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Bioinsecurity and Vulnerability

The SAR seminar from which this book resulted was made possible with the generous support of the Paloheimo Foundation. School for Advanced Research Advanced Seminar Series Bioinsecurity and Vulnerability

Contributors Steven C. Caton Department of Anthropology, Harvard University

Nancy N. Chen Department of Anthropology, University of California, Santa Cruz

Joseph Masco Department of Anthropology, University of Chicago

Monir Moniruzzaman Department of Anthropology and Center for Ethics and Humanities in the Life Sciences, Michigan State University

Carolyn Rouse Department of Anthropology, Princeton University

Lesley A. Sharp Department of Anthropology, Barnard College, and Department of Sociomedical Sciences, Mailman School of Public Health, Columbia University

Glenn Davis Stone Department of Anthropology, Washington University

Ida Susser Department of Anthropology, Hunter College, and Graduate Center, City University of New York

David Vine Department of Anthropology, American University

Michael J. Watts Department of Geography, University of California, Berkeley This page intentionally left blank Bioinsecurity and Vulnerability

Edited by Nancy N. Chen and Lesley A. Sharp

School for Advanced Research Press Santa Fe School for Advanced Research Press Post Office Box 2188 Santa Fe, New Mexico 87504-2188 www.sarpress.org

Managing Editor: Lisa Pacheco Editorial Assistant: Ellen Goldberg Designer and Production Manager: Cynthia Dyer Manuscript Editor: Merryl Sloane Proofreader: Kate Whelan Indexer: Margaret Moore Booker

Cover illustration: Living conditions in Okrika, a restive town in the Niger Delta, are at constant risk from oil leaks and oil fires due to the pipelines that run through the community. Children playing on the pipes seen here on July 16, 2004. © Ed Kashi/VII Photo. Used with permission.

The School for Advanced Research (SAR) promotes the furthering of scholarship on—and public understanding of—human culture, behavior, and evolution. SAR Press publishes cutting-edge scholarly and general-interest books that encourage critical thinking and present new perspectives on topics of interest to all humans. Contributions by authors reflect their own opinions and viewpoints and do not necessarily express the opinions of SAR Press. Contents

List of Figures ix

Introduction: Bioinsecurity and Human Vulnerability xi Lesley A. Sharp and Nancy N. Chen

Part I. Framing Biosecurity: Global Dangers 1 1. Preempting Biosecurity: Threats, Fantasies, Futures 5 Joseph Masco

2. When a Country Becomes a Military Base: Blowback and Bioinsecurity in Honduras, the World’s Most Dangerous Place 25 David Vine

3. Perils before Swine: Bioinsecurity and Scientific Longing in Experimental Xenotransplantation Research 45 Lesley A. Sharp

Part II. Critical Resources: Securing Survival 65 4. Biosecurity in the Age of Genetic Engineering 71 Glenn Davis Stone

5. Between Abundance and Insecurity: Securing Food and Medicine in an Age of Chinese Biotechnology 87 Nancy N. Chen

6. Global Water Security and the Demonization of Qāt: The New Water Governmentality and Developing Countries like Yemen 103 Steven C. Caton

7. Don’t Let the Lion Tell the Giraffe’s Story: Law, Violence, and Ontological Insecurities in Ghana 121 Carolyn Rouse

vii Contents

Part III. Vulnerability and Resiliency: The “Bio” of Insecurity 143 8. Resilience as a Way of Life: Biopolitical Security, Catastrophism, and the Food–Climate Change Question 145 Michael J. Watts

9. Bioinsecurity, Gender, and HIV/AIDS in South Africa 173 Ida Susser

10. Domestic Organ Trafficking: Between Biosecurity and Bioviolence 195 Monir Moniruzzaman

References 217 Index 265

viii Figures

I.1 US biodefense research map 1 I.2 US military bases around the globe 2 I.3 H1N1 chart 3 II.1 Genetically modified cotton in India 65 II.2 Cafeteria in urban China 66 II.3 Emergency food and supplies raffle, Hawai‘i 67 II.4 Qāt plants, Yemen 68 II.5 Man with machete wound, Oshiyie, Ghana 69 III.1 Oil fire in Nigeria 143 III.2 Scar on kidney seller, Bangladesh 144 10.1 Advertisement from Bangladesh requesting a kidney for a resident in Italy 201 10.2 Advertisement (Bangladesh) requesting a kidney for a resident in Germany 201

ix This page intentionally left blank Introduction Bioinsecurity and Human Vulnerability

Lesley A. Sharp and Nancy N. Chen

The new millennium is already rife with rapid-fire “high alert” responses, an increasing trend that is especially pronounced in the United States (though most certainly felt elsewhere, too), where past catastrophes shape expanding perceptions of imminent danger. September 11, 2001, looms as an inescapable spectral presence, defining an important baseline for the ramping up of biosecurity measures. Nevertheless, one need only consider a cursory list of other calamities—some of which are decades old—to realize the propensity by the late twentieth century for localized dangers to go global. The AIDS pandemic, Hurricanes Katrina and Sandy, mad cow disease, avian and swine flus, the tsunami of 2004, and the Chernobyl and Fukushima nuclear crises—all instigated security measures on a grand scale before and after 2001. Beneath the aegis of a new world order of disaster awareness, human safety is conceived of as tenuous at best. Today, “biosecurity” has ballooned into an everyday and increasingly mundane aspect of human experience, serving as a catchall for the detection, surveillance, containment, and deflection of everything from epidemics and natural disasters to resource scarcities and political insurgencies, enabling newly conceived mandates in nation-states to police citizens, migrants, and refugees; to reconfigure urban zones, rural landscapes, and border zones; and to regulate precious—albeit basic—goods and services, such as food, water, land, medicines, and biofuels. The bundling together of security measures, their associated infrastructure, and their modes of

xi Lesley A. Sharp and Nancy N. Chen governance, alongside response times, underscores a new urgency of preparedness; a growing global ethos ever alert to unforeseen danger; and actions that favor risk assessment, imagined worst-case scenarios, and carefully orchestrated, preemptive interventions. Biosecurity is thus envisioned and increasingly managed on a grand scale. Global initiatives—frequently involving such behemoths as the Department of Homeland Security, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the United Nations, and the World Health Organization—all rely on the long arm of bureaucracies empowered not only to determine the scale of imminent danger but also to calculate the values assigned to populations deemed to be at greatest risk or harm. Resources (assessed as valuable, scarce, abundant, or expendable) invariably play into this calculus of life. Biosecurity measures necessitate predictability, model making, preemptiveness, and flexibility, in which anticipated danger, inter- and intranational responsibilities, and global threats are elaborately intertwined. Even the term itself demands flexibility: today, “biosecurity” can be employed as a noun, an adjective, and a verb (“biosecuritize”). Such porousness, or the ability to encompass new contexts, dangers, and scenarios, renders the concept of biosecurity extraordinarily difficult to define, although the category has a complex yet still traceable history. Moreover, the vagueness of its definition facilitates its proliferation: in the United States especially, one seems to know inherently that new dangers threatening the safety of human populations all too naturally belong under the aegis of biosecurity. Whereas in the pre-9/11 era, epidemics required generally short-lived coordination efforts of local or sometimes national public health personnel for control and containment, post-9/11 responses embody heightened threat and emergency (symbolically embedded in 9-1-1 itself). Epidemic dangers are no longer merely about pathogens or carelessness, but deliberate intent. Policing national borders and surveillance are part and parcel of control measures. Such concerns are hardly confined to the United States. For instance, during avian flu epidemics, watchers both inside and outside China carefully tracked the circulation of H5N1 and other infectious agents across provincial and national borders, and several European nations have taken drastic measures to contain zoonotic epidemics through massive culls of livestock that are important sources of food throughout the region. The rhetoric of globalization and the porosity of boundaries of bodies, of nations, and of communications media (Appadurai 2001; Martin 1994) insist not only that surveillance measures track diseases but also that such technologies remain in place long after epidemics or other dangers have subsided, have been contained, or have been squelched. xii Introduction

In this volume, we understand biosecurity to be an already formulated convention that links national identity with the securitization of daily governance. Lakoff and Collier (2008:12) point out that “new assemblages of organizations, techniques, and forms of expertise” continue to reconfigure biosecurity as part of living with risk in daily life. Beyond public health concerns, Lakoff (2010b) thoughtfully addresses how disasters also lead to national and state formations in order to mitigate risk. Our collective intent here, however, is to write against biosecurity as the new status quo by focusing instead on its underbelly; that is, on vulnerability and especially how vulnerability increases in the shadow of biosecurity. Instead of the acceptance of surveillance measures or security interventions as necessities of life in the new millennium, bioinsecurity defines the focus of this volume. As the now classic work by Ulrich Beck, Risk Society (1992[1986]), reveals, by the late twentieth century, risk aversion and anticipatory forms of intervention emerged as pervasive qualities of daily life under a new world order. More recently, risk aversion has assumed an Orwellian aura of surveillance. One need only track the proliferation of hidden cameras in the United Kingdom, the United States,1 and elsewhere (for example, see Rouse’s discussion of Ghana in chapter 7, this volume) to realize the rapid normalizing of practices that pair “safety” with visibility, evident, for instance, in public signage in the United States bearing such warnings as “If You See Something, Say Something,” “Stay Alert, Stay Alive,” and “Call or Text Against Terror.” Even more important, seemingly remote or isolated events—for example, outbreaks of such zoonoses as “avian” or “swine” flu—herald and draw swift, internationally coordinated efforts to contain both human and animal species. Thus, although threats associated with pandemics, terrorism, and natural disasters are hardly new, they are increasingly collapsed together as similarly destabilizing forces that endanger us all. Set against the relatively newly imagined “global economy,” which presumably links all lives with one another, such framing breeds new anxieties regarding the containment and movement of danger within and across boundaries, or what Beck (2000:219) has described as “this border- transcending dynamism of the new risks,” entailing “a metamorphosis of danger which is difficult to delineate or monitor.” Today, the bodies of international travelers can harbor silent killers; militarized insurgents can sneak across borders to infiltrate and terrorize those in other territories; contaminated products and sickly migratory species can easily and rapidly infect global foodways; and natural disasters evolve and move unpredict- ably, with shattering consequences that reach far beyond their points of

xiii Lesley A. Sharp and Nancy N. Chen origin. All boundaries are permeable (Martin 1990, 1994); all bodies are potentially at risk (Beck 1999, 2000; Douglas and Wildavsky 1982); all are locked together on a grand scale devoid of hope (Mattingly 2010) and are caught up in a whirlwind of anxiety, threat, danger, and fear.2 Despite the intensification of bureaucratic control and coordination within national boundaries and beyond in international arenas, the quotidian aspects of far more basic forms of human suffering and vulnerability are, sadly, all too often overlooked, devalued, or reframed as irrelevant or unsolvable. Put another way, global security is paramount, but individual or community survival is not.3 As a result, the well-being and security of local populations and individual bodies prove especially vulnerable in the face of wide-sweeping bureaucratic measures that presumably target stability on a grander global, rather than a locally grounded, scale. This volume seeks to redress these discrepancies by foregrounding small-scale yet vital human concerns alongside critiques of global initiatives of preparedness and fear, or what we understand as the proliferation of bioinsecurities, which include structural violence, suffering, and dispossession. The authors in this volume collectively address the erasure of quotidian forms of deepening vulnerability that proliferate under biosecurity but that are unattended to because they affect individual lives and life on the ground. That is, they too frequently involve lives deemed unworthy of security measures. One then begins to wonder, what truly counts as risk, whose vulnerability matters, and who is worthy of protection? For example, in the contexts of avian, porcine, and bovine diseases, the mass extermination of flocks and herds renders farmers, whether large or small, exceedingly vulnerable, and culling, even in the name of national, regional, or global security, may drive individual households toward economic collapse. Such measures are not necessarily an issue of the expendability of the few for the salvation of the many. Instead, those who are poor, rural, or slum bound figure increasingly as individual and collective lives that are not worth saving. Our advanced seminar originated as a small panel titled “Bioinsecurities,” organized by Chen and Sharp for the annual meeting of the Society for Applied Anthropology in Santa Fe, New Mexico, in March 2009. From this modest effort emerged several critical perspectives that then framed a week-long intensive retreat called “Bioinsecurity and Vulnerability” hosted by SAR (School for Advanced Research) in October 2011 and involving the ten participants who have contributed to this volume. Throughout our week together, we probed these questions: What are the historical antecedents of biosecurity? How might we put the “bio” back in biosecurity by focusing on the vulnerability, or threats to the well-being, of human bodies living beneath the aegis of contemporary biosecurity measures? xiv Introduction

If biosecurity is in part about protecting scarce resources, what sacrifices, fears, and consequences are at stake, and how might the scramble for these resources generate other forms of bioinsecurity and vulnerability? Of what relevance is the market in shaping biosecurity measures, and how do such measures affect the daily survival of local populations? What insights emerge when biosecurity is understood in temporal terms? Finally, what are biosecurity’s moral dimensions, and what possibilities exist for more ethically and socially engaged alternatives? It is worth noting, given the militarization of biosecurity, that the Los Alamos National Laboratory is a mere thirty-three-mile drive from the Santa Fe Plaza, casting a long shadow in this region (and, at times, on our discussions)4 as a site steeped in the history of nuclear arms research and more recently refashioned as a center for “national security science.”5 That the onset of the Occupy Wall Street movement coincided with our arrival at SAR likewise added special poignancy to this seminar’s gathering. Associated sites of activist involvement not only arose in New York City (where Sharp and Susser dwell) and Oakland, California (not far from where Chen and Watts each live and work), but also included a small yet earnest local and well-established band of protesters on a busy street corner in front of the Bank of America in Santa Fe, underscoring for all of us how biosecurity and vulnerability are indeed intertwined, daily experiences in which the global is read as intensely local. Throughout our week together, we were, unquestionably, preoccupied with vulnerability as a crucial yet neglected byproduct of biosecurity measures. Agamben’s (1998) notion of bios, as set against zoe, or “bare life” that is exiled to a state of exception, served as an important reminder that suffering must remain front and center in our deliberations. As the two editors (Chen and Sharp) concluded, though, Agamben’s framework could take our seminar’s efforts only so far. The authors represented here demonstrate that vulnerability is not merely about suffering, nor, indeed, is it exceptional. In addition, the chapters in this volume seek to expose the subtler, shallow promises of “resilience,” uncovering informed, persistent, and effective examples of resistance. It is safe to say that our seminar proved to be a constant source of delight for all, marked by lively discussion and debate in which all members adroitly juggled the simultaneous pairing of theoretical critiques with grounded, ethnographic inquiries. We are fortunate—and deeply thankful—to have had the opportunity to work with such a friendly and rigorous group of scholars. The participants’ wide-ranging expertise encompassed the history and ideological underpinnings of biosecurity as initially conceived in arenas demarcated by military initiatives, structural adjustment, and

xv Lesley A. Sharp and Nancy N. Chen public health; combined long-term ethnographic experience in Africa, South and East Asia, the Middle East, and the Americas; and demonstrated an exquisite mastery of the biopolitics of basic human needs and survival, including food and water security, climate change, urban land tenure, the politics of genetically engineered crops and animals, oil exploitation, health care access, and the dangers associated with tainted goods, kidney sales, and such zoonotic threats as anthrax and porcine retroviruses. The ten chapters that compose this volume reflect a wonderfully productive and intensive week of working together. The overlap and complementarity of the chapters made it difficult to disentangle them as representative of distinct sections within a collection. Nevertheless, we have clustered them under three central themes that reflect our more significant, shared conclusions: first, how might we (re)frame biosecurity in reference to its historic origins (and, now, broader scope) rather than presume that it is solely about militarization; second, what sorts of critical resources exemplify locally grounded efforts to secure daily survival in contradistinction to global initiatives; and, third, how might we put the human factor, or what we reference as the “bio,” back in biosecurity? As a group, we were struck by the pervasive erasure of the evidence of daily struggles to survive, so with SAR’s blessing, we have also included a three- part photo essay that offers visual evidence of the seminar’s concerns. The ten chapters are organized with three overarching thematic premises in mind, under the part headings “Framing Biosecurity: Global Dangers,” “Critical Resources: Securing Survival,” and “Vulnerability and Resiliency: The ‘Bio’ of Insecurity.” The first chapter in each part serves as an anchor of sorts, presenting simultaneously overarching historical developments and theoretical premises alongside quotidian concerns that emerge more prominently in the accompanying chapters. It is worth noting that all participants agreed early on that Masco’s work, which opens part I and which is so firmly grounded in the military framing of biosecurity, was an important anchor for the volume as a whole, and we are grateful to him for sharing the breadth of his expertise. Masco’s chapter 1 is especially relevant to Vine’s (chapter 2) ongoing research on the global proliferation of US military bases, which is placed in part I alongside Sharp’s (chapter 3) interrogation of moral responsibility and the management of potentially lethal zoonoses by experimental scientists determined to develop transgenic organ “donor” swine as a cure-all for the global scarcity in transplantable human parts. Together, the chapters in this first part reframe biosecurity in order to establish a new foundation so that we may then, throughout the remainder of the volume, critically engage with vulnerability and challenge presumptions that define xvi Introduction the dominant understandings of the securitization of everyday life. In this sense, the three parts of the book demonstrate, in Vine’s words (after Johnson 2004a), the “blowback” of security measures. Stone’s chapter 4 provides an important anchor for part II. Framed by Beck’s Risk Society, Stone probes the relevance of scientific ignorance as encapsulated in the concept of “agnotology,” or the “science” of “unknown knowns,” an approach that ultimately destabilizes mainstream notions of danger and risk. Although Stone writes specifically of genetically modified (GM) crops, his framework proves fruitful in other spheres too, most notably, where the scarcity of such vital resources as food, medicine, water, and land figure prominently. This is demonstrated clearly by Chen’s (chapter 5) discussion of the hazardous consequences of contaminated foods and medicines in China, set against the historicized knowledge of famines and droughts—both of which define sites of pronounced anxiety in China— and within a broader, contemporary landscape of engagement with the cutting-edge world of Asian biotech. Caton (chapter 6) offers a disturbing account of the international mismanagement of water in Yemen, a vital resource now subsumed within biosecurity discourse, a new governmentality from which emerges new forms of blame, doomsday scenarios of scarcity, and, further, the demonization of the local growing—and chewing—of qāt. Finally, Rouse (chapter 7) provides a stirring account of political power, the quixotic nature of land tenure, and short-lived yet devastating community violence in a coastal Ghanaian community. Together, the chapters in part II collectively engage with complex entanglements of resources and human needs that deepen vulnerability and carefully consider highly localized, quotidian examples of bioinsecurity. Watts, in chapter 8, anchors part III. A geographer heavily outnumbered in the seminar by anthropologists, he consistently offered refreshing critiques that spanned the full spectrum of our debates concerning the well- being of human populations, both globally and historically. His insights helped to refine group discussions of the sociopolitics in disaster discourse (for instance, climate change, famine, and fossil fuels). Further, he argued convincingly for the long-standing positioning of Africa as a “laboratory” for testing (bio)security and resilience, thus assisting us all in refining our individual assessments of the calculus of life and death. More specifically in the context of part III, the concept of “resiliency” enabled us to reques- tion the significance of other locales studied by the contributors (e.g., Central America for the staging of US military and CIA efforts, Ghana as a long-term test site for the economic restructuring of post-independence nations, and Yemen as a secure base of operations for evolving theories and associated practices that target resourcefulness and self-sufficiency).

xvii Lesley A. Sharp and Nancy N. Chen

Watts’s chapter 8 likewise serves as an important backdrop to Susser’s (chapter 9) daunting accounts of the gendered nature of failed infrastructure in South Africa and Moniruzzaman’s (chapter 10) meticulous tracking of organ sales in South Asia. More generally, all authors included in part III underscore the neglect of “bio” as a signifier of life and the effort to interrogate whose lives are at stake beneath the shadow of biosecurity measures as they play out on the national or global stage.

(Re)Framing Biosecurity as Bioinsecurity Several key texts inevitably figure in discussions of biosecurity. Above, we make note of works by Lakoff, Collier, and other scholars who address the formations that have come to be known as biosecurity. As should also be evident from the preceding discussion, Beck’s groundbreaking work on the sociology of risk provides a language for interrogating proliferation as a defining principle that dominates the contemporary global landscape (see Beck 1992[1986], 2000; Douglas and Wildavsky 1982). Beck’s arguments demonstrate uncanny and prophetic qualities decades after his Risk Society first appeared: without question, risk analysis and prevention drive the proliferation of military installations, public health initiatives, and antiter- rorist interventions. As Beck’s arguments imply, the unknown dimensions of imagined danger feed a wide range of bureaucratized responses. He asserts, “presumptions of causality escape our perception” such that “they must always be imagined, implied to be true, believed. In this sense…risks are invisible. The implied causality always remains more or less uncertain and tentative. Thus we are dealing with a theoretical and hence a scientized consciousness, even in the everyday consciousness of risks.” Further, risks “presume a normative horizon of lost security and broken trust.” As localized phenomena, risks must be believable, yet they also project “objectified negative images of utopias” (Beck 1992[1986]:27–28). This SAR volume most certainly draws inspiration from Beck’s arguments. Our collective critiques are focused more precisely on the imaginative work that informs anxiety and fear; on risk’s invisibility and its institutionalized consequences; and on the manner in which an associated “scientized” consciousness is demonstrated by the ongoing proliferation of biosecurity measures. When framed in these ways, biosecurity is not simply dystopic: it simultaneously feeds longings for an idealized past while deny- ing any possibility of return. Such conditions facilitate the ramping up of biosecurity measures, even though, as Masco (chapter 1) demonstrates, biosecurity breaches are in fact exceedingly rare. Given that biosecurity nevertheless privileges preventative measures on a grand scale, an extraordinary amount of work goes into imagining, building, and maintaining xviii Introduction infrastructures deemed necessary should a catastrophic event ever occur. Thus, we must always be on the alert for impending, large-scale calamities, which then obscures the problems of quotidian existence. A significant danger that informs our thinking throughout this volume is that such efforts neglect, devalue, and erase human needs crucial to daily survival, a framework Paul Farmer and others identify as structural violence (e.g., Farmer 1997; Galtung 1969). The two chapters by Vine and Sharp enable us to probe specific consequences of the disaster ethos. First, as Vine (chapter 2) demonstrates, the escalation in the number of US military bases exposes a logic all its own. Key here is the invisibility of military proliferation, illustrated in especially striking ways by Soto Cano in Honduras, a base that is a staging site (or “lily pad” operation) for US activities in Honduras yet whose presence is erased by claims of its nonexistence. As Vine’s work elsewhere demonstrates, Honduras is only one of myriad installations worldwide and a relatively modest example of a staggering array of militarized US activities driven (or legitimated) by the fears propagated by biosecurity in the new millennium. Embedded within such interventions are dangers that Vine identifies as “blowback,” in which clandestine security efforts (such as CIA investment in oppressive regimes) can backfire and compromise future US “security” in a region. One encounters still other forms of erasure in Sharp’s chapter 3. She describes the “scientized consciousness” of medical risk in the context of futuristic transplant research, whereby involved geneticists and immunol- ogists regard highly experimental efforts to generate hybrid species as a profoundly moral project that might one day save thousands of lives. Here, transgenics (currently involving the blending of porcine and human genetic material) drives a scientific imagination intent on eradicating the insecurity of human organ supplies and the suffering—and, thus, vulnerability— of human patients currently dependent on scarce supplies of replaceable parts. In this new calculus of life and death, the potentially lethal dangers associated with porcine zoonoses are obscured through deliberate “translational” work designed to disarm ethical concerns about transpecies contagion. The scientific desires that foreground the pig’s promissory qualities as preemptive measures (while silencing discussions of human vulnerability and endangerment) may herald disease threats that could activate a radically different sort of biosecurity blowback were a lethal zoonosis to jump the species barrier. These sorts of possibilities already loom large in the collective imagination in the form of BEV, SARS, AIDS, and H1N1. Other dangers associated with daily survival surface within realms circumscribed by public health. Whereas advocates for more basic health

xix Lesley A. Sharp and Nancy N. Chen initiatives (i.e., neonatal care, obstetrics, dentistry, surgery, emergency medicine, vaccination programs, potable water, sewers, and plumbing) have long struggled to acquire adequate financing and personnel across the globe, those who target “high-risk” pandemics may now garner generous funding. In their wake, large-scale biosecurity measures also sweep aside essential infrastructural support. As Susser’s work (chapter 9) so poi- gnantly demonstrates, even where medications or medical services might already exist, poorly maintained or nonexistent roads, limited access to transportation, the lack of electricity to refrigerate medications, and the paucity of safe, affordable water for cooking and cleaning together render health and well-being impossible for much of the world’s poor and, even more precisely, for poor women who, as she puts it, “have landed in the crosshairs of the AIDS epidemic.” The expendability of certain categories of human beings thus figures heavily in this calculus of life and death. Still other examples include efforts among Chinese consumers to navigate markets rife with contaminated goods (Chen, chapter 5) and a willingness among Bangladeshis to risk their lives making clandestine border cross- ings so that they can sell their own kidneys (Moniruzzaman, chapter 10) and then invest in more hopeful (though frighteningly tenuous), alternative futures.

