” Yao, a leader of the Zongo association in Woodbridge, Virginia longs to “be at home and have my people around me. People who accept you for who you are.” Yet, the reality of home is often less comfortable or familiar than many migrants imagine. Even the most fervent advocates of repatriation concede that it is difficult to re-integrate and that many returnees end up moving back to the US. “We know of many people who go and are not able to stay for even one year” says a member of the Columbus association, “you see, the whole thing is different, so somebody who knows the system here and goes there and sees these things, he becomes frustrated! So, I’m planning to go, but I hope I will stay [in Ghana].”

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Arriving back in the Zongo after several years or more in the US, returnees are startled by the degree to which their perspectives differ from those of local residents. After staunchly guarding against the loss of traditional culture in the US, they now find “the Zongo mentality” backwards and insufficient. “I don’t want to say the society has retrogressed” says an association leader in

Columbus, “but I kind of felt that way when I went back.” There is a strong sense that, having lived in the US, “our mentality is more advanced.” Consequently, many returnees feel it is their duty to import a “better way of doing things” to their home communities. Al-Haji recounts being dismayed at the “indiscipline” he feels is rife in Ghanaian society. When, waiting to board a bus at a cultural festival in Accra, he and others are pushed aside by a deluge of young men who jump the line, he begins shouting and asks the driver why he has allowed the boys to behave in such a way. Nonplussed, the driver tells him that it is obvious he does not live in Ghana. Years later, in his living room in Chicago, Al-Haji is incensed at the memory of this response. “Even if I don’t live there” he shouts, “why don’t you learn?” While the principle concern of many returnees is a genuine desire to improve social and economic conditions in the Zongo, a portion are principally concerned with “giving the impression that they are living the life of the rich and famous in the

US”. Nevertheless, in practice, these two motivations are virtually indistinguishable (and certainly not mutually exclusive). The indelicate manner in which many return migrants “demand that their people wake up” is often perceived as arrogance, giving rise to resentful denunciations of being

“boko” (“fake” or westernized). These efforts easily descend into (or at least are interpreted as) self-aggrandizement, increasing the disconnect between US migrants and their brethren who have never left the Zongo communities of their birth. Just as those who live in the US are perpetually

171 concerned that “society will change you, the system will, after a while”, Zongo residents in Ghana are aware that their brethren who have lived abroad are irrevocably changed.

Another prominent critique leveled against Zongo residents by those who return from abroad is that they lack ambition, as well as the work ethic to achieve success. “They [Zongo people] are stuck in these poor communities and don’t seem to do much to better themselves” observes a man in Columbus, reflecting on his recent trip home. The unwillingness to work hard is contrasted with the exploits of US residents, many of whom boast of working two or three jobs and never missing a day of work. “That kind of discipline?” says a man in New York, “You won’t find that back home. Not in Ghana! No!” These assertions are all the more striking given that they not only contradict the sentiments of Zongo residents in Ghana, but also the terms used by migrants to legitimize their presence in the US. In both countries, the characteristic work ethic of Zongo people is cited to justify their presence in foreign countries. This willingness to work hard, which, by their own reckoning, explains why colonial plantation and mine owners preferred to hire Zongo people over local ethnicities, and also sets them apart from African-Americans (whom they consider to be rather feckless) is, in their estimation, not evident upon their return to the Zongo. Although, as will be seen, there are other explanations for this shift in opinion, it does not seem coincidental that these perspectives mirror ideological tropes linking hard work and social mobility that are so prevalent in American public discourse.

In truth, when viewed from a different angle, much of the perceived backwardness that frustrates returnees could in fact be taken to represent aspects of the very same comforts of home to which they long to return. In this regard, their changing perceptions of Ghana are not so much external

172 critiques as they are further efforts to navigate the shifting currents of cultural change and adaptation. What a self-consciously American perspective (i.e. the rhetoric of Zongo migrants who wish to emphasize their Americanness) may construe as indiscipline and laziness, takes on a different hue in the relaxed, communal atmosphere of traditional Zongo communities.

Commenting on the differences between Ghana and the US, a man in Columbus sees no contradiction in first asserting that “things work better here than they do back home” before describing his elation every time he returns to Ghana where “you can really relax.” Contrasting the financial obligations of life in the US with expectations of hospitality in the Zongo, another man notes that “in America, if you don’t pay rent, you will come home to find your things outside!

But back home an acquaintance will be living in your house for years, to the point where you are even ashamed to go and ask him for the rent!” Disparaging references to “Ghana time”, what many migrants see as a cultural inclination to perpetual tardiness, are followed by expressions of admiration for Ghana’s “laid back” vibe. More than mere matters of perspective, these observations are attempts to parse out an appropriate point of articulation between contrasting systems of meaning and value.

In the transnational space occupied by Zongo migrants, ongoing processes of encounter vary according to the broader social contexts in which they are embedded. In the US, where proficiency in the norms and codes of American society constitute resources that can be translated into economic wealth (the end goal of Zongo migration), cultural adaptations are justified by the ideal of return. After all, if a migrant undergoes “Americanization” during his time abroad, it is only in pursuit of traditional measures of success. In this setting, idealized notions of “tradition” paradoxically legitimize greater engagement with and adoption of US culture since, ultimately,

173 everything is carried out in the service of culturally-appropriate goals. Conversely, once

Americanized, the social position of migrants entails a need to distance oneself from “the Zongo mentality,” which remains suspicious of westernization and attaches greater weight to customary values. This complexity can result in surprising opinions, as one is never quite sure which aspects of culture or tradition will be deemed good or bad. Individuals routinely decry Americanization only to assert that “tradition is holding our country [Ghana] back.” “When we come to America” says a man at Yankasa, “we must take the good things we learn, but leave the bad things here.”

Another adds that “you can maintain your culture, but that doesn’t mean you don’t want to see the country going forward!” Although these statements express concerns shared by nearly all Zongo migrants, the guidelines or standards by which appropriate relationships between cultural values are to be worked out are ambiguous and highly context-dependent. As usual, Al-Haji cuts to the heart of the matter: “Are we going forward or going backwards? Nobody knows but Allah.”

A Globalized Community

As “Americanized” migrants contend with feelings of social and cultural displacement, they maintain close connections with members of Zongo communities who are doing the same in host countries around the world. While each society presents unique challenges, the Zongo groups they host are united by the realization that they are not only strangers in their country of residence but are, to some degree, estranged from Ghanaian society as well. Their social connections to the host society, as well as their place of origin (i.e. the Zongo), even when friendly and robust, are constituted on the basis of otherness, a social distancing that arises from the shared perception that globalized Zongo migrants are, to borrow Simmel’s phrasing, in the host society, but not entirely

174 of it. Yet, rather than the severance of ties to home or outright marginalization in host countries, this double process of differentiation results in new connections and transformed relationships.

“Roots” that originally stretched only to Ghana, now sprout and elongate as migrants become citizens of foreign countries, invest in homes and businesses abroad and bear children who identify with the host country. For those who are embedded in these globe-spanning networks, it is not a place, but the diaspora itself which becomes home.

Social life, now conducted on a planetary scale, is not merely defined by attempts to reconcile

Zongo tradition with foreign cultural influences, but to fashion affective bonds of community that transcend notions of place. Two young men who grew up as best friends in an isolated Zongo on the outskirts of Accra now chat daily via FaceTime. As one sits in Columbus, Ohio, the other in

London, they joke and share gossip about friends and family from the neighborhood who are now spread around the globe. In a small masjid tucked away on a side-street, a man in a traditional robe reports that “I have family in Nigeria, Germany and New York and I can say that I have people in

Canada and the UK as well. It’s the same with all of us… we are worldwide… and wherever we go we spread the Zongo community. It’s all over now!” The global scope of the community is defined not only by transnational social fields, but by the prevalence of physical movement and mobility. A man in Virginia explains how, in airports all over the world, whenever he hears people speaking in the Ghanaian dialect of Hausa he strikes up a conversation to learn where they are from and where they are going. He then shares this information at his local masjid so that the community can know, “yes, so our brothers are over there now too!” Another man, visiting Saudi

Arabia with his wife, is astounded to meet a shopkeeper there who is from the same Accra Zongo that he is. The merchant ends up showing the man and his wife around Jeddah, even inviting them

175 back to her home for a meal. After returning to the US, the man relates this story to his relatives in Accra, only to find out that the women he met in Jeddah is his niece! “So I went to Saudi Arabia, ate, did everything together and I didn’t know! That’s the way our world is. That plane took me all the way from New Jersey to Saudi, just for me to go and meet this girl who grew up in my sister’s home in Accra.”

Although Ghanaian nationality remains the primary axis of identity for Zongo migrants abroad, with the emergence of a widely dispersed diaspora, Ghana becomes less a geographically-defined homeland and more a cultural center of gravity that situates them within a wider world of global and transnational flows. These developments, consciously recognized as an elaboration of the same processes of migration and settlement that formed Zongo communities in Ghana, reinforce the dynamic yet cohesive nature of Zongoness. In the same way that traditional strangerhood worked to dissolve territorial borders while preserving the cultural integrity of distinct social groups in precolonial West Africa, the emergent cultural forms that shape the global contours of the Zongo are at once cosmopolitan, yet notably self-contained. It is not a matter of constructing a global citizenship, entirely divorced from any forms of parochialism, but rather a global collectivity defined by the bonds of strangerhood rather than territory or ethnicity. Flexible ethnic categories, the intermingling of citizens and noncitizens and profuse linguistic variation ensure that Zongoness spans a multitude of attitudes and perspectives on the positioning of self and community vis a vis the wider world. Rather than an integrated sociospatial formation radiating outwards from Ghana, Zongo networks entail a constellation of relationships, both social and geographic, that are fragmented, incommensurable and yet interconnected. It is because of, rather than despite, their liminality within any given place or society, that bonds of community are

176 sustained even while members variously hold Ouagadougou, Daura or Gao as their ancestral hearth; look to Kano and Mecca for spiritual guidance; pursue commercial interests in Germany,

Saudi Arabia and Japan; live in London or New York; send their children to school in Chicago or

Cairo; and visit their mother in Kumasi.

Each node is defined by the cultural encounters that take place there, while its positioning in the network depends on social, political and economic connections with other places. As local cultural elements are absorbed and transmitted by those living abroad, they are converted into various kinds of capital which are in turn exchanged through the network, facilitating new modes of access and mobility, yet also serving to further distinguish Zongo communities from host societies. For the migrants who inhabit them, the experience of place is filtered through intersecting dimensions of alterity, a set of social relations that take place in the interstices between here and there, home and away. The physical imprint of this dynamic is evident in Kumasi and Accra, where a never-ending array of half-built homes and compounds await remittances that may never arrive. These sprawling cityscapes, literally comprised of global connections and relationships, symbolize deterritorialized social formations, global in scope yet never fully embedded in a given place.

Amidst ambiguities of place, belonging and identity, linked processes of alienation and articulation occur. Estranged from mainstream US society, Zongo migrants who have traditionally nurtured ambitions of wealth, prestige and acceptance in Ghana, only to find that they no longer quite fit in there either, increasingly look to the transnational spaces carved out by interconnected Zongo networks as the place they feel most at home. Since cultural capital accrued in one place is not easily converted to others, migrants struggle to devise ways to integrate diverse values, priorities

177 and experiences. While the dominant metaphor of living in distinctive worlds offers a comforting vision of being able to slip back and forth between separable places and cultural systems, it is a significant distortion of a social reality in which worlds inevitably collide, altering one’s relationship to each. Although, as individual and associations, migrants seek to actively manage these relationships, their efforts are subsumed within broader patterns that emerge as fragmented ideas and values combine and interact. In this way, bounded notions linking place and identity are unsettled, giving rise to truly globalized notions of community. As we sit together observing the activities and personalities at Yankasa, a soft-spoken elder leans toward me, explaining that “for us, wherever you are, that is your home.”