Resources Critical to Securing Survival Such gross discrepancies are most certainly deeply entrenched in local and global markets, foregrounding the disturbing reality that human bodies—and especially those of the poor—are increasingly reduced to sources of biocapital (Franklin and Lock 2003; Rose 2007; Rose and Novas 2005; Sunder Rajan 2006). It is here that our book diverges from previous edited volumes, most notably, the impressive efforts by Lakoff and Collier (Lakoff 2010a; Lakoff and Collier 2008; see also Schrag 2010).6 In particular, Lakoff and Collier’s Biosecurity Interventions (2008) laid important groundwork for our seminar, foregrounding global health as an important domain of “security in question.” Our volume moves forward from and beyond these works: whereas these authors make convincing cases for active involvement and the orchestration of biosecurity measures to protect humans across the full social spectrum from harm, we tack in another direction, asking what logics inspire biosecurity measures in the first place and what destruction or silencing lies in their wake. In terms of our seminar’s goals, health unquestionably was an important domain requiring intensified scrutiny (as demonstrated especially in part III). Our efforts were infused with a shared frustration with how discussions of public health concerns in others’ studies neglected, again xx Introduction and again, the proliferation of new injuries and sicknesses (funding, for instance, for SARS surveillance, control, and eradication but not for TB, prenatal care, or chronically endemic tropical diseases), and how studies bracketed out equally important domains of daily survival, including water safety, housing, transportation, affordable fuels, and safe and sustainable food sources. Furthermore, Biosecurity Interventions, alongside Lakoff’s subsequent edited collection Disaster and the Politics of Intervention (2010a) take disaster at face value: the contributing authors were most interested in the nature of “public-sector intervention” after calamities have occurred. Here, catastrophe management stands against a backdrop of very real, local crises (e.g., wildfires and terrorist attacks) and international events (e.g., the global financial crisis), each of which “provoke[s] calls for urgent intervention.” At stake, then, are a “politics of intervention” and the “galvanization” or “failure” to respond (Lakoff 2010b:1–2). Our volume should not be read as mounting a challenge to these previous efforts, but as offering a much needed counterbalance in which the logic of care is most concerned with increased human vulnerability and invisibility as preemptive biosecurity measures are imagined and activated. The repercussions of security failures generated visceral responses for the editors of this volume. Chen and Sharp spent their childhoods in Louisiana, a state hard hit by and then abandoned in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. In the midst of writing the first draft of this chapter, Sharp (and Susser) witnessed firsthand the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy in Sharp’s hometown of New York, eleven years after the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center in that same city. We concur with Lakoff that there is most certainly a need to ask what “the relative roles of the state, the private sector, and nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) [are] in ensuring collective security” (Lakoff 2010b:3) in hopes of working toward “more resilient critical systems and more sustainable practices of disaster management” (5). In the context of our seminar, however, we emerged as a group whose members share a deep interest in less tangible forces (alongside deep skepticism regarding the rhetoric of sustainability; see especially Caton, chapter 6, and Watts, chapter 8). Without ever discrediting the very real forms of suffering that disasters cause, as a group, we were fascinated with the ideological premises that drive preemptive policies, programs, and practices in the name of a special risk aversion now known as “biosecurity.” This volume insists, then, on interrogating the assumptions that drive biosecurity measures, through careful ethnographic investigations of grounded suffering. The breadth and depth of knowledge offered in these pages derives from long-term involvement in a range of sites; equally crucial has been a richly textured, comparative perspective that would have

xxi Lesley A. Sharp and Nancy N. Chen been impossible had we all claimed expertise, for instance, in the same geographic or cultural region. As the individual chapters demonstrate, the world engages with biosecurity measures in very different ways, and associated military, economic, health, and resource initiatives play out on the ground very differently, too. Invisible formations of capital, knowledge, and power similarly come together in highly varied—and potent—ways. What make such formations so new, and so troubling, are new forms of erasure and silencing. Indeed, in the months leading up to our final editing of this volume, daily news accounts tracked the search for and capture, arrest, and/or trial of Julian Assange, Edward Snowden, and Chelsea (Bradley) Manning. Accused of leaking classified documents, all three offer thought- provoking reminders of the importance of secrecy to national security. The chapters in this volume are about secrecy as intrinsic to biosecurity; about new forms of market capital and the expendability of certain human lives; and about how vital material resources—water, food, medical care, transportation, and fuel—are beyond the reach of or denied to those who need them the most, and increasingly so in the name of securing the future elsewhere. We thus ask, whose future and for whose own good? Biosecurity is indeed dependent on erasures, on this separability of worthy and worthless, and on newly imagined categories of expendability and vulnerability. In our seminar and in this book, we strove to “surface” (Janelle Taylor 2005) the lived conditions of neglected quotidian contexts that foreground radically different experiences with risk. All the participants were struck from the start by the paucity of contemporary scholarship that could draw linkages beyond militarized zones and large-scale efforts at policing, containment, and control and to daily efforts to survive. That is, we hungered for work that drew clear connections between infrastructural intent and the life-and-death consequences of biosecurity initiatives. It is for these reasons that an overarching theme throughout our week together was bioinsecurity and vulnerability. This cause-and-effect relationship between biosecurity writ large and bioinsecurity on the ground embodies Vine’s notion of the blowback factor and, for Sharp, the “temporal morality” of scientific logic that facilitates the erasure of harm. Although current biosecurity literature views 9/11 as a foundational event, the concept itself is much older, narrower, and perhaps more benign than the unquestionably militarized agenda of today. Biosecurity originates with animal husbandry and food safety measures that extend back to the early decades of the twentieth century (Boyd and Watts 1997). It has emerged as a newly crafted (and largely) American framework of risk that involves, in Masco’s words, a “folding in” of “new logics” of danger that in turn radiate out from the United States, encompassing an xxii Introduction ever-widening circle of imagined threats deemed significant on a global scale. We all agreed as well that biosecurity, as currently conceived, must be read against a backdrop of neoliberalism and crippling structural adjustment policies and is all too often framed by its architects in terms of a neo-Malthusian model of personal responsibility. On an increasingly mundane level, personal responsibility is clearly conveyed in antiterrorism warnings now pervasive in the United States, such as Homeland Security’s “See Something, Say Something” campaign, encountered on the New York subway system and elsewhere. It is one thing to speak of personal responsibility in reporting an abandoned backpack in a subway car; it is yet another to struggle ceaselessly to satisfy the basic needs of daily survival for oneself, kin, neighbors, and community. This is precisely the point driven home in this volume’s second part, in which Stone, Chen, Caton, and Rouse each foreground instances when the politics of knowledge production play out on the ground. As already mentioned, Stone’s notion of agnotology, or the “making of ignorance” (after Proctor 2008), defines a common core of analysis for these four chapters. Stone asserts that whereas public (and, more specifically, ecologists’) fears focus on the dangers embodied in genetically “engineered” (or genetically “modified”) crops, the imminent risk in fact lies, first, in scientific ignorance of the compounding effects of gene splicing and, second (and most important), in newly conceived institutionalized practices that inhibit such research, such as patents and other forms of intellectual property that undermine transparency. That is, the danger lies not in the technology itself, but in “new types of alliances between industry and academy…[that are] active in blocking potentially uncomfortable research.” In short, agnotology itself surfaces as a potent source of bioinsecurity in which the sociomoral logic (see Sharp, chapter 3) of scientific ignorance foregrounds very different sorts of danger. The chapters by Chen, Caton, Rouse, and Sharp offer ready evidence of “agnotological projects,” each plagued by “many questions that for the sake of our biological security should be answered” (Stone, chapter 4), yet, in each case, specific structures prevent necessary research (and, we would add, action). As in Stone’s account of the rise of GM crops, all four of these chapters trace the “origin stories” (Sharp, chapter 3) or “genealogies” (Chen, chapter 5) of expert knowledge that shapes perceptions of present dangers associated with food, medicines, aquifers, and land. Such findings drive one to ask, how do citizens, communities, and nations ensure biosecurity in the face of counterfeits, misdirected aid programs, highly experimental science, and conflicting forms of governance? Chen, for instance, drawing on her encounters in Beijing in 2012,

xxiii Lesley A. Sharp and Nancy N. Chen describes how “extremes of affluence and expansive growth coexist with bare life and disparity across the country.” Here, one encounters a different “proliferation” of new brands and kinds of foods, including successive waves of scandals about tainted food and drugs, set alongside both benign and toxic counterfeits. The paired themes of safety and danger assume a special urgency in twenty-first-century China, a nation that now boasts a burgeoning presence in the global economy, enabled by the “double helix” of the state and market, whose “spiraling consequences” foster new quotidian forms of vulnerability and endangerment. Chen uncovers the urgency with which Chinese consumers must be able to discern safe from counterfeit, tainted—and potentially lethal—goods in their search for everything from foodstuffs to infant formula and basic medicines. As she shows, ersatz goods are so pervasive and fakes so convincing that one remains dangerously vulnerable in spite of being a well-informed and ever-vigilant consumer. Whereas Stone emphasizes agnotology in the GM arena, Chen describes how the aggressive development of GM products in China is driven by efforts to overcome Malthusian-style forces in hopes of feeding a growing nation. That is, GM foods—and, most notably, less water-hungry rice—and other innovative biotechnologies figure prominently in a newly crafted, national vision of biosecurity. In these contexts, one encounters conflicting moral logics that foreground certain desires while obscuring associated hazards. In China, the new morality is, in Chen’s words, one of “fearful consumption”: in pursuit of “the good life,” one experiences the pairing of desire for new goods and anxiety about contamination. Against such a backdrop, Chen probes the interconnectedness of food safety and food security, a twinning that most certainly translates to myriad other contexts. For instance, this same moral reasoning permeates, on a much smaller scale, scientists’ efforts to fabri- cate transgenic swine for organ transplantation (Sharp, chapter 3). That is, potential (or, as Stone would say, unknown) risks and vulnerabilities are set aside within the architecture of a larger sociomoral logic of good. Parallel questions arise in the contexts analyzed by Caton (chapter 6) and by Rouse (chapter 7), both of whom offer especially poignant examples of poorly maintained infrastructures (a theme that resurfaces in Susser, chapter 9). As Caton details, Yemen’s “water problem” is an issue viewed elsewhere (especially in the United States) as one of global security. Yet again, we encounter Malthusian reasoning, this time imposed upon a country by a cabal of foreign interests (including the US Department of State, Coca-Cola, the Nature Company, and Procter & Gamble), creating what Caton identifies as a “tight nexus of national policy and scientific expertise.” Yemen ultimately shoulders the blame for an impending “crisis xxiv Introduction in water security,” a moralistic stance that effectively erases the evidence of hegemonic mismanagement of foreign (US) origin, and Caton uncovers evidence of US bullying in those sectors of the world it “perceives as vital to its own security” through “the newly emergent water security paradigm.” All of this occurs against an obscured backdrop of corporations buying up global water sources and the World Bank and IMF pushing for water privatization (see also Susser, chapter 9). One cannot help but wonder whose security is truly at stake in this new world order. Poorly informed, misdirected, naïve, yet forceful, foreign neoliberal “development” initiatives directed at poor countries once again (Ferguson 1994) undermine local biosecurity. In Yemen specifically, local aquifers are not at risk of depletion from long-standing local farming techniques, but from foreign insistence on growing what have proved to be “water-thirsty” grains and fruits bound for sale in a global marketplace. The new “doomsday scenario” is now embodied in the “demon qāt”—a plant that has become a “lightning rod” for discourses that entangle water security, public health, and Yemen as an irrational, primitive nation. These logics work together to obscure the joint hegemonic aspirations of the United States and corporate interests, which are indicative of a new sort of global resource governmentality. How, then, do “regime[s] of governance translate into concrete political practices on the ground?” asks Caton, a query that is of equal relevance to Chen’s chapter 5 concerning food and medicines, Rouse’s chapter 7 on land tenure, and Susser’s (chapter 9) work on health care access. Rouse asks related questions about eruptions of violence in a Ghanaian coastal community where ongoing anxieties of economic vulnerability generate “ontological insecurity,” as evident in local narratives about rights to land, food, money, and education within a “two-headed” system of local and state power. Rouse interrogates the false premise that “happiness” is linked to access to consumer products. In a community where assaults have targeted local authorities involved in land redistribution, it seems clear that land—an increasingly privatized and thus inaccessible “commodity” or right—is in fact a more precious source of biosecurity (not unlike food and water). Rather than embrace a common trope that violence is endemic to Africa, meted out by disenfranchised youth (Comaroff and Comaroff 1999; Cruise O’Brien 1996), Rouse explores the moral logic of the attacks within the larger framework of trust, social justice, community vulnerability, and local responsibility, tracing the historical origins of land insecurity as local, state, and now international interests vie for control over real estate. Against this backdrop of what she identifies as “cartographies of vulnerability,” Rouse notes the unsettling irony of heavy investment in security measures at Accra’s once sleepy international

xxv Lesley A. Sharp and Nancy N. Chen airport, now a multimillion-dollar infrastructure that effectively demonstrates the “unevenness of security.” Her findings resonate with Vine’s work in Honduras and Susser’s activities in South Africa.

Human Resiliency and the “Bio” of Insecurity As the above discussion demonstrates, whereas the United States may envision itself as deeply committed to global biosecurity measures (albeit in its own interest), other nations and regions are regularly identified as sources of danger (notably, China, as a presumed epicenter of zoonoses and tainted goods), desperation (namely, South Asia and Africa, sites dominated by tropes of hunger, sickness, and political violence), and resource vulnerability (characterized, for instance, by oil reserves and dwindling water supplies in the Middle East and West Africa). As the anchor for part III Watts’s chapter 8 explores an ever-widening domain where security and danger are enfolded within a framework of “catastrophism” (a concept that encapsulates virtually all the topics analyzed in this volume; cf. Law 1991; Schrag 2010; Stark 2011). Watts unpacks the underlying logic of a “science of planetary disaster,” driven by a pervasive grammar of urgency, grave danger, and radical forms of uncertainty. In essence, the entire world is in a state of emergency. As Watts’s chapter insists, particular sites offer evidence of how deeply entrenched they are as “laboratories,” and here, Africa figures especially prominently in long- standing efforts to test theories of human vulnerability. Watts hones in on the drought- and famine-prone West African Sahel as a means to disag- gregate the presumptions that drive the logic of “resiliency,” an emergent form of “biopolitical security” that has arisen in the face of mounting food, climate, and fuel emergencies. “Resilency” facilitates the shifting of blame and responsibility to the shoulders of the most vulnerable, often with dire consequences. As Watts demonstrates, the Sahel, with its “deep history” of vulnerability, has long been circumscribed as a “laboratory for environmental ideas” (cf. Tilley 2010). Today, the Sahel circulates within “the biosecurity paradigm of ‘resiliency’” (a critique of equal relevance to Caton’s [chapter 6] assessment of the politics of water in Yemen). We have thus moved from the labs of biotech (see Sharp, Stone, and Chen, chapters 3, 4, and 5, respectively) to social laboratories, evidenced, for example, in Vine’s (chapter 2) assessment of Central America as a testing ground for military operations, CIA operatives, and regional security and in Caton’s discussion of Yemen as a testing site for economic transformation and diplomacy in an era when the Middle East is overshadowed by US-based fear of terrorist aggression. In this same vein, Susser asks at the opening of her chapter, “why consider South Africa?” xxvi Introduction

Given that the broader scholarship of several participants is grounded in medical anthropology (Chen, Moniruzzaman, Rouse, Sharp, and Susser), health care interventions were a pronounced field of interest throughout the seminar, especially where the vulnerability of bodies was concerned. Susser’s chapter 9 is pivotal here, offering a complex portrait of South Africa as a testing ground for public health initiatives and, more precisely, HIV/AIDS prevention and treatment that specifically target women in a woefully inadequate infrastructure, a context Susser identifies as among “the less dramatic forms of bioinsecurity facing poor populations…[of] new democratic states.” In Susser’s chapter, we revisit many of the themes already mentioned: reliable sources of water (Caton), intellectual property (Sharp and Stone), effective medications (Chen), innovative medical practices (Sharp), and even airports as targets of significant funding (Rouse) while essential road networks are sites of woeful neglect. In these instances, global concerns (embodied, as Watts demonstrates, in the neoliberal discourses of “resilience” and “flexibility”) trump local biosecurity. In response to Susser’s leading question, we see that not only does AIDS, long understood as a global pandemic, figure prominently in biosecurity discourse, but it is also a quotidian aspect of life for many South Africans and thus a significant site of vulnerability. In a nation burdened by soaring rates of HIV/AIDS infection, clinic supplies nevertheless remain sporadic, hospitals are grossly understaffed, and even the most basic forms of infrastructure (including adequate roads, reliable and safe buses and trains, electricity, and running water) are woefully inadequate or nonexistent. Susser demonstrates how world trade agreements regarding drug generics and associated patent violations (as specified in TRIPS) privilege global profits over affordable disease prevention and treatment and discusses the internationalization of the politics of reproductive health and pregnancy prevention in which funding sources impose moral interventions, ensuring that women bear the heaviest social burdens and blame (translated, as Watts asserts, into a discourse of “resilience”). As Susser explains, “people with AIDS are trapped between two logics, one promoting universal access for treatment for AIDS and the other, the privatization of public goods.” Through the lens of Susser’s research, we realize that the biosecurity of local survival is habitually constrained—and rendered ever more vulnerable—by global concerns, a definitive example of what Watts (after Berlant 2007) identifies as the “actuarial imaginary.” If South Africa can lay claim to the dubious status of “laboratory” (as evidenced in a deeply entrenched history of resource extraction, racist politics, life-threatening labor practices, and, now, pharmaceutical trials),

xxvii Lesley A. Sharp and Nancy N. Chen

South Asia stands out as an emergent site of what Moniruzzaman (chapter 10) identifies as “a novel form of bioviolence against the poor” (after Kellman 2007), intersecting in turn with what Chen and Ong identify elsewhere as “the ethics of fate” (Ong and Chen 2010). Here, the Malthusian abstraction of the expendability of the poor falls apart; instead, we encounter the stories of individuals willing to sell parts of themselves as a strategy for survival, a twisted “bioexpendability” in which parts of persons are quite literally alienated from their bodies, a grotesque form of labor that transforms living humans into precious sources of biocapital (Sunder Rajan 2006). Moniruzzaman’s meticulous tracking of sellers’ and brokers’ movements in chapter 10 reveals a chilling “futures market” (cf. Sharp, chapter 3) of “fresh” human flesh. Here we come full circle in regard to the realm of highly experimental xenoscience, where scarcity is likewise a driving force. Moniruzzaman’s examples from Bangladesh and India are a far cry from the scientific imaginary pervasive among the scientists Sharp describes, who hope that ongoing lab experiments with transgenic animals will eliminate the moral dilemmas, anxieties, and desires resulting from a presumed global scarcity of human organs.

Rendering the Invisible Visible As should be clear by now, “biosecurity” does not simply foreground themes of danger and vulnerability; it also incessantly insists upon erasures amid discussions of resiliency against attacks, pandemics, and scarce resources. Biosecurity involves a bulking up of new forms of vulnerability within invisible spheres; such efforts must also be understood as deliberate erasure and calculated neglect. There is nothing new about this: one need only consider the historical effects of conquest, colonization, and war to reach this conclusion. Yet, we argue here that the contemporary paradigm of biosecurity involves a ramping up of newly imagined economies of aban- donment and, in response, localized pushback. We reject biosecurity as a unanimously agreed-upon formation in which bioinsecurity is our collective form of push-back. In response, throughout the course of our week-long seminar, we regularly strove to invert the dominant premises of risk, anxiety, and danger, drawing on evidence from grounded contexts where survival and resiliency are paired in very different ways. To borrow phrasing from Masco, preemptive measures are about “securing life on all scales.” Rather than offer a purely cynical response, we insist on “imaginative techniques” that might generate alternative “visions of future dangers so terrifying that they need to be warded off in the now.” According to Beck (2000:213–214), visual imagery serves to dramatize xxviii Introduction risk and render it “real,” and biosecurity more particularly can be understood as a potent, imaginative project, pulling future dangers into the immediate present, a process Masco (chapter 1) asserts is dependent on the invention of “new imaginaries” (cf. Watts, chapter 8, and Sharp, chapter 3; also Guyer 2007). Throughout our week together and subsequently in this volume, we sought to reverse this trend by rendering invisible realities visible. This material evidence is exemplified in the photos that we open each part with, and, in so doing, we take to heart Arthur and Joan Kleinman’s joint critique of “absent images.” As they explain, when such evidence is suppressed, “the possibility of moral appeal through images of human misery is prevented, and it is their absence that is the source of existential dismay” (Kleinman and Kleinman 1997:16). Consider, for one, the US military’s lily pad approach to building bases, which Vine describes in chapter 2, a newly conceived type of militarized land grab (one might compare Rouse, chapter 7). Operating as “covert biosecurity,” these militarized sites are described officially as remaining under local control, nevertheless project- ing US power regionally and globally. This “new way of war” is evidenced in Vine’s account of Soto Cano in Honduras, a burgeoning yet silent historical chapter of US military occupation. Susser (chapter 9) in turn provides a striking juxtaposition of a state-of-the-art railway system that services an international airport, set against the dilapidated roads and decrepit transport system that are the lifeline of the poor. In turn, uncannily similar images provided by Rouse (chapter 7) and Moniruzzaman (chapter 10), writing from different global sites, expose the rawness of embodied forms of violence. Finally, Watts’s work with photographer Ed Kashi (Watts and Kashi 2008) dispels any fantasies one might have of the cleanliness or environmental friendliness of oil extraction in the Niger Delta. As demonstrated by Vine’s chapter 2, although US military bases proliferate worldwide, their presence remains unmarked on maps and unknown to those who live or work nearby or, even, within their fenced-in boundaries. Moniruzzaman (chapter 10), writing from South Asia, demonstrates the obscured relationship between kidney seller and buyer: transplant patients in India rarely know or meet their “donors” from Bangladesh. The latter nevertheless risk life and limb to cross international boundaries in hopes of selling parts of themselves, their bodies thus defining an emergent category of extraction, or, in Moniruzzaman’s words, “a steady supply of surplus life.” Several other authors demonstrate the high stakes of scientific knowledge. As Stone argues in chapter 4, the obstacles associated with agnotology, or the muting and blocking of knowledge regarding the values and hazards of genetically engineered crops, are evident in how understandings of safety are hobbled both by proponents and

xxix Lesley A. Sharp and Nancy N. Chen opponents of biosecurity measures. This theme is aptly demonstrated in Sharp’s (chapter 3) work on xenografting: experts strive to translate discussions of potential dangers into benign forms of moral reasoning, and, further, a “disappearing subject” in human form is overshadowed by the transgenic pig’s own promissory qualities. Caton (chapter 6) demonstrates the life-and-death consequences of misplaced, misinformed, poorly implemented, and reactionary responses to water use and qāt production in Yemen. More generally, although vulnerable bodies are easily caught in the net of contemporary biosecurity measures, personal experiences of suffering rarely appear in accounts of preventative infrastructure (Susser, chapter 9, and Rouse, chapter 7), culling of diseased animals and imposed human quarantine (Sharp, chapter 3), or mass development projects designed ostensibly to stave off food, fuel, and other shortages (Watts, chapter 8, and Caton, chapter 6). Throughout our week together, we became especially interested in probing the significance of the invisibility of biosecurity decision making, policies, and practices; the neglect of infrastructure; and the silencing of dissent.

The Push-back It is absolutely crucial to recognize that biosecurity measures generate new infrastructures of power that ignore daily events and human experiences at the bottom and the top. An especially pronounced theme to emerge from our seminar discussions was the widespread erasure of individual lives that evidence intense suffering, and we identified the overwhelming preponderance of Malthusian thinking as especially irksome. In response, throughout this volume, we surface forms of suffering hidden by biosecurity measures. Further, all ten authors push through or expose more subversive approaches set on identifying “radical” forms of uncertainty where the impending biothreat is not about terrorism, but about the terrors of daily human survival. In this light, the arena of health care is an especially rich domain for discerning the disparities between efforts to secure daily needs and the often oppressive weight of biosecurity initiatives, which either overlook or devalue human efforts to survive in the most basic sense. One wonders, too, where room might be carved out for local knowledge, or “vernacular science” (Watts, chapter 8), and in turn radically different forms of resiliency. In the face of the all too often oppressive constraints of biosecurity measures, the presumably vulnerable do indeed push back. Consider, for instance, the protest that opens Vine’s chapter 2; animal rights activists in a range of countries, whom Sharp (chapter 3) has encountered, who challenge the safety of xenografting; and still others, described by Susser xxx Introduction

(chapter 9), who transform customary laws in South Africa that previously sanctioned gendered violence, as well as the women who now lay claim to positions of authority previously reserved solely for men. Chen (chapter 5) likewise documents the rise of consumer activism among Chinese “netizens.” And one cannot help but stand in awe of potential kidney (and other organ) sellers in Bangladesh who, though desperately trying to escape dire poverty and heavy debt (sadly, and ironically, tied in part to microcredit programs exemplified by the work of the Grameen Bank), back away from selling—alongside still others in need who can afford to, yet on moral grounds refuse to, buy—“fresh” flesh in the international body bazaar (cf. Andrews and Nelkin 2001). Perhaps no chapter in this volume as much as Moniruzzaman’s (chapter 10) demonstrates so clearly the vastly troubling border zones of bioinsecurity.

Temporal Matters Finally, given the historical—yet often forgotten—antecedents of contemporary biosecurity measures, an important conclusion for our seminar was that temporality matters.7 We asked repeatedly, what of biosecurity past, present, and future? As Beck asserts, risk reverses the temporal order: the past loses its power to determine the present, and the process instead insists upon “discussing and arguing about something which is not the case, but could happen if we were not to change course” (Beck 2000:213–214). As we conclude this introduction, we ask, how, then, might we change course? The specific ways that biosecurity has been refashioned in the twenty- first century shaped our joint efforts to analyze key moments when earlier forms of security were practiced. Among our most striking findings— deeply inspired by several participants’ long-term ethnographic involvement in specific locales—was that particular sectors of the globe, as favored laboratories, generated favored biosecurity narratives, too. The history of public health, resource extraction, agricultural development, the rise of biotech, and the often blatant attitudes, policies, and processes that evidence the expendability of human life throughout the globe proved especially instructive, disturbing, and comparatively valuable. Temporal thinking enabled us as a group to ponder the invisible consequences of securitizing life and certain futures when suffering, and premature death, prove inevitable for far too many inhabitants of an insecure world.

Acknowledgments We thank SAR for offering us such an incredible opportunity to explore this project with our colleagues in the most convivial of intellectual settings. We are deeply grateful to Nancy Owen Lewis for her early interest in our proposed idea and to the

xxxi Lesley A. Sharp and Nancy N. Chen board for supporting the topic. We are indebted to James Brooks for extending so warm a welcome to all of us on behalf of SAR. Lesley Shipman provided delicious, nourishing meals that sustained every conversation; Merryl Sloane offered stellar guidance as our copy editor; and Lynn Baca and Lisa Pacheco expertly shepherded this volume through publication. The two anonymous reviewers offered thoughtful suggestions for revising the introduction and individual chapters. Our truly amazing group of contributors brought to the table, common room, and backyard of the Seminar House, and along the trails of Kasha-Katuwe, their keen insights and generous intellectual engagement, which helped make this volume a pleasure from start to finish. The project began in earnest several years ago at a conference, but many more years of friendship and ongoing conversations have made this an especially delightful collaboration for the two of us. Lesley extends heartfelt thanks to her father, Rodman Sharp, and stepmother, Emily Zants, Santa Fe residents whose combined gregariousness and love for life—and good food—have made local visits especially wonderful. Rod Sharp, a nuclear chem- ist trained during the Cold War era, died while this volume was in production, but his spirit has served as a vital inspiration. Nancy thanks her family and the special editorial committee who extended support and shared laughter over the past few years. She is grateful to her Chinese colleagues and friends, who continue to offer incredible personal insights. We both thank Alex, Sami, and Laeti, alongside Zookie and Charlie, for all their love, support, and laughter—at home and elsewhere and over mounds of hau- pia—during the full course of this project.

Notes 1. See, for instance, the report by the American Civil Liberties Union, “NYCLU Report Documents Rapid Proliferation of Video Surveillance,” December 14, 2006, http://www.aclu.org/technology-and-liberty/nyclu-report-documents-rapid- proliferation-video-surveillance-cameras; and “How Much Surveillance Do You Need?” Economist Online, April 3, 2010, http://www.economist.com/blogs/gulliver/2010/04 /security_cameras. 2. For others’ discussions of risk, resiliency, and “capacity building,” alongside the relevance of “hope,” see Douglas and Wildavsky 1982; Law 1986, 1991; Mattingly 2010; Mol 2008; Mol, Moser, and Pols 2010; Schrag 2010; Stark 2011; van Kammen 2003. 3. The scale of “community” is flexible: consider, for instance, that during the days following 9/11, the island of Manhattan was thrown into virtual quarantine when all bridges, tunnels, and neighboring airports were shut down. 4. The laboratory’s history is reflected in local place names: nestled just off the town’s main street of Trinity Drive, its own street address is Omega Road. The larger

xxxii Introduction town sits atop a mesa, and its lights can be seen from many sites in Santa Fe on a clear night. 5. See http://www.lanl.gov/index.php. 6. Andrew Lakoff was originally slated to be a seminar participant, but conflicting demands, regrettably, prevented this. 7. See especially Ferry and Limbert 2008; Guyer 2007; and Sunder Rajan 2006:107ff on “vision and hype: the conjuration of promissory biocapitalist futures.”

xxxiii This page intentionally left blank part i Framing Biosecurity Global Dangers

Figure i.1 US biodefense research map. Source: Federation of American Scientists (FAS.org).

Efforts to envision biosecurity and vulnerability at the onset of the twenty-first century summon images of heightened security at airports and subways, alongside the incongruous proliferation of hand sanitizer dispens- ers that insist we remain ever alert to hidden dangers. In essence, everyday life has been materially transformed on multiple fronts with newly imposed structures of power intent on averting a plethora of impending threats and catastrophic events. As a means to visualize bioinsecurity and human vulnerability, each part of this volume includes a set of provocative images provided by the contributors, whose expertise draws on field research based in the United States, China, Africa, Central America, the Middle East, and South Asia.

1 Framing Biosecurity

Figure i.2 US military bases around the globe, 2009. Cartographer: Chris Best. Source: David Vine, Island of Shame: The Secret History of the U.S. Military Base on Diego Garcia, Princeton University Press, 2009.