Relations with Host Society

As Zongo migrants reconsider the feasibility and, perhaps more important, desirability of returning to Ghana, these shifting perspectives generate intensified engagement with American society. In the various cities in which they have settled, Zongo groups that were once highly insular are now branching out, consciously seeking to affirm their presence as active participants in public life. In the process, they construct and draw upon conceptual linkages between the liberal ideologies that structure US civil society and customary models of strangerhood. While these linkages can be helpful in building connections beyond the confines of the Zongo community, they can also accentuate existing tensions in the host society and generate new social cleavages. In this context,

Zongo migrants conceptualize and enact their broader relationships to American society while seeking to navigate intersecting dimensions of difference and identity.

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Civil Society in the US

After Friday prayers, leaders of the Columbus masjid invite congregants to attend a series of social events they have organized with a Christian church that occupies the grounds next door. A relatively recent development, this seemingly small step nevertheless portends a significant re- orientation of the community’s goals and priorities. For several months after the masjid was acquired, the two houses of worship stood in close proximity with little to no interaction. Now, after weeks of listening to sermons peppered with talk of “civic engagement”, members of the masjid are offered an opportunity to put these ideas into action. “If you are here, you might as well engage with the community outside of your own” says an executive officer of the local Zongo association, “it goes to affect you too… one way or another.” Although the first social events attracted only a small crowd and developed quite slowly, masjid leaders hope that they are paving the way for ongoing inter-community dialogue that contributes to a growing sense of public participation and belonging among Columbus-area Zongo residents.

As the ideal of return slowly diminishes and people begin to look around at the wider social milieu of which they are a part, Zongo communities across the country are making tentative forays into

US civil society. While interpersonal friendships and even romances are certainly not unheard of, opportunities to develop relationships with people from outside the Zongo community are, on the whole, rather limited. Cultural differences, language barriers and the internal stigma associated with “Americanization” combine to produce an aloof attitude among Zongo migrants, an introversion that shapes personal and collective relationships with host society. “To tell you the truth” states a leader of the Woodbridge Zongo association, “that is one thing my people are not

179 good at. We just do things within [the Zongo community].” In the Bronx, where Yankasa and other

Zongo masjids live amidst a multitude of immigrant communities, the overriding sentiment is that

“they do their thing and we do ours.” Often, this dynamic is justified by attributing to others the same internal orientation that is characteristic of the Zongo: “People think that since anyone else out there probably does not care about me, I’m also not going to try and involve them in my life or care much about them.” Reluctant to take initiative or overexpose themselves, many Zongo migrants, even those who have lived in the US a long time, feel little connection to the wider society. As of late, this isolation contributes to a growing awareness that “even small steps can go a long way in opening up the community.”

For many, the first experiences interacting with people outside the community occur in the workplace. The vice president of the Columbus Zongo association feels that the rapport he has developed with co-workers at a shipping company where he works has given him insights into

American culture that are in turn beneficial for the community. The treasurer of the Woodbridge association describes having worked in a warehouse with employees from several different nationalities. Since many were Asante (he himself is an Asante who converted to Islam) the other workers began picking up Asante phrases until it became a kind of de facto lingua franca on the warehouse floor. In Chicago, the personal friendships Al-Haji developed over decades of work at the Ford factory constitute a valuable resource. As he proudly reels off references to his Greek and

Polish friends, it is clear that these kinds of connections are rare and thus represent a form of social capital that increases his prestige in the eyes of the gathered Zongo elders. “In America, you learn many things just by mingling on the job.”

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While the workplace generates important interpersonal interactions, it is collaborations with affiliate groups, such as other Africans and Muslims, that most prominently facilitate inter- community dialogue and engagement. “We want people to know that we are Ghanaian, we are

Muslim, but we are also part of the wider community” says a man in Columbus. “When we first came, we were only trying to form the Zongo community, but now we realize that there are other people who identify with us and we try to link up with them.” Representatives from the Zongo associations participate in the National Council of Ghanaian Associations and the community generally maintains close relations with fellow Ghanaians. “We are all together” says a man in

Chicago, “if there is an event, we all go, all Ghanaians living in Chicago.” A few community members are also active with broad-based civil society organizations that advocate for issues that affect African migrants as a whole. In Columbus, the Zongo association participates in the Ask A

Muslim program, a city-wide initiative that organizes forums to educate the general public about

Islam. Through this endeavor, the Zongo association established productive, long-term linkages with African, Arab and south Asian groups throughout central Ohio. “Before, we were by ourselves. We would go someplace and people would say ‘who are you guys again?’ But through this program we have been able to raise ourselves [i.e. become better known]” says the vice president.

These efforts to branch out also serve to diversify the composition of worshippers at Zongo mosques and prayer halls. Although, according to Islamic doctrine, anyone who “humbles himself before Allah” is, in theory, welcome at any mosque, ethnic, cultural and language barriers often make it difficult to put this ideal into practice. Whereas in the past, Zongo migrants were forced to pray with other nationalities simply because they did not have their own facilities, they are now

181 purposefully opening up Zongo masjids to anyone who wishes to attend. In the early days of the

Chicago community, Al-Haji and his cohorts worshipped with a majority Pakistani congregation who were among the first Muslim groups in the city to have the resources to establish a dedicated mosque. Similarly, in Columbus, Zongo worshippers initially attended a Somali mosque. Although

Islamic prayers are universally spoken in Arabic, the preaching and announcements were done in

Somali and were therefore wholly indecipherable for Zongo attendees. Today, as Zongo communities across the country establish their own mosques, many imams preach in English so that their message is understood by all who are present.

Among the four field sites, Yankasa (in the Bronx) is the only place I encountered where the preaching is done almost exclusively in Hausa. In Woodbridge, Virginia since the masjid is only recently established, it tends to draw in Zongo worshippers from a wide radius who are proud to have their own mosque. Still, as it becomes more widely known, it is starting to attract a smattering of other West Africans as well. On the Southside of Chicago, Zongo leaders identify three major mosques, all of which host diverse congregations including Ghanaians, Senegalese, Guineans and even black Americans. “In our community now, we have people from Sierra Leone, Ivory Coast,

Togo, Liberia and even a few Moroccans” says a man in the Columbus masjid, “they come to us and we always accept them.” The vice president is adamant on this account:

Yes, you might say our masjid was started by the Zongo people. But we are not exclusive. It is also a community center. I always tell them it is OK to have our cultural or Ghanaian events, but the center must be open to anyone… because in that opening we can learn from each other and it can be a beneficial thing. Just like in the Zongo, no matter where you come from, our religion unites us.

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Relations sown in the mosques expand to include other facets of sociality, bringing together diverse nationalities and ethnicities according to the Zongo model. Linked through faith, a common immigrant experience and the fact that the host society tends to lump them together, the integration of non-Ghanaian migrants into Zongo social circles represents the expansion of

Zongoness on new grounds. Although they may not explicitly consider themselves Zongo, the sublimation of diverse regional, cultural and linguistic backgrounds into the overarching Zongo framework replicates the same integrative processes that occurred in Ghana. In this way, the Zongo community is becoming ever more diverse and inclusive in the American context, modifying its contours in response to the social dynamics of the host society. Discussing the recent addition of a few Liberian families to the Columbus masjid, a community leader smiles with satisfaction, saying “we grow as more people come.”

Fault-lines of Difference

One of the defining features of the Zongo, expressed in its internal heterogeneity as well as its commitment to peaceful coexistence with host society, is an ingrained respect for cultural difference. Community members routinely cite this feature of their outlook as an advantage that helps them adjust to life in the US. Many assert that it resonates with liberal versions of multiculturalism that are, at least rhetorically, central components of American ideology. Although there is, in this argument, a semblance of the stranger’s need to legitimize himself in the eyes of host society, there is also a genuine feeling that American ideals such as freedom of speech, non- discrimination and, above all, freedom of religion are simply different ways of expressing what are fundamentally Zongo values. “You see in Ghana there are many tribes and it is both Christian

183 and Muslim, so you are used to interacting with other cultures. You have already been exposed to it back home so it is easier to acclimatize once you come here” explains a Yoruba man. In

Columbus, a young man recalls his astonishment upon encountering Americans who wanted to be cremated after death. “Oh my lord! You are going to have yourself burned? That is something we would never even think of doing back home. But if that is your choice… everyone has their own way.” This open-mindedness is contrasted with various forms of chauvinism attributed to other groups. While in some instances this amounts to outright hostility and discrimination, in others it is simply a matter of not being familiar with intercultural dynamics. There is recognition that immigrants from majority Muslim countries have a harder time adjusting since “there is no need for them to have the kind of mentality that we do.”

Overall, forms of civic engagement that build on commonalities while also respecting difference may seem to be a natural outlet for the Zongo community. Yet, progress in this regard can also be obstructed by “the narcissism of small differences” (see Freud 1989), tensions that erupt between social groups who, on the surface, have much in common. While the nuances of social differentiation in Ghana are familiar to Zongo migrants, immersion in US society brings to the fore inflection points with which they are unaccustomed. As new kinds of relationships develop, configurations of commonality and difference are upended, changing popular understandings as well as the terms of public interaction. Although specific inter-community relations vary according to place and context, there are, broadly speaking, three kinds of relationships that are contentious for Zongo groups around the country. First, while sharing Ghanaian nationality with Asante migrants, the relationship becomes unsettled in the US where, by shared cultural standards, both groups are strangers situated among a dominant host society. Second, bonds of solidarity with

184 other African Muslims are put to the test in contexts where there are perceived conflicts of interest.

Finally, the community’s position vis a vis African-Americans which, in Ghana, is defined by the unity of transnational blackness (Gilroy 1993), now becomes strained through ignorance and mutual hostility. Such ruptures, compounded by the fact that they exist between groups which host society tends to lump together, expose differences between Zongo notions of community and

American visions of multiculturalism.

How does migration to the US impact relations between the Zongo and their traditional Asante hosts? Both groups are highly involved in US-based Ghanaian organizations and it is largely in this context that squabbles from home are reproduced locally. Although the stranger-host dichotomy that characterizes Zongo-Asante relations in Ghana loses much of its potency, neither group is entirely absolved of the obligations or suppositions it entails. In communal rooms at

Yankasa, community leaders dutifully repeat the standard phrasing heard in Kumasi, tersely describing relations with their Asante countrymen as “cordial.” Yet, in side conversations, some freely denounce the “mind games” used to bully those who challenge Asante control over

Ghanaian organizations. Many Zongo migrants believe that the deference due the Asante in Ghana is rightfully relaxed in America. It is therefore galling that they continue to “think they are better than us”. In any case, both groups recognize rivalries in the US as the extension, in a different context, of social and political struggles taking place in Ghana. “Even here… here in Columbus, we sometimes have to beat them (no, no, it’s true!)” says a Zongo man, only half joking, “they are disrespectful.” While this willingness to discuss conflict rises well above anything I encountered in Ghana (especially Kumasi), critiques leveled against the Asante community in the US remain, for the most part, vague allusions or tongue-in-cheek accusations drained of vitriol. It is important

185 to note that tensions arise precisely because there is a great deal of interaction between the two communities. All expressions of disagreement are, as in Ghana, communicated through euphemisms, allowing both groups to acknowledge and work through problems without pushing them to a breaking point.