2 Part I

Figure i.3 Chart depicting the movement of zoonotic influenza through a process known as antigenic shift, from avian and porcine species to humans, resulting in the H1N1 influenza strain. Source: “Illustration of Influenza Antigenic Shift,” produced by the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases of the National Institutes of Health. 3 Framing Biosecurity

As the maps in figures I.1 and I.2 demonstrate, biosecurity measures rely heavily on the buildup of research, military, and associated infrastructures both in the United States and beyond, marking an inevitable blurring of political borders as American security measures assume various guises of authority. Such forms of proliferation entail, for instance, the establishment of regional centers whose activities then radiate out and beyond their localized boundaries, an approach by no means new to US domestic and foreign policies yet intensified post-9/11. As figure I.1 illustrates, the mapping of research centers also throws the nation into high alert, since biohazard symbols now pock the national landscape. Figure I.2 uncovers the invisibility of military buildup during the late twentieth and early twenty- first centuries and shows that few regions of the world remain untouched by US military presence. Military personnel, armaments, and the like, stand poised and ready to respond to threats to national and global biosecurity. H1N1 influenza, also known as “swine flu,” was identified by the World Health Organization (WHO) in mid-2009 as a new “pandemic.” By early 2010, more than seventeen thousand infected people had died worldwide, leading to a subsequent “preparedness alert” in 2011, again from WHO (see http://www.who.int/csr/disease/swineflu/en). As figure I.3 illustrates, animals define new sites of global dangers in the twenty-first century, foregrounding fears not only of human-animal proximity but also of animals as reliable food sources. Sharp was in Vietnam at the onset of the outbreak, and when China was identified as a possible site of origin, the quarantining of foreign travelers in Asia soon became a topic of hot debate in the international press. The Associated Press and other news agencies generated photos that frequently showed both international airport travelers and Chinese citizens (the latter engaged in everyday tasks) wearing protective masks. The woman featured in this image underscores early ideas about this zoonosis, echoing fears of the disease’s presumed national origin. Sharp, who was working in the company of Vietnamese health professionals, encountered an altogether different, and muted, narrative of biosecurity among her colleagues: this was an influenza outbreak and should be handled like any other. Her friends from the local medical school purchased a high-grade mask that could block viruses, which she could wear, if necessary, while traveling back to the States. Acquired not from a hospital supply room but with ease from a local store, it sported a cheerful pattern. Local residents regularly make use of similar masks when respiratory infections abound.

4 1

Preempting Biosecurity Threats, Fantasies, Futures

Joseph Masco

The twin terrorist attacks of September 2001—suicide pilot attacks on Washington and New York and anthrax mailings to key political and media figures—inaugurated a new kind of security state in the United States. Devoted to counterterror, US security experts today aim not simply to respond to terrorist acts, but to anticipate and preempt them before they occur. This commitment to “anticipatory defense” is a radical turn because it requires specific kinds of imaginative work to detect and understand the dangers emanating from the future. The imaginaries, temporalities, and institutions of counterterror are producing a new global infrastructure of American power, one that links classic military concerns about force projection with global governance of energy, narcotics, digital communications, and disease. In this chapter, I consider how the 2001 anthrax letters, which the FBI now attributes to a US biodefense expert seeking to gain funding for his anthrax research (Guillemin 2011, US Department of Justice 2010), have resulted in the production of a new national “biosecurity” infrastructure devoted to global threats. This concept of security—which promotes visions of securing life on all scales—relies on new imaginative techniques, creating visions of future dangers so terrifying that they need to be warded off in the now. This is important because an expert focus on such imaginary

5 Joseph Masco catastrophes often works to overwhelm social responses to lived forms of violence involving disease, food scarcity, poverty, and environmental destruction. One key effect of these new logics is to exchange a formal notion of security increasingly for that of “resilience,” as Watts argues in his important chapter 8 in this volume, shifting responsibility from the state to its vulnerable subjects, who must individually manage not only an ever-greater universe of dangers but also an ever-expanding security state apparatus. As we shall see, a novel fusion of health and security has been institutionally achieved in the first decade of the War on Terror, making biosecurity an emblem of the new US counterterror state. Biosecurity has dramatically expanded its logics, objects, and reach since the 2001 anthrax letters to become a major new governmental infrastructure for the twenty-first century. A formal discourse of “biosecurity” first came to prominence in the early 1990s, in the context of ranching operations in New Zealand, where industry concerns about protecting sheep populations from infectious disease led to new expert language and government protocols for protecting animal populations. The concept originally referred specifically to animal and agricultural safety, to protecting livestock and crops from disease, and that is how it is used in most parts of the world to this day. The term was rarely found in the United States before the Bush administration’s declaration of a War on Terror, a project that radically expanded imagined biological threats as a mode of governance.1 If you asked for an American definition of biosecurity prior to 2001, you might have found something like this:

Biosecurity is a practice designed to prevent the spread of disease onto your farm. It is accomplished by maintaining the facility in such a way that there is minimal traffic of biological organisms (viruses, bacteria, rodents, etc.) across its borders. Biosecurity is the cheapest, most effective means of disease control available. No disease prevention program will work without it. What is biosecurity? Biosecurity has three major components: 1. Isolation 2. Traffic Control 3. Sanitation. Isolation refers to the confinement of animals within a controlled environment. A fence keeps your birds in, but it also keeps other animals out. Isolation also applies to the practice of separating birds by age group. In large poultry operations, all-in/all-out management styles allow simultaneous depopulation of facilities between flocks and allow time for periodic clean-up and disinfection to break the cycle of disease. Traffic Control includes both the

6 Preempting Biosecurity

traffic onto your farm and the traffic patterns within the farm. Sanitation addresses the disinfection of materials, people and equipment entering the farm and the cleanliness of the personnel on the farm.2

Isolation, traffic control, sanitation. What is notable here is the focus on a discrete population and its day-to-day isolation from disease: biosecurity has regional implications in this definition but is an extremely localized practice based on logics of containment. After 2001, biosecurity became a central priority of the US counterterror state and an ever-expanding domain of expert interest. Consider, for example, how President George W. Bush presented the threat of the microbe just three years later in his programmatic declaration “Biodefense for the Twenty-First Century”:

Biological weapons in the possession of hostile states or terrorists pose unique and grave threats to the safety and security of the United States and our allies. Biological weapons attacks could cause catastrophic harm. They could inflict widespread injury and result in massive casualties and economic disruption. Bioterror attacks could mimic naturally-occurring disease, potentially delaying recognition of an attack and creating uncertainty about whether one has even occurred. An attacker may thus believe that he could escape identification and capture or retaliation. Biological weapons attacks could be mounted either inside or outside the United States and, because some biological weapons agents are contagious, the effects of an initial attack could spread widely. Disease outbreaks, whether natural or deliberate, respect no geographic or political borders. (US White House 2004)

Bioterror mimics disease and respects no border. Here, engineered disease becomes an existential threat to the United States: it can traverse all boundaries, foreign and domestic, and transform unknown and unknow- ing individuals into disease vectors. There is no way to distinguish an intentional bioweapon attack from a naturally occurring disease at the moment of contact. This radical uncertainty about origins and intent allows the counterterror state to absorb public health into its militarized project of global preemption. By merging and amplifying unpredictability and a worst-case vision of attack/epidemic, the counterterror state redefines infectious disease as a form of terrorism, creating a spectacular new

7 Joseph Masco affective logic of imminence. Biosecurity, for example, transforms the yearly flu—now approached as a potential biological weapon—into a form of bioterror, remaking a long-standing and predictable public health issue into a vital concern of the security state (see Cooper 2006; King 2003; US National Security Council 2007; Whitehall 2010). As Sharp reveals in her chapter 3, on the politics of xenotransplantation sciences, the issue of how to both secure and transcend the species boundary is also increasingly at play in biomedicine, allowing biosecurity to operate at all scales, from the microbe to the organism to the population to the species and ultimately to planetary life in its collective entirety (see also Moniruzzaman’s chapter 10, on the dangers of organ transplantation markets for poor populations in Bangladesh). The breathtaking evolution of biosecurity, in a few short years, from a concern of the livestock industry into a multifaceted argument about preemptive war was achieved not at the level of facts and science but rather through the skillful deployment of threat perception and affective politics. The official whisper campaign linking Saddam Hussein to the anthrax letters of 2001, for example, was amplified by the Bush administration’s public campaign in 2002 to vaccinate all Americans against smallpox (a disease that last killed an American in 1949 and is all but extinct today, stored only as samples in biological laboratories).3 Officials thus constructed a smallpox threat in the present even though no evidence existed of an actual smallpox vector—it was a “potential” mobilized as an imminent threat. This kind of threat amplification relies on a mass media machinery to redi- rect state resources and agendas to not yet existing, but imagined to be catastrophic, dangers, privileging a potential over all existing forms of disease and violence (see Stone’s chapter 4, for a discussion of how the genetically modified food discourse systematically underplays the development of new forms of risk in the name of warding off a global food emergency). Since 2001, US biosecurity has been perhaps the most radically evolving aspect of the War on Terror as it presents a new spectrum of potential terrors to combat, linking plants, animals, and people in a biosphere of constantly expanding threat. Importantly, as the list of objects and organisms to secure expands, so, too, does the territorial space of US biosecurity itself, merging the global War on Terror with an emerging planetary logic of American biodefense. By 2006, the term “biosecurity” in the United States could address anything from food safety to biological weapons (from livestock to anthrax and from smallpox to the future creations of synthetic biology) while also folding in infectious diseases (seasonal flu) and emerging diseases (SARS, H1N1), ultimately positioning life itself as a new object of militarized concern

8 Preempting Biosecurity

(see Kwik et al. 2003; Lakoff and Collier 2008). Consider this definition of biosecurity, which blurs the distinction between public health and arms control in a new way: The term “biosecurity” is used to refer to security against the inadvertent, inappropriate, or intentional malicious or malevo- lent use of potentially dangerous biological agents or biotechnology, including the development, production, stockpiling, or use of biological weapons as well as natural outbreaks of newly emergent and epidemic diseases. Although it is not used as often as it is in other settings, to refer to a situation where adequate food and basic health are assured, there may be significant overlap in measures that guarantee “biosecurity” in either sense. National Academy of Sciences (2006:32) Biological agents/biotechnology/biological weapons/disease/food/health. The central role of biosecurity in the twenty-first century is to build capacities to respond to future potentials, but it is first and foremost an affective domain of threat selection and amplification, one that in a short decade has grown into a distinctively American vision of total biological surveillance, merging infectious disease with the bioterrorist in a global War on Terror. Like many of its chief objects of concern, biosecurity is emergent at both the conceptual and institutional levels and cannot be reduced to a singular analytic form (cf. Lakoff and Collier 2008). Its ability to encompass new objects and concerns quickly and to be territorially bounded only at the planetary scale is its chief value to the US counterterror state, which relies on a constant proliferation of objects to fear in order to reconstitute its affective governance and its geopolitical agenda. Biosecurity’s incoher- ence is its virtue, in other words, since it merges distinct technological and health issues in a generic formulation that can gather resources through affective mobilization against imagined existential threats, enabling a wide variety of projects to proceed under a logic of “defense.” Here. we could productively compare the evolution of the US biosecurity project to that of US military basing, which, as Vine shows in chapter 2, seeks to create a global infrastructure that is not project specific (i.e., dealing with named diseases or enemies) but rather capable of flexible and immediate adaptation to radically contingent futures. While planetary biosecurity remains fanciful at the level of biomedical practice, biosecurity nonetheless presents a set of future-oriented goals and ambitions, offering up ideological resources for a new infrastructure of American power. As a number of authors in this volume underscore, new

9 Joseph Masco infrastructural capacities produce not only new resources but also new problems: Caton (chapter 6) shows us that efforts to modernize Yemeni food production now profoundly threaten its national water supply, and Susser (chapter 9) reveals that accessing available HIV/AIDS health care in South Africa has been rendered impossible for many because of the lack of public transportation systems, despite state investments in new roads. Similarly, Rouse (chapter 7) documents how authority itself has become contested in Ghana, creating the circumstances for everyday forms of violence at odds with those recognized by the security state. In the United States, the affective politics of the counterterror state—the ability to produce fear via the circulation of images and narratives of imminent danger—also are highly productive in a cultural sense, regardless of the actual biomedical ability to secure life on all scales, from the population to the militant to the microbe. In this way, the consolidation of a new security discourse is always a highly consequential matter because it not only represents a new social contract but also motivates the construction of a new infrastructure of state power. In his 2004 directive, President George W. Bush claimed an “extraordinary level of effort” in biodefense, including stockpiling enough smallpox vaccine for every American, increasing bioterrorism research in the Department of Health and Human Services by thirtyfold, immunizing six hundred thousand soldiers against smallpox, giving $4.4 billion to state preparedness programs for bioterror, establishing BioWatch (a network of environmental sensors to provide an “early warning” of biological attack in major US cities), and committing $5.6 billion to the BioShield program (an effort to create drugs and vaccines to counter biological, chemical, radio- logical, or nuclear weapons; US White House 2004). To this we could add the nearly $1 billion the US Postal Service spent on a “biohazard detection system” devoted to looking for anthrax in the nation’s mail and an undis- closed sum for classified research on biodefense (not to mention US military efforts to locate weapons of mass destruction in Iraq and elsewhere). Most notable on this list is the BioWatch program, which has installed air sensors in thirty cities, promising a new kind of early warning and surveillance for airborne biological threats. These sensors do not yet work quickly enough to counter a biological weapons attack (they currently operate on a thirty-six-hour sampling window) and are subject to constant false alarms (and thus are often ignored) but promise, via a new “rolling deployment strategy” (a commitment to installing each new generation of the technology despite limitations in its efficacy), to deliver real-time surveillance of urban air in the United States at some point in the future.

10 Preempting Biosecurity

(See O’Toole 2007 for an important technical critique of the BioWatch program.) Similarly, the BioShield program promises to develop a perfect, real-time biomedical response to all WMD (weapons of mass destruction) emergencies for the entire US population, a daunting task that fuses the production of (counteragent) drugs with US national security in a new way (Gotton 2005). Together, the BioWatch and BioShield programs are modeled on the Strategic Defense Initiative of the Reagan era, a program to intercept nuclear intercontinental ballistic missiles in flight, which three decades later is still a massive Department of Defense project but has yet to produce a viable defensive technology (see Guillemin 2005:198). Although the objects of biosecurity remain ever elusive, this cultural logic is still enor- mously productive: it commits new resources to biodefense in all its forms (creating new alliances across health, drug, and defense institutions), and, precisely because these new projects are anticipatory, biosecurity requires the constant remobilization of negative affect to achieve its goals. The counterterror state, in other words, produces and proliferates fears as a means of self-mobilizing its institutions, creating a recursive system of imagined threats and institution building to counter them. Biosecurity both relies on and installs terror about connectivity in the global economy, making twenty-first-century forms of communication, transportation, and commerce an endless source of risk (see Ali and Keil 2008; Atlas and Reppy 2005; King 2004). As Chen shows in chapter 5, China has become the source of collective fears not only about the quality of its pharmaceutical, food, and commercial products but also about infectious diseases (SARS, H1N1) attached to these accelerating global circula- tions. Biosecurity has quickly become a new expert domain in the United States, with its own languages, journals, institutes, and laboratories, and is an emerging form of scientific governance. The US biosecurity experts assume that certain kinds of disaster—pandemics and WMD attacks—are inevitable, operating under a “not if, but when” calculation (see Schoch- Spana 2004, 2006). The window before the inevitable bioattack is remade as a call to expert action. The horizon of crisis is thus extended from the future into the present and remade as the very basis for official action in the world, creating a new kind of counterterror state energized by the contradictory enterprise of imaginatively locating future threat in all its forms while promising that such dangers can be preempted and removed from the world by taking action today. US biosecurity experts, in short, promise a world without terror via the production of terror, a potentially endless recursive loop of threat production and mitigation, which, because it is imaginative in the first act, does not require physical evidence of danger.

11 Joseph Masco

This new conflation of terrorism and disease has produced an expanding infrastructure of laboratories devoted to research on the most dangerous known pathogens. Before 2001, the United States maintained 5 laboratories devoted to BSL-4 pathogens, the most lethal and virulent kind (e.g., smallpox, Lassa fever, and Ebola). It now has 15 such laboratories and has vastly multiplied the number of BSL-3 laboratories, where infectious diseases like SARS, West Nile virus, tuberculosis, and anthrax are studied. A 2007 congressional study found 1,356 registered sites scattered across the United States but concluded that the actual “number and location of all BSL-3 and BSL-4 labs is not known” (Rhodes 2007:14; see figure I.1). There is today no single agency in government tasked with regulating BSL-3 and BSL-4 laboratories, their dangerous materials, or the scientists that work in them. In an effort to map the emerging field of biosecurity, Klotz and Sylvester (2009:96) located hundreds of laboratories working on countermeasures for bioweapons and noted that 219 laboratories have registered with the CDC to work on anthrax alone (see also Cole 2009:255). The investment in civilian biodefense has been nothing short of spectacular, rising sevenfold from 2001 to 2002 and averaging today more than $6 billion a year (Franco and Sell 2011). The Congressional Research Service has estimated that, in constant 2008 dollars, the Manhattan Project cost $22 billion over five years and the Apollo program cost $98 billion over fourteen years (Stine 2009)—so the $67 billion spent in the first decade of US biosecurity represents multiple Manhattan Projects and is well on the way to the moon (see Franco and Sell 2011:118). Although this is an enormous sum, biosecurity does not address all health dangers, just those that can be imagined as weapons or mistaken as such: US biosecurity is a product of the War on Terror and is thus framed by a specific militarized notion of threat, making only certain issues of public health a concern of the counterterror state. For example, the formal US Defense Department budget for 2012 is $553 billion (and across all agencies, US defense is now close to a $1-trillion-a-year investment), and this one-year military expen- diture dwarfs the cumulative historical budget of the National Institutes of Health from 1938 to 2010.4 Put differently, the US public health system, which has been underfunded for generations precisely because it was not considered a matter of national defense during the long Cold War, has been explicitly made a forefront of the War on Terror since 2001—anthrax, SARS, avian flu, and the H1N1 virus have been mobilized alongside terrorists and weapons of mass destruction as catastrophic events to be preempted via anticipatory state action. In each case, the amplification of the threat has been a key

12 Preempting Biosecurity attribute of this new system, which relies on an affective atmosphere of imminent danger to unlock new forms of governmental agency. The linkage between virus and enemy is an old one. A strategic confusion between the biological body and the social body has enabled exclusions within many political regimes and may even be a formative logic of the nation-state, with its historical linkage of populations to territories (Martin 1990). Under the War on Terror structure, this logic is taking on new forms and is no longer constrained by the territorial limits of the United States. Biosecurity has also opened a political space for public health advocates, well aware of Cold War military-industrial administrative and budgeting logics, to reposition public health as a US national security matter. Consider, for example, how Anthony Fauci, the director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases at the National Institutes of Health, mobilized his institution after September 2001. He declared its new mission to be “biosecurity” but also cast it as a means of not only confronting terrorism but also curing a wide range of diseases. Fauci (2002) argued that by focusing on category A biological agents—anthrax, smallpox, tularemia, plague, botulism, hemorrhagic fever (i.e., those pathogens useful to terrorists)—other kinds of pathogens and microbes would soon be identified and other diseases cured. He stated definitively, “When we develop antivirals against diseases like Lassa and Ebola, Marburg and Smallpox, we’re going to fall upon antivirals for Hepatitis C.” This “dual- use” approach to biosecurity is modeled on Cold War military-industrial logics. Building technologies for an early warning of nuclear attack also produced revolutions in computers, telecommunications, satellite systems, and electronics, all of which filtered into the commercial arena. A dual-use biodefense program promises breakthroughs in basic medicine even as it stockpiles vaccines and countermeasures against bioweapon attacks. Fauci works here to transform counterterrorism into an opportunity for basic biomedical research. Fauci (2002) also declared that the goal of his agency over the next twenty years would be to produce a biomedical surveillance and response system that can go from “bug to drug in twenty-four hours”—that is, meet the threat of bioterrorism by identifying a weaponized organism and deploying a drug to combat it within a day of its discovery. This goal of “bug to drug in twenty-four hours” potentially transforms biosecurity from a reactive form of counterterrorism into a positive form of public health—with viruses being contained and eliminated as fast as the bioterrorist, or nature, can engineer them. It also assumes a long-term federal commitment to biosciences research and creates an array of new linkages across intelligence

13 Joseph Masco agencies, research laboratories, pharmaceutical companies, military departments, and emergency responders (see Smith, Inglesby, and O’Toole 2003). The result has been a dramatic increase in the budget of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, which gained more than $1 billion from 2001 to 2002 alone via the new linkage to biodefense, enabling a major new institutional commitment to research on emerging diseases. However, in order to link infectious disease to the national security state so powerfully, the threat first has to be located, conjured, or com- municated so that it can be successfully countered. The threat, as we have already seen, also needs to be of a species that activates the security logics of the state, and not all threats do. So we might pause here to ask, what is the documented nature of bioterrorism—its actual form—rather than its anticipated, imagined, or projected danger? There have been two recorded incidents of bioterrorism in the United States in the past thirty years. In 1984, followers of the Rajneeshee cult contaminated restaurants in Oregon with salmonella, causing more than 700 people to become ill, and the 2001 anthrax letters killed 5 people.5 Although these are tragic, malicious, and scary episodes, bioterrorism is so rare that it does not statistically register in relation to disease or injury rates in the United States as a cause of death. According to the Centers for Disease Control, the foremost killers of US citizens in 2009 were heart disease (599,413), cancer (567,628), chronic lower respiratory diseases (137,353), and stroke (128,842); suicide rounded out the top-five list with more than 36,000 deaths per year.6 This list of killers has been relatively stable for fifty years. But if heart disease and cancer together kill well over a million Americans each year, why do they not constitute a “terror threat”? As S. Lochlann Jain (2007) has shown, the experience of cancer is filled with minute and existential terrors so powerful that they can remake the survivor in fundamental ways. So if we want to fight existing bioterror, we actually know exactly where it resides. But heart disease, accidents, and suicides, despite their high numbers in the United States, are a normalized form of dying, not acknowledged by the counterterror state as an object of concern precisely because they cannot produce a military counterformation. It is important to consider that—statistically speaking—terrorism does not register as a cause of death in the United States and is more in line with the number of Americans killed each year by accidentally drowning in their own bathtubs. A crucial new aspect of the US biosecurity project, however, is that it relies on a post-statistical mode of thinking (Collier 2008), one that makes strategic calculations about potential catastrophic threats and then mobilizes state resources against them as if they were confirmed events. Speculation mixes with fantasy, fear, and

14 Preempting Biosecurity projection in the new world of counterterror, creating a national system that runs on its worst fears rather than on threats it can actually locate and engage in the world. Since bioterrorism is not a statistically significant cause of American deaths, how is it possible to create a political consensus, let alone a massive counterterror state, to combat it in perpetuity?7 How is terrorism made visible and urgent in the year-to-year of bureaucratic statecraft if it is so rare that death by bee stings or being hit by lightning are comparable threats to the average US citizen? How is it that terror comes to feel ever present even if terrorism itself is a spectacularly rare event in the United States? The specific image of threat that energizes a security state matters to both the form and the content of its countermobilization, articulating radically different futures, publics, and social contracts. And in a world of anticipatory dangers, the primary means of locating terror is to simulate it. The emerging physical infrastructure for US biosecurity is supported by “preparedness exercises” at all levels of government, a more than $6 billion effort since 2001 to coordinate local, state, and federal agencies via scenario-driven terror (see Dausey et al. 2005). These exercises not only reveal vulnerabilities and build new concepts of collaboration across different levels of government but also constitute terror along a spectrum of imminent threat. Since 2001, the biannual TOPOFF exercises have involved tens of thousands of participants and increasingly complicated scenarios: in 2003, a dirty bomb was imaginatively detonated in Seattle, and a biological weapon was used in Chicago; in 2005, a car bombing, a chemical attack, and biological warfare with an unknown agent were deployed in New Jersey and Connecticut; and in 2007, nuclear materials were theatrically detonated in Portland, Phoenix, and Guam.8 What link these preparedness exercises are the depiction of the “rationality” in anticipatory enactment and the constant rediscovery of a state that cannot possibly respond in real time to neutralize terrorist attacks without more capacity. In a world constituted as dangerous—with proliferating vectors of vulnerability and attack—counterterror officials have produced a new temporal horizon for security, one focused on preempting contingent possibilities before they become real.9 Agencies of the counterterror state have thus constituted a future in which they have a proliferating galaxy of objects, emerging vulnerabilities, and dangerous potentials to secure. The production of a constant state of affective emergency among officials is necessary to drive the contingent (the as-yet-unrealized future danger) into the realm of necessary governance. Drills, exercises, scenarios, and gaming, I suggest, are thus not only technical efforts to assess future danger: they are the very

15 Joseph Masco means for effectively elevating the merely contingent—the hypothetical— into a species of imminent and existential threat demanding official action. Despite this new focus on emerging dangers, the contemporary biothreat is constituted in a very American way, one with a deep history that dates back to the foundation of the national security state as a means of managing nuclear threat (Masco 2008). In addition to the logics of nuclear deterrence (an anticipatory response to the danger of nuclear attack), a most profound project of the early Cold War nuclear state was to deploy the atomic bomb as a mechanism for accessing and controlling citizens’ emotions (Oakes 1994). Key to fighting the Cold War was to produce the atomic bomb not only for military use but also in narrative and cinematic form for the American public as a means of military mobilization and psychological conditioning. Civil defense taught US citizens to fear the future in a specific way by involving them in increasingly detailed nuclear simulations, first via national exercises and then via highly scripted television and film depictions of nuclear threat. In the first decade of the Cold War, US officials sought to mobilize the power of mass media to transform an imagined nuclear attack into a collective opportunity for psychological self- management, civic responsibility, and, ultimately, governance. Ideas about a collective imminent death were installed very powerfully into American national culture at this moment, setting up ideological resources about existential threat that inform WMD politics to this day. The early Cold War project of emotional management, however, produced more nuclear terror and more public resistance than officials anticipated, generating both antinuclear and peace movements. Civil defense consequently evolved by the 1960s into an “all hazards” response, placing nuclear and biological attacks alongside naturally occurring emergencies, from fires to floods to earthquakes. As its focus shifted from war to general disaster, the Federal Civil Defense Administration was renamed, eventually being subsumed in 1979 into the Federal Emergency Management Agency, which is currently part of the Department of Homeland Security. In the post–Cold War period, “preparedness” became the new goal of emergency response, a concept that requires officials at all levels to create protocols for crisis management, emergency scripts that enable local, state, and federal authorities to respond quickly to floods, fires, earthquakes, storms, and accidents. As Lakoff (2008) has shown, the key lesson of such exercises is always that officials and agencies arenot prepared—thus, preparedness functions as an endless future horizon that offers continued opportunities not only for research and emergency planning but also for emotional management and militarization.

16 Preempting Biosecurity

After 2001, the US security state shifted this focus on bureaucratic preparedness to a more general and aggressive form of anticipatory governance committed to (1) preempting dangers, (2) installing capacities into the future to extend the range and scope of anticipatory governance, and (3) using emotional management—terror, specifically—as a new political resource at home and abroad. This counterterror state project amplifies public fear not to mobilize citizens in order to engineer a political consensus (as did the early Cold War state) but rather to immobilize citizens, to neutralize public participation in the realm of security politics by fomenting an atmosphere of continual and imminent danger. Compliance is the primary obligation of the citizen in this world of counterterror. Infectious disease has played an increasingly important role in providing images of terrifying external threat since 2001, allowing the emerging logics of biosecurity to both fulfill and transcend Cold War security logics. Importantly, the new affective economy of counterterror focuses less on mobilizing citizens than on recruiting experts and officials to believe in specific catastrophic futures. These existential visions of doom are constituted most immediately via exercises, scenarios, and gaming. To commit to preempting futures not yet realized is to engage the official imagination in a new way and to move past evidence as the necessary basis for policy. The imaginative, the hypothetical, and the what-if gain coherence through rehearsal and repetition, and they are instantiated as a necessary future to preempt through simulation and gaming. Scenario- based war gaming was an innovation of Cold War nuclear policy, pioneered at the RAND corporation as a way to bring rationality to the military pas- sions of an escalating nuclear confrontation with the Soviet Union. In an effort to manage nuclear terror via rational choice theory, RAND theorists sought to bring a mathematical clarity to nuclear policy. They approached nuclear war via scenario-driven games involving assessments of Soviet military capabilities and also of Soviet emotions, perceptions of strength and weakness, and risk tolerance (e.g., Kahn 1960). War gaming became an increasingly elaborate and formalized means of policy making (from training to strategy making to testing specific actions) throughout the military. The assumption behind such gaming is that if one can model in the imagination the actions that are likely to occur, then one can mobilize against them or at least come to appreciate the complexity of the task. Each exercise has a set of formal rules and concepts that define the field of imaginative action, allowing officials and planners to experience emergency conditions in the hypothetical. Cold War gaming assumed the rationality of Soviet leaders (notably, a devotion to their own political and biological

17 Joseph Masco survival), an assumption that enabled nuclear deterrence as a concept. “Mutual Assured Destruction” requires that all parties understand that nuclear war is simultaneous suicide and, thus, they should work to restrain or control escalating risks out of self-interest. An innovation of the War on Terror is that it no longer focuses on state military capabilities (a probable future based on observable technical abilities), but rather on perceived terrorist desires (an improbable but hyperviolent future that need not be grounded in observed technological capacities). Moreover, counterterror imagines an enemy (terrorists, microbes) that cannot be reasoned with or deterred. These conceptual innovations not only move official threat evaluation more deeply into the imaginary than ever before but also constitute a future that is understood to be ever more violent, ever more catastrophic. Put differently, the complexity and unpredictability of the real world are always reduced in gaming, and certain futures are consolidated as more likely than others via consensus-driven scripts and conceptual repetition across games and agencies. In biosecurity gaming, anticipatory preemption is now linked to certain pre- determined, catastrophic scenarios (e.g., global contagions and engineered diseases), pulling thought relentlessly toward specific worst-case scenarios that exceed current administrative capabilities.10 This type of gaming is an exercise in the self-cultivation of terror, an expert mobilization of certain imagined catastrophic futures over existing forms of everyday violence.11 Consider the tabletop exercise known as Atlantic Storm, staged by the Center for Biosecurity at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center on January 14, 2005 (http://www.atlantic-storm.org; Hamilton and Smith 2006). A particularly elaborate biosecurity game, it engaged former American, Canadian, and European officials to play the leadership of their home countries, with former secretary of state Madeleine Albright cast as the president of the United States. One of the largest and most publicized exercises of its kind, Atlantic Storm imagines a terrorist use of smallpox in multiple nations during a transatlantic summit meeting in Washington, DC. It challenges players to coordinate an official response to the global epidemic in a world with limited supplies of smallpox vaccine. The exercise plays out in real time over the course of a day, with participants seated around a table and confronted by television screens and a large digital clock. Information is provided to the group via a simulated newscast from the Global News Network, or GNN—which announces the smallpox outbreaks, attributes the terrorist attacks to an Al Qaeda–related group calling itself Al-Jihad Al-Jadid, and then tracks the escalating course of the global epidemic. Framed as a race against time—Bernard Kouchner (a co-founder

18 Preempting Biosecurity of Médecins Sans Frontières, playing the French president) declares early on, “This is the emergency period. We must not waste one hour”—the tabletop exercise is designed to terrify and to shock policy makers. The use of simulated mass media provides an impressive element of realism to the game: GNN reporters deliver “breaking news” to the assembled heads of state periodically throughout the day, allowing players and the audience of a hundred or more official observers to feel the escalating health crisis and the terror of global contagion.12 The exercise is not intended to model a smallpox outbreak, but rather to consider official responses to an international health emergency. Participants are asked to (1) distribute a limited supply of smallpox vaccine, (2) control the spread of the disease, (3) negotiate national and international obligations during the crisis, (4) engage international bodies, such as the World Health Organization, and (5) maintain public confidence in government. But none of these goals is achievable, given the design of the exercise: the limited administrative resources and the speed of the simulated outbreak result in the spread of smallpox from local terrorist attacks to global contagion. The prerecorded GNN sequences give regular updates on the spread of the disease across Europe and the United States but are designed to offer nothing but escalating projections of contagion. Given the incubation period for smallpox (at least a week), the attacks have already occurred long before the summit begins, and, thus, the simulated contamination—regardless of how players respond—is already widespread in Europe and North America. Rather than constitute effective governance, the exercise is designed to give players a feeling of helplessness in the midst of an escalating crisis. But by fusing national security and public health on a global scale, the exercise does create an affective context for immediately building new biosecurity infrastructures. The Atlantic Storm exercise materials state that all aspects of the scenario are grounded in “scientific fact” but note that this is “one possible set of plausible events.” The scenario presents, however, a nearly perfect affective project in the expert production of terror: smallpox is described early on by GNN as the “most dreaded disease in history. It is painful. Kills one-third. Leaves some survivors blind and most disfigured.” In the scenario, the terrorists have gained access to the virus from a former Soviet bioweapons facility (since smallpox exists only in small samples in the United States and Russia today); have successfully built a laboratory disguised as a brew- ery in Austria; have used publicly available microbiology equipment to wea- ponize the disease; and have distributed it to their agents in the form of an aerosol spray for use in mass transit areas in Turkey, Germany, and Sweden.

19 Joseph Masco

The simulated GNN news turns for medical advice to Dr. D. A. Henderson (2009), who actually led the World Health Organization’s successful campaign to eliminate smallpox. But rather than explore the public heath measures Henderson pioneered to contain and eliminate the disease in real life, the simulated news coverage almost immediately cuts away from him to track news of the spreading contagion. Thus, the twentieth-century logics of public health are both recognized and silenced here by the twenty- first-century biosecurity logics of affective mobilization. Participants do not learn how to manage smallpox but rather are asked to experience an existential force that cannot be stopped and to feel the helplessness of that position. In the last act of the scenario, a smallpox outbreak occurs in the Washington, DC, area, making summit participants feel physically threatened by the disease, as well as responsible for its global spread. The final GNN report, set six weeks in the future, drives the point home: the terrorist attacks have become a “cascading horror” involving millions of deaths around the world. A massive disruption of the global economy and transportation routes has occurred, leaving governments teetering on the brink of collapse and under threats of public uprisings and increasing xenopho- bia. Global vaccine stockpiles have been consumed, and no end is in sight for this fast-moving planetary biocrisis. The formal conclusions drawn from the Atlantic Storm exercise underscore the difficulty of building an emergency medical system in the midst of a global crisis, the strategic value of vaccine stockpiles, and the need for new administrative and legal understandings (in order to organize resources and communication across local, state, and international agencies). The organizers of the exercise sought to produce a policy consensus that “homeland security” begins overseas. Thus, the sense of urgency produced by the simulation was not only about the contemplation of coordinated bioterror attacks on two continents but also about scaling the question of public health security to the global level. The United States, for example, begins the exercise with enough vaccine for all three hundred million of its citizens, which could be the very definition of smallpox “preparedness” in a world with many competing security problems. But in this imaginary, the problem of epidemic disease is rendered a collective transnational problem, merging domestic health concerns with a proliferating global economic, administrative, and military crisis. Atlantic Storm redefines public health in foreign countries as a strategic national security interest of the United States and thereby scales US domestic security up to a planetary level. President Madeleine Albright notes, in a discussion of Turkey’s request under Article 5 of the NATO treaty (which states that

20 Preempting Biosecurity an attack on one member of NATO is an attack on all) for large stocks of smallpox vaccine:

You all are talking about cooperation and I think that is very important. And I am a different president than the previous one but it is still the same country. A lot of our people are very knowl- edgeable about the fact that when we wanted cooperation—at the time we were attacked and 3,000 people died and Article 5 was invoked—but when we really needed help in Iraq, many of you decided it was not useful.

We wanted cooperation. The relationship between security and health is powerfully remade in this simulation, with the biopolitical stakes of an imaginary smallpox epidemic rearticulating how war, alliance, and commerce are all involved in a new global calculus of threat, one that finally collapses the foreign into the domestic. Crucially, there are no “steps,” or escalations, in this simulated health/ security crisis—the announcement of the terrorist event to scenario participants is also the de facto announcement of global contagion. Atlantic Storm is an exercise in the affective production of urgency—fomenting a state of emergency for its players—not an effort to test policy options. Unlike Cold War era nuclear war gaming, which tested outcomes and modeled tactics in an effort to give leaders more options in a time of nuclear crisis (e.g., Kahn 1965), Atlantic Storm can only end with the recognition of “unpreparedness” in the face of a proliferating global crisis (see, e.g., Smith et al. 2005:261). The goal of this exercise is not to reestablish the authority of a state caring for its citizens in the face of new technological dangers, but rather to demonstrate the contemporary limits of federal governance itself and to create a productive panic among security professionals tasked with preempting collective dangers that now emanate from both the future and the other side of the planet. Biosecurity is imaginatively constituted as technologically achievable in Atlantic Storm (with the right stockpiles, global governance structures, and surveillance techniques) and simultaneously pushed off into a distant future, creating a new administrative horizon to be engineered with biosecurity institution building on a global scale. Atlantic Storm remains a highly influential bit of security theater, which biosecurity experts now cite as having “proven” the limits of contemporary global governance in the face of epidemic disease and the need for a new biosecurity infrastructure to manage bioterrorism. Although it was made widely available to the public in online, digital, and textual versions, its primary audience was always US policy makers. Indeed, contemporary US

21 Joseph Masco biosecurity might be said to have been born in crucial ways through tabletop simulation: a June 2001 bioterrorism exercise known as Dark Winter, which modeled a smallpox attack on Oklahoma City by Iraqi agents, successfully launched a national campaign to stockpile enough smallpox vaccine for every American.13 Mobilizing images of diseased children, using simulated news coverage of the epidemic, and having former US officials play key roles, Dark Winter helped transform a limited US stockpile of vaccine for a disease eradicated during the Cold War into a national emergency in the United States. In the hours after the September 2001 anthrax attacks, Dark Winter also provided a powerful script to US security professionals for thinking about unfolding events. When a biological weapons alarm sounded in the White House on September 20, 2001, Vice President Dick Cheney screened a film of the Dark Winter exercise for the president and the National Security Council (Mayer 2008:3; Wald 2008:176). Top-level US national security officials thus turned to the Dark Winter simulation at a moment of actual crisis to understand their own immediate physical vulnerability. Biosecurity simulations were crucial to creating the imaginative conditions of possibility for an emerging military focus on “WMDs in Iraq,” as well as the necessary administrative enthusiasm for constructing a US biosecurity apparatus (see Vogal 2008). In the realm of anticipatory preemption, biosecurity simulations have thus proven to be wildly productive affective and political tools, producing in short order a new geopolitics and a new national biosecurity infrastructure. Because of this focus on warding off shocking catastrophic futures, pursued with expert devotion across government agencies (including the Department of Defense, the intelligence agencies, the Department of Home- land Security, the Centers for Disease Control, and the Drug Enforcement Administration), a host of everyday violences and dangers is left unad- dressed by the counterterror security state. The collapsing of city infrastructures, the environmental effects of a radically changing climate, the severe consequences of unregulated boom-and-bust capitalism on basic social services—all of which have significantly impacted the health and security of Americans since 2001—these are not objects of anticipatory preemption. The achievement of the War on Terror is to declare war on certain catastrophic futures while neglecting everyday violence, forms of physical risk that (as contributors to this volume document with great range and ethnographic specificity) make individuals materially less and less secure in their everyday lives. Thus, the expanding powers of the biosecurity apparatus have perversely coincided with an increasing vulnerability for US citizens in most domains of communal life. The War on Terror—as

22 Preempting Biosecurity an affective economy of fear—promises in this way to be self-perpetuating, as new security imaginaries (homeland security, biosecurity, cybersecurity, and so on) overlay increasingly vulnerable, global populations demanding more stability in everyday life, thus creating a recursive (in)security system that continues to miss its object. Perfect biosecurity, like absolute terror, is today an imaginative horizon projected onto a deep future and crafted by experts rehearsing catastrophic endings with ever-greater precision, imagination, and enthusiasm, even as the existing structures of everyday life begin to buckle and snap.

Notes 1. A search of the LexisNexis database for uses of “biosecurity” since 1990, for example, reveals the dominance of New Zealand in conceptualizing biosecurity, with almost no public discourse about biosecurity in the United States until 2001. Similarly, the term was used almost exclusively for concerns about food safety until 2001, when the term began to refer to biological terrorism in the United States. By the mid-2000s, biosecurity appeared as a global concept, but one that still was inflected differently under specific national regimes, with a strong emphasis globally on animal food and animal safety outside the United States. (I am grateful to Alex Blanchette for his research assistance in tracking the evolving global use of the term “biosecurity” since 1990.) 2. See Joan S. Jeffrey, “Biosecurity for Poultry Flocks,” University of California, Davis, Veterinary Medicine website, http://www.vetmed.ucdavis.edu/vetext/INF-PO _Biosecurity.html. 3. The Bush administration was particularly concerned about Iraq and former Soviet biological weapons programs; see Guillemin 2005, 2011; Hoffman 2009; Miller, Engelberg, and Broad 2001. 4. See http://costofwar.com/en/publications/2011/ten-years-after-911 /department-defense-budget; for the historical budget data of the National Institutes of Health, see http://officeofbudget.od.nih.gov/approp_hist.html. 5. In the 1990s, US officials learned of an extensive covert Soviet bioweapons project (Hoffman 2009), and the Aum Shinrikyo cult in Japan released sarin gas in the Tokyo subway in 1995. 6. See http://www.cdc.gov/nchs/fastats/deaths.htm. 7. See Zulaika and Douglass 1996:6. Lipschutz and Turcotte (2005:31) note that because there are so little “data for terrorist attacks, statistics will not help in predicting events.” 8. For more on the TOPOFF 1–4 exercises and the new National Level Exercise program, see http://www.dhs.gov/files/training/gc_1179350946764.shtm;

23 Joseph Masco also, Armstrong 2012 for an assessment of the TOPOFF exercises and the larger ideological framing of disaster. 9. See Samimian-Darash 2009 for an important assessment of the temporalities of crisis; she argues that a “pre-event configuration” of concepts and narratives is achieved via this kind of expertise, which becomes an interpretive platform for unfolding events. See also Anderson 2010b; Cooper 2006; De Goede 2008; Massumi 2007. 10. Scenarios of contagion rely on a now quite conventional narrative script; see Alcabes 2009; Briggs 2011; Hartmann, Subramaniam, and Zerner 2005; King 2004; Ostherr 2005; Wald 2008:2. 11. Schoch-Spana (2006:36) argues that these exercises also work to create an enemy, confuse disease with war, and direct anger at foreign sources to “create a geography of blame.” 12. The use of simulated newscasts has become a central mechanism for creating “realism” in biosecurity exercises and has had a dramatic psychological effect on participants in creating a feeling of emergency. See Briggs 2011 for an analysis of how communication is structured in biosecurity scenarios; also, Schoch-Spana 2004. 13. See the Center for Biosecurity’s Dark Winter archive at http://www .upmc-biosecurity.org/website/events/2001_darkwinter.

24 2

When a Country Becomes a Military Base Blowback and Bioinsecurity in Honduras, the World’s Most Dangerous Place

David Vine

In the 1980s, they called Honduras the “USS Honduras.” For the US military, the country was like a stationary, unsinkable aircraft carrier, strategically located on the borders of three major Central American wars. To support the violent insurgency of Nicaraguan Contras and the right- wing regimes in El Salvador and Guatemala, the Reagan administration flooded Honduras with millions of dollars in military and economic aid, arms, military personnel, CIA operatives, and military bases. In exchange for increased aid, Honduras agreed “to loan its territory and provide essential sanctuary for the Contras” (Greentree 2008:117). The centerpiece of Honduras’s militarization was the creation of a major US military base in Palmerola, which the US military calls Soto Cano and which came to host as many as five thousand troops while launching operations involved in all three civil wars. Elsewhere, the administration built or expanded dozens of Contra, Honduran, and US bases and other facilities to support the Contras and to back the governments in El Salvador and Guatemala. Military aid to Honduras, a country about the size of Virginia, more than tripled between 1981 and 1982, from $8.9 million to $31.3 million, and more than doubled to $77.4 million in 1984. As the Honduran military received new US weaponry, it transferred old weapons to the Contras (LeoGrande 1998:150, 297). The Reagan administration started a nearly constant succession of military training exercises. One,

25 David Vine involving thousands of troops, was “the longest and the largest U.S. military exercise in Central American history” and implicitly threatened an invasion of Nicaragua (LeoGrande 1998:317). From Honduras, the administration “expanded exponentially” covert, intelligence, and surveillance operations in Central America, bragging that it could “hear a toilet flush in Managua” (149–150). By decade’s end, Honduras was “little more than a vast US military base” (Haney 2002:28) and “a virtual US protectorate” (Greentree 2008:116). As a result of these US-backed wars, Honduras saw a decade of death squads, extrajudicial killings, and torture. Between 1980 and 1984 alone, there were 274 unsolved killings and disappearances of leftists and other dissidents (LeoGrande 1998:299). Elsewhere, the toll was higher still: 50,000 dead in Nicaragua, 75,000 dead in El Salvador, and 240,000 dead in Guatemala in what is widely considered a genocide. The majority of deaths in each case were of civilians and poor peasants. They died, as a former Foreign Service officer put it, in “large and indiscriminate numbers, families, clans, entire villages, the victims of torture, of bombardment, of massacre, of crossfire” (Greentree 2008:7). Hundreds of thousands of refugees flooded to neighboring countries and, when they could, to the United States. And the toll, of course, extended far beyond to the injured, the orphaned, and entire nations of traumatized survivors. Two decades after the end of the bloody wars, the US military was again building bases and expanding its presence in Honduras. Since at least 2003, the US government has been spending millions to upgrade Soto Cano, to build or expand at least five small bases along the violent northern coast, and to fund the Honduran armed forces and national police (Lindsay-Poland 2011a). Official Pentagon and State Department declarations describe these developments and the US military presence in Honduras as promoting Honduran, US, and regional security through counternarcotic, disaster relief, and humanitarian missions. When I visited Honduras for research in 2011, Honduran protesters outside Soto Cano’s walls chanted, “Get out, get out, foreign bases!” and “Gringos out!” Having just been teargassed at the beginning of their demonstration, they were protesting the presence of a foreign army in Honduras, the country’s growing militarization, and its 2009 coup. In front of the base’s main gate, a few US human rights observers carried signs reading “What Is the US Doing Here?” In this chapter, I seek to explain what the US military is doing in Honduras and why it has been expanding its presence—quite remarkably, given the role it played in causing so much death and destruction—for the first time since the wars of the 1980s. It is telling that Honduras was described

26 When a Country Becomes a Military Base as “little more than a vast US military base” and as the USS Honduras (i.e., an aircraft carrier, which is a floating base). Military bases have long been an underappreciated aspect of US global power, and they are key to understanding the US presence in Honduras. Today, Soto Cano is just one of around eight hundred US military installations located outside the fifty states and Washington, DC (Turse 2011; Vine 2009). The United States likely possesses more extraterritorial bases than any nation or people in world history (Engelhardt 2007). Although some of the bases, like the one in Guantánamo Bay, Cuba, date to the late nineteenth century, most were built or occupied during World War II. President Franklin D. Roosevelt acquired many in his “destroyers for bases” deal with Britain. Acquisitions continued through the end of the war, totaling more than 30,000 installations at more than 2,000 base sites globally (Monthly Review Editors 2002). Well over half a century since the end of World War II and the Korean War, the United States still possesses hundreds of bases in Germany, Japan, South Korea, and Italy. Other bases are scattered around the globe in places like Ascension and Australia, Bahrain and Bulgaria, Colombia, Kyrgyzstan, and Qatar—to name just a few. In Afghanistan and Iraq, US-led coalition forces once had 800 and 505 bases, respectively (Daniel 2011; Turse 2012a; David de Jong, personal communication, February 4, 2014). The US military’s creation of new, relatively small bases in Honduras represents an increasing US reliance on what are often called “lily pad” bases, which have been proliferating around the globe since the beginning of the twenty-first century. Lily pads (referring to the image of a frog jump- ing across a pond toward its prey) have become increasingly important in a “new way of war” (Shanker 2012:1) for the United States, involving relatively small troop detachments, drones, proxy armies, and other globally deployed military tools. Like biosecurity experts’ fantasies about “securing life on all scales” (Masco, chapter 1), US officials dream of having what two analysts called a “global cavalry” (Donnelly and Serchuk 2003) able to project US power anywhere on the planet—all in the name of security. Tracing the creation of bases in Honduras and the longer history of US involvement there, I examine the extreme levels of bodily insecurity faced by Hondurans: they now live in the country with the world’s highest murder rate (United Nations Office of Drugs and Crime 2011) and pattern of wealthy landlords violently dispossessing campesinos from the land (Grandin 2010; Mejía 2011; cf. Rouse, chapter 7). I will show how this profound bioinsecurity—defined as a vulnerability to physical and psychological harm of all kinds, from daily hunger and deprivation to torture and death—is a kind of “blowback” (Johnson 2004a) stemming from the

27 David Vine long-term militarization of Honduras by the United States. I also consider the relationship between Hondurans’ bioinsecurity and US strategy at a time when several Latin American countries have begun to assert policies increasingly independent of the longtime hemispheric hegemon and when rising global powers China and Brazil have become regional powerhouses in an increasingly intense competition for global supremacy.1 Ultimately, I hope to show how Honduras illuminates important transformations in US global strategy in the wake of two calamitous wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Just as Susser (chapter 9) shows how bioinsecurity and biosecurity are intimately related, I conclude by showing how US strategic shifts—made in the name of security—are frequently helping to produce bioinsecurity for Hondurans and others worldwide.

“The Original ‘Banana Republic’” Long before the United States built bases for the Contras, it used a Honduran banana plantation belonging to United Fruit (today, Chiquita) as a military base where it helped train and finance the rebel army that overthrew the democratically elected government in Guatemala in 1954. The use of Honduran territory to launch the Guatemalan coup is just one example of how the United States has shaped Honduras and the region in profound ways since at least the nineteenth century. Indeed, in 1823, President James Monroe declared, “The American continents…are henceforth not to be considered as subjects for future colonization by any European powers,” setting the stage for almost two hundred years (so far) of unchallenged US dominance in Latin America. Since the enunciation of the Monroe Doctrine, US military interventions, primarily to protect US economic interests, have been a recurring theme. In addition to private “fil- ibustering” invasions in the 1850s that attempted to create new slaveholding territories in Mexico and Central America, the US has intervened militarily in the Dominican Republic, Cuba, Haiti, Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Panama, in some cases, occupying them for decades at a time. In Honduras, US forces intervened or occupied the country eight times—in 1903, 1907, 1911, 1912, 1919, 1920, 1924, and 1925 (Brinkley 1999:767; Hall and Pérez Brignoli 2003:209; Lindsay-Poland 2003:16–17). And this is in addition to US warships entering Latin American ports some six thousand times between the mid-nineteenth century and 1930, in classic gunboat diplomacy style (Grandin 2006:3, 20). Still, military might has been only one prong of US dominance. Economic and, through it, political control has been just as important. By the end of the nineteenth century, Honduras was weak and “saddled

28 When a Country Becomes a Military Base with debt” from a fraudulent British railway construction plan, setting the stage for the country’s transformation by a group of increasingly powerful “banana men” (LaFeber 1983:42–46). Sam “The Banana Man” Zemurray was known as the greatest of Honduras’s original banana entrepreneurs (LaFeber 1983:42). Within five years of his arrival from Alabama, Zemurray controlled 5,000 acres of plantations along Honduras’s Atlantic coast. Soon it was 15,000 (42; see also Farley 1991:155; Langley and Schoonover 1995:38–39). Zemurray’s personal power was so great that in 1907 he created a rebel army in New Orleans to replace the Honduran government with one “sensitive to [his] every wish”—namely, land and tax concessions (LaFeber 1983:44–45; see also Grandin 2006:19). By 1913 Zemurray and his closest rivals, the Vacarro brothers of New Orleans, accounted for two-thirds of Honduran exports. The banana companies had, as the historian Walter LaFeber (1983:43) explains, “bought up lands, built railroads, established their own banking systems, and bribed government officials at a dizzying pace.” The north coast became a “foreign-controlled enclave,” and the country now had a corrupt mono-crop economy built around “yellow gold.” The wealth of Honduras was effectively “carried off to New Orleans, New York, and later Boston” (43). All that were left were low-wage jobs in the banana groves and export duties, which were pocketed mostly by a small group of elites. This basic economic structure remains largely intact today. Eventually, Zemurray faced growing competition from the United Fruit Company of Boston. Employing an “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” strategy, Zemurray served as United Fruit’s agent in Honduras, helping it “buy up Honduras.” Five years later, Zemurray sold his company to United Fruit for $32 million and became its top official (LaFeber 1983:44–45). “If Honduras was dependent on the fruit companies before 1912, it was virtually indistinguishable after 1912,” writes LaFeber (45). “In 1914, the leading banana firms held nearly a million acres of the most fertile land. Their holdings grew during the 1920s until the Honduran peasants had no hope of access to their nation’s good soil. In 1918, US dollars even became legal tender in Honduras.” Honduras became, as LaFeber (9) says, “the original ‘banana republic,’” under nearly complete domination of the US banana companies and their political and military muscle, the US government. Popular usage of the term tends to focus on the image of corrupt, despotic, buffoon-like “Third World” leaders. We tend to forget the real substance of O. Henry’s reference: weak, marginally independent countries facing overwhelming foreign economic and political domination based around a mono-crop economy. In other words, a de facto colony.

29 David Vine

During World War II, the United States signed a lend-lease deal with the Honduran government to establish bases, creating at least one in Trujillo. In the 1960s, the Kennedy and Johnson administrations poured almost $94 million of Alliance for Progress money into the country, which largely resulted in increasing the economy’s reliance on a few export products and taking peasants’ lands. Meanwhile, Citibank, Chase Manhattan, and Bank of America took over Honduras’s financial system (LaFeber 1983:9, 184; Library of Congress n.d.). By the end of the twentieth century, in a region “more tightly integrated into the United States economy and security system” than any other, Honduras became “the closest ally to the United States…while remaining the poorest and most underdeveloped state in the hemisphere other than Haiti” (LaFeber 1983:9). It is hard to imagine one country being under such total domination by another without being a formal possession.

La Tripartita Duane “Dewey” Clarridge, the CIA chief for Latin America, arrived in Honduras in early 1981. “I speak in the name of President Ronald Reagan,” Clarridge told a group of loyalists to deposed dictator Anastasio Somoza Debayle. “We want to support this effort to change the government of Nicaragua” (LeoGrande 1998:116–118). What emerged from the meeting was a plan to support the Contras, known as La Tripartita. A Contra commander explained, “The Hondurans will provide the territory, the United States will provide the money, and Argentina will provide the front” to hide US involvement (117–118). This was the start of the nearly decade-long US support for the proxy army seeking to reverse the Sandinista revolution that had ousted Somoza. There was never any real hope that the Contras would overthrow the Sandinistas. Instead, in a post-Vietnam Cold War environment where direct US intervention was impossible, US officials saw the Contras as a second-best option. They were “a classic guerrilla counterweight who could harass and bleed the Sandinistas and who[m] the Sandinistas could not defeat” (Greentree 2008:121, 162). Lacking any “positive political aim,” the Contras were almost exclusively a military force. Their “real political boss” was the CIA. President Reagan infamously described the group as the “moral equivalent of the founding fathers.” Former Foreign Service officer Todd Greentree described them more accurately as a group led by “petty warlords” with “the reputation of being brigands and brutes who raped women, executed prisoners, and enjoyed murdering civilians” (121– 122, 162).

30 When a Country Becomes a Military Base

Within a year of La Tripartita’s creation, the CIA had helped set up six Contra bases in Honduras. Along with CIA operatives, almost one hundred Argentine military advisers, followed by Israelis and Chileans, started training the rebels. The Argentines brought with them the “Argentine method” of kidnapping, torturing, and killing political opponents (LeoGrande 1998:150; Wheaton 1982:40). Before long, a C-130 cargo plane landed with the first 25-ton delivery of CIA-supplied weapons. Soon, the Contras had “virtually taken over [entire] provinces along the Nicaraguan border” (Garvin 1992:40–41; LeoGrande 1998:395).