Beyond the commonality of Ghanaian origin, identification with other African migrants and

Islamic communities constitutes the next level of perceived affiliation. In Columbus, despite the fact that the Somali community falls within both categories, their relations with the Zongo can be divisive and problematic. The largest African population in Columbus, the Somalis have their own mosques and community organizations. Many other African groups see them as notoriously arrogant and aloof, preferring to associate only with other Somalis. “Many people from Somalia come here and they do not want to mix [with other kinds of people]. Even though you are African and I’m African, they discriminate against you because they don’t’ see you as being the same as them” says a Zongo man who has lived in Columbus for decades. From the Zongo point of view, this attitude can be explained by the relative homogeneity of Somali society and culture as compared with many West African countries that are more ethnically and religiously diverse.

There is a feeling among some members of the Columbus Zongo community that, coming from a nation that is ninety nine percent Muslim, Somali mosques tend to advocate a more conservative form of Islam that contrasts with the traditionally open-minded doctrines of Zongo Islam. In addition, having arrived in the US as refugees following the upheavals of the 1990s, the circumstances of Somali immigration are quite different. Whether as a result of existing tension, or as a contributing factor to its growth, rumors and resentment swirl, alleging that Somali migrants receive special treatment from the US government. While these perspectives certainly do not

186 preclude friendly relations between Zongo and Somali migrants, they do pose obstacles to formal collaborations between two communities which seemingly have much in common.

Another significant aspect of social differentiation experienced by Zongo migrants revolves around the politics of race. Although racial thinking is prevalent in Ghanaian society as well, the

US context presents new concepts and dynamics. In Ghana, conceptions of race are largely driven by the lingering social and psychological impacts of British colonialism. In general, lighter skin confers a higher degree of social standing, sets the standard of beauty and, in the business world, signals wealth and authority. Since individuals with full European ancestry are only a tiny minority, for most Ghanaians race becomes a matter of coloration, a rubric that arranges individuals along a finely-grained spectrum ranging from “light” to “black black.” This popular conceptualization is illustrated by the colloquial Twi term “obruni” which literally means

“foreigner” but is used to connote a white person. In practice, anyone who is deemed light by

Ghanaian standards is an “obruni”. In this way, South Asians, Middle Easterners, and even most

African-Americans become “white” upon arrival at Kotoka Airport in Accra. When the American wife of a Zongo man living in Columbus complains about being called obruni when they visit

Ghana, he explains that “they are not insulting, they are just curious! Back home, as an Obruni, you will be more protected than a local. If I walk into an office and want something, it will take forever to get it. But if you walk in, you will get it right away”. “Yes” his uncle chimes in, “it is the colonial mentality, being ruled by the British.”

At the same time, Ghana holds unique salience in the cultural mapping of transnational blackness.

It is the wellspring of Nkrumah’s pan-Africanism and a leader in African independence; a symbol

187 of racial pride for many of the black consciousness movements that developed in the Americas; and today, the imagined “motherland” for many black Americans seeking to get in touch with their

African “roots.” Many Ghanaians are quick to point out that the Asante empire put up fierce resistance to British invasion and proudly consider West Africa to be the repository of a pure

African culture that is relatively undiluted by the influence of settler colonialism. It is thus amidst the adamant espousal of racial and national pride that the contradictory valorization of lightness must be understood. As kente clothe and adinkra symbols become signifiers of transnational blackness, there is a booming industry in creams, potions and treatments that purport to lighten the skin. Rhetorical invocations of black nationalism are mixed with casually deployed tropes associating whiteness with superiority. In an interesting twist that confounds simplistic notions of identity and power, Zongo people, who remain marginalized in Ghanaian society, turn racialized attributes back upon “indigenous” groups. Through historical interaction with Arabs and Sahelian pastoralists such as Berbers and Fulani, Zongo people tend to have a lighter complexion than their hosts. In Columbus, an elder gleefully explains that “the Asantes originally are (excuse me!) black black! If you see an Asante who is tall or fair, he is originally a Mossi or a Dagomba, a Northerner!”

It is these perceptions of race, which both contravene and influence one another, that Zongo migrants bring with them.

In the US, it is white Americans who command the trappings and privileges of hosts. Although the

US is clearly a diverse, racially integrated society, it is “the white man” who unequivocally occupies the post reserved for Asante in Kumasi. Zongo references to “Americans” or

“Americanization” are, in most instances, indirect references to white culture and society. The attribution of power, authority and the deference they compel structure the relationship between

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Zongo migrants and the host communities in which the live. While this state of affairs is reminiscent of customary strangerhood, there is an even larger social distance produced by a pronounced lack of the cultural familiarity that shapes inter-community relationships in Ghana.

Having had very little contact with white people before arriving in the US, many migrants have only an incoherent mixture of resentment and the mythology of white superiority to guide their interactions. The result entails awkward, forced friendliness, avoidance and a general feeling that the actions and motivations of white Americans are, to a degree, inscrutable. Of course, this generalization does not encompass the full range of individual experiences, but only suggests that, on the whole, there is relatively little interaction outside formal settings such as work or school.

In accordance with the cultural rules of strangerhood, there is a reluctance to criticize host society

(i.e. white America). Nevertheless, many Zongo migrants call out pervasive racism and the structural inequalities that are an undeniable aspect of their experience in the US. A Zongo man recalls that after his son was exonerated of a rape charge, he implored him to be more cautious in his dealings with white people: “they look at you and you are the blackest person in the room.

They are gonna get you! Even though you are an American and were born here and all that, it doesn’t count. The only thing that counts is how you look.” As a group of men discuss residential segregation, one notes that “in this world, there are people who like you and people who don’t, and you can see who it is!” Yet, alongside these observations, many note that in the US strong expectations of fairness require at least the appearance equity. Decrying rampant colorism in

Ghana, a young man explains that “it’s the same here, but at least they will try to camouflage or hide it, there, they will just do it to your face!” An older man, remembering that during his last visit to Ghana, a cashier at a bank called the only white man in the room to jump to the front of

189 the line, reasons that at least this sort of egregious behavior is not permissible in the US.

Encapsulating the perverse dynamics through which Zongo migrants reinforce racial tropes even while deploring racism, an elder asserts that:

The situation in America is good, unless you don’t have a mind to see it. Sometimes they discriminate, there is no doubt about it. They discriminate between white and black. But, why do they do it? Because most of the time it is the black people who are not disciplined. This is the truth! Even if a white man is not disciplined, they don’t see it, because the black man is more undisciplined!

Similar sentiments underlie what are tense and, at times, outright hostile relations between Zongo migrants and African-Americans in the US. While this situation is not unique to the Zongo, it is yet another aspect of identity that straddles aspects of commonality and difference. United in their blackness, both groups hold perceptions of the other that redeploy well-worn typifications constructed to legitimize American slavery and European colonialism respectively. Many

American blacks stereotype Africans as backwards and unsophisticated, having internalized negative representations of Africa. For their part, many Africans repeat racist assertions that

African-Americans are lazy, ignorant and prone to criminality. Without a hint of irony, both sides accuse the other of having been brain-washed by “the white man”, brandishing simplistic historical narratives to prove their points. Accordingly, for black Americans the fact that many African kingdoms participated in the trans-Atlantic slave trade illustrates the duplicity of all Africans; and for Africans the fact that many black Americans know only that “the boat dropped them off somewhere between the Caribbean and the US” proves that they are a degenerate offshoot of authentic African culture.

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While it is clear that these animosities are largely rooted in ignorance and ethnocentrism, they also reflect distinctive sociohistorical relationships to mainstream American society. Zongo and other

African migrants, although certainly not free from the weight of racial thinking, primarily relate on the basis of strangerhood. As outsiders, they occupy a subject-position that requires adherence to the hegemonic values and discourses of host society as a means of gaining rights and recognition. In contrast, African-Americans, who are not strangers but a racialized underclass that was, from the very start, an integral component of American society, relate on the basis of a counter-culture conceived as a repudiation of mainstream values and institutions. Thus, in the words of a Zongo leader in Columbus, “the African guy who believes that hard work and being respectful will move him forward” is ridiculed by black Americans who perceive such “ass- kissing” as the naïve pursuit of an illusionary American Dream. Conversely, “the black American who wants to show up to work, do the bare minimum, make that paycheck and be out of there” is written off from the Zongo perspective as the manifestation of a typically profligate character.

While a significant portion of individuals from each group understand these stereotypes to be the result of “a lack of understanding on both ends”, they are nonetheless widespread enough to be described in similar terms by Zongo migrants in communities spread across the country.

Islamic Strangerhood in the US

Despite the degree to which issues of nationality and race take on new dimensions in the US, it is in their capacity as Islamic minorities in a predominately Christian country that Zongo migrants most keenly experience and enact strangerhood. “You must come to mosque on Friday” Al Haji tells me, “that is another education too. In the white man’s world it doesn’t mean anything. But for

191 us? We do both.” Although the community notes that host society does not value Islamic education in the same way they do, they are hesitant to openly discuss anti-Muslim sentiment in the US.

Relying on the codes of strangerhood for leverage and protection, critiques of Islamophobia are characteristically oblique. A community leader in Columbus asserts that “in the climate right now, we still maintain what we do… you are just more aware of your environment, of certain things… more careful about your utterances, what you do and where you go…” A leading figure in the

Woodbridge association reluctantly concedes that “sometimes we face difficulties being Muslim in America.” He recounts how, when the association was negotiating the rental agreement for a small property to house their masjid, “there was a problem.” They learned of the circulation of a petition attempting to ban them from renting the place. “Somebody was going around campaigning against us… people who did not want us there.” Chalking the incident up to a “misunderstanding”, he is quick to point out that in the two years they have been in the Masjid there have been no problems. “We don’t have any issues, either here or back home. People are starting to understand

Islam.”

Among the community, the accommodationist precepts of the Suwarian tradition resonate strongly with American visions of religious freedom. Community members are, for the most part, unconcerned by the fact that most Americans do not understand Islam and even religious leaders abstain from proselytizing (da’wah). “Our religion doesn’t preach that radical stuff” says a man in the Columbus masjid, “if you want to stay true to the religion, you can stay true from morning to night, regardless of what anyone else is doing.” He scoffs at assertions from a vocal minority that

Muslims are persecuted in America. “Really? Persecution? That is a bit strong, don’t you think?

We want and expect that our religious freedoms will be protected, just like everybody else.” This

192 sentiment is shared by a majority of Zongo migrants, many of whom believe that complaints about anti-Muslim attitudes in the US are just an excuse for those who have chosen to stray from the religious path. “If somebody says that in America you cannot practice your religion, it just means that person doesn’t want to do it. I’ve never seen anybody say ‘oh, I got fired because I was praying’ or anything like that.” If these statements tend to emphasize the rule-of-law without addressing popular undercurrents of negativity, it is because the community is not focused on correcting misconceptions of Islam, which, from the Zongo perspective, is after all one of the defining features of host society. Moreover, the relative lack of sustained social interaction with non-Muslims shields them, to a degree, from encountering outright hostility.

Since their very presence in the US is predicated on notions of belonging derived from religious alterity, the importance of outside views and opinions is subordinate to the legal guarantee of religious freedom. “Well” says a religious leader at Yankasa, “even though we know that many people take it [Islam] as something that it is not… nobody is preventing us from worshipping

Allah.” Firmly asserting their legal right to practice Islam, many community members recognize that if it is American law that protects religious freedom, it is the responsibility of all believers to strictly uphold the rule of law. An older man in Columbus explicitly links American democracy to a Suwarian interpretation of Islam:

If you go by Islamic Law, or what they call Sharia, you will always find that it encompasses the law of the land. No land anywhere on earth will have rules which are democratic that a Muslim will find difficult to follow. Any Muslim that breaks the law of the land is not a correct Muslim… that is how I can say it… And ignorance is no excuse. It is your responsibility to learn the laws and to follow those who do right.