Base Buildup The foundation of the USS Honduras quickly became the base in Palmerola. In May 1982, US and Honduran officials signed an addendum to a 1954 military assistance treaty to base US troops in Honduras, to expand and upgrade Palmerola and any other airfields in Honduras, and to build “new facilities and installation of equipment as may be necessary for their use” (Government of Honduras 1982:sec. 1). On the site of a tiny Honduran Air Force base, US troops first built a runway and assembled some tents and other basic living facilities. Soon there were hangars, an airplane ramp, and more facilities. Eventually, what US officials insisted was a “temporary” base had a runway capable of accom- modating F-16 fighter jets and C-5 cargo planes, offices and recreational facilities, twenty-two miles of roads, and extensive water, sewer, and electri- cal systems (General Accounting Office 1995:2). Following the creation of Soto Cano, the Reagan administration engaged in a massive base-building campaign. According to a survey of available sources, the Contras eventually enjoyed at least thirty-two of their own bases, from Aguacate to Zebra, including bases in Nicaragua and even Florida (Eich and Rincón 1984; Garvin 1992; Haney 2002; LeoGrande 1998; Paglen 2009; Problemas Internacionales 1982; Wheaton 1982). Officially, everyone maintained that there were no Contras or Contra camps in Honduras—photographs of Contras there were banned—but everyone knew this was a fiction. In some cases, including Soto Cano, the Pentagon asked for and Congress appropriated funds, as required by most military construction projects. In other cases, the Pentagon used military exercises as a cover for base construction unauthorized by Congress during a period when attempts to limit or end funding for the Contras were growing. “When Congress refused to fund the construction of new military bases in Honduras, the Pentagon built them anyway,” explains William LeoGrande (1998:587).

31 David Vine

“When the exercises were over, the improved facilities and leftover supplies could be given to the Hondurans and the Contras…without the aggrava- tion of seeking Congressional approval” (317; see also Greentree 2008:37). Elsewhere, US officials used Honduran bases to supply the Contras and simply told Congress otherwise (National Security Archive 1987:52–53). The Central Intelligence Agency’s budgets were yet another way to conceal the base buildup from Congress and the public. The CIA operated a secret base on Swan Island, ran a secret training camp for the Contras in Panama, rented a safe house for them in Tegucigalpa, sent dozens of officers to live and work in Contra camps, created a covert aviation unit with the army, and ran or orchestrated flights of arms, cash, and supplies from Soto Cano, Aguacate, Costa Rica, El Salvador, Panama, Texas, and Florida to Contra bases in Honduras and Nicaragua (Garvin 1992:111; LeoGrande 1998:311, 115, 117, 436, 478, 391, 384–385, 491; Paglen 2009:233). In the Pacific, the CIA built a secret base on Tiger Island to coordinate the operations of a mercenary force, the absurdly named Unilaterally Controlled Latino Assets (LeoGrande 1998:331). The CIA also helped to train and organize the notorious and deadly Battalion 3-16, originally known as the Directorio de Investigaciones Especiales. The CIA and an additional hundred military advisers trained battalion members in methods including psychological torture, supervised its activities, and built a “network of safe houses, clandestine jails, and interrogation centers” (Meara 2006:28–29; Wheaton 1982:40). The US advisers distributed an army counterinsurgency manual later dubbed by the Washington Post the “murder manual” for its advocacy of assassination and other violent tactics (LeoGrande 1998:364). Eric Haney (2002:34), an original member of the army’s elite Delta Force, who participated in combat operations with the Contras, commented, “Mr. Reagan’s secret wars in Central America were always merciless affairs.” In the United States, the Contras ultimately became the biggest presidential scandal since Watergate. Reporters and Congress revealed that the Reagan administration had illegally and against the explicit wishes of Congress shipped money and weapons to the Contras, proceeds from the sale of overpriced weaponry to Iran. The scandal deepened when reporters uncovered evidence of the Contras’ involvement in drug trafficking. The Reagan administration tried to blame a few individuals. Congress’s Iran-Contra hearings soon showed that the CIA had known since at least 1984 that the Contras were smuggling drugs (see, e.g., Hayden 2004:57; LeoGrande 1998:699nn. 119–120).

32 When a Country Becomes a Military Base

When the War Ends The roots of the current US buildup lie in the earliest days of post-Con- tra, post–Cold War Honduras. With US funding for the Contras withdrawn, the wars in Nicaragua and the rest of Central America over, and the Soviet Union dissolved, a General Accounting Office (1995:1) report declared, “The original reasons for the establishment of US presence at Soto Cano no longer exist.” Now, US military and diplomatic officials agreed that the contribution of this “expensive, semi-permanent, logistics base” to new US policy goals of encouraging economic reforms (following a US-led neoliberal model) was “incidental and not reason enough to maintain the presence” (4, 1). Meanwhile, the base was making “minimal” contributions to operations aimed at countering growing drug trafficking in the region and was counterproductive to the US embassy’s goals of reducing the US military presence and encouraging Honduras to downsize its military (5). The General Accounting Office unambiguously recommended that the government “withdraw the remaining US military personnel at Soto Cano” (8). Although overall US military spending in Honduras declined significantly, Soto Cano—described since its creation as a “temporary” base—did not close. Military exercises and training continued, and the base’s articulated mission simply shifted. One former army and Foreign Service officer commented that as early as 1989, when he left Honduras, “exercises were continuing through sheer bureaucratic inertia.… Even though the original rationale for the base was disappearing, no one seemed to be considering packing up and going home” (Meara 2006:32, 155). But the persistence of the base was due not just to bureaucratic inertia but also to concerted efforts to create new missions and new justifications for the supposedly temporary base and for the Southern Command (Southcom), responsible for military operations in Latin America. Those justifications were found in disaster and drugs (Priest 2003:199).

“A Superb Opportunity” The catastrophic impact of Hurricane Mitch in Nicaragua in 1998 was Southcom’s first opportunity. Using the disaster as a chance to change Latin American attitudes about the US military and get permission for a significant return to the region, Southcom coordinated a $30 million relief effort for its former enemy, Nicaragua. By 1999, the Nicaraguan army was inviting Southcom’s commander to speak at its headquarters (Priest 2003:200–203). Second, Southcom used the war on drugs “to open the door even wider

33 David Vine for broader military relations” and attempts at restructuring militaries in the region. With the removal of US bases from Panama in 1999, Southcom created four new US air bases, “euphemistically called ‘forward operating locations,’” in Ecuador, Aruba, Curaçao, and El Salvador (Priest 2003:203, 205, 199). During the 1990s, Southcom’s budget increased from $26.2 to $112.8 million (in constant dollars)—more than that of any other regional command (206, 77). The war on drugs thus became the main public rationale for broader, generally unspoken goals—at a time when many agreed that there was no need for any US military presence in Honduras or Central America. When the Southcom commander responsible for much of the expansion, General Charles Wilhelm, spoke with a top Salvadoran general about a new air base, he said, “We realize, in a diplomatic sense, this plan is for counterdrug only. As a practical matter, all of us know that this agreement will give us a superb opportunity to increase the contact with all our armed forces in a variety of ways” (Priest 2003:206).

Relaunching the USS Honduras Contact between the US and Honduran armed forces has similarly increased for more than a decade, with the US war on drugs again serving as the primary official justification. Since at least 2003, the Pentagon has been expanding and upgrading Soto Cano through millions of dollars in construction contracts (Arana-Barradas and Schafer 2005:42; see www.FedSpending. org). Between 2009 and 2011, base personnel grew by about 200—almost 20 percent—to more than 1,000 US military personnel and civilian employees (Capt. David McCain, personal communication, August 24, 2011). In this period alone, Congress appropriated approximately $45 million to build “permanent facilities” for 678 troops (Lindsay-Poland 2011b). With the help of funding from the Central American Regional Security Initiative, Southcom has spent millions more on other, often small and remote, military facilities in Honduras. According to government records, in addition to making more than $48 million in fuel purchases for “various military locations” in Honduras (US Department of Defense 2005, 2009), Southcom has invested approximately $4 million for “Forward Operating Location Facilities”; a counternarcotics facility; an “Operations and Maintenance Safe House”; and a “Team Room and Range” at a site once used to train Battalion 3-16 (Lindsay-Poland 2011a). In May 2012, the New York Times revealed that the US military has been building at least three small “remote military bases…with little public notice but with the support of the Honduran government” (Shanker 2012:1). US

34 When a Country Becomes a Military Base officials said that the “forward operating bases,” sometimes called lily pad bases, are “under Honduran command.” They enable Honduran and US forces to more effectively combat and interdict drug traffickers in isolated, unpopulated parts of the country (1). One is located at Aguacate, a former Contra base. Most of the personnel appear to be Honduran troops and visiting US special operations trainers (14). A 2009 cable from the US embassy, released by WikiLeaks, indicates that the Pentagon also led an unpublicized multiagency campaign in La Moskitia, an isolated region that has become a major drug transit point, stretching along the Atlantic coast into Nicaragua. The cable suggests that the program involved the deployment of US troops; the provision of training, equipment, and arms to the Honduran military and police; the use of international exercises to provide “military presence” in isolated areas; increased intelligence gathering and surveillance; social, economic, and public relations projects; and “the construction and upgrading of [at least six] military bases” (Llorens 2009).2 Far beyond Soto Cano, the US military now has regular access to as many as thirteen bases and other military facilities in Honduras (Lindsay- Poland 2011a, 2011b; Llorens 2009; Shanker 2012; VanderZyl 2008).3 Many of these facilities have been built or upgraded without public notice, at times through exercise-related construction, recalling the methods used to evade congressional authority over base construction in the 1980s. Base construction. Military and police aid. The widespread deployment of US military trainers and special operations advisers on a de facto permanent basis. Binational and multinational training exercises. Frequent “humanitarian” missions in which the US military discreetly collects intelligence, conducts surveillance, and improves the military’s image. These are the foundations of the new US military presence in Honduras. Although the covert nature of many of the activities makes the full extent of the US military’s (and the CIA’s and other agencies’) involvement in Honduras unclear, the United States is now deploying forces across Honduras and militarizing the country to a degree not seen since the days of the USS Honduras.

Lily Pad Bases and the “New Way of War” What is clear is that Honduras is not alone.4 Rather, Honduras is a model for a pattern of growing US military involvement in more and more corners of the globe since the beginning of the twenty-first century. With little public attention or congressional oversight, the US military has been transforming its global network of overseas military bases by building a new

35 David Vine generation of relatively small, isolated, and low-profile military bases like those in Honduras. These lily pad bases, or, formally, “cooperative security locations,” generally feature limited numbers of troops, spartan amenities, and prepositioned weaponry and supplies, enabling the rapid deployment of US military power far from the United States. Around the world, from the jungles of Honduras to the deserts of Mauritania and Australia’s tiny Cocos Islands, the Pentagon has been trying to create as many lily pads as it can, in as many countries as it can, as fast as it can. Although statistics are hard to assemble, given the often secretive nature of such bases, the Pentagon has likely built upward of fifty lily pads and other small bases since 2000 and explored the construction of dozens more (Vine 2012). A partial list of the locations of lily pads and other relatively small bases built or under development includes those in Latin America (in addition to Honduras: Aruba, Belize, Chile, Costa Rica, Curaçao, Ecuador, El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Panama, Peru); East Asia (Australia, the Philippines, Singapore, Thailand, perhaps even Vietnam); Central Asia (Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan); Africa (Burkina Faso, Burundi, the Central African Republic, Djibouti, Ethiopia, Kenya, Mauritania, Senegal, Seychelles, South Sudan, Uganda); and Europe (Bulgaria, Poland, Romania) (see Cooley 2008; Johnson 2004b; Vine 2012). Base expert Alexander Cooley (2008:236) explains that “many of the large forward-deployed facilities of the cold war era” have been replaced by “an extensive global network of smaller installations scattered across regions in which the United States has previously not maintained a military presence.” Indeed, whereas the collection of Cold War bases has been shrinking in Europe and East Asia in recent years, the global infrastructure of bases overseas has actually grown in size and scope, thanks to these lily pads (not to mention bases small and large in Afghanistan, Iraq, and every Persian Gulf country save Iran; see, e.g., Turse 2009; Tyson 2004). To preempt accusations about building new “US bases,” most lily pads are—as in Honduras—always referred to as being under the control of the host nations or are fully located within an existing host nation base. As scholar and former Air Force officer Mark Gillem (2007:272) writes, “avoid- ance” is the declared new aim. “To project its power,” the United States wants “secluded and self-contained outposts strategically located” (272) around the world. In the words of some of the strategy’s strongest proponents, the goal is “to create a worldwide network of frontier forts,” with the US military serving as “the ‘global cavalry’ of the twenty-first century” (Donnelly and Serchuk 2003). In an increasingly competitive and multipolar twenty-first century, the

36 When a Country Becomes a Military Base proliferation of lily pad bases is part of a broader military and geopolitical strategy aimed at maintaining US dominance. “The face of American- style war-fighting is once again changing,” writes the historian Nick Turse (2012b). Just as US war-fighting strategy changed after the war in Vietnam, which made direct, large-scale US interventions impossible, so, too, US war fighting is changing after calamitous failures in Afghanistan and Iraq. Forget full-scale invasions and large-footprint occupations on the Eurasian mainland; instead, think: special operations forces working on their own but also training or fighting beside allied militaries (if not outright proxy armies) in hot spots around the world. And along with those special ops advisors, trainers, and commandos expect ever more funds and efforts to flow into the militarization of spying and intelligence, the use of drone aircraft, the launching of cyber-attacks, and joint Pentagon operations with increasingly militarized “civilian” government agencies. (Turse 2012b)

Recent US activity in Honduras especially underlines the increased use of special operations advisers and trainers (e.g., at many of the new lily pad bases) and Pentagon-led joint operations (e.g., the multiagency project in La Moskitia). The growing US military presence in Honduras also illustrates several other features of the new way of war, including the increased humanitarian and disaster relief missions that clearly serve military intelligence, patrol, and “hearts and minds” functions and an expanding array of joint military exercises, training missions, and port visits that give the US military a “presence” worldwide and help turn foreign militaries into proxy forces (Vine 2012). Military planners see a future of endless small-scale interventions in which a large, geographically dispersed collection of bases and other kinds of military presence will guarantee instant operational access. With bases and military relationships in as many places as possible, military planners will be able to turn from one country to another if the United States is ever prevented from using a base, as it was by Turkey before the invasion of Iraq. Like biosecurity experts’ dreams of securing life on all scales, Pentagon officials dream of nearly limitless flexibility, the ability to react quickly to developments worldwide, and, thus, something approaching total military control over the planet.

Holding On In the years following the end of the Cold War and the demise of the

37 David Vine

United States’ only regional competitor, the Soviet Union, this country has been steadily expanding its military presence in Latin America. When the United States was evicted in 2009 from one (in Ecuador) of four bases replacing those lost in Panama, the Pentagon responded by attempting to build seven new installations in Colombia alone (these were ruled uncon- stitutional by Colombia’s judiciary). The US military may also have funded a small base in Chile, seems to want a base in Brazil (Isaacson 2010), and unsuccessfully tried to create bases in Paraguay (Desantis 2009:11) and Argentina (Kozloff 2012). In 2008, the US military reactivated its long-dormant Fourth Naval Fleet to patrol South America. In Honduras and in Latin America more broadly, it seems clear that larger geopolitical and geoeconomic interests are helping to motivate this growing militarization. It can be no coincidence that at a time when China has become a competitor in the hemisphere claimed by the United States since Monroe and when countries like Brazil, Venezuela, Argentina, Chile, Ecuador, and Bolivia have—to varying degrees—begun to pursue independent political and economic paths, the United States seeks to deepen and expand its military presence across Latin America. The United States has been the military, political, and economic hegemon in the hemisphere for almost two hundred years. Now, for the first time, US political and economic strength is being called into question, in the Americas and globally. With China, Russia, and several regional powers rising, the United States is engaged in an increasingly intense competition for global economic and political supremacy. Central to this competition is the struggle for control over markets, oil, and other strategic resources. As others have argued, the nineteenth century’s “Great Game” competition for Central Asia has returned—and this time, it has gone global, spreading to resource-rich lands in Latin America, Africa, and Asia (see, e.g., Klare 2006). Whereas China, in particular, has pursued this competition mostly with its economic might, dotting the globe with strategic investments (Archibold 2012), the United States has relied mostly on its military might, dotting the globe with bases and other forms of military power. In Latin America, the US government appears to be using the war on drugs, in particular, as a way to leverage its military strength to maintain as much control, influence, and power as possible over the region. Beyond their military utility, lily pads and other forms of military power projection (training, advisers, exercises, humanitarian activities) are also political and economic tools used to build and maintain alliances and to provide privileged US access to overseas markets, resources, and investment opportunities. Lesley Gill (2004:235) describes how the training of

38 When a Country Becomes a Military Base

Latin American military leaders at the US Army’s School of the Americas in Georgia “secured their collusion in the US imperial project to a considerable degree…bound them closer to the United States, opened them to greater manipulation by the northern behemoth, and preempted military assistance from other states that might challenge US dominance.” The creation of lily pad bases in Honduras and elsewhere plays a similar role. Lily pads are deepening the collusion of military leaders and entire militaries in the US system, deepening the extent to which the Honduran military and others are extensions of the US military and, through these connections, deepening the dependence of Honduras and other countries on the United States. In short, US officials are hoping that military might will entrench their influence and bind as many countries as possible within the US orbit at a moment when a growing number of countries are asserting their independence or gravitating toward China, Venezuela, Brazil, and other emerging powers.

Fueling the Violence? Certain dangers of the lily pad strategy and the new way of war are visible in La Moskitia, the poor and isolated north coast region where the Pentagon has been leading multiagency counternarcotics operations. During a May 2012 drug interdiction mission, Honduran security forces and agents from the US Drug Enforcement Administration, transported in four US-piloted and US-owned helicopters, shot and killed four people who appear to have been innocent civilians. At least four others were injured (Bird and Main 2012). Since then, DEA agents have been involved in at least two other killings during counternarcotics missions (Savage and Shanker 2012). In a nearby area known as Bajo Aguán, a three-year-old clash between wealthy landowners and campesino groups has developed into what some are calling a “mini–civil war” over land rights (Lydersen 2011). With more than fifty campesinos already killed (Pine 2011), there have been widespread accusations that large landowners, some tied to drug trafficking (Palmer 2004), have employed private security forces, drug cartels, and even, according to some, death squads to intimidate and displace peasants (Mejía 2011). According to Rights Action, a human rights monitoring group, witnesses have seen African palm plantation security forces being trained by the Honduran Army’s Fifteenth Battalion (Pine 2011), a unit that has received US special forces training (Llorens 2009). “There are reports,” says Rights Action, that “US donated military equipment has been used in the repression” (Pine 2011). The violence seems to mirror what the historian Greg Grandin has called “a new bio-paramilitarism” in Latin America: “a revival of the old

39 David Vine anticommunist death-squad/planter alliance, energized by the current intensification of extractive and agricultural industries” (Grandin 2010). According to Grandin, empowering militaries to extend Plan Colombia (the multibillion-dollar US drug war in South America) along a corridor from Colombia to Mexico has helped give government-linked paramilitaries vastly expanded powers that have resulted in hundreds of murders and thousands of human rights abuses. All of this underlines Rouse’s argument (chapter 7) about the central role that “land grabs” and other “alienation of land from the poor” play in producing bioinsecurity. For Honduras, the US Congress appropriated $56 million in US military and police aid in 2012 despite strong and long-standing ties between the Honduran government and skyrocketing violence in the country (Associated Press 2012). Allegations have included the revival of 1980s-style death squads and the murder of thousands of young people slapped with the label “delinquents” or “gang members” under the government’s tough- on-crime, or mano duro (strong hand), policing program. Honduras’s Casa Alianza documented 1,568 young people murdered between 1998 and 2002 (in a country of only 6.7 million in 2002; Pine 2009:57). Also, the Honduran military carried out the 2009 coup overthrowing President Manuel Zelaya (flying him into exile via Soto Cano). Since the coup, violence has esca- lated, with the new government responsible for scores of political assassinations and hundreds of cases in which opposition members have been the victims of beatings, death threats, political intimidation, and other human rights abuses at the hands of death squads and other state operatives. Most recently, the newly named chief of police, Juan Carlos “The Tiger” Bonilla, who was appointed to clean up a department “widely accused of killings and human rights violations” (Associated Press 2012) has been linked to death squads and murders of a decade ago. In response to criticism in the US Congress and in Honduras, the State Department barred the transfer of US aid to Bonilla or anyone working for him, although it otherwise allowed the full transfer of US military and police aid to the Honduran government (Associated Press 2012). Although many of the facts are still unclear, there is growing evidence that expanding the US military presence and providing money and resources to the Honduran military and police are contributing to rising levels of violence and bioinsecurity, just as in the days of the USS Honduras.

Blowback Today, Blowback Tomorrow? Beyond a mere likeness, the violence and insecurity of the USS Honduras days and the violence and insecurity of today are directly connected. Indeed,

40 When a Country Becomes a Military Base today’s violence and insecurity are a blowback resulting from the role the United States played in waging the civil wars of the 1980s.5 “Blowback” is a CIA term popularized by former CIA analyst Chalmers Johnson as a way to understand the September 11, 2001, attacks orchestrated by former CIA-backed militant Osama bin Laden. According to Johnson (2004a:xi), blowback describes the unintended consequences of past US operations whose causes the public cannot understand because of the covert nature of the precipitating actions. Put more simply, the United States reaps what it (secretly) sows. Through covert and open US support for the Contras and a repressive regime in Honduras, as well as for repressive governments in Guatemala and El Salvador during the 1980s, the US government helped fuel the decade’s dirty wars. These wars killed and injured hundreds of thousands, frayed and destroyed social relations, and increased poverty, insecurity, and drug trafficking in the region. The wars likewise led to widespread flight to the United States. Once there, in cities like Los Angeles, many impoverished boys and young men often joined gangs, only to be arrested and deported back to their home countries, beginning new branches of US-based gangs that soon violently entrenched themselves in Honduras and elsewhere in Central America (Pine 2009:35–38). In Honduras, the end of the wars also meant an end to a steady flow of US government cash. Many Hondurans soon took to the two major industries that arose to replace the wars: cocaine and private security. Both drew on the insecurity that reigned in the country and the large supplies of weapons and men with military training that remained (Paglen 2009:237, 211). Building on the drug trade that the US-backed Contras helped to fuel, drug traffickers took advantage of Honduras and other poor and weak Central American countries, which remained relatively powerless to stop the transformation of their territories into transshipment points between South American production hubs and North American points of sale. Although the main transit routes used to go through the Caribbean, one result of the drug war has been to shift the transportation routes (while increasing violence, doing little to affect consumption, and lowering prices). Today, an estimated 90 percent of the cocaine shipped from Colombia and Venezuela to the United States goes through Central America; more than one-third of that total goes through Honduras (Shanker 2012:1). The drug trade’s resulting violence in combination with the proliferation of gangs, widespread land dispossession, and the hardship of living in the second-poorest country in the hemisphere make it little wonder that Honduras has the world’s highest murder rate.

41 David Vine

The violence and bioinsecurity created by the USS Honduras—and, indeed, by almost two centuries of US domination—have produced today’s violence and bioinsecurity, which rival that of the past but whose causes are obscured by the covert and often simply ignored history of US involvement in Honduras. The US government is much like the international order in that it does not want to face up to its own responsibility in having helped to create the problem it now sets itself to solve (Caton, chapter 6). Sadly, today’s growing US military presence—advanced in the name of security— appears to be a recipe for perpetual violence, perpetual war, perpetual bioinsecurity. As Susser (chapter 9) points out, these are the “contradictions of biosecurity and bioinsecurity,” with bioinsecurity “the product of the same global and national, economic and political decisions that create inequality and deprivation.” The question, then, for Honduras (and for many countries like it) is, what blowback and insecurity will emerge in the future from relaunching the USS Honduras in the name of security? Insecurity will continue unless US and Honduran citizens and their allies demand that their leaders choose another path, beginning with the recognition that biosecurity will never be improved as long as military solutions remain the focus in combating problems associated with illicit drugs.

Acknowledgments Thanks to Lesley Sharp, Nancy Chen, and all the wonderful people at SAR—from the president to the truly remarkable and lovely cooks and staff—for the amazing opportunity to participate in the seminar that led to this volume. Thanks also to Adrienne Pine, Lilia Castellanos Pine, John Lindsay-Poland, Dana Frank, Beth Geglia, Laura Juag, Joeva Rock, and many new friends in Honduras, whom I will not name here to maintain confidentiality.

Notes 1. This chapter is part of a five-year book project and a result of thirteen years exploring the impacts of US military bases overseas. During June and July 2011, I conducted approximately two weeks of ethnographic research in Tegucigalpa and Palmerola, Honduras. I followed this research in 2011, 2012, and 2013 with interview- ing in and around Washington, DC, and a broad review of government documents, news reports, and other materials related to the history of the US military presence in Honduras. 2. The project also includes a “public-private partnership” involving a major real estate and development firm, General Electric, and humanitarian aid groups (including one directed by the son of Undersecretary of State Maria Otero). 3. Others include La Venta, Puerto Castilla, Mocorón, Aguacate, Puerto Lempira,

42 When a Country Becomes a Military Base

La Brea, and Naco. Forces at Soto Cano have also long used two additional training areas, the Tamara Drop Zone and the Zamorano Firing Range, and the army maintains a Tropic Regions Test Center, including a cargo-plane-capable runway, on a Honduran base near Mocorón (VanderZyl 2008). 4. Parts of this section stem from Vine 2012. 5. Huge thanks and credit to Joe Masco for suggesting this line of analysis.

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Perils before Swine Bioinsecurity and Scientific Longing in Experimental Xenotransplantation Research

Lesley A. Sharp

In the last ten years there has been a quantum leap in the status of pigs.… No longer the lowly farmyard hog…considered…too unclean to be eaten, the pig has become the center of a growing scientific and biotechnological endeavor. Its status has been elevated to that of a research source of the highest order. And plans are afoot to raise its status even higher by… inbreeding, by genetic engineering and cloning to “humanize” it, and by ultimately rendering it disease-free. It will be housed in conditions second to none in the animal kingdom. Its every whim will be catered to. And if xenotransplantation proves ultimately successful, the expression “pearls before swine” may [become]…an expression of thanksgiving.