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Accordingly, the Islam of the Zongo does not project moral or religions obligations onto the host society, but turns them inward, making each member of the community responsible for their own spiritual path. In this way, migrants seek to actualize a self-sustaining version of Islam that is capable of withstanding the intrusive influences of a social order ruled by unbelief. “America is neither good nor bad” Al-Haji explains, “the good and bad are within you. You are the one who must choose the good. That is the way Allah made the world and if he wished to change it, he would.” Here, social change is left in the hands of god, while faith is a matter of personal discipline.

While it is recognized that life in the US poses numerous challenges to an individual’s ability to live up to the ideals of Islam, it is by overcoming these challenges that true faith is attained. “It is hard for our people here. But everything that happens to you, you must know that from Allah we came and to him we will return. Those who are running away [from Islam]? Where are they gonna go? One day you will return to Allah and the only thing that will count then is the good deeds you have done.” This doctrine, which preaches respect for the cultural and legal systems of host society, paves the way for greater engagement while preserving religious imperatives. At Yankasa, elders assert that “you cannot pray to Allah for a better life and not pray for the country in which you live.”

On the whole, I find that while Zongo migrants more consciously pursue involvement in various aspects of US civil society, the extent of social integration remains limited. Although many of the ideological components of US multiculturalism rhetorically fit with the Zongo ethos of inclusivity, in practice, national, racial and religious boundaries can become heightened and exacerbated in the new social contexts. Yet, it is significant that, aside from their unique relationship to the Asante, the sources of communal tension reflect broader patterns in which Zongo migrants are caught up,

194 rather than issues that are specific to the community. In this regard, the capacity of the Zongo to absorb new populations and cultural elements, as well as their propensity for inter-cultural interaction, are potential advantages that may, in the long run, help to alleviate some of the broader ethnic, racial and religious tensions faced by immigrant groups in the US. “We must continue to engage more with others outside the community” says the vice president of the Columbus Zongo association, “it would go a long way in emboldening our people to feel that they have a stake in the wider community… and to understand that we too have something to offer America.”

The Politics of Strangerhood in the US

As the preeminent hub of Zongo politics in the US, a steady stream of Ghanaian politicians, “tribal” chiefs and influential religious figures hold court in the spacious common room at Yankasa masjid.

In recent years, several prestigious guests including current and former presidents of Ghana, as well as the Sarkin Zongo of the Asante region, have graced Yankasa with their presence. These visits are a point of pride among the masjid’s leadership, constituting undeniable proof of the rising political and economic fortunes of the Zongo diaspora. As the Ghanaian government, as well as traditional authorities, come to recognize their significance, Yankasa and other Zongo organizations around the country increasingly constitute centers of power, where local and national politics are carried out on a global scale. Yet, rather than merely de-territorializing Ghanaian politics, these developments also bring with them new social and cultural dynamics that challenge existing modes of power. Among US migrants, changing conceptions of authority cause internal divisions within Zongo institutions. Outside the community, the asymmetries of strangerhood and citizenship now play out in the context of US, as well as Ghanaian, society. Focusing on these

195 linked processes, I examine how intersecting rights and obligations configure Zongo migrants as new kinds of political subjects.

The Internal Politics of the Zongo Associations

Although chieftaincy, the signature of traditional authority in the Zongo, loses much of its potency in the US, it remains an essential pillar of social organization. Especially in the Bronx, where

Zongo social institutions retain more of their customary force, “tribal” chiefs are important community leaders who serve as spokesmen and representatives for their ethnic constituencies.

“Each tribe of the Zongo maintains their own chief in the Bronx” explains an elder at Yankasa,

“so if you are the Mossi chief, you are in charge of the Mossi all around the Bronx.” In serving as the titular head of their respective groups, chieftaincies establish the ethnic units that form the community and also provide an institutional framework for decision-making and communal action. Replicating the functions they customarily carry out in Ghana, chiefs in the Bronx provide guidance to the community and settle internecine disputes between families, married couples and neighbors. Since chiefly authority extends only over Zongo migrants, their decisions and judgements constitute a parallel institutional structure separating the community from the myriad social groups they live among. As elders at Yankasa put it, internal disputes are seen as “a family fight.” As such, there is a strong expectation that each constituency “resolve your own differences” without outside interference. To involve police or US civil authorities in intra-community affairs is a grave breach of protocol that invites unanimous censure. In this way, chiefly authority structures the community and defines its boundaries.

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Equally important is the spiritual authority of the Ulama, the imams and religious scholars, which both balances and supports that of the chiefs. Although, in theory, the chief is a secular position, in practice, any male who occupies the highest levels of the traditional Zongo social stratum has almost certainly received in-depth religious training. Moreover, not even the Sarkin, the chief of chiefs, can rule without guidance and approbation from the Ulama, who serve as the guardians and transmitters of religious law. A chief’s rulings must appropriately incorporate the views of the

Ulama, who in turn rely on the chiefs to put their interpretations into practice. “We always say that it is the king who rules, but it is the religious man who gives him his crown” says an older man. In this way, chiefly and religious authority customarily intersect and reinforce one another. In the

US, the Ulama are highly influential, shaping migrants’ perspectives on all aspects of life in the

US. When I ask a man in a Hausa robe to elaborate on their role in the community he shrugs matter- of-factly, saying “whether in the US or back home, we must always go according to Islamic Law.”

Yet, these twin pillars of authority come under sustained pressure from new forces and ideas. Much of the administrative and decision-making power traditionally invested in these institutions is increasingly devolved to the executive committees that control the Zongo associations. The rise of this alternative leadership structure not only corresponds to the emergence of new goals and values but poses a fundamental re-thinking of the terms and conditions of authority. Outside of the Bronx, where the chiefs’ role as intracommunity judge is more assiduously maintained, chiefly authority is significantly diminished. In Chicago, a Zongo elder explains that “the role of the chiefs here, we did it to identify ourselves. But the chief really doesn’t mean anything. It’s just symbolic.” “The only time it means something is when we go to Ghanafest” chimes in his comrade, causing chuckles all around. Indeed, in communities around the country the position of chief, drained of

197 practical authority, is largely a rhetorical nod to tradition. Weakened by the abdication of the chiefs, the Ulama, for their part, retain their role as spiritual guides while engaged in an on-going power struggle with reformist factions of the Zongo associations. “In Ghana the chiefs and religious leaders are the ones running the show” explains a leader of the Columbus association,

“they are the ones with authority and for anything to happen you need their say-so. But out here it is not necessarily so. We have kind of adopted the democratic system… being where we are, it has influenced our way of thinking.”

Many Zongo associations bear titles that invoke traditional models of authority. Yankasa, for example, roughly translates to “the original people,” a phrase that references the right of first- comers to establish the rules that govern society. Yet, this model, thoroughly ingrained in social constructions of Zongoness, increasingly diverges from the perspectives held by many association members. In Chicago, the decision to name the association Askia Rasul Allah or “the Brightness of the Prophet of Allah” was challenged by people who felt that the title was “too heavy” for the

American context. Such disagreements highlight clashing visions of leadership within US-based associations. Rather than being replaced, traditional sources of authority are diluted and re- positioned as new concerns and priorities emerge. “The Zongo community in Ghana could not be the same here… we just can’t run it in the same way. Different lifestyles, different countries, everything has a way to play into it… that is why we have a different kind of operating system here” explains an influential association member.

Within the community, changing perceptions of authority can be traced along three primary fault lines. First, religious training in a madrassa, the preeminent source of authority in the Zongo, is

198 losing ground to the rising prominence of western education, a vital resource among Zongo migrants. Holding a degree not only implies “a different way of thinking” but is also seen as a gateway to wealth and personal fluency in the social and cultural norms of US society. “If you get a Zongo man who has a western education and a scholar who has only the Zongo [madrassa] education, there will always be conflict” a man warns. Second, while traditional leaders are drawn from prominent lineages and embedded in webs of patronage, the new generation of leadership, steeped in a more egalitarian ethos, emphasizes personal achievement and democratic decision- making. “Here, we look at ability and the capability to help the community” a man asserts, thoughtfully stroking his beard, “in our meetings, we even take turns speaking! Which would never happen in Ghana.” Finally, the unquestioned primacy of elders is now subject to debate. “I am the vice president of our organization” says a young man in Columbus, “but back home they would say you’re just a kid! Go sit down somewhere, what do you know?” Many elders, for their part, resent what they see as impertinence brought on by the move to the US. “They think that because we are all travelers, we sat on the same plane, paid the same fair and we came here, that we are all the same. But if we went back to Ghana, they would know our position.” As traditional forms of authority are unsettled, Zongo associations become political arenas in which broader questions surrounding the future of the community are debated and contested.

Recent upheavals in the Columbus association offer an instructive illustration of the political dynamics impacting Zongo communities throughout the country. For years, the organization functioned largely as a social committee, organizing festivals and events for the small yet burgeoning Zongo population of middle Ohio. Determined to construct a more cohesive, goal- oriented association, a history professor at Ohio State University formed an executive committee

199 and drafted by-laws establishing the organizational principles on which the association was to be run. As president, he brought together various factions and interests, arranging a balance of power that preserved traditional standards of authority while also making space for new voices and perspectives. While this strategy proved successful, as an institution the association was tenuous, held together only by the force of his personality. Although the by-laws called for elections for committee positions to be held every few years, many members of the association balked at the idea, rightly fearing that such a precedent would undermine traditional modes of authority. In a dramatic move, Dr. Kobo, the president and architect of the association, abruptly resigned, forcing an election which he hoped could institutionalize a balanced, open organizational structure. “So, it was Dr. Kobo” concludes the current vice president, “he got me into this mess!”

Among other things, the election unleashed tension between the ulama and members who want the association to be run along more secular, democratic lines. The vice president, a leading voice among the reformists, insists that “we must discuss issues and vote on them before we implement things. You don’t just get up and do whatever you want, even as a leader… it is because of where we are and what we have come to learn.” Yet, the religious leaders, most of whom are trained in

Islamic law but lack secular education, are staunchly opposed to any procedures that would, in their view, undermine the traditional authority of the ulama. “They don’t want the elections to happen… they want the old thing” laments a disaffected member. For many, it is not necessarily about finding the proper balance between competing forms of authority, but rather crafting an appropriate institutional structure that fits the exigencies of life in the US. Not even the most adamant reformist would refute the assertion that Islamic law must be the supreme guiding force of the community. The question is how this overarching principle may be incorporated into a

200 leadership structure that is responsive to the increasingly diverse needs and perspectives of the community. The reformists argue that elected committee members should be guided by the ulama

“so that if they are discussing matters and they think it is un-Islamic, they can tell them.” With neither side able to prevail outright, the association functions in a sort of suspended animation.

Although elections theoretically distributed authority among the executive committee, the president maintains a degree of control that reformists believe renders the entire operation authoritarian and ineffective. “He won’t discuss matters… he just does as he wants” one man complains, “for instance, we have a treasurer, but the president is still controlling funds.”

Ongoing power struggles in the Columbus association may be understood as the political phase of a broader process of articulation in which contrasting values, goals and priorities bump against one another. The result, for the time being, is an uneasy and tempestuous relationship between competing interests. “If we were able to properly organize ourselves, things would work… but that is not forthcoming you see? So, it hasn’t made us as stabilized as we want to be” notes a former member of the executive committee who has resigned in protest against “the old system.”

Uncertain about the direction in which the association is moving, no one, it would seem, is happy with the status quo. Many of the reformists, largely supported by the younger members of the association, have withdrawn from their posts, waiting hopefully for the next election, which the ulama and many community elders insist should not happen. The Islamic scholars have also withdrawn and are even making plans to acquire their own masjid in North Columbus. “They have gone off” confirms the former committee member, “because they think there shouldn’t be elections… they should appoint the chairmen and everything should be left for the [Islamic] scholars to control.” Rather than compromise, the association is pulling apart at the seams.