—David K. C. Cooper and Robert Paul Lanza, Xeno

In the new millennium world of highly experimental biomedicine, xenotransplant research holds extraordinary promise for patients awaiting new organs. Within this rarified field of science, genetically modified pigs are imagined as ideal sources for transpecies grafts, offering a means to side- step perhaps forever the devastating chronic shortages of donated human parts both in the United States and abroad. As reflected in proclamations issued more than a decade ago by David Cooper and Robert Lanza—who are considered giants in the intertwined worlds of xenografting and tissue engineering—pigs herald “the next great medical revolution,” answering “the need for a limitless source of organs and tissues” (Cooper and Lanza

45 Lesley A. Sharp

2000:xvii). When imagined as such, these creatures might well transform into transplant’s “ultimate piggy bank” (Cooper and Lanza 2000:230), embodying the hopes and perils of biosecurity measures in speculative biomedicine. Labs stocked with bioengineered piglets define sites of futuristic longing—or, if they fail, hype (Sunder Rajan 2006:107–120)—amid an ongoing race to eliminate suffering among patients who currently die in droves awaiting scarce donated human parts. Against this backdrop of hopelessness, the pig’s promissory nature signals an extraordinary sort of emergent biocapital (Franklin and Lock 2003; Rose 2001; Sunder Rajan 2006) and medicalized biosecurity. Successful experiments could foster the “upward mobility” (Cooper and Lanza 2000:54) of swine from already prosperous farm to newly conceived forms of lucrative pharma production. Cooper and Lanza’s assertion that humans might one day bow down to (or cast pearls before)1 swine in “thanksgiving” may seem preposterous to many readers; such musings nevertheless foreground the dogged pursuit in organ transplantation to broaden the field from which viable and reusable organs can be obtained without resorting to the “underbelly” of either illicit or sanctioned organ sales (Moniruzzaman, chapter 10). Currently, a range of imaginative alternatives abound, most notably, implantable mechanical or “artificial” organs (with the heart defining an especially pronounced focus), tissue engineering (or attempts to grow whole organs “from scratch” from cultured cells), and xenotransplantation (involving efforts to overcome profound transpecies immunological hurdles so that parts culled from healthy animals can be implanted in sickly human beings). Each is highly experimental, and each brings with it the paired possibilities of salvation and harm. Where xenografting is concerned, bioinsecurity, as human vulnerability, hinges in large part on the dangers associated with the potentially lethal transmission of pathogens across the species divide. Indeed, the promissory qualities of xenografting research are troubled by still other dangers that threaten human life. This chapter serves as a call to incorporate highly experimental medical research within the boundaries of bio(in)security, where human vulnerability hinges, paradoxically, on imaginative, technocratic efforts to alleviate widespread suffering in clinical contexts. Xenotransplantation offers an especially rich domain in which to explore the temporal qualities of bioinsecurity, because scientists’ objectives to circumvent human organ scarcity by relying on alternative animal source or donor species also threaten human life well beyond the confines of the clinic. When framed as such, the “double helix” of biosecurity and vulnerability (Chen, chapter 5) exposes cautionary tales best read in temporal terms

46 Perils before Swine

(M. Cooper 2008; Ferry and Limbert 2008; Guyer 2007). Contemporary investment and hope may foreshadow significant—or even insurmountable—dangers in the longue durée (Sharp 2013). Biosecurity in contemporary parlance regularly encompasses the often deliberate—though sometimes accidental and thus serendipitous—transmission of highly contagious, lethal pathogens. Smallpox, anthrax, and avian and swine flus loom especially large in the American collective imagination. In this regard, biosecurity’s target, so to speak, is the “security” and thus protection of humans as bio-organisms understood to be vulnerable to a plethora of life-threatening assaults (cf. Martin 1990), some of which, although certainly not all, are envisioned as deliberate or, at the very least, resulting from careless human activities. Currently, in the United States especially, biosecurity is widely equated with terrorist acts driven by political or religious extremism and instigated by human agents; harmful vectors include insidious weaponry and invisible, lethal sources of contagion. Still other outbreaks, epidemics, or pandemics trace newly imagined forms of human vulnerability to careless practices in animal husbandry, infrastructural weaknesses in public health, and threats to already compromised ecosystems. When one speaks of biosecurity, then, the boundaries between bomb threats, a virus hitching a ride on a transcontinental flight, and diseased food-source animals are quickly blurred. Furthermore, although the safety of individual human bodies is certainly at stake, biosecurity initiatives are most keenly focused on tracking and containing danger on national and global scales. In other words, the focus is overwhelmingly on the ensu- ing threat of pandemics, whereas small-scale contexts tend to matter most only during efforts to trace outbreaks back to their source.2 There is, then, a pronounced and regular ignorance or erasure of individual suffering and quotidian contexts except during efforts to localize blame. In response, I propose inverting the scale of analysis, focusing not on imagined, global consequences of a pathogen run amok, but rather on its point of origin specifically within the laboratory (versus the farm or field) and within an anticipatory and thus temporal mode, long before any threatening outbreak has occurred. I argue that xenotransplantation (henceforth, “xeno”) offers an especially intriguing context to explore biosecurity at so small a scale precisely because practitioners must be hyperalert to the potentially lethal consequences of (what Cooper and Lanza [2000] identify as xenozoonotic) infections that could conceivably jump the species barrier sometime in the near or distant future. I am especially interested in the sociomoral logics that guide researchers who work in highly experimental xeno science, and how they imagine it as a newly conceived—and highly

47 Lesley A. Sharp unusual—futures market. I ask more specifically, how do involved scientists imagine the promises of xenografts, which conceivably could save individual lives yet simultaneously endanger others if such patients subsequently transmit lethal pathogens to their loved ones, caretakers, neighbors, and wider communities?

Xenografting and Emergent Biosecurity In many quarters, xeno science garners enthusiastic support as a means to secure specialized resources in a medical domain plagued by scarcity. Such support is most pronounced among surgeons and patients who favor fleshy, living tissue over mechanical devices; organs conceivably could be harvested from genetically altered, “humanized” animals and then implanted in relatively seamless fashion in patients’ bodies. In this brave new world of organ transplant research, some even hope that an individual creature might be tailored from the start to “match”3 a specific human as a means to stave off otherwise cataclysmic forms of immunological rejection: the human host would recognize porcine tissue, for example, not as “other” but as “same as self.” In this specialized realm of the scientific imagination (cf. DelVecchio Good 2001), pigs emerge as the “natural” and thus preferred alternative to “clunky” and “artificial” engineered mechanical parts, which currently require external drivelines, portable battery packs, and recharging stations. The politically charged arena of tissue engineering is a domain that remains controversial in some quarters because it may rely on the stem cells of human fetuses. Scientific efforts in xeno were initiated in the first decade of the twentieth century by Alexis Carrel and involved a wide range of transpecies grafts.4 After Carrel abandoned these efforts, the field remained dormant until mid-century, when renewed experimentation arose in tandem with successful allograft surgeries (that is, human-to-human forms of organ transfer). 5 The period from the 1960s to the mid-1990s was a golden era, when several leading transplant surgeons tested the viability of replacement parts derived from our simian “cousins,” most notably, chimpanzees, rhesus macaques, and, subsequently, baboons (Sharp 2007, 2011a, 2011b). Failures were entangled in the paired effects of significant immunological hurdles and public (more specifically, animal activist) distrust and outrage over the use of such highly sentient creatures. By the twenty-first century, pigs emerged as what xeno experts now describe as ideal “source” or “donor” animals. The field, nevertheless, is plagued by seemingly insurmountable immunological barriers that exemplify the human body’s inability to tolerate grafted nonhuman tissue. This has been compounded by heightened

48 Perils before Swine fears surrounding the dangers associated with the transmission of exotic zoonoses, most notably, porcine endogenous retroviruses (PERVs), sometimes referenced in lay terminology as “porcine AIDS.” Such potentially lethal dangers threaten efforts to generate—and, thus, secure—alternative sources for human organ replacement. Broadly speaking, discussions on the status of national and global biosecurity tend to focus on anticipating, averting, and responding to pandemic threats in the future—in the United States, usually via the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the Transportation Security Adminis- tration, and the Department of Homeland Security. As Masco (chapter 1) demonstrates, experts on risk and containment imagine scenarios as a pre- paratory measure before they happen—but what of those who work at the initial site or, put another way, who, though unintentionally, might well be to blame or might bear responsibility for scourges of pandemic proportions? How do such parties imagine the perhaps lethal consequences of otherwise life-saving work? Here, I strive to shift the frame of reference not only to localized contexts but also to particular points of origin of bioinsecurity, namely, xeno labs, where the scientific determination to save human lives might result in instigating zoonotic pandemics. My project is driven by the assumption that highly experimental contexts are points of origin of potential social and medical danger, which makes them rife with anxieties and uncertainty. Furthermore, ethnographic investigation offers an especially fruitful means for uncovering and deciphering the more imaginative aspects of experimental science and how its practitioners conceive its moral consequences. Experimentation is, in essence, anticipatory, signaling the importance of tracking the scientific imagination in temporal terms. As I demonstrate here, xeno researchers frame the futuristic, promissory outcomes of transpecies experimentation as a moral enterprise by grounding their efforts in historicized narratives of scientific ingenuity, prowess, and courage, themes that downplay or obscure recklessness, hubris, and endangerment.

Origin Stories as Moral Frameworks As I explore the notion of “origins,” I employ the term in a double sense. In xeno science, one encounters two intersecting origin stories of biosecurity in which a reliance on animals shapes scientific morality. On the one hand—as Masco details so elegantly in chapter one—biosecurity is a highly naturalized way of thinking that is very much a twentieth- century phenomenon, the concept originating with safety protocols associated with animal husbandry and, more substantially, the industrial

49 Lesley A. Sharp farming of domesticated and consumable animals such as chickens, cattle, and pigs (see also Boyd and Watts 1997; Page 1997). Within this first framework, human caretakers must be vigilant in their efforts to keep animals healthy (and, thus, free from contagion) so that the humans who consume them will not be harmed. Animal husbandry experts frequently tell me that protecting the safety of the animal is paramount, and such efforts may in fact involve shielding lucrative animals from contagion from human carriers. For instance, visitors to farms and pharma labs may be required to walk through sterilizing solutions, shower, or alter their attire to protect animals from harm. On the other hand is a more recent, postmillennial notion of biosecurity, one framed by efforts to police state and national borders with policies reflecting anxieties associated with pandemic zoonoses, among which bird and swine flus are exemplary. In other words, within this second framework, the danger to human safety originates with animals, both domesticated and wild. Moral thinking in xeno science merges these two frameworks. The first is evident in the highly naturalized approaches that originate with farm animal care as a means to guarantee herd safety. The “herd” in this instance is a colony of selectively bred and, at times, bioengineered creatures who live under sheltered circumstances either on specialized farms or in laboratories. Evidence of the second surfaces at those moments when xeno experts display scientific vigilance in the face of xenozoonotic threats. These intertwined approaches to containment, isolation, and, when necessary, quarantine or culling ultimately determine the parameters within which xeno scientists imagine their work’s hopes and promises, alongside the unintended consequences of pathogens moving in either direction across the species divide. I ask, then, how might one detect and decipher xeno scientists’ moral understandings of bioinsecurity as informed by multiple origin stories and, thus, blurred boundaries when dangers arise? This is in large part a methodological question, and a key premise here is that ethnographic approaches prove especially fruitful in uncovering hidden meanings and anxieties about safety and vulnerability in xeno science. Moral frameworks abound in xeno, as is true, I advocate, in any form of highly experimental lab research. Faced with widespread suffering and death among patients awaiting scarce organs, xeno scientists approach their work as an inherently moral enterprise. Should they succeed, xeno holds the promise of ending transplant medicine’s dependency on donated human body parts and, further, perhaps even surpassing allo- transplantation’s capabilities if, indeed, individual transgenic animals

50 Perils before Swine can be bioengineered to provide the ideal individual human match (thus, perhaps even eliminating any need for the potent and currently quite toxic immunosuppressant drugs so essential to protecting patients with allografts). Once one steps beyond these guiding premises, however, the moral terrain of xeno becomes very complicated, as do definitions of danger and human vulnerability. Xeno scientists, like their peers in myriad fields, are certainly guided by bioethical principles, most notably, in answer to state and federal guidelines and university-based institutional review boards that impose standards for human and animal research. As I detail below, however, bioethics—widely employed in lab science as a set of static, albeit universalist, principles—in fact constrains moral thought and action. In contrast, I am interested in the fluid processes associated with morality-in-the-making in experimental domains where principles of conduct and thought are in constant states of flux. My work here as an anthropologist is informed in large part by Beidelman’s (1993) concept of the “moral imagination,” or those thoughts and actions that emerge in response to troubling, and often unresolvable, social quandaries (cf. Livingston 2005). I set this alongside Lambek’s (2010b) associated notion of “ordinary ethics,”6 an approach that circumscribes mundane (and thus unmarked) sociomoral processes unveiled by careful analyses of quotidian speech acts and ritualized actions (see also Brodwin 2013; Das 2012). Science most certainly exhibits a host of specialized phrases and ritualized behaviors, readily evident in professional terminology and already illustrated above (e.g., “humanized pigs,” “donor” and “source” animals, the “matching” of species, and altering the “other” such that it becomes indistinguishable from “self”). Laboratory life is replete with the daily repetitiveness of standardized routines, set alongside scripted public per- formances staged at professional conferences and media events. When these are regarded as morally driven behaviors, a profusion of values begins to emerge that exposes xeno scientists’ understandings of human vulnerability. Especially intriguing are the ways that standardized practices can naturalize—and thus foreground or expose—xeno experts’ concerns for certain dangers while neutralizing, or altogether erasing, others. Ethnographic probing assists in uncovering underlying anxieties about transpecies hybrids, especially when human suffering is concerned. Morality-in-the-making, or ordinary ethics, is bolstered by three foundational premises, which I first summarize here and then address in more detail.

51 Lesley A. Sharp

Ordinary Ethics and Xenozoonotic Threats A diversity of opinions inevitably surfaces in any given scientific discipline, affecting the moral framing of risk, vulnerability, and danger. As Keck (2008) has demonstrated for impending zoonoses in France, disciplinary differences affect how veterinarians and public health officials envision and plan to manage possible outbreaks of mad cow disease and bird flu. Keck’s research reveals that members of these two professional groups conceptualize human (versus animal) vulnerability very differently. A primary task of the ethnographer is to identify dominant patterns of thought, speech, and action. I strive to do so here in specific reference to three underlying premises that shape moral thinking about biosecurity and human vulnerability in xeno science. Of special concern to me is how these premises naturalize and thus endorse certain moral considerations over others. First, xeno’s conflation of “biohazard” with “biosecurity” has significant moral consequences, foregrounding particular concerns while obscuring others. Biohazard containment stands as a tried and true means to promote safe practices not merely in the paired domains of animal husbandry and food production, but now as well in response to pernicious zoonotic infections and even deliberate acts of global terrorism. In this regard, xeno science exhibits deeply entrenched modes of action and discourse in which efforts to raise pigs as viable and safe sources for human transplants are relatively indistinguishable from those long naturalized in agribusiness.7 The fact that pig parts are used extensively in surgical body repair facilitates this (inert porcine heart valves are the best-known example). In xeno, then, one encounters a relatively seamless merging of the old biohazard perspective with new biosecurity measures as one moves from farm to pharma production, exemplifying what Boyd and Watts (1997:145) describe for another context as “an incipient form of industrial ‘conventions’” marked by close alliances between farms and firms. At those moments when more contemporary, post-9/11 notions of biosecurity surface, involved researchers do not view xeno as a source of impending pandemics but, rather, they consider these very notions as ill-conceived threats to the science itself. Second, the promissory qualities assigned to xeno in the face of chronic human organ shortages serve to naturalize the field as an inherently moral enterprise. This moral framing is rooted in a widely applied bioethical principle that underscores the significance of social justice in science (Beauchamp and Childress 1979). This principle figures prominently in clinical contexts in which high-risk procedures attempted on

52 Perils before Swine willing individual subjects hold the promise of alleviating widespread human suffering in the future. In essence, risk taking is crucial to medico- scientific discovery and advancement, and the willing sacrifices by a few offer hope and promise for many. In xeno more specifically, the sometimes daredevil qualities of scientific prowess are widely celebrated as having the potential to overcome obstacles to human health in the longue durée. This outlook profoundly shapes xeno experts’ explanations of the dangers their research might generate, alongside their concerted efforts to “translate” their work to help assuage public fears of swine-based zoonoses. Third, whereas critics may view xeno’s efforts as evidence of “monster science” (Cook 2006; Murray 2011), within the field itself, monstrous qualities are fully naturalized, as evident in the notion of the humanized pig. From an animal activist’s viewpoint, feats of interspecies bioengineering offer blatant evidence of scientific hubris, but xeno scientists celebrate such “monstrous couplings” (Haraway 1991, 1992) because they might well save the lives of myriad patients who otherwise would die awaiting human organs.8 Xeno scientists strive tirelessly—some over the course of their entire professional lives—to create successful hybrids, or creatures known in immunological parlance as “chimeras” (a term derived from the name of a terrifying monster in Greek mythology).9 Rather than abhor monsters, xeno scientists embrace them as offering very real, life-saving possibilities. This relentless determination in xeno science to transform pigs into successfully humanized donor or source animals also foregrounds certain forms of suffering while, again, concealing others. Most notably, widespread and anonymous collective forms of patient suffering drive decades of xeno research, yet the pain and anguish that individual patients (not to mention pigs and other animals) must endure as xeno’s experimental subjects are all too often overlooked, neglected, or forgotten. Anxieties abound in this rarified domain, most notably, in response to deeply entrenched concerns over human organ scarcity (Sharp 2006b). This then fuels highly experimental transplant research that poses potentially lethal risks for consenting human patients (not to mention noncon- senting animal subjects).10 Throughout the remainder of this chapter, I draw on ethnographic evidence to explore how xeno scientists grapple with questions of bioinsecurity and human vulnerability when they themselves might be creating widespread danger of potentially pandemic proportions. Of special significance are the ways scientific anxieties instigate erasure on three fronts: first, by equating biosecurity with safe practices in animal husbandry; second, by relying on bioethics as a dominant moral framework at the expense of more fluid, quotidian ones and by translating their own

53 Lesley A. Sharp perceptions of danger into more palatable readings of xeno’s prospects; and, third, by foregrounding widespread human suffering at the expense of the individual experimental subject. By way of conclusion, I consider the moral consequences of futuristic thinking in this highly experimental domain.

The Human as Animal Biohazard It is midsummer 2009, and I am visiting an array of barns at a university- based agricultural research station in northern California, a modest facility that houses hardy and healthy goats, dairy cattle, and swine. My two twenty-year-old female guides escort me through an entryway where biohazard instructions are displayed prominently. In order to protect their small swine herd from a host of infections, I must slip into a disposable white jumpsuit and don a hair cover; only then can we step through two separate biobaths at the thresholds of two successive doorways leading to the swine barn. This is a low-level hazard area: just like me, school groups and 4-H Club members pass through these doorways nearly every week. The inquisitive gilts and sows who greet us as we enter—their moist snouts outstretched and probing as we stand just outside their pens—are bred and raised primarily to teach future farmers of California key components of safe animal care. As the barn director explains to me, “the concept of ‘biosecurity’ has been around for a very long time” and is part and parcel of any well-run animal care facility in this and other countries.11 And contrary to most contemporary parlance, this biosecurity meant protecting the animals from me, and not the other way around. As I would learn later that week, my activities here posed a biohazard to more carefully regulated swine at another facility. My exposure to the first herd ruled out any possibility of my seeing the second, whose pigs are bred primarily for experimental use in a range of xeno and other research laboratories spread throughout a neighboring university campus. Nevertheless, the biohazardous threats that pigs pose to humans have taken on special urgency in recent years because of the increased interest in their parts for human use in ways that extend far beyond the consumption of pork roast, ribs, and bacon. The elision of the utilitarian value of pigs as farm-raised food and, more recently, as sources for lucrative pharma products has progressed so gradually as to now seem nearly seamless in xeno quarters. Ironically, because the pig harbors such great potential for surgical needs, pharmaceutical use, and, inevitably, venture capital investment, this creature simultaneously poses very specialized promises and threats. Just as the primates favored during xeno’s bygone days bore

54 Perils before Swine the dangers of lethal pathogens from the wild,12 PERVs loom especially large as a current threat in (and ultimately to the national and even global success of) xeno research. Since the 1990s research by high-profile virologists has generated devastating evidence that PERVs can infect, and be detected in, a wide range of human tissues under laboratory conditions (Allan 1996; Patience, Takeuchi, and Weiss 1997; Weiss 1998a, 1998b). Xeno science had already faced opposition from animal activists, but these actions from the ranks of science meant that xeno researchers faced even more formidable opponents. By the late 1990s, more dramatic responses came from within xeno itself, when a handful of concerned scientists broke rank and declared a moratorium on any xeno research that would involve human subjects (Bach et al. 1998). Although animal activists I have interviewed generally regard this development as an elaborate publicity stunt, it nevertheless brought these scientists’ own research to a sudden (and permanent) halt. Today, all swine are widely known in veterinary, animal husbandry, and xeno circles to harbor various strains of PERVs, even when they are symptom free. As I am often told, these endogenous viruses are so deeply entrenched in porcine species as to be embedded in their genome. In response, lab-based researchers are equally obsessed with the immunological hurdles associated with graft rejection and with the potentially devastating dangers that might lurk in the form of PERVs and other porcine pathogens. The fact that swine pose significant biohazards of still other sorts— ranging from the sewage runoff associated with industrial farming to the public fear of swine flu—has forced xeno scientists to consider the moral underpinnings of their work while they also strive to police public thinking about the promissory nature of pigs.13 For instance, within the walls of xeno labs, efforts to quell public fears have taken ingenious and curious turns. Among the more remarkable is a global search for isolated swine populations that might well be PERVs free.14 Still other scientists work tirelessly to try to breed PERVs out of pigs (an effort that researchers outside xeno science regard as impossible because PERVs are so deeply embedded in pigs’ genetic makeup). Even more striking are efforts to erase any visible evidence of the bioengineered pig, a specialized form of industrial agnotology (see Stone, chapter 4) that directs a blind eye to the potential dangers such a creature might embody. Here, I offer three brief examples. First, a debate rages over whether specialized, hybrid sows and their offspring should be allowed to graze outdoors (“like any normal pig,” as Cooper and others often put it) or should spend their entire lives in pristine biohazard laboratories. At

55 Lesley A. Sharp issue is whether they are just like any ordinary hog or are special and thus fragile creatures. The second involves the reduction of the animal itself to the molecular level such that it altogether vanishes from sight. For example, some labs “render” (Shukin 2009) pigs down to the purest essence of organ function; this is most readily evident in ongoing pancreatic research. Through a process known as “encapsulation,” insulin-producing pancreatic islet cells are retrieved from pigs, enclosed at the microscopic level in a permeable membrane, and then implanted in the diabetic human host. These encapsulated cells then produce insulin without ever making direct contact with human tissue. A third approach, evidenced in the epigraph from Cooper and Lanza that opens this chapter, involves the creation of the “humanized pig,” a strange, hybrid creature that bears the genetic makeup of two highly disparate species. Although animal activists regard such efforts with horror, I am frequently told by xeno experts that this approach marks yet a single chapter in a very long, established, and natural progression in science to improve on and perfect life. In the colorful phrasing of one interviewee, “if it looks like a pig and oinks like a pig, then it’s still a pig through and through.” In these three instances, the pig’s ordinary nature is oddly preserved in a process that enables xeno researchers to keep at bay (within and beyond xeno) anxieties over bioinsecurity.

The Bioethics of Bioinsecurity All xeno scientists whom I have encountered are well versed in the standardized safety practices imposed by federal, state, and university regulatory apparatuses, which include not only the methods associated with animal husbandry but also bioethical principles that guide medical research and practice. Of special relevance in the United States (and increasingly elsewhere)15 is the four-pronged bioethical approach known as “principlism,” espoused by Tom Beauchamp and James Childress (1979) and codified in a document known as the Belmont Report (US Department of Health, Education, and Welfare 1978), which has long shaped human subject protocols in this country. Principlism postulates the historical and cultural universalism of four dominant moral principles understood as relevant to the medico-scientific treatment of human beings. These principles are organized under the evocative categories of “autonomy” (respect for others and individual free will), “beneficence” (the responsibility to assist others), “nonmaleficence” (derived from the Hippocratic pledge primum non nocere, or “do no harm”), and “social justice” (frequently described as the fair distribution of social burdens and benefits). Today, principlism shapes all medical research in the States involving human

56 Perils before Swine subjects; there are similarly static and highly structured apparatuses relevant to laboratory animal care.16 Xeno experts I have encountered from a range of contexts regularly and quite easily summarize these four principles and their application to their own research, a knowledge honed most certainly by the fact that each time they submit, seek approval for, and renew requests for institutional support, they must incorporate these principles in their proposals and reports. Whereas this branch of bioethics provides a homogeneous approach across the sciences that is simultaneously universalist (cropping up in a range of disciplines and in diverse countries) and reductionist (evident in the four-principle approach), the moral quandaries that surface within a specific domain are frequently particular to that science. Furthermore, the more experimental the enterprise, the richer and more troublesome the quandaries. Thus, bioethics figures prominently as a regulatory framework that guides researchers’ conduct and thought, yet it reveals very little about how xeno experts frame the themes of vulnerability and biosecurity in the ordinary contexts of laboratory life. In Lambek’s (2010a:3) words, “the ordinary is intrinsically ethical and ethics intrinsically ordinary,” but as xeno science reveals, “the ordinary” can be difficult to detect if one pays attention solely to formalized ethical responses. In this sense, then, the hidden power of bioethics is its ability to overshadow, silence, or erase evidence of the more complicated or contradictory aspects of moral thinking and action. As Beidelman’s (1993) and Lambek’s (2010b) scholarship demonstrates, the careful scrutiny of everyday action, thought, and language enables the ethnographer to uncover the social processes that inform moral thinking. Nowhere is this more evident in xeno science than in its practitioners’ efforts to police public perceptions of the potentially lethal consequences of PERVs for humans, should these retroviruses jump the species barrier. In response, the field’s international society has established an in-house bioethics committee that serves as a quasi-regulatory body. Committee members track research throughout the globe in an effort to identify, contain, and prevent reckless lab work and clinical trials. Recently, the committee has forged partnerships with other regulatory agencies, most notably, the World Health Organization. Although these strategies are ostensibly driven by the principle to do no harm, they also foreground an unspoken concern within the ranks of xeno that PERVs could indeed instigate a global pandemic if research were, in the words of one committee member, driven by a handful of “reckless mavericks.” Thus, alongside efforts to secure the production of scarce resources for transplant medicine, xeno science similarly

57 Lesley A. Sharp seeks to secure the oversight and control of research and potentially lethal outcomes, a process that indeed offers a refined and deliberate example of Stone’s notion of agnotology.

Translating Xeno Science amid Global Insecurity Xeno experts’ efforts to police the field are most strikingly evident in the current fascination across a range of disciplines with what is known as “translational science.” In biomedicine more broadly, this phrase is widely employed as shorthand for promoting the movement of ideas and techniques from bench to clinic (that is, from laboratory to patient-based practices). In xeno science, however, the phrase is applied quite literally to efforts to “translate,” or “interpret” the goals and, in turn, the social ramifications of xeno research to a skittish public.17 More specifically, xeno experts strive to redefine, reinscribe, and reformulate language, a process that the historian Ruth Richardson (1996) describes as “semantic mas- sage.” Consider, for instance, the passage that appears at the opening of this chapter, in which Cooper and Lanza proclaim, “No longer the lowly farmyard hog…[the pig’s] status has been elevated to that of a research source of the highest order.” Xeno science not only legitimates the use of the pig but also alters this animal’s value by foregrounding biotechnological prowess. This restructuring of the pig’s value assuages doubt, guilt, and fear not simply in the society at large, but also within the confines of the field itself. Nowhere are such efforts at agnotology more evident than in the semantic construct of the “humanized pig,” in which the animal itself quite literally becomes us. The humanized pig, then, dispels danger precisely because it is no longer (as expressed in immunological terms) an “other” but is recognized instead as “self.” In reality, however, this remains the not- yet-realized dream of xeno as a wildly successful hybrid science. Cooper and Lanza’s suggestion that we might one day cast pearls before swine as our collective gift of thanks is most certainly a playful rendition of ordinary ethics; such levity aside, xeno nevertheless remains a high-risk domain of experimental activity.

Human Vulnerability and the Disappearing Subject Risks always abound in domains circumscribed by experimental biomedical research (Abadie 2010; Petryna 2005). When set within a bioethical framework, however, categories of risk most often, and most keenly, flag the potential endangerment of individual patients, whose consent is required

58 Perils before Swine prior to the use of premarket drugs, surgical innovations, and implant prototypes. In response to the dangers associated with innovation, bioethical principlism engenders a set of well-worn, predictable questions. Do the potential benefits outweigh possible risks? Does a patient’s involvement hold promises of alleviating widespread suffering down the road? Is the patient fully cognizant of the potential harms involved in serving as an experimental subject? When framed in these ways, informed consent is imagined as a highly personal affair that also offers hope for a much larger, abstracted, and generalized population. At the moment of consent, then, risks and harms are in some strong sense individualized, personalized, and localized. Still, a seemingly inescapable aspect of clinical experimentation is that associated research activities inevitably focus on the longue durée, on outcomes that might affect large populations or patient groups, and not on individuals (who would be experimental subjects) in the immediate future. As outlined above, xeno science was driven from the start by a determination to eradicate human suffering in transplant medicine. In this sense alone, it is a science propelled by a commitment to social justice, understood in temporal terms. The promissory nature of pigs as a potentially perpetual source of reusable parts drives some scientists to devote their entire careers to this pursuit, even in the face of interminable immunological hurdles, social distrust, and combative animal activists. By focusing on the longue durée, xeno experts’ efforts to detect or envision the suffering of the individual research subject in the near present are limited (Sharp 2009, 2011b; see also Guyer 2007). In essence, the vulnerable individual subject is erased from view. This sort of erasure is especially evident when xeno experts recount their discipline’s history. To date, a few dozen human subjects—all deceased —have participated in xeno experiments, involving attempts to implant organs derived from chimpanzees and macaques in the 1960s and from baboons in the 1980s and, most recently, islet cells derived from pigs.18 Among the most striking aspects of these accounts (retold in a standardized fashion at professional conferences) is the omission of individual patients’ experiences, although nearly all were terminally ill and nearly none survived their surgeries beyond a few hours or days. From the outside (or from the bedside), it is difficult to conceive of the suffering endured by those who experienced firsthand the shock of hyperacute graft rejection (Sharp 2006a). This quite visceral, embodied form of danger is glossed over by the dominant narratives of scientific discovery and remarkable advancements in clinical knowledge. Similar narrative structures typify scientists’ responses to the potentially

59 Lesley A. Sharp lethal dangers of PERVs. An assortment of nonclinically oriented scholars and ethicists have long expressed trepidation in response to xenografting and have engaged at times in lively debate (see, for instance, Clark 1999; Cook 2006; Helman 1992; Murray 2011; Vanderpool 1999). Concerns raised include the dangers associated with unintended or accidental transpecies infections, set alongside broader questions regarding the potential pariah status of individuals who are no longer fully human but are instead—if one builds on Cooper and Lanza’s playful phrasing—“porcinized” patients (cf. Jackson 2002; Lundin 1999; Papagaroufali 1996, 1997). The advantage of the disappearing subject, of course, is that it assuages guilt and fear among scientists resolved to save a host of anonymous patients in the all too distant future.