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“Everyone sees that we need change. But if you bring it up, they will eat you alive because they are so used to doing it their way… You won’t find a revolution in the Zongo” says a young man with wry amusement.

As community members struggle to make sense of the fractures appearing in the association, divergent interpretations of Zongo tradition are brought to the fore. These perspectives show that the disagreements are far more complex than simply pitting the forces of conservativism against

Americanized upstarts. There is, on one hand, a view which sees “the Zongo mentality” as backwards and resistant to change. This position is just as often voiced by elders as by younger community members. When I ask an older man in Columbus whether the same arguments occur at Yankasa he becomes quite animated:

There? Someone can just get up and slap somebody! That place is really Zongo! That is how they do. But I say, look, we are in a different society… we all came from somewhere to an advanced country. Even though it does not change our religion, why don’t we learn something and do it the modern way? All these things they are doing, I have seen it before! Zongo? Oh my God! We all grew in Zongo, but I say now we are in America… let us leave that Zongo attitude and let something new happen…

Yet, for others, the need for a more open, democratic leadership is not brought about by authoritarian tendencies inherent in Zongo tradition, but by the ways in which “modernization” itself corrupts and distorts these traditions. “You see, in Ghana, leaders are not appointed for life” clarifies an elder. Instead, the power of the chief was intertwined with a local mosque committee comprised of religious scholars. These committees appointed chairmen to manage the social and financial functions of the mosque, with the understanding that the person would continue in their role indefinitely. “There was no term or tenure of office. But these things existed because the

202 person faithfully carried out the obligations they were entrusted with and the people found no mistakes in their conduct.” Chairmen were allowed to continue in their post only as long as they operated according to established protocols which included listening to advice and properly accounting for the concerns of those who were well within their rights to “get up and say, look, we don’t agree.” According to “the real Zongo tradition”, authority was enacted within a rules-based system that depended not on elections, but on the wisdom of the ulama and the strength of popular consensus. In this view, it is the destruction of traditional values that opens the way for abuses of power. “Now, if you take the modern administration, people are not as honest as they used to be.

They want to stay there and continue the system [i.e. maintain their leadership positions and forego elections] but meanwhile they are not doing what they are supposed to do [following the protocols of the association].” Thus reversing the standard argument of those who would position “tradition” as a bulwark against democracy, many community members believe that as customary arrangements erode, elections become necessary to preserve the democratic values that are prerequisites of traditional authority.

While it is easy to analyze struggles to control the Zongo associations in terms of apparent contradictions between “traditional” and “modern” forms of authority, this assessment glosses over the extent to which both are rhetorically deployed in pursuit of specific ends. Social conditions in the US generate new kinds of social capital, which in turn require a re-positioning of authority within emergent institutional structures. As the turmoil within the Columbus association shows, this process reaches an impasse when idealized models of tradition and modernity are superimposed atop one another. The most vocal proponents of “learning something new” are

203 nevertheless scandalized when youth do not respect the authority of their elders. Conversely, even a conservative alim increases his standing by demonstrating mastery of “the modern way of doing things.” Regardless of how individual actors position themselves within the associations, the authority to steer the future development of the community will perforce depend on an ability to effectively bring together competing claims and interests within a unified institutional structure.

Neutrality as a Political Strategy

Although roiled by internal dissent, the community remains solidly committed to the principle of political neutrality within the wider society. There is a deep degree of reticence regarding “our political utterances and activities.” While individuals may, to varying degrees, be involved in US or Ghanaian politics, these activities are undertaken in a purely private, and sometimes even secretive, capacity. Zongo leaders explain this stance as a means of avoiding sectarian strife that could tear the associations apart. While this may certainly be a concern, it is but one aspect of the broader logic of strangerhood. As the internal tensions surrounding traditional authority demonstrate, neutrality in the realm of formal politics in no way eliminates internal divisions.

Moreover, by emphasizing the fact that individual community members hold a wide range of political beliefs they are able to maintain inroads with various interests and factions. In this regard, the noncommittal stance seems more a studied political strategy than a concession that is necessary to keep peace among the community. Aware that drumming up support among the diaspora is vital to the interests of Ghanaian political parties, and equally familiar with their political rights under

US law, the community is content to sit back and be pursued by suitors. Collectively straddling the fence is a means of preserving the power they hold by virtue of being perceived as potential

204 supporters of any given party. In this way, they hedge their bets against changing political fortunes.

When I ask an imam at Yankasa if there are not at least some policy issues that it might behoove the association to rally around, he smiles coyly: “Allah has taught us to be cautious in a sandstorm.”

Representative from various Ghanaian political parties visit Zongo masjids around the country in a bid to solicit members’ support. “Any candidate who wants to talk will be allowed to come” says a leader in Columbus, “you are welcome as long as you know that we will not take a position as an organization.” Zongo leaders in the US take great pains to maintain the associations’ nonpartisan stance. One man remembers that after agreeing to host a party candidate at their masjid, the group had to send numerous email back and forth to the party organizers to edit the content of articles, news reports and photos that implied that the group had thrown their support behind the visiting candidate. While they are always careful to publicly proclaim neutrality, even the illusion of offering support to a particular party or candidate carries repercussions. “They will all try to gain your support, but if they find out that all your support is in one party, they have no interest in talking to you or helping you in any way. So, we must protect ourselves” explains a young man. Despite the risks, the associations are also keen to maintain their importance. When the ruling party failed to send a representative to speak at a local masjid, association leaders were offended, smugly pointing out that “of course, they lost the next election… maybe next time they will come knocking!”

Discourses surrounding individual choices in the political arena, whether in Ghana or the US, imply that they are not necessarily the result of distinctive ideological commitments or substantive differences. Rather, ideas of individualism work to strategically construct the image of a

205 community comprised of fluid, heterogeneous preferences, loyalties and beliefs. Taking the associations advice to “support whoever you want individually” to heart, one man enjoys prodding his friends by announcing his support for Donald Trump: “Not that I really wanted Trump, but everyone’s got a choice, right? I think we need a balance and I personally consider myself an independent.” In Chicago, an imam describes members of prominent families in Ghana who support different parties. “Even here” he continues, “there are many who are very active with different parties. The president of our organization was friends with a candidate from one party, so naturally he was a strong supporter, while I myself was personal friends with [politicians from other parties]. So each individual is entitled to his own opinions.” At the popular level as well, many US migrants wear their dissenting political opinions as a badge of honor. One man confesses that “sometimes I think it’s more for entertainment… the back and forth… just to have something to debate.” These assertions, which minimize ideological commitment as a motivating factor while valorizing individual choice itself, promulgate conceptions of the Zongo community as a neutral, politically indefinable entity. This position publicly adheres to the logic of citizenship, emphasizing individualism and party politics as the preferred form of civic participation and, in this way, resonating with the dominant political values of host society. At the same time, far from being riven by discord, families, factions or communities who are split along political lines are paradoxically enacting a collective political strategy by ensuring that “whatever party wins, our family is covered.”

This may seem a rather convoluted approach. After all, nearly all Zongo residents are citizens of

Ghana and over half hold duel US citizenship. If they hold the legal right to participate in politics however they see fit, and if within the community, individual choice is respected and divergent

206 opinions encouraged, why not at least attempt to mobilize the Zongo associations around whatever shared interests may emerge? Yet, the assumptions that undergird their political calculations must be understood to reflect a deeper, more expansive vision of politics and belonging, one that transcends the limited politico-legal sphere of citizenship. Embodying multiple dimensions of alterity, their relationships to host society are defined by a strangerhood that is only partially inflected by citizenship. There is a deep-seated awareness that, in the absence of the true belonging born of being a “person of the land”, legal measures are manipulable and subject to revision.

Moreover, naturalization does little to neutralize the inequalities imposed by prevailing hierarchies of racism, classism and nativism. The lasting trauma of Ghana’s 1969 Alien Compliance Order, the more recent wars of belonging that ravaged West Africa, and the sterilized versions of citizenship associated with neoliberalization are ample evidence of the evanescence of legal citizenship. In this regard, strangerhood represents a foundational, transcendent social reality; while it does not preclude, and may even valorize, citizenship, it also evinces a sober assessment of risks and limitations.

For these reasons there is a deep degree of caution, a reticence to criticize, complain or even engage with overtly politicized discourse. Despite their admiration and generally sincere satisfaction with social conditions in the US, their collective political stance is one of shrewd wariness. Seated among a gathering of association members, an imam at Yankasa gazes intently, explaining that

“we must always be ready.” Others respond to questions about the current political climate in the

US by describing how the city sent police officers to protect their Eid festivities in a Bronx park.

This action is seen as demonstrable proof that “we always stay within the law… we don’t do anything to jeopardize our position.” The imam goes on to assert that “sometimes God brings a

207 fool to you rule you, to make you humble. That is why our intention is not to involve the society

[the Zongo associations] in politics.” While these characteristically oblique statements hint at the strategic logic guiding Zongo political behaviors, a community leader in Columbus more clearly articulates their reasoning:

We are very cautious about our political utterances and activities. If you come to the community center, we can talk freely and you will know where people stand, but as far as taking a firm stance as a community, we don’t… it comes with certain ramifications that the community is not ready to bear. We are very particular about that when we come here. We don’t want to divide ourselves, that is one reason. But of course we are also in a wider society and your political views will have sectarian implications. Our community is not that big, we don’t have much power or influence. So why go out there and take a stand that will have implications coming back on you? Even though we know you could do that [i.e. have the legal rights], but we know on the ground what actually happens [i.e. the social reality]. So we are aware of that and we are particular about it here.

The avowedly nonpartisan stance of the Zongo community in the US is contrasted with more proactive forms of political engagement in Ghana. “Back home we have a big chunk of political power now so you can speak your views. But here, it would be wrong… it could be dangerous for our organization” clarifies a man in Chicago. Nevertheless, while extolling the outspokenness of

Zongo people in Ghana, they are quick to note that even back home the Sarkin or the Chief Imam refrain from taking a position since “they are the fathers for us all.” This caveat shows that while the community is more comfortable in their capacity as citizens in Ghana than in the US, in both places citizenship is enveloped within an overarching framework of strangerhood. This difference is a matter of degree that entails a shift towards greater emphasis on strangerhood in the American context. It also reflects the transfer of traditional authority from the intertwined institutions of chieftaincy and Islamic law in Ghana to local Zongo associations in the US. As traditional forms of leadership associated with strangerhood diminish, the onus is now on the associations to fashion

208 a system of social organization that both insulates the community from the vagaries of citizenship and structures their patterns of engagement with host society.

Thus, a Chicago imam’s assertion that “if we were to politicize ourselves, it’s going to fracture the organization. Politics is an ugly thing, it would divide us” must be interpreted in a new light.

“Politics” here refers to a specialized domain of contestation within formal state institutions (with citizenship as the medium of participation), which, from the Zongo perspective, is distinct from the broader ways in which power manifests in society. Involving the associations in the formal politics of either Ghana or the US would not necessarily rip them apart along sectarian lines, but in the sense that it would allow “politics” to intrude upon and collapse the boundaries between citizenship and strangerhood, the very boundaries that constitute the collective bonds of

Zongoness. As the imam puts it: “we are in a strange land… we are in the diaspora… we are abroad. Our common destiny is how we survive and how we make the best of the opportunities we have here.” It is cognizance of this “common destiny” that transforms the diverse political opinions of individual citizens into an instrument of communal neutrality. This is not to say that individual stances within the community are merely rhetorical or purely performative, but only that they these

“political” opinions are conceived in the overshadowing context of collective strangerhood. Thus, for Zongo migrants, being “apolitical” is an intrinsic element of political strategy.

Rights beyond Borders

Overall, Zongo migrants in the US perceive rights and responsibilities through overlapping lenses that incorporate elements of citizenship and a version of strangerhood strongly inflected by

209 universal precepts of Suwarian-inspired Islam. While, from a more rigid perspective, these doctrines may appear incompatible, the incorporative capacity of the Zongo outlook fits them together within an integrated, yet multifaceted form of subjectivity. “Well, you see” explains an elder in Columbus, “wherever we are, we have no problems because we go by the laws of that land. No Muslim who comes to a foreign land can ignore the rules and obligations they have in place. Otherwise, you can’t stay!” Since citizenship constitutes the hegemonic framework through which adherence to “the laws of the land” is inculcated and enforced in the US, it is perforce an important component of strangerhood for Zongo migrants. In this case, the legal force of citizenship, while operating according to a different cultural logic, is nevertheless encompassed within the moral compulsions imposed by the supreme authority of Islamic Law.

In this worldview, various pairings of rights and obligations naturally link to corresponding forms of authority which are expressed at interconnected yet distinctive levels of society. Just as Muslims must respect the laws of the land, a child must obey their elders and the people must obey their rightful leaders. At each level, legitimacy (or moral right) depends on the specific modes of logic that pair rights with corresponding obligations: Muslims follow the dictates of Allah and thus receive blessings and spiritual salvation; citizens are obligated to obey the law and are therefore entitled to participate in electoral politics; children do as their elders tell them and in turn deserve care and proper socialization. While the standards of behavior that characterize each kind of relationship are guided by their own internal logic, the coherence of the entire system is always a work in progress. For this reason, the subjectivity of the Zongo must be understood in terms of its processual dynamics, driven by an impulse to construct a coherent, integrated cultural framework that explains and legitimizes their relationships to myriad institutions that shape their lives.

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It is in the process of constructing such a framework that disparate ideas, values and practices are brought into alignment. This process, which involves working out points of articulation, is neither smooth nor linear, but instead develops through conflict and contestation. For instance, power struggles within the Zongo associations, as well as the community’s political strategy vis a vis the wider society, can be understood as attempts to integrate the logic of citizenship and democracy with the logic of strangerhood and traditional authority. When I ask if the compulsion to obey authority, a rule emanating directly from Allah, does not undermine American laws guaranteeing freedom of speech, an elder vehemently shakes his head. “Well, if you are a citizen, that is an

American tradition… to go against the government is a right” he exclaims. These views are brought into alignment by pointing out that there are universal rules for leaders as well. “If they are doing it [protesting], that means something is wrong with what the government is doing… leaders must be merciful. Don’t rule with an iron hand. If people are shouting, let them say what they want and see if you can help. So it’s no problem… if they have a genuine reason for what they are doing.” Here, citizenship and Islamic law are brought into alignment through shared standards of legitimate authority.

Yet, while citizenship can be made to resonate with the universal requisites of Islamic law, it is not a natural law, but a conventional one that is learned and acquired only under specific conditions. “Many of us feel that the immigrant should not or does not have too many rights and should not expect too much from the government” explains a Zongo leader in Columbus, “but when you go through the naturalization process you learn from it. It starts to open them up and they engage more with the society outside the community because they are starting to learn about basic rights and responsibilities.” Zongo migrants are well aware of their obligations to work, pay

211 taxes and vote. Yet these components of being “a good citizen” are described in terms of contractual obligations rather than inherent moral codes. Another leader explains that “when you come here, you know that you have to be a good citizen… you don’t play with certain things. So we are more conscious of all those things here, you must take your rights and responsibilities quite seriously. But, back home, those things are more relaxed.” Thus, outside the American context, the rules of citizenship may be relaxed without threatening the integrity of the sociocultural edifice of which it is a part. Conversely, the overarching principles of Suwarian strangerhood are universal:

Well, you know, we have the rights just like everybody else, because this is America… The first amendment, all those things…But like I said, whether you are in Africa or here, whether you are different or like everybody else, your obligation is to do the right thing all the time. That is the only obligation… you may have obligations to your wife and kids and to the society… but all of those come from the most important obligation to Allah. That is it. Nobody can take that away from you.

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Chapter 7. Discussion and Conclusions

While the logic of citizenship starkly contrasts strangerhood, they also intersect and inflect one another. Thus, in order to understand the implications of strangerhood for Zongo subjectivity it was necessary to attend to interrelationships between the alternate modes of logic. How are these interactions reflected in the ideas, practices and claims-making strategies of Zongo residents in

Ghana and the United States? In this final chapter, I summarize the results of the study, present the overarching conclusions and reflect on the broader implications for understanding global modes of subjectivity.

Summary of Findings

In Ghana, residents act in the dual capacity of citizens and strangers as they confront the complexities of social and political life. Contrasting claims are not viewed as a liability, but as a strategic opening, since both are legitimate means of relating to leaders, accessing resources and participating in public life. Although the rights of strangerhood are inherently unequal to those of ethnically-defined hosts, their immediacy tends to collapse the social distance between political subjects and institutions. While assemblymen are shielded behind an opaque bureaucracy, residents can readily meet with and petition local chiefs who have access to the Asantehene who, in turn, wields informal authority at the highest echelons of government. In this way, the patrimonial relationships of strangerhood are a way to transcend the sterile, soulless bureaucracies common to neoliberal modes of governance. At the same time, the ability to adopt the orientation

213 of a citizen offers residents the possibility of escaping limitations imposed by strangerhood.

Overall, Zongo perceptions of authority and obligation are complex and while deference is intrinsic to their role as strangers, the deftness with which they modulate claims affords a degree of leverage that is not insignificant. Thus, rather than a response to opacity and unpredictability, their claims-making strategies manifest an intimate familiarity with political institutions, as well as confidence in the durability of deeply embedded cultural norms.

Liminality is maintained through personal narratives of migration and settlement, as well as the re-inscription of social difference through residential segregation, popular stereotypes and intercommunal boundaries. While Islam is what holds the community together, it is the enactment strangerhood that most prominently characterizes social and political relationships. In this capacity, perceptions of belonging expand to include recent migrants and others who claim the right to cross borders and join the community through their willingness to live the “Zongo lifestyle”. Enveloped in webs of mutual obligations with their Asante hosts, claims are made through the enactment of prescribed roles, especially performances of deference and loyalty to the

Asantehene. Institutions of chieftaincy symbolically organize society by demarcating social segments and giving Zongo residents agency as the constituency of chiefs who serve as their representatives.

Yet, many aspects of strangerhood are slowly giving way to the logic of citizenship. While differences between strangers and hosts are maintained, they are often subsumed under Ghanaian nationality, a broader umbrella that erases the liminality of strangerhood. Zongo enclaves, once highly segregated, are becoming increasingly integrated and less distinctive, socially or

214 economically, from other urban neighborhoods. In addition, the ancestral ties to ethnic homelands and far-flung kin that were an important aspect of strangerhood have been replaced by transnational connections that unequivocally hold Ghana as home. Perhaps most importantly, these changes are accompanied by a greater willingness on the part of Zongo residents to engage in formal politics and see themselves as bearers of equal rights with all other Ghanaians. Although the rights of citizenship may, in practice, be largely unsubstantiated, they rhetorically render Zongo subjects as citizens rather than strangers and thus impact perceptions of their place in society.

It is perhaps because citizenship is abstracted and far removed from the everyday concerns of many

Zongo residents that strangerhood maintains significant, if diminished relevance, in the Ghanaian context. In everyday life, values and perspectives blend, intersect and articulate. Hybrid forms emerge as attributes are mixed, matched and recast to resonate most forcefully with perceptions of legitimacy and political correctness. For example, when Asante hosts point to the foreign origins of Zongo residents as a way to contest their claims to citizenship, these same claims (or at least the rights being sought) may be substantiated on the basis of strangerhood. Switching between logics, the foreign origins that would (according to discourses of autochthony) exclude them from citizenship, now become the basis for rights claimed as acknowledged guests of the Asantehene.

Thus, the divergent logics of citizenship and strangerhood belie the extent to which the two become intertwined, with each subtly influencing iterations of the other. For example, residents welcome newly arriving Muslim strangers into the Zongo without regard for residency permits or documentation to enter the country. As an act of hospitality that conforms with moral norms, the stranger’s presumption of free movement is transmuted into an act of “good citizenship” as the

215 moral valences of strangerhood and citizenship intertwine. Similarly, the collective strategy described by the Sarkin, in which Zongo voters strategically split their votes in order to have a good relationship with whoever wins, shows that even voting, the consummate act of citizenship, follows the logic of strangerhood. Recognizing that it is precisely these distinctions that provide traction, Zongo residents make use of the points at which they articulate, while simultaneously probing the crevices that exist between them. It is not only at the intersections of strangerhood and citizenship, but also the indeterminate spaces that lie between them, where they are able to creatively leverage new possibilities while deflecting many of the constraints that each imposes.

In this way, values and beliefs that may, at times, appear incongruent, are in fact a culturally nuanced means of negotiating the ambivalences of strangerhood.

In the US, although many of these same dynamics are upheld, the logic of strangerhood is both strengthened and modified. First, the ideas and practices that shape the development of the US- based Zongo community mirror those that historically structured patterns of migration and social construction in Ghana. Influential founding fathers establish settlements in US cities, subsequently facilitating the arrival of newcomers under their authority. The legal credentials that allowed them to enter and stay in the US (student visas, the green card lottery, etc.) are viewed as technical instruments that reflect an even greater cause: the unfolding of fate and the will of Allah, beliefs that correspond with the characteristic Suwarian emphasis on predestination. Once in the US, the community is constructed under the guidance of the Zongo associations, who now play the role of traditional Hausa “landlords” by helping newcomers to find jobs and housing and to acclimatize to the new society. While the associations aim to help Zongo migrants to develop practical skills

216 to navigate life in the US, they also organize active resistance to cultural assimilation and work to maintain the social distance of strangerhood.

As the community develops, shifting conceptions of home and belonging contribute to the elaboration of Zongoness on a global scale. The ubiquitous ideal of returning home to Ghana is worn as a badge of honor, signaling one’s continued allegiance to a homeland outside the host country and thus replicating the stranger’s trans-territorial orientation. Yet, for Zongo migrants, life in the US irrevocably changes their outlook and worldview. Upon returning home, whether for a visit or a long-term stay, many find their relationship to home fundamentally altered. The comfortable familiarity of the Zongo, which occupied their thoughts on cold nights in New York and Chicago, is now experienced as frustration at what is perceived as indiscipline and the unwillingness of “our people” to leave “the Zongo mentality” behind. Estranged from American society, as well as the communities of their birth, US migrants come to enact a multi-tiered iteration of strangerhood. In many ways this process may be read as the unbounding of a territorialized community and a reversion to a form of strangerhood defined by fluid, dispersed networks of kinship and affiliation (i.e. before nation-states). Echoing and extending principles of mobility, free movement and hospitality, Zongo migrants experience affective dimensions of belonging in the transnational spaces that connect Zongo communities in New York, Kumasi, London and

Jeddah. Regardless of the country on their passport or their place of residency, it is the diaspora that has become home.

This form of global strangerhood generates a perpetual liminality that shapes social relations between Zongo migrants and the diverse elements of US society. On one hand, the feeling of

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“being in the host society, but not of it” contributes to the maintenance of social distance between the Zongo community and the other groups with whom they come into contact. On the other, as the ideal of returning to Ghana is gradually replaced by a global consciousness, there is a growing sense that efforts must be made to become more involved in the civic life of the localities in which they live. Yet, rather than a transition away from liminality towards full belonging in the US, these efforts to expand their social connections signal a fuller appreciation of the fact that their US places of residence are themselves important nodal points in the Zongo diaspora. In this regard, The

Bronx, Chicago and Columbus represent grounded sites “of local-global articulation and interaction” (Biersack 2006, 16) that situate Zongo communities in the transnational spaces that constitute home.