Temporal Morality Xeno research currently is at best a promissory science. In a clinical realm plagued by scarcity, involved scientists stand determined to overcome a host of obstacles to secure reliable alternative sources of transplantable organs. This highly experimental domain is fraught with dangers on multiple fronts, most significantly, the biohazardous threats associated with the transpecies grafting of body parts that might well harbor dormant lethal pathogens. Xeno is thus an insecure science and one that embraces a moral framework inevitably futuristic in its temporal orientation. Rather than focus on the deeply troubled terrain of the here and now, xeno scientists remain most concerned with the promises that lie on a distant horizon (see Sharp 2011b). This temporalized stance obscures moral thought, facilitat- ing three simultaneous erasures: of the dangers harbored in the flesh of donor pigs; of the inevitable suffering that human experimental subjects must endure during efforts to test the viability of such radical surgeries; and of scientists’ own culpability in engendering the spread of undetected and poorly understood pathogens across the species divide. Organs derived from such promissory animals as humanized pigs define a peculiar futures market in which widespread longing—shared by transplant surgeons, their patients, and experimental scientists—in the end facilitates the erasure of human vulnerability (Sharp 2011b). Efforts within this rarified medical domain to secure such unusual resources over the longue durée thus reveal the more hidden, moral consequences of scientific desire. As such, efforts in xeno labs are eerily reminiscent of those encountered in other quarters to secure access not only to human kidneys (Moniruzzaman, chapter 10), but also to food supplies (Chen, chapter 5, and Stone, chapter 4) and even military bases (Vine, chapter 2). What all these contexts share is a

60 Perils before Swine denial of newly generated, localized forms of human suffering, especially in the here and now, a blindness facilitated by a temporal shift focused squarely on resource security in an imagined, idealized, and very distant future, and a vigilance highly dependent on an impersonal style of scientific prowess.

Conclusion: The Erasure of Danger Biosecurity's origin in animal husbandry has had profound effects on its current framing in xeno science. A significant consequence is the conflation of “biosecurity” with “biohazard,” a naturalized link that generates strong associations of safety and effective containment. Xeno science is, however, a highly experimental domain long dependent on a range of species, each harboring its own specialized forms of danger. Chimpanzees, macaques, and baboons once dominated the scientific imagination as close evolutionary cousins whose parts might prove ideal matches for humans. By the latter part of the twentieth century, however, their association with AIDS and exotic and terrifying hemorrhagic infections (including the Marburg and Ebola viruses, both of which were quickly imagined as posing pandemic threats) transformed their use into evidence of reckless science. In the words of one expert, xenografting was “dead in the water” in the United Kingdom and similarly threatened elsewhere (for more details, see Sharp 2013). As Roy Calne (2005) cynically (and now famously) remarked, xeno is— and always will be—the future of transplantation. Calne speaks from long- standing experience not only as a widely respected transplant surgeon and researcher who can boast a series of firsts in the field, but also as someone credited with the suggestion that the pig is a more appropriate source or donor animal for xeno research. Pigs have subsequently been transformed from farm to pharma animals, freshly rendered into potential sources of lucrative biocapital (Franklin and Lock 2003; Sunder Rajan 2006), with scientific longing focused on a distant horizon. To return once more to Cooper and Lanza (2000:54), indeed, the pig’s “status has been elevated to that of a research source of the highest order.… And if xenotransplantation proves ultimately successful,” then efforts through “genetic engineering and cloning to ‘humanize’ it” might eliminate altogether the need for allografts. Nevertheless, human vulnerability and bioinsecurity currently remain inseparably entwined in a domain plagued by the perils embodied in transgenic swine.

Acknowledgments Nancy Chen (the best friend and colleague one could ever hope for), eight other wonderful SAR advanced seminar colleagues, and two anonymous reviewers offered

61 Lesley A. Sharp invaluable suggestions that have assisted me in my efforts to refine this chapter. Heather Altfeld, Susie Blalock, Stephen Foster, Linda Green, Daniele Lerner, Julie Livingston, Mary Beth Mills, Todd Nicewonger, Rod Sharp, Janelle Taylor, Jen Van Tiem, Emily Zants, K’hia Fulton, and Jen Williams provided invaluable backup and drive, alongside Alex Fox and Zookie, both of whom are unending sources of delight. Generous support provided by SAR throughout the summer of 2006—when I had the unforgettable experience of living on campus as an Ethel-Jane Westfeldt Bunting Resident Scholar— facilitated my initial efforts to envision this project (originally titled “From Animal to Artifice: An Anthropological Investigation of Scientific Desire and the Biotechniques of Human Organ Replacement”). I am especially grateful to James Brooks, Nancy Owen Lewis, and Leslie Shipman of SAR, and I am forever indebted to Michael Banner of Trinity College, Cambridge University, who first sparked my interest in scientific morality and whose marvelous camaraderie and provocative philosophical insights furthered this project throughout a Visiting Fellowship at Trinity in the summer of 2010. The field research that informs this chapter was funded by several Barnard College faculty grants and by the National Science Foundation (award no. 0750897). Any opinions, findings, and conclusions or recommendations expressed in this material are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of either institution.

Notes 1. See also Donnelley 1999 for another instance of the same pun in reference to xenotransplantation. 2. One need only watch Contagion (2011), directed by Steven Soderbergh, to have a sense of this. See also the op-ed piece by Ian Lipkin (2011), an infectious disease expert who served as a technical adviser to the film. Robbins, in turn, writing in theNew York Times of “man-made epidemics” (including AIDS, Ebola, SARS, and West Nile), describes the delicate role nature plays as a “support system” for humans: “If we fail to understand and take care of the natural world, it can cause a breakdown of these systems and come back to haunt us in ways we know little about.… Disease, it turns out, is largely an environmental issue. Sixty percent of emerging infectious diseases that affect humans are zoonotic” (Robbins 2012:1). 3. Terms and phrases that appear in quotation marks in this section designate those used by xenotransplant scientists to describe their work. Cooper and Lanza (2000) provide an exceptionally rich and informative array of expressions that exemplify the specialized quality of such language in xeno science. 4. Carrel, best known for his breakthroughs in vascular surgery (for which he won a Nobel Prize in 1912), was based at the Rockefeller Institute for Medical Research in New York City. He conducted a wide range of transpecies graft experiments involving dogs, goats, sheep, pigs, and primates (alongside early work on mouse genetics), activities that instigated strong protests from anti-vivisectionists (Friedman 2007).

62 Perils before Swine

5. The most celebrated surgery occurred in 1967 when Christiaan Barnard performed the first human heart transplant in South Africa. Although the recipient died eighteen days later, this surgery paved the way for the field as it is known today, involving what some now conceive as the seemingly routine transfer of hearts, livers, lungs, pancreases, and kidneys. The first successful kidney transplant to involve a living donor (who was the recipient’s identical twin) occurred more than a decade earlier in 1954. (The recipient survived another nine years.) Significant strides in immunosuppression (most notably, the development of Cyclosporine in the mid-1980s) have proved to be a boon for transplant medicine. 6. I apologize for any confusion the terminology here may engender: in moral philosophy, “morality” and “ethics” are often used interchangeably. This is less so in what is currently understood as the “ethical turn” in anthropology, yet authors have not reached consensus on their definitions of each term (typically, one term designates established codes of conduct, the other, the social processes involved in determining virtuous behavior). Unless noted otherwise, henceforth, I distinguish the codified rules of “bioethics,” which are imposed on scientists by regulatory apparatuses, from my own interest in the significance of “morality” or “moral thinking” in shaping the “scientific imagination” (after DelVecchio Good 2001) of xeno researchers. 7. Glenn Stone offers similar observations in reference to GM crops: “Stung by charges of risky and Frankensteinish meddling with life, biotechnologists took to insisting that genetic engineering was qualitatively no different from what humans had done for millennia,” so crop domestication is reinterpreted as “prehistoric genetic engineering” (Stone, chapter 4). As Boyd and Watts (1997:152) explain, the origins of quality control in food production vary according to the source animal: whereas regulatory apparatuses affecting industrialized chicken production went into effect in 1959, those affecting other meats extend back to 1906. According to James D. McKean, a specialist on safe pig husbandry practices, biosecurity involves efforts to “minimize the spread of pathogens within and into populations” (be they animals, plants, or humans). Of special importance are on-site practices shaped in turn by regulatory apparatuses; in the United States, these extend back to the 1930s in response to swine exanthema virus in California; new approaches reoriented practices away from feeding garbage and uncooked table scraps to pigs bound for market. This and subsequent federal interventions have helped define “national herd biosecurity effort[s]” focused most keenly on feeding practices, the movement of animals, and culling as a means to prevent the spread of diseases among pigs and to protect human consumers from harm (J. D. McKean, personal communication, June 2012). 8. Yet again, xeno builds on industrialized farming, a site characterized by efforts

63 Lesley A. Sharp to refine animals’ characteristics through crossbreeds, otherwise known as “hybrids” (Todd Nicewonger, personal communication, May 2012). For a discussion of the “designer chicken” and “Chicken of Tomorrow contests,” see Boyd and Watts 1997:144– 145. 9. The Chimera is the emblem of the International Xenotransplantation Society, and an image of this creature (rendered by David Cooper) is featured on the cover of its professional journal. 10. Referring to simians and swine as “donor” species serves to downplay their unwilling involvement in xeno experiments. 11. In contrast, “biosafety” (short for “biological safety”) emerged after World War II in specific reference to the handling, containment, and disposal of chemical, radioac- tive, and industrial wastes. The now ubiquitous and easily recognized biohazard symbol originated with Dow Chemical. 12. Most notably, through their association with AIDs, Ebola, and Marburg infections in humans. 13. For a marvelous handling of this, see Annie Proulx’s novel That Old Ace in the Hole (2002). 14. Among the most notable examples is the discovery of feral pigs long isolated on an island off New Zealand, their forebears having been placed there by sailors more than a century ago as a ready source of food. 15. Although the United States is the primary focus of my inquiry here, my research on xeno science is international in scope and based in five Anglophone countries: the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, Australia, and New Zealand. The United States and the United Kingdom together define a baseline of sorts for bioethical frameworks and national regulatory apparatuses elsewhere. 16. Regulations affecting the treatment of research animals in the United States originated with the Animal Welfare Act of 1966. Because human welfare is the central concern of this volume, I confine my discussion primarily to the ethical handling of human subjects who might receive animal-derived implants. 17. The polyvalency of “translational medicine” has indeed taken on a life of its own in other quarters: the phrase is defined as encompassing everything from the inclusion of bioethics to interdisciplinary approaches. 18. The most famous—and widely covered—case involved Baby Fae in 1984 (see, for instance, Altman 1984, 1992; Annas 1985; Bailey et al. 1985; Capron et al. 1985; Jonasson and Hardy 1985; Knoll and Lundberg 1985; Kushner and Belliotti 1985; Regan 1987).

64 part ii Critical Resources Securing Survival

Figure ii.1 Seeds and science in India: genetically modified cotton. Photo courtesy of Glenn Stone.

The debate over genetically modified (GM) crops came to be pack- aged as a developing-world issue in the late 1990s, following controversies that erupted in Western Europe. India, a likely bellwether for technology in the Global South, began field tests on its first GM crop in 1998: it was cotton, modified with a gene from the insecticidal soil bacterium Bt Bacillus( thuringiensis) and intended to find a market in the country’s pest-ravaged cotton fields. The genetic technology (Bollgard) was from Monsanto, and

65 Critical Resources

Figure ii.2 Cafeteria in urban China. Despite concerns about food safety, daily life in China continues to abound with food choices. Photo courtesy of Nancy N. Chen. the seeds were from a joint venture of Monsanto and the Indian seed company Mahyco (figure II.1). Bt cotton was immediately enmeshed in heated debates about technology and food security, environmental impacts, intellectual property, farmer livelihoods and suicides, and technology tread- mills and de-skilling. Bt cotton was approved in 2002, when the photo in figure II.1 was taken at an inputs shop in Andhra Pradesh. Within a few years, several GM technologies were available in hundreds of hybrid brands, and conventional cotton hybrids were being rapidly replaced. In 2010, India appeared ready to release Bt eggplant as its second GM crop but stopped short of this following a contentious national debate. Today, GM crops remain controversial in India (and elsewhere), and fault lines are apparent not only between scientists and activists but also within and across scientific communities. Even the impacts of Bt cotton on yields and profits are contested, with some researchers claiming to have isolated positive yield impacts and documented national rises in yields, whereas others argue that most studies use dubious controls and that yields do not match Bt adoption trends. Consumption takes a special turn in China, an emergent global power as a producer of consumer goods yet where consumer distrust is rampant in certain quarters in response to tainted or poorly manufactured items

66 Part II

Figure ii.3 A shopping cart of food and supplies offered in Honolulu as a raffle item to promote hurricane season preparedness. Photo courtesy of Nancy N. Chen.

67 Critical Resources

Figure ii.4 Qāt plants, Yemen. Qāt can grow up to three meters in height. This one is about a meter tall. Only the top stems are broken off and bunched together for sale in the marketplace. Their leaves are then chewed to release their juice, which produces the stimulant effect. Photo courtesy of Steve Caton.

68 Part II

Figure ii.5 A bandage covers a gash made by a machete. The man was wounded during violence in Oshiyie, Ghana, over a local land dispute. Photo courtesy of Carolyn Rouse.

69 Critical Resources deemed crucial to daily well-being and survival. Among the most significant examples of this form of bioinsecurity are the dangers associated with baby formula, leading Chinese consumers traveling abroad to deplete supplies available on the shelves of stores in other nations. Despite deep-seated concerns about safety, daily life in China is filled with recent abundance, as seen in figure II.2. Like their Chinese counterparts, consumers living in areas prone to natural disasters are urged to engage in forms of disaster preparation and self care through consumption, as demonstrated by a shopping cart in Hawai‘i (figure II.3). Elsewhere, heated debates over water, a resource vital to human survival, rage through many quarters of the globe, most evident in recent years over policies that advocate privatizing water sources and imposing charges for water consumption, even among the poorest of the world’s poor. Debates over water sourcing, access, and use define an especially critical site of vulnerability in Yemen, where pressure from foreign experts, who view more active participation in global markets as a national survival strategy, has led to the adoption of water-thirsty cash crops that threaten to drain fossil— and nonreplenishable—aquifers. Water accessibility is a highly localized site of quotidian biosecurity: readers might assume that in urban areas, for instance, well or tap water is readily available, yet many urban dwellers must hand-carry their water allotments, obtained from supply trucks that dispense this vital resource. Although vilified for its overconsumption of water, qāt (figure II.4 uses less water per annum than other cash crops, such as grapes, oranges, and lemons, all of which are also grown for market sale in Yemen. If these plants consume more water at a time when many parts of the country are facing severe overdrafts, it might be more economical for farmers to increase qāt production in proportion to other cash crops in order to maintain their livelihoods and also decrease their water use. Yet, this would be criticized as “backward” by the many policy makers who roundly condemn qāt’s consumption. Finally, disputes over political authority and land rights in Oshiyie, Ghana, erupted in violent acts between neighbors, some of whom attacked not only property but also one another (figure II.5). In these diverse contexts of vulnerability, facing the traumas of warfare, pandemics, or extended scarcity requires new forms of resiliency.

70 4

Biosecurity in the Age of Genetic Engineering

Glenn Davis Stone

In Ulrich Beck’s Risk Society (1986), a book on how post-industrial society was changing with the advent of qualitatively new and spatially unbounded risks, genetic engineering was barely mentioned. Yet, in 1986, the era of recombinant DNA was already fourteen years old; bacteria had been engineered to produce medicines and other compounds; and experiments with transgenic plants were moving ahead quickly.1 Genetically modified (GM) crops would be available to farmers in the United States by 1994, and by 1998, Western Europe would be embroiled in a clamorous debate over how to even think about the new technology. Stung by charges of risky and Frankensteinish meddling with life, biotechnologists took to insisting that genetic engineering was qualitatively no different from what humans had done for millennia. Crop domestication itself was nothing but “prehistoric genetic engineering” (Fedoroff 2003). All GM crops were simply “not dangerous” (Fedoroff 2011); indeed, they were “risk-free” (Benaning 2012; Biolife News Service 2012). I agree that the use of recombinant DNA per se is not intrinsically risky or dangerous; in fact, I do not regard risk as intrinsic to any technology, but rather as a function of our ability to identify, understand, and manage possible unwanted outcomes. My concern here is not about the risks of manipulating DNA, but about changes in the institutions and practices of

71 Glenn Davis Stone generating and characterizing information about risks. Beck (1996) may have overlooked it, but genetic engineering may best exemplify his characterization of global risk society as “a phase of development of modern society in which the social, political, ecological and individual risks created by the momentum of innovation increasingly elude the control and protective institutions of industrial society” (see also Beck 1999:72). The “protective institution” of primary concern here is academic science, specifically, the research universities in the United States (the country that has dominated genetic engineering). It was academic research that pioneered genetic engineering and has provided most of the findings behind commercialized GMOs. I argue that, as a scientific tool, genetic engineering can answer previously unanswerable questions, but only as it produces novel questions requiring answers for the sake of biosecurity; it answers questions while increasing our effective ignorance. Insert a gene and you may answer questions about how that gene works, but you will also generate a rash of questions about how the genetic changes affect the organism and how the organism may affect ecosystems. “Bioinsecurity” here is not just that altered organisms may pose threats, but that the system for studying threats has been compromised. In fact, a biotechnology establishment (comprising new types of alliances between industry and academy) is active in blocking potentially uncomfortable research on the impacts of genetic engineering. This chapter has four sections. In the first, I consider concepts for dealing with the politics of knowledge and ignorance, reconfiguring recent writing on what has been termed “agnotology” (the creation of ignorance). I argue that this term has been used for practices that are not truly agnotological, which genetic engineering is—in two distinct senses. In the second section, I look at genetic engineering and the biological ignorance it creates, which is the first sense of true agnotology. In the third section, I examine how the development and deployment of GM crops have been inextricably linked to changes in institutions for developing and deploying information. Two such developments—the rise of academic capitalism and of new intellectual property regimes—have hampered the very processes of the scientific research needed to meet these challenges. These practices are the second sense of true agnotology. In the final section, I return to issues raised by Beck.

True Agnotology Corporate informational damage control has emerged as an issue in social science in the twenty-first century, including Proctor and others’

72 Biosecurity in the Age of Genetic Engineering

(Proctor and Schiebinger 2008) development of the concept of agnotology. To Proctor, “agnotology” refers to the construction of ignorance in general—the broadening of a concept inspired by his subject, the tobacco industry, which saw “doubt as [its] product” (Michaels 2008). The doubt was specifically about the harmful effects to smokers’ health that were being documented mostly by academic scientists, and the industry-generated ignorance consisted of public confusion about and distrust of the findings. Such deliberately created ignorance is termed “construct agnotology,” in contrast to native ignorance or lost knowledge (Proctor 2008). Rayner (2012:113) parses the range of agnogenic (ignorance-creating) tactics for handling “uncomfortable knowledge,” including “denial, dismissal, diver- sion and displacement.” Benson and Kirsch (2010) identify the phases of corporate treatment of uncomfortable knowledge as denial, symbolic ges- tures, and appropriation of discourse (for other schemas of ignorance, see Smithson 2008). But the genetic engineering case forces us to rethink the range of agnotological projects. The uncomfortable knowledge that concerned the tobacco industry was in published work by non-industry scientists; the industry was not blocking this research, but simply putting into play the meaning, significance, and certainty of the findings. Industry disinforma- tion programs were truly agnotological only in a limited sense; they did inhibit public awareness, understanding, and acceptance of uncomfortable knowledge and may have indirectly foreclosed some forms of knowledge production. However, their primary action was to confuse and obscure the meaning and importance of extant scientific knowledge. A more accurate term would be “ainigmology,” from the root ainigma (as in “enigma”); in Greek, it refers to riddles or to language that obscures the true meaning of a story. In contrast, genetic engineering presents us with two types of true agnotology (or, actually, agnogenesis). The first is a direct function of the technology itself: genetic engineering alters and recombines DNA from multiple organisms and then causes the modified DNA to insert into various loci in target organisms, which may then be released into nature. Each step raises new questions about the current and future operation of the organism and how it will affect other organisms. Each successful transformation event (see below) creates an organism that has never existed before. Of course, all organisms (save clones) are genetically unique, but the tools that can create, alter, and move specific pieces of DNA among organisms open the possibility of unprecedented variations in life forms. There are, then, many questions that for the sake of our biological security should

73 Glenn Davis Stone be answered. This is why I say that genetic engineering creates effective ignorance, a category that does not figure in Proctor’s typology of native ignorance, lost knowledge, or instrumentally constructed ignorance. As sketched below, scientists address only a fraction of the effective ignorance they create with genetic engineering. But—and this brings us to the second type of true agnotology in genetic engineering—an array of forces in the world of genetic engineering actively prevents research to address effective ignorance, because of the “risk” of generating uncomfortable knowledge. This is accomplished mainly through the levers of intellectual property law and through control of funding, which is linked to the rise of academic capitalism.

Genetic Engineering: Information Replacing Stuff It now seems ironic that we were proclaimed to have entered the post- industrial “Information Age” in the 1960s (Matchlup 1962), because there has been an exponential increase in the amount of information generated and trafficked since then. With the emergence of genetic engineering, agriculture entered an era in which the main value of technological inputs was informational, because genetic engineering is all about information—generating it, owning it, and suppressing it. Knowledge production obviously played a role in previous revolutions in agricultural technology. The fertilizer revolution of the mid-nineteenth century—the first major phase of industrialization in agriculture—was stimulated by findings in the new field of agricultural chemistry (Foster and Magdoff 2000). But the real value of fertilizer was in the stuff itself, which had to be mined and transported in large quantities or industri- ally fixed. With GM crops, the real value is in the highly research-intensive genetic information leading to changes in the DNA of existing seeds. As Monsanto’s chair, Robert Shapiro, put it, “information replaces stuff” (qtd. in Charles 2001:270). As a scientific tool, genetic engineering has been invaluable in knowledge production, especially in fields such as functional genomics. Yet, as noted, it is a highly agnotological technology, capable of generating unprecedented variation in life forms and thus unprecedented effective ignorance. This in itself is not necessarily dangerous; the danger of any technology can be assessed only in the context in which it is made and used. A nuclear bomb is, in an obvious sense, much more dangerous than a handgun, but handguns have killed far more people. Cell phone technology per se may not be hazardous, yet texting drivers kill many people

74 Biosecurity in the Age of Genetic Engineering each year. Rather than ask whether GM crops are “more dangerous” than conventional crops, the question should be how the practices required for safe use differ between GM and conventional crops. The short answer is research: as a major intervention into the blueprints of organismal function, agricultural genetic engineering increases our effective ignorance by several orders of magnitude, and it has voracious research and informational requirements to be safe. As a research tool, it can reduce certain important types of ignorance, but as an applied technology, it creates vital new unan- swered questions. It is this inevitable increase in effective ignorance that makes the protective function of science more important than ever, and impediments to that function are a source of bioinsecurity. A brief explanation of plant genetic engineering will be helpful here. DNA is a long molecule containing genes, which are sequences of nucleo- tides that are translated into proteins according to a language that is universal across the biological kingdoms and viruses. In most crop genetic engineering, DNA segments (including “structural genes” that actually encode proteins, as well as segments that regulate gene expression) are isolated, recombined, and inserted into target plants. Insertion is done by different mechanisms. One method uses the soil bacterium Agrobacterium tumefaciens, which naturally inserts its genes into plants via plasmids (extrachromosomal rings of DNA); biologists create a new DNA payload on the plasmid and then turn the Agrobacterium loose on target organisms. Another method is to put the payload onto a pro- jectile, which is then shot into target organisms with a modified gun. It is important that biologists do not have control over, or even a detailed understanding of, the process by which either Agrobacterium or the gene gun inserts DNA into the genomes of target organisms. In the vast majority of the cells in target organisms, none of the payload DNA is integrated into the genome at all. The cases in which the payload is integrated into a cell’s DNA are called “transformation events,” and each event is unique: the payload DNA may be intact or fragmented, may be inserted any number of times, may be in any location, and may be inside native genes or between them. Either transformation process itself may have extraneous effects on the target organism’s DNA. To genetically modify an organism in this way requires the brute force approach of exposing many cells to the vector and then seeing which cells have been transformed and in which the payload is working. (This is precisely why some engineers resent the term “genetic engineering.”) Most writers deal with the effective ignorance generated by GM plants in terms of taxonomies of risk (Rissler and Mellon 1996; Street 2007; Weaver

75 Glenn Davis Stone and Morris 2005).2 Concerns over biological risks are often integral to ethical concerns (Gregorowius, Lindemann-Matthies, and Huppenbauer 2012). However, my concern is not with ethics or biological risks per se, but with bioinsecurity resulting from science not being willing or able to answer questions about risk. Therefore, let us consider types of effective ignorance according to the inclination and ability of research scientists to address them.

Ignorance Internal to the GMO One category of effective ignorance pertains to how the introduction of exogenous DNA affects the functioning of the target organism. Some questions are so basic to the experiment that they are built into standard protocols. In the attempt to insert genes into an organism, only a small percentage of the target’s cells take up the DNA, so the first line of effective ignorance is whether this has even happened. With plant experiments, the gene of interest is usually paired with a gene that acts as a “selectable marker,” which is used to isolate the cells in target organisms that have been transformed. Most commonly, this is a gene for antibiotic resistance, allowing the scientist to isolate the transformed cells by applying a normally lethal dose of antibiotics. But after this is a very long list of questions that vary in their importance for publication, use in a commercial product, or requirement for approval. How many copies of the gene have been introduced into the target organism? How is the gene being expressed? Does the introduced gene confer the desired trait? How stable is the transformation? What other effects on the organism does the introduced gene have? Particularly important here are pleiotropic effects, that is, multiple phenotypic traits from a single gene. Pleiotropic effects are common and were a real concern in the first application for commercial release of a GM crop (Martineau 2001). These effects may be exceedingly difficult to identify, however, especially if they become manifest only after some time or under specific conditions. Pleiotropic traits are often discovered years after the crop’s release. For instance, one of the first two GM foods still sold in the United States, the virus-resistant squash, is now known to have pleiotropic traits affecting pollinator behavior (Prendeville and Pilson 2009). It has also been found that the glyphosate-tolerant (GT) gene in GM canola has pleiotropic effects on flower production (Pierre et al. 2003).3 There may also be changes in the target organism that are seen not in the phenotype but only in analysis of its DNA. Both common methods

76 Biosecurity in the Age of Genetic Engineering of transforming plants lead to poorly understood alterations of DNA. The gene gun commonly leads to insertion of “multiple, rearranged, and/or truncated transgene fragments” (Pawlowski and Somers 1998:12106). A good example of extraneous, unexplained, and initially undetected DNA from Agrobacterium-mediated transformation occurred in the most commonly planted GM crop in the world—glyphosate-tolerant soybean. Five years after GT (“Roundup-Ready”) soybeans were approved for sale, it was found that the original characterization of the transgenic plant’s DNA had missed a rearrangement or large deletion of DNA, as well as an unknown segment of inserted exotic DNA (Windels et al. 2001). There is no evidence that this “mystery DNA” (Pollack 2001) has harmful effects, but the point is that its safety had not been investigated before approval because it had not been detected. Four years later, researchers found an additional fragment of the gene resulting in four different RNA variants (Rang, Linke, and Jansen 2005), which might code for unknown proteins (Magaña-Gómez and Calderón de la Barca 2008:10). Academic reward structures today militate against extensive research on risks. For scientific publication, only a minute subset of these questions need be answered; to market GM seed, the questions to be answered are specified in the “coordinated framework” involving three federal agencies, a jury-rigged regulatory system largely shaped by biotechnology firms (Eichenwald, Kolata, and Peterson 2001; Jasanoff 2005; Schurman and Munro 2010). As the new forms of effective ignorance become less essential to the interests of those carrying out the genetic engineering, they are less likely to be researched. The biologist always has to find out which cells have integrated the exotic DNA and always has specific questions about how the new genes are expressing. But identifying pleiotropic effects may or may not be essential for publication, patenting, or commercialization, and some such effects may be discovered only years later, if at all. Complete characterization of the genome of a GM plant is normally considered prohibitively expensive and unnecessary; thus, today’s farmers annually plant more than eighty million acres of GT soybean containing mystery DNA.