As efforts to branch out bear fruit, local Zongo associations, customarily involved only with

Ghanaian organizations in the US, begin to participate in civil society groups with other Muslim and African groups. These connections, facilitated by religious and cultural affiliations, represent an important first step in broader engagement in host society. Zongo mosques and community centers are increasingly attracting non-Zongo members, especially Muslims from other West

African countries such as Senegal, Ivory Coast and Liberia. The incorporation of these newcomers into Zongo networks mirrors the social construction of Zongo identity in Ghana, representing an expansion of the affective contours of Zongoness in response to new social conditions.

Nevertheless, their relations with the wider society and particularly their participation in more mainstream elements of US civil society (neighborhood councils, parent-teacher associations, non- profits, etc.) is considerably limited.

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Zongo migrants are aware that principles of strangerhood serve them well in the US, contrasting their capacity to accommodate cultural differences with the ways that migrants from Muslim majority countries, for example, struggle to adjust to many aspects of life in the US. As strangers,

Zongo communities are content to conduct their internal affairs and are thus more willing to accept, and even expect, divergent views and perspectives in the wider society. Nevertheless, cosmopolitan models of strangerhood are often challenged by bounded identities in the US. In particular, their relations with Asante migrants are strained by the de-stabilization of the stranger- host dichotomy. Whereas in Ghana, inter-groups tensions are muted (or at least covered up) by the codes of strangerhood, in the US, the Asante role as indigenous hosts is replaced by a strangerhood that is equal to the Zongo. In a similar sense, the flexible boundaries of strangerhood clash with more rigid standards of belonging such as those of the Somali migrants in Columbus. Instead of uniting around shared religious beliefs and experiences of migration, Zongo migrants are confronted with reified national and ethnic identities. Perceptions of race, as well, confound models of strangerhood. Tensions with African Americans arise from unflattering stereotypes on both sides, generating cleavages with which Zongo migrants are, for the most part, unfamiliar.

Concurrently, colonially-derived discourses configure white and black as ontological categories that defy the liminality intrinsic to strangerhood.

While the above tensions challenge models of strangerhood, their position as Muslims in the US reconfirms its overarching importance in structuring and legitimizing relations with host society.

Islamophobia in the US context is largely dismissed since it is taken for granted that non-Muslims do not understand the ways of Islam. Instead, migrants focus on guarantees of religious freedom enshrined in US law and the responsibility of each individual to properly discipline themselves to

219 withstand the seductive influence of secular society. Here, the Suwarian tradition, which has guided Muslim strangers in West Africa for centuries, continues to play a role in establishing a theological doctrine that, in effect, separates church from state. In this way, Zongo migrants incorporate the secular principles of US law into a religious philosophy predicated on underlying principles of strangerhood.

Finally, strangerhood in the US reconfigures the parameters of authority within the Zongo community while continuing to guide strategies of caution and neutrality in the realm of formal politics. Even while Zongo migrants are subjects of traditional authorities as well as state institutions, they are also positioned within transnational networks linking politics carried out in

Ghana to politics carried out in the US. Principles of strangerhood mediate between these intersecting webs of power and authority, bringing them together within a coherent framework.

Within the Zongo associations, chiefly authority devolves to an executive committee, which then becomes a site of contestation where traditional standards of authority are challenged by forms of social capital that become more salient in the US context. Patronage, seniority and Islamic learning are pitted against professional status, western education and social connections outside the Zongo.

What is at stake in these contests to control the Zongo associations is the ability to control the trajectory of strangerhood, the terms on which the community relates to host society. Reformists feel that while chieftaincy was the appropriate means to be recognized as legitimate political subjects by traditional hosts in Ghana, the community’s leadership structure must now adapt to more closely reflect US values and to seek forms of recognition that are more meaningful in the new context. Meanwhile, those who advocate for a conservative version of traditional authority

220 are hesitant to abandon the time-tested values and practices that have historically organized the community. Although some associations have split apart when issues become intractable, partisans on both sides remain deeply connected through family, religious and social ties. In this regard, the most effective leaders are those who are able to successfully articulate opposing values and worldviews, striking an acceptable balance between tradition and adaptation.

As these internal struggles play out in the Zongo associations, the policy of strategic neutrality in the formal politics of Ghana and the US is stringently upheld. Although Ghanaian politicians seek the support of US residents, often visiting local masjids to make their case, the associations remain coy and are careful to extend equal opportunities to all sides. In truth, few US residents travel back to Ghana to cast a vote at election time, so whatever support is given is largely informal. In the realm of US politics, the roughly one half of the community who are US citizens are encouraged to vote and to throw their support behind their chosen party or candidate. Rhetorically, Zongo migrants champion free choice as a way of aligning themselves with the expectations of the host country to act as “good citizens”. Yet because they do not fundamentally think of themselves as individualized political actors, but as a collectivity, the net result of divergent political opinions among the community is that, as a group, they cannot be said to support one side or another. The logic of an autonomous citizen exercising agency through voting is enfolded into a collective stance of non-alignment. This should not be taken to mean that adopting the logic of citizenship is purely performative, but only that the collective ethos of strangerhood runs much deeper and therefore more closely reflects their perceptions of political reality. This helps to explain why even those who are US citizens are extremely hesitant to speak up on political matters or to get involved

221 beyond the basic act of voting and why the associations are so adamant in their resolve not to become involved, even on specific issues that may be highly relevant for the community.

Conclusions

Although many of its core institutions and practices are modified by new circumstances, the cultural, moral and political precepts of strangerhood remain highly relevant for Zongo communities in Ghana, as well as the United States. In efforts to reclaim the concept from vague connotations of “otherness” or use as an ill-defined category of noncitizen, I have defined strangerhood as a specific mode of cultural logic that developed among the fluid territorial borders and overlapping institutional arrangements of precolonial West Africa. Yet, this logic is not a relic of the past, but a highly adaptive set of guidelines and principles that are eminently relevant for understanding contemporary practices of migration and incorporation. Just as Islamic merchants drew on elements of the Suwarian Tradition to manage their commercial enterprises in precolonial

Asante, and colonial-era labor migrants were subsumed under the authority of traditional chiefs to justify their presence in the Gold Coast Colony, Zongo residents in Ghana and the U.S. draw upon models of strangerhood to navigate contemporary processes of globalization.

This is not simply a matter of drawing on the cultural knowledge at their disposal, but also of the degree to which models of strangerhood seem to fit emergent circumstances particularly well. As we have seen, in precolonial West Africa, power was understood as a primarily transgressive force, a capacity to overflow boundaries and encompass distinctive social and cultural domains. In this sense, there was no idea of sovereignty in which power was monopolized within a given institutional context but of unbounded power manifest in a wide variety of forms. Subject to

222 multiple, overlapping authorities, political subjects learned to negotiate different norms, expectations and codes appropriate to each kind of institution. It was this dynamic that induced the logic of strangerhood, an emergent strategy of liminality in which subjects sought to remain perpetually “betwixt and between” institutional and ideological methods of control. To this end, strangerhood was a means of resisting enclosure, whether within territories, identities or institutional formations. Occupying multiple subject-positions, each with attendant rights and obligations, the guiding principle of liminality integrated diverse claims and obligations within a coherent framework of strangerhood, in this way, seeking to ensure that no single strategy of control could entirely contradict, crowd out or limit the ability to interact or engage with others.

Indeed, this mode of subjectivity is particularly salient within contemporary theories of de- territorialization in which subjects, identities and institutions are increasingly dispersed across global space.

In contrast, in the historical context in which it emerged, the logic of citizenship represented an impulse to erase liminality by establishing unequivocal social, legal and territorial boundaries.

Emplaced within the geography of the nation-state, citizens who strayed beyond these borders were stripped of political and legal rights. Similarly, by equating culture and identity with the nation, citizenship sought to subsume internal differences within the category of citizen, effectively homogenizing insiders while excluding outsiders from any claims to belonging.

Ideologically, the logic of citizenship presupposes sovereignty, bounding power within the legal, bureaucratic and regulatory infrastructure of the state and occluding a view of the other ways in which power functions and circulates in society. For example, rhetorically configuring all citizens

223 as putative equals before the law, it does not attend to unequal power relations expressed, among other things, through distinctions of race, class and gender (Das and Pool 2004).

Today, while theories of transnational, multicultural and de-national citizenship posit ways that it may come to transcend such limitations, the dissonance between these phenomena and its underlying logic serves to explain why so many studies are couched in terms of a crisis precipitated by the “contradictions and unacknowledged risks inherent in notions of citizenship today” (Petryna and Follis 2015, 401). Thus, transnational citizenship still depends on the embeddedness of transnational migrants in the exclusionary legal regimes of territorially bounded states (Fox 2005); multicultural citizenship does not alleviate the resurgent politics of belonging that make clear the degree to which cultural “others” are expected to assimilate to be accepted as “real” citizens

(Geschiere 2009); and de-national citizenship, in which marginalized subjects work to substantiate legal rights, channels popular dissent into acceptable institutional frameworks, ensuring that “the insurgent perpetuates key features of the entrenched” (Holston 2009, 261).

It is these deeper social realities that animate conceptions of strangerhood. Among Zongo communities in Ghana and the US, it is taken for granted that while legal citizenship (or, at least residency) may confer important instrumental rights, it also exposes them to dominant institutional forces over which they have little control. Neither do the rights of citizenship insulate them from extra-institutional forms of power. Therefore, from the Zongo perspective, while political fortunes are fleeting and social conditions highly subject to change, strangerhood represents a stable, safe and flexible framework of incorporation into a new host society. Since political authorities in the

US, as well as popular elements of host society, do not hold explicit cultural models of

224 strangerhood, they interpret their relationship to Zongo migrants through the logic of citizenship

(This is not to say that they necessarily see them as full American citizens, but that to whatever degree they are accepted, excluded, belong, otherized, etc. is measured in terms of the logic of citizenship). Strangerhood becomes a one-sided affair, no longer a shared code guiding interaction between strangers and hosts, but a means of straddling the line between assimilation and exclusion, the only options available within the dominant framework of citizenship.

From the Zongo perspective, strangerhood is not solely a matter of specific cultural scripts but an implicit understanding of the realities of power and belonging: whether they hold the legal status of citizens or not, migrants with a distinctive transnational identity who presume to act as full and equal participants in the politics of host society invite resentment and hostility. Indeed, literature on the cultural politics of belonging confirms that this perspective is not at all unfounded (see

Vertovec 2011). In this regard, strangerhood may be seen as a conservative strategy of both action and inaction; a strategy guided by the underlying assumption that even if Zongo migrants technically hold the legal rights of citizens, they neither aspire to nor claim full rights and belonging. Thus, while the dominant political and social institutions of the host country seek to impose citizenship as the exclusive parameter of migrant incorporation (or non-incorporation),

Zongo models of strangerhood work to produce a separate subject-position that adopts citizenship into a broader framework composed of numerous possibilities and positions. In this way, strangerhood reflects a broader understanding of power and puts this knowledge to use, mediating the tensions inherent to citizenship by carving out a liminal space that preserves the right to cultural difference and to pursue economic goals without threatening the national identity or political supremacy of their hosts.