Ignorance External to the GMO As complicated as it is to ascertain exactly how a GMO operates, it is much more complex to determine how it will operate in an ecosystem. The behaviors and impacts of a GM plant will vary in space, and changed interactions between species may take years to manifest (Saxena, Pushalkar, and Stotzky 2010).

77 Glenn Davis Stone

The ecological questions raised by releasing GM crops are vast. Research on ecological impacts are outside the normal set of interests (as well as the training) of microbiologists conducting genetic engineering. Ecologists differ from biotechnologists in their training and also in the political economy of their work: they are not normally rewarded for developing technologies that “work,” they do not patent or commercialize their findings, and they benefit little from biotechnology industry funding. The issue of what ecological questions need to be answered is hotly contested, frequently with microbiologists squaring off against ecologists. One set of questions concerns the impacts on cultivated crops, with the long-running issue of introgression into landrace maize in Mexico showcasing how little we know. After Mexico banned the planting of GM maize out of concern for gene flow into landraces, the ecologists Quist and Chapela (2001) reported transgenes in landrace seeds and further asserted that the transgenes had unstably integrated into the corn genome. Furor followed (more over the second claim than over the more important first one), featuring a barrage of attacks from academics, industry personnel, and public relations firms, featuring invented characters, petitions, and threats (Monbiot 2002; Worthy et al. 2005). A subsequent study failed to find transgenes but assumed that they had been present before and specu- lated on why they might have disappeared (Ortiz-García et al. 2005). A later study again found transgenes (Piñeyro-Nelson et al. 2009). If we are unsure about the presence of transgenes in Mexican maize, we are totally in the dark about the potential impacts of transgenes on agricultural systems. Interactions between transgene introgression and farmer behavior are bound to be complex (Cleveland and Soleri 2005), and the answer to most of the key questions is “We don’t know” (Soleri, Cleveland, and Aragón Cuevas 2006). Another set of questions concerns the potential GM crop impacts on ecosystems. Outcrossing by GM crops can affect pollinator behavior (Prendeville and Pilson 2009) and viruses in wild plants (Laughlin et al. 2009; Prendeville 2010), although no one knows how these changes might affect population dynamics. One of the two widely planted GM technologies is Bt-based insect resistance, the effects of which on ecosystems are especially poorly known. One study of Bt proteins on nontarget benefi- cial insects found “positive, negative and no effects” (Groot and Dicke 2002:387). A study in the midwestern United States found that 23 percent of streams contained Bt proteins from GM maize (Tank et al. 2010), and it has been shown that feeding on Bt maize byproducts increases the mortality of some stream insects (Rosi-Marshall et al. 2007), but “it is unknown if

78 Biosecurity in the Age of Genetic Engineering there are ecological consequences for stream-dwelling organisms that are exposed to the dissolved [transgenes]” (Tank et al. 2010:17648). Better known are some unfortunate impacts of GM crops on weeds. The widespread planting of transgenic herbicide-resistant crops leads to herbicide-resistant weeds through two different routes. One is transgenic plants pollinating weeds: for instance, one study in North Dakota found that 80 percent of wild mustard plants along roadsides contained herbicide-resistant transgenes from GM canola (Schafer et al. 2011). Resistant weeds also arise under the strong selective pressure from heavy herbicide use, allowing the emergence of tenacious and costly weeds (e.g., Binimelis, Pengue, and Monterroso 2009; Duke and Powles 2009). The forthcoming generation of GM crops is resistant to broadleaf herbicides 2,4-D and dicamba. This will result in a major surge in these herbicides in the environment, the effects of which are a key subject of effective ignorance. Activists’ labeling of these as “Agent Orange crops” is an overstatement, but even after sixty years of use of 2,4-D, we are still unsure of its impacts on human health (Freese 2012), and we know even less about the ecosystemic impacts of greatly increased spraying. There has been more research on GM crops’ human health impacts than on their environmental impacts, not only because of the sociomoral logic (Sharp, Chapter 3) but also because of the political risk to government and the economic risk to industry. Prior to the release of the first GM food crop in the United States—Calgene’s delayed-rotting Flavr Savr tomato—Calgene scientists went to considerable pains to evaluate the crop’s potential health impacts. However, Belinda Martineau, one of the leaders of Calgene’s “regulatory science” on the tomato (and chronicler of the process; see Martineau 2001), was later disturbed that similar research was not done on subsequent GM food crops. There is now evidence of GM crops having possible public health impacts that were not even conceived of in the early 1990s. Studies have documented herbicides (or their metabolites) associated with GM crops in human blood (Aris and Leblanc 2011; Hori et al. 2003; Motojyuku et al. 2008). No one knows what, if any, effect their presence has on human health. The point is not that we are endangered, but that we are ignorant. We are increasingly relying on a category of technology that, for all its promise, exponentially raises our effective ignorance. This places unprecedented demands on science to answer proliferating questions. But GM technology has been joined at the hip with institutional, economic, cultural, and legal changes that fundamentally impact scientists’ behavior in addressing these questions.

79 Glenn Davis Stone

Agnotology and Institutional Changes in Science Genetic engineering is an agnotological technology, bringing a suite of potential risks to public health and the environment, the identification and mitigation of which are highly research-intensive endeavors. Historically, we have expected science to study such risks, which is one of the reasons that so much pure science is publicly supported. Robert Merton famously identified the hallmarks of “pure science” to be universalism, communism, disinterestedness, and organized skepticism, and scientists in the academy are still expected (and believed) to follow a strict set of ethics consistent with Merton’s values (Kenney 1987:128). Merton’s account of the behavior of scientists may sound quaint to those accustomed to the analytic gaze of science and technology studies (Kleinman 2003; Knorr-Cetina 1981, 1999; Latour and Woolgar 1979) or may even sound like “mythmaking” (Vallas and Kleinman 2007:9), but Merton did not attribute scientists’ behavior to their values and ethical compass. He saw the public service of scientists as entirely instrumental: institutionalized arrangements evolved to motivate scientists to contribute to the common wealth of knowledge. To Merton, science was based on something akin to private property, created by a perverse form of privatization based on disclosure: “Only when scientists have published their work and made it generally accessible…does it become legitimately established as more or less securely theirs” (Merton 1988:620). The core reward structure of academic science was thus aligned to make it function as a “protective institution of industrial society.” The pure science establishment famously responded in its protective capacity early in the era of genetic engineering. In 1973, a committee of distinguished biologists asked the field to voluntarily avoid certain types of particularly risky experiments (Berg et al. 1974). In 1975, more than a hundred biologists and others met at Asilomar to address issues of risk (Berg and Singer 1995; McHughen and Smyth 2008). The concern was with recombinant bacteria and viruses, and the early recommendations were basically for laboratory safeguards, not for “protective” research. After GM plants were developed, academic scientists held a 1988 risk assessment conference at the University of California, Davis. These early calls for cau- tion and self-policing are preserved as part of the origin narrative of biotechnology, reinforcing the notion that the biotechnology establishment itself is an effective protective institution (Torrance 2012:329). This convic- tion continues to be promoted today as if there has been no change in the reward structures underlying the protective functions of science. But there has been change, and it directly affects how bioscience

80 Biosecurity in the Age of Genetic Engineering self-polices and approaches research on risk. New technologies may have profound effects on how science institutions operate and relate to one another. For instance, Kloppenburg (2004) shows that the real change wrought by hybrid corn was not in the farmer’s field, but in how scientific institutions behaved. From the moment transgenic organisms were created, changes were set in motion in divisions of labor, in flows of funding and information, in intellectual property, in allegiances, and more generally in “lifeworlds” (Schurman and Munro 2010). A new set of relationships between the academy and industry grew along with the genetic modification of plants. In one of many examples, Monsanto helped to support early work at Washington University on Agrobacterium and virus-resistant technology (getting co- ownership of the resulting technologies; Charles 2001) and then made a $23 million deal to sponsor the university’s medical school research, with 70 percent going toward “applied research” (Kenney 1986). The National Research Council (NRC) found that both parties benefited from such “new research partnerships” and noted, too, that society benefited from the accelerated technological innovation (NRC Board on Agriculture 1984:60). What the NRC failed to ask was which kinds of innovative research would be fostered by the new industry-academy partnerships, which kinds would be discouraged, and which information would be suppressed. Integral to the growth of the biotech industry has been a suite of factors that have given the industry unusual influence over research, which directly affects which kinds of knowledge are and are not created. Two such factors are the rise of academic capitalism and the intellectual property regime.

Genetic Engineering and the Rise of Academic Capitalism Several observers see the late twentieth-century growth of the “academic- industrial complex,” or academic capitalism (Culliton 1982; Kenney 1986; Slaughter and Leslie 1997; Slaughter and Rhoades 2004), as a major revolution in the United States. Genetic engineering has played a central role in this revolution. In contrast to China’s model of state-funded biotechnology (Chen, chapter 5), US academic capitalism was stimulated by major reduc- tions in government research funding (partly due to the expense of the Vietnam War). This happened in the early 1970s, just as recombinant DNA was being developed (Etzkowitz 1989; Washburn 2005:57–59). Meanwhile, the quickening pace of technological development and the downsizing of firms to core competencies opened up an “innovation gap” even before the rise of genetic engineering (Etzkowitz and Leydesdorff 1997). This left the corporate sector increasingly hungry for innovative research from the academy.

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Thus, economic conditions were already favoring a new integration of industry and the academy by 1980, when a sea change occurred in legisla- tion and in case law: the Chakrabarty case (see below) opened the door to the privatization and commodification of genes, and the Bayh-Dole law allowed the private sale of results of federally funded academic research. The fledgling field of genetic engineering promptly became a major driver of the new entrepreneurial university. Various arrangements by which universities provided corporations with research in exchange for funding were quickly hammered out (Busch et al. 1991; Culliton 1982; Kenney 1986), leading to a new merging of the interests of basic scientists and corporations. Thus, universities, from which we might reasonably expect the “disinterested” investigation of the health impacts of GMOs, increasingly equated public benefit with commercialization (Glenna et al. 2007a; Kenney 1986:68). The new industry-academic relationships are important to biosecurity because of their impact on how academic researchers select research subjects, choose genes, characterize findings, share information, and form attitudes and values about risks and benefits (Busch 2000; Busch et al. 1991; Kenney 1987). It was clear early on that industry funding had a chilling effect on communication among scholars (Blumenthal et al. 1986). It seems clear that biotechnology has become a leading example of economics driving research agendas (Oehmke 2005:7), with applied projects strongly promoted over basic research (Glenna et al. 2007b; Kenney 1986). Criteria for academic tenure and promotion may now include “numbers of patents, numbers of companies, the commercialization and the impact of that on the economy” (Vallas and Kleinman 2007:10). This renders hazards research, which could obstruct the commercialization of a technology, a hazardous career strategy.

Intellectual Property Closely linked developments in patent law and genetic engineering have combined to have profound effects on agnotology. The utility patent gives the holder the absolute power to block others from making, selling, or even using its invention for a fixed period (currently, twenty years from fil- ing in the United States). Prior to the advent of genetic engineering, crops and genes were not eligible for utility patents; they were covered instead by weaker protections that allowed use by others in research (Kloppenburg 2004). Utility patents, in contrast, were intended for actual “inventions” and have no exemption for research.4 The US Supreme Court’s 1980 Chakrabarty decision was one of the

82 Biosecurity in the Age of Genetic Engineering most agnotological judgments ever handed down. It allowed utility patents on GMOs, opening the door to gene patenting a few years later and crop patenting after that (Torrance 2010:176).5 Remarkably, the Court failed to even consider that utility patents on GMOs (and later, on genes) would bestow the power to block research. It opined that patent law would not “deter the scientific mind from probing into the unknown any more than Canute could command the tides.”6 The decision led to a tsunami of DNA patents, mostly in corporate hands, each of which can stop scientific research dead in its tracks and keep the scientific mind from probing at all. Although patent holders often turn a blind eye to academic infringers over research that may benefit them (Weschler 2004), they have repeatedly blocked research on their plants and genes, sometimes in the middle of a study, to avoid the production of uncomfortable knowledge. The ento- mologist Ken Ostlie was forced to stop his research on Bt corn because one company decided the study was “not in its best interest” (Pollack 2009); the ecologist Allison Snow was forced to stop her research on the ecological impacts of Bt sunflowers after she found that Bt-wild hybrids had a selective advantage (Dalton 2002; Snow et al. 2003). As with Chapela’s case around the same time, Snow’s research attracted stunning vitriol. The biotechnolo- gist Neal Stewart (2003:353) suggested that the reports on her findings had contributed to Africans starving to death. More commonly, patent holders prevent research from even starting. In 2009, twenty-six leading scientists submitted an anonymous statement to the government saying that they were being blocked by patent-holding companies from doing necessary research (Anonymous 2009; Pollack 2009). Monsanto, Syngenta, and Pioneer all cited intellectual property concerns in defending their policies. The plants that Ostlie and Snow could not study may not pose any danger. But what these cases show is that in this era of unprecedented effective ignorance and reliance on science for biosecurity, the intellectual property regime integral to biotechnology allows unprecedented obstacles to scientific research.

Unknown Knowns I have argued that institutional and legal developments integral to genetic engineering are truly agnotological in that they militate against research on the dangers of GM crops. However, it is impossible to characterize the research that has been prevented. The documented cases of constructed agnotology, such as the studies aborted by patent holders, only hint at the ecologists who never got permission to begin a study of

83 Glenn Davis Stone gene flow, or those who opted not to even try to study GM crops’ ecological impacts after seeing the careers of young ecologists consumed in vitriol (Waltz 2009), or the students who chose careers in microbiology over ecology because biotechnology was better funded by corporations. We do not know what we might know today were it not for these factors that dis- tort research; this remains, with apologies to Donald Rumsfeld, a matter of “unknown knowns.” What we do know is that the trickle of published research on the impacts of GM crops increasingly provides grounds for concern about the depth and extent of our effective ignorance. The ignorance I am describ- ing is not simply on the part of consumers (as Chen, chapter 5, describes for China), but on the part of science. I have sketched only a few examples, and environmental risks will only expand as more and different GM crops are released (Andow and Zwahlen 2006). Not surprisingly, the extent and significance of our ignorance are hotly contested, and as is true of a wide range of situations—as disparate as US biotechnology and Ghanaian land disputes (Rouse, chapter 7)—the struggle to assert control over the narrative is crucial to how risk is handled. With GM crops, the struggle is dominated by two polarized narratives. We are playing “genetic roulette,” according to one major anti-GMO book (Smith 2007). Meanwhile, to many in the ostensibly protective institution of academic biology, GM crops are not only safe but also overstudied. In this view, the focus on the potential risks of GM crops is hindering the technology and risking sure starvation (Fedoroff 2011; McGloughlin 1999). This “biotech Neo-Malthusianism” (Stone 2005) confidently stresses figures on how much more food we will need by some landmark date in the future— usually, 2050 (e.g., Fedoroff 2011). Malthusian warnings play a unique and intriguing role in the struggle over risk narratives; although they are sometimes supported by explicit (if dubious) analyses, as Watts (chapter 8) describes, they are routinely allowed with great confidence and little support (as Caton, chapter 6, describes for Yemen). This is interesting from the perspective of agnotology because population figures for decades out are unknown and unknowable; demographers have no basis whatsoever for predicting the reproductive behavior of people not yet born (Cohen 1995). These Malthusian claims might be thought of as ainigmology, but readers of Greek philosophy may recognize an even more apt term: claiming to know what they did not actually know is precisely the charge of Socrates against the Sophists in Plato’s Dialogues, from whence we get the negative connotation of the term “sophistry.”

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Back to Beck This chapter begins with Ulrich Beck’s neglect of genetic engineering in the “risk society.” But my consideration of certain biological, institutional, and legal aspects of crop biotechnology suggests that this technological regime is particularly instructive as to the nature of bioinsecurity today. To Beck, science is a knowledge-generating project that may, through its successes, generate new risks. He writes, “New knowledge can transform normality into threat overnight. Nuclear energy and the hole in the ozone layer are prominent examples. Therefore, the progress of science refutes its original security assurances. It is the successes of science that sow the seeds of doubt concerning its declarations of risk” (Beck 2007:35). But, in this account, the same science that splits the atom and creates chlorofluorocarbons also reveals the impacts of radiation and of lowered filtering of ultraviolet light; it is at once dangerous and protective. But we create a more insidious form of risk when the creative endeavors rush ahead ever faster and the protective functions are stymied. Agnotology itself is what endangers us. This is happening on various scientific fronts. We cannot find out how dangerous fracking is, because of the natural gas industry’s control over academic geology (McDonnell 2012); we do not know whether neonicotinoid insecticides are causing bee colonies to collapse, because of the pesticide industry’s control over academic ento- mology (Schacker 2008; Schiffman 2012). But plant genetic engineering creates vast effective ignorance with each transformation event and each resulting plant that may be eaten or released into nature. This is not so much a matter of “transform[ing] normality into threat overnight” as it is creating a new normality, demanding a new set of security assurances that require further scientific research to address the effective ignorance and to answer the new questions. But the questions vary in crucial ways in how they articulate with scientists’ reward structures. Some are such central measures of “success” as to be an essential part of the laboratory protocol; some are too time-consuming or expensive to be researched; some are practically unanswerable; and some are potentially so uncomfortable that the industry-academy nexus is heavily invested in blocking research on them—the ultimate agnotology. Bioinsecurity in this case results not from the technology per se, but from the relations among institutions that the technology has occasioned. Given the current state of academic capitalism, intellectual property laws, and polarization in GMO debates, it is difficult to imagine that this will change. “The kind of science that would be needed to understand the

85 Glenn Davis Stone products of genetic engineering,” Magnus (2008:257–258) writes, “is not the kind of science that now exists.”

Acknowledgments I am so grateful to Nancy Chen, Lesley Sharp, and all of the seminar participants for an enlightening and delightful week. It was also poignant for me to be back in Santa Fe in the autumn. Kudos to SAR for continuing to sponsor these seminars. The photos of SAR seminars past are a record of groundbreaking advances in scholarship, and it is humbling to join their ranks. This chapter draws on work supported by the National Science Foundation (grant nos. 0078396 and 0314404). For comments and discussion of its content, I am grateful to the seminar participants and to Jon Marks. For hospital- ity in Santa Fe and Albuquerque, thanks to Glenn Conroy, Jane Phillips-Conroy, Dave Groenfeldt, Annette Cantor-Groenfeldt, and John Hays.

Notes 1. I am referring to the creation and use of recombinant DNA through the techniques of microbiology, glossed here as genetic engineering or genetic modification. “Genetically modified organism,” or GMO, refers to an organism containing recombinant DNA. 2. My main concern here is with physical risks, that is, possible impacts on public health and the environment from genetic engineering. However, it is vital to remember the presence of political-economic risks. Genetic engineering has been joined at the hip to the privatization of genetic resources, which has led to increasing corporate control over the food supply (Kloppenburg 2004). I would be remiss not to note the creeping corporate control of the factors of agricultural production as a source of bioinsecurity. 3. Glyphosate is the active ingredient in Roundup herbicide. Glyphosate tolerance is the most common recombinant trait in commercial use. 4. The only exempted uses are “acts of amusement, idle curiosity, or strictly philosophical inquiry” (Weschler 2004:1541). 5. The argument for DNA being a patent-eligible “invention” and not a “product of nature” is that it is transformed when used in genetic modification; specifically, it is “purified and isolated” outside its natural environment. This problematic argument (Conley 2009) was challenged in the Myriad case, in which the Supreme Court raised the bar for patent eligibility, albeit ambiguously (Association for Molecular Pathology et al. v. Myriad Genetics, Inc., et al., 569 US 12-398 [2013]). 6. Diamond v. Chakrabarty, 47 US 303, 305 (1980).

86 5

Between Abundance and Insecurity Securing Food and Medicine in an Age of Chinese Biotechnology

Nancy N. Chen

On a crisp spring day in 2012, I revisited the university campus where I first taught English during the mid-1980s in Beijing. Like many venues across the capital, the campus had been transformed several years earlier for the 2008 Olympics. Whole buildings were razed to make room for new sports facilities and dining halls. As we strolled past the monumental sites, my former colleague and his wife pointed out the campus market that sold fresh produce and other dry goods. Previously, it had been a gray, dusty, yet busy public space, and I was surprised by the orderly and colorful stalls filled with abundant arrangements of mostly tropical fruits. The outside stands were filled with enticing displays of fresh strawberries, mangos, drag- onfruit, cherry tomatoes, and peeled, ready-to-eat miniature pineapples. En route to the restaurant, they pointed out three new dining halls (the largest consisted of eight floors), each with different levels of service, food, and ambience. The main dining hall’s first floor was spacious, with open seating and with servers standing behind stainless steel counters filled with ample trays of mouthwatering varieties of food. Students could visit different stations to choose from soups, noodles, sautéed vegetables, fried rice, fried chicken, and even pizza. Above, on the second floor, halal foods were available for purchase. The abundance was a striking difference from the student dining halls in the 1980s, which served mainly cabbage and pork

87 Nancy N. Chen dishes for the majority of the winter months. The plenitude visible on the campus reflected the profusion of foods nationwide across China’s markets, grocery stores, shopping malls, restaurants, and street stalls. The diet of China’s new middle class reflects a changing class map of social life and consumption. Rather than following the contours of former socialist norms based on rural or urban residency, extremes of affluence and expansive growth coexist with bare life and disparity across the country. In the midst of this widespread proliferation of food brands, expansion of the commodity food chain, and increased availability of foods, however, consumers in the twenty-first century have faced successive waves of scandals about tainted foods and drugs. Vulnerability to unsafe medicines and foods ignores class boundaries and has shaped ongoing regulatory reforms to redefine governance. Bioinsecurity in this context is conceptualized as a heightened sense of insecurity in which knowledge about and guarantees of adequate and safe resources concerning human material necessities for survival—food, water, air, shelter—are vague and possibly inadequate. In this sense, further endangerment is paradoxically embedded in biosecurity measures. The intertwining of uncertainty with the biological continues to manifest most visibly in everyday life. In this chapter, I address how China in the twenty-first century frames concerns about bioinsecurity, particularly in the realms of food and medicine. China’s economic transformation is a dominant story especially in Western media. Not a day goes by without reports about the vast China market and the bureaucracy that has spawned its reach into the global economy. Such a dramatic narrative reflects the ability to mobilize millions on a grand scale. Specific images come to mind when we consider this story of transformation, including epic state projects such as the Three Gorges Dam, China’s aerospace industry, and, less well known, its biotechnology industry. The double helix is the spiral structure of DNA that makes it capable of replication as strands bind together in specific formations. It is a useful image not just in biotech but also for considering the spiraling consequences when state and market are so intertwined that the local context spawns deep-seated concerns of vulnerability and endangerment. Melinda Cooper (2008) writes about the interlinked and unfettered growth of biology and the economic in what she terms the “bioeconomy.” Citizenship in this context is attenuated through one’s ability to consume or, more specifically, through fearful consumption. The pursuit of the good life has dramatically shifted from copious consumption to the careful discernment of provenance and production. Trust, reliability, and safety have become ideals

88 Between Abundance and Insecurity for both self-care and governance. In earlier ethnographic framings of the market economy during the 1990s, I tracked the rise of pharmaceuticals by following the flows of capital (Chen 2001). In the present moment of deep- seated anxieties and fears of contamination, following the money—which was an ethnographic strategy in the early years of economic reforms—has been reconfigured to following the bureaucracy as it addresses the ongoing concerns for the well-being of its citizens. I argue that in a decade framed by disasters, pandemics, and scandals, biosecurity is an evolving apparatus in the Chinese national context that is becoming situated as a public good. In what follows, I trace two different formations of governance—through food safety and through food security. Whereas food safety is a relatively recent concern because of the lax oversight of China’s industrial food processing, food security may appear to be a matter of the distant past because of the seeming abundance of food. The two seemingly distinct issues come together, however, at the critical juncture of China’s biotechnology industry and the unknown risks associated with genetically modified (GM) foods. Juxtaposing these two arenas offers insights into the emerging realms of self-determination and the securing of certain futures by forging programs deemed to create biosecurity. In this context of widespread vulnerability, the dramatic extremes of bare life and the cosmopolitan transformation that has been wrought by market expansion in this region shape new regulatory frameworks in the making. Medical anthropologists have long been concerned about the vulnerability of poor and marginalized communities to the ravages of disease and structural violence (Farmer 1997; Petryna 2002; Scheper-Hughes 1993). Addressing vulnerability in a context of bioinsecurity requires heightened attention to the multiple locations of vulnerability, which include not only the lack of medicine or food but also the lack of access to knowledge. Knowledge is a key resource that ironically becomes obscured with the heightened focus on preparedness or preemption.

Care in an Age of Fearful Consumption With the rise of Chinese nouveaux riches, especially urban middle- class youth, promotion of the good life has been a significant component of China’s phenomenal growth over the past two decades. The pharmaceutical industry in particular has created the largest market in the world for both biomedical and traditional herbal drugs. As anthropologists have addressed in their ethnographic studies of Big Pharma elsewhere, the culture industry associated with pharmaceuticals offers insights into new notions of cosmopolitanism and self-care (e.g., Dumit 2012; Ecks 2005;

89 Nancy N. Chen

Lakoff 2005; Petryna, Lakoff, and Kleinman 2006). People’s views about health and the good life are profoundly experienced through the body and shaped by consumer culture. New meanings of well-being and the good life are linked to the consumption of medicinal products and beauty aids. Bodily regimens have been transformed as daily life has become saturated with over-the-counter goods such as vitamin supplements and health aids, in addition to new brands of exercise clothing and beauty products. Street clinics, sponsored by pharmacies and staffed with retired physicians earning extra income, are often set up on weekends as ways to encourage clients to try out new medications. The widespread consumption of over-the- counter medications dovetails with deeply embedded beliefs and traditions about the self-management of health care (Chen 2001). Since the 1990s, counterfeit goods such as designer handbags, luxury watches and pens, and brand-name clothing have been ubiquitous in Chinese markets. A knockoff is desirable for its considerably cheaper price while yet appearing to be the same as its real version. Vendors frequently identify certain goods as literally coming from the same factories, claiming that they are just rejects with minor blemishes unseen by the average buyer. Though the quality of such goods is often inferior, consumers frequently note that knockoffs are pragmatic choices that contribute to a cosmopolitan lifestyle, such as seeing the latest films. The practice of regifting—passing on or recycling gifts to others— took on new meaning when the “one stop gift” of fake cigarettes became available. If recipients ever opened the package, which is designed to look and feel like the real thing, instead of two hundred cigarettes in the carton, they would find a box weighted to give the same feel as a regular carton. Fakes also come in the form of phony diplomas or certificates. As domestic markets become more exposed to global luxury goods, imita- tion items become bigger and more sophisticated, such as fake Ferraris and counterfeit iPads. Investigative journalism and exposés have become a prominent element of Chinese media as the spectrum of ersatz goods has shifted significantly from items with slight blemishes or fake logos to more contested and deadly forms in recent years. Concerns about contaminated milk, cooking oil, toothpaste, heparin, pet food, and children’s toys, among other items, followed the expansion of China’s domestic markets far and wide into its interior. Everyday life in China now entails extensive concerns for well-being and deep-seated fears of vulnerability. Widespread access to pharmaceuticals is overshadowed by the virulent spinoff of jia yao, or fake drugs. Such exposure is especially worrisome