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As a means of managing encounters between transnational migrants and the new societies they enter, the principles of strangerhood are necessarily adaptive, changing over time in accordance with extant social conditions and shifting facets of power. For example, in Kumasi strangerhood entails a specific cultural script guiding interactions between strangers and hosts while, in the US, the script is re-written in abstract, generalizable terms to reflect the lack of a longstanding tradition of stranger-host relations. For this reason, strangerhood in the US de-emphasizes moral claims to legitimacy derived from adherence to the script. Instead, it becomes a set of practical guidelines for negotiating the social realities of life in the US. This movement away from the ethical dimensions of strangerhood which, after all, arise from shared perceptions among strangers and hosts, parallels Stoller’s (2002) conclusion that among West African merchants in New York City

“money has no smell”. This idiom conveys a recognition that navigating state regulations and social dynamics in the US are not moral or ethical matters, but simply obstacles and opportunities to be evaded or capitalized on. Thus, the acquisition of money and resources, the ultimate goal of

Zongo migration to the US, is morally and politically neutral; not a question of rights and legitimacy in an ethical sense but of what is possible and permissible according to the standards of host society. Although this stance may, in part, be driven by a desire to justify engaging in behaviors deemed aberrant according to traditional Zongo values, it also reflects an underlying belief that strangers living in a society whose core values fundamentally deviate from their own are only responsible for maintaining an internal morality that is separate from their interactions with host society.

In addition to these shifting qualities of strangerhood, a broader trajectory is also evident. In Ghana, citizenship is gradually coming to resonate more fully with the ways Zongo residents view their

226 social and political relations. Ghanaian nationality and the imperatives of citizenship are gradually coming to override strangerhood as their primary subject-position. Nevertheless, the continued threat of ethno-nationalism and the general hollowing out of citizenship under the regime of neoliberalism extends the viability of strangerhood as a strategic resource. Thus, although muted, the logic of strangerhood is reproduced across successive generations. Conversely, in the US, the guiding logic of strangerhood is more pronounced, as Zongo migrants are acutely aware of their non-belonging and marginal position within configurations of power organized by the logic of citizenship. Although qualitatively altered, the underlying logic of strangerhood is emphasized.

Nevertheless, the heightened experience of strangerhood evaporates among the second generation, for whom America is home and US citizenship the normative model of subjectivity. For the children of migrants, Zongoness is akin to an ethnic heritage, divorced from the logic of strangerhood. It is important to note that this trajectory does not necessarily signal the eventual demise of strangerhood, since new migrants are constantly arriving. Rather, it illustrates the degree to which even deeply embedded cultural models are subject to change within emergent circumstances and conditions.

These conditions are defined by dynamic interactions between various subject-positions. Zongo migrants in the US are simultaneously embedded in patron-client relations with traditional authorities; are beholden to the rules of sharia as members of the ummah; act as citizens of Ghana, the US or both; and are viewed as “others” within the popular perceptions of host society. While literature that focuses solely on citizenship often loses sight of these alternate positions, studies of subjectivity in Africa depict them as a series of stand-along improvisations that occur as subjects deploy claims-making strategies appropriate to a given social context. Both of these perspectives

227 neglect the possibility that drawing on multiple relationships, identities and claims may be integrated components of a long-term, deliberative strategy. Although there is a great deal of creativity and contingency involved, strangerhood entails long-term goals, as well as intimate familiarity with social and political conditions in the societies they inhabit. As an overarching set of principles that structures ongoing processes of change and adaptation, the logic of strangerhood encompasses numerous subject-positions, knitting them together into a coherent mode of subjectivity.

Ultimately, Zongo residents in both countries do not perceive the relationship between citizenship and strangerhood as one of either convergence or contradiction. Instead, the potential for creative

“modes of aggregation and elaboration” (Guyer and Belinga 1995, 117) is a critical resource in their efforts to harness time-tested institutions of strangerhood to navigate the shifting currents of subjectivity and belonging. To the degree that the diverse forms of logic used to negotiate power may come to reinforce rather than distort one another, cultural dissonance can be instrumental in the shaping of political subjects. This then, is the defining feature of strangerhood: that contrasting claims and subject-positions need not be contradictory, but can, through appropriate forms of articulation, be complementary and mutually reinforcing. In this regard, the emphasis many Zongo migrants place on fate, destiny or the will of Allah reflects their recognition that this constant working out of values and relationships is not only the result of deliberate or concerted strategy but depends in large part on a confluence of unforeseen factors. It is through emergent processes that strangerhood acquires the fluidity that, on one hand, allows the Zongo community to effectively adapt to changing circumstances and, on the other, generates perpetual discord as diverse cultural elements and values are brought together through ongoing phases of articulation.

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Implications for Anthropological Theory

This analysis of strangerhood holds important implications for theorizing global modes of subjectivity. Yet, such considerations surely depend on the degree to which models of strangerhood may or may not be applicable to other migrant and trans-border populations. What makes the Zongo community illustrative of wider contexts and phenomena? It seems useful to start with a discussion of what makes them unique. Zongoness is inseparable from strangerhood itself.

It is a transnational community that is not primarily based on ethnicity, nationality or religion, but on the shared experience of strangerhood. Comprised of dozens of languages and ethnicities, it defies Appadurai’s (1996) notion of the “ethnoscape” that develops around memories of an ancestral homeland or transnational citizenship based on shared nationality. Finally, although

Islam may be seen as a unifying force, the Zongo is a product of a specific Muslim identity that developed in and around broader models of strangerhood. Thus, the diversity and remarkable durability of the Zongo identity stands out as a counter-example of the ethno-nationalism and discourses of autochthony that proliferate as borders and identities are destabilized (see Geschiere

2009). Rather than the reification of social boundaries in efforts to regulate and control global forces, Zongoness embraces the global through the perpetual liminality of strangerhood, a state of being “betwixt and between” (Turner 1960) that is the cardinal sin of essentialized identities. Thus, what makes the Zongo unique is that strangerhood is the defining feature of their collectivity.

At the same time, many aspects of Zongoness are not especially unique at all. In fact, the results of this study replicate much of the literature on transnational networks, the development of a diasporic consciousness and the mediation of difference as an important experiential component

229 of migration. These broad similarities increase the potential that strangerhood may be useful for understanding a wide variety of phenomena and experiences. While it seems particularly likely that many other African migrants draw on principles of strangerhood that developed in similar contexts as the Zongo, I suggest that there may also be parallels with other groups who do not necessarily hold explicit models of strangerhood but may come to adopt them as territories, regimes and institutions increasingly intertwine. As global conditions transition away from the nation-state model of political organization toward a system characterized by flexible borders and fluid subjectivities, the logic of strangerhood is likely to become more prevalent. For this reason, the Zongo are not put forth as a unique case, but as an especially instructive one: since they are guided by explicit and well-defined models of strangerhood, focusing on the Zongo distinctly illustrates its cultural logic and how it may be relevant for understanding contemporary subjectivities. Although other migrant groups may not have ingrained traditions of strangerhood, or perhaps hold cultural models that are less pronounced, insights derived from the Zongo help us to more clearly perceive their emergence.

For example, despite knowing that they will be met with a militarized border and a legal system unlikely to grant them asylum, a steady stream of central American migrants continues to arrive at the US border with Mexico. As undocumented “aliens” with no legal right to traverse geopolitical borders, these populations must, by necessity, articulate their claims to freedom of movement in terms that contrast citizenship. These claims-making strategies are increasingly deployed, debated and negotiated in the institutional framework of US immigration policy, producing new discourses and techniques intended to legitimize transborder mobility. Even as the logic of citizenship seeks to enclose and exclude them, migrants make use of transnational connections with NGOs and

230 legal-aid organizations, establishing linkages that help them to circumvent attempts to render them as rightless non-subjects. In addition, many municipalities in the US view the presence of transborder migrants as both a moral obligation and an important source of labor and revenue. In this regard, local governments play the role of hosts, vouching for “illegals” in their districts and supporting freedom of movement, with neither group claiming nor advocating equal legal and political rights with US citizens. By recognizing that these claims invoke principles of strangerhood, we are not only able to understand the resulting forms of subjectivity as something other than citizenship, but to perceive the extent to which the process of emergence is, in many ways, a struggle against citizenship.

Incorporating this perspective compels us to re-think the effects of globalization on producing new kinds of political subjects. While de-territorialization and transnational migration challenge and disrupt conventional forms of citizenship, they do not necessarily generate new ones. Instead, in some instances, they work to reduce the viability of citizenship as a legitimate and effective means of claiming rights and belonging. In this regard, strangerhood represents an alternative basis for the staking of claims, constructing an alternative mode of belonging that exposes the dichotomy of inclusion and exclusion as a false choice. At the same time, it is not enough to think of strangerhood as the mere negation of citizenship, but to recognize in it a distinctive mode of logic that is well-suited to negotiating the “dialectics of flow and closure” experienced by contemporary subjects. Thus, rather than being defined by the inherent contradictions between globalization and enclosure, global modes of subjectivity emerge as these contradictions are resolved and brought into alignment.

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This re-orientation holds important theoretical implications. First, it helps us to understand contemporary forms of subjectivity that are not adequately explained using the concept of citizenship. This should not be taken as a call to abandon citizenship as a heuristic device. On the contrary, it should serve to invigorate the concept by opening theoretical space to clearly consider what kinds of claims and subjects are best understood as global forms of citizenship and which more closely adhere to the logic of strangerhood. For instance, do the de-nationalized citizens envisioned by Sassen (2005) actually claim rights using the logic of citizenship or are their ideas and practices better understood as a form of strangerhood? Conversely, does the transnational

Asanteman community discussed by Clark (2003) constitute a global form of strangerhood or does the essentialized Asante identity signal something more akin to de-territorialized citizenship? The ability to clearly distinguish between different kinds of claims thus strengthens conceptualizations of diverse subject-positions.

Second, the results of this study caution against the tendency to categorize modes of subjectivity according to conceptual labels or as a set of concrete practices. Instead, recognizing them as a compilation of interactive logics explains how, why and under what conditions citizens (or other legal residents) may engage the logic of strangerhood, or vice versa. Specific practices and institutions are not inherently associated with one form of subjectivity or another but derive meaning through the cultural models that shape or motivate them. For example, voting, the consummate act of citizenship, is, for many Zongo migrants a primary site in which they enact the logic of strangerhood. Thus, rather than seeking to categorically bound subjectivities and, in this way, to define them in opposition to one another, it is necessary to attend to the full range of claims-making strategies they entail, as well as the ways diverse strategies relate to one another.

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Highlighting dynamic juxtapositions and interactions between various modes of logic help to explain the actions, motivations and aspirations of a wide range of mobile and transnational subjects. This formulation offers a theoretically grounded means of assessing processes of subject- making in their own right rather than as manifestations of (or deviations from) normative constructs.

Finally, the model of strangerhood I have developed supports Comaroff and Comaroff’s (2012) theory that emergent global processes may indeed be “progressing” towards “traditional” forms of social and political organization. At the least, it demonstrates that, to the extent traditional ideas and institutions structure the creation of the globalized subjectivities that are a defining feature of globalization, they are thoroughly modern elements of contemporary culture. Although derived from cultural principles that developed in precolonial West Africa, the resurgence of strangerhood is not a reversion back to a time before citizenship and nation-states, but a reminder that ideological constructs such as tradition and modernity offer little insight into the socio-historical trajectories that shape global development. In this light, the continued valorization of citizenship is a theoretical deficiency that has little to do with the concept’s adaptive capacity as an explanatory framework. Instead, it is the reflection of an underlying reticence to conceive of citizenship as anything less than the teleological endpoint of political subjectivity, a subject-position taken to symbolize what Fukuyama (1992) rather hastily referred to as “the end of history”. In this respect, using an African-derived model of strangerhood to generate global theory serves to decolonize anthropological studies of subjectivity; not as a reactionary project to replace one supposedly universal concept with another, but as a conceptual lens that makes an important contribution to grounded ethnographic accounts of subject-making.

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Whether it is Zongo migrants drawing on time-honored cultural principles to facilitate migration and settlement, stateless refugees weathering the vagaries of life as undocumented aliens, or neoliberal subjects who hold the legal status of citizenship without the substantive rights it purportedly entails, the analysis of strangerhood affords an view of subjectivity that is unencumbered by conceptual blinders or territorial boundaries.

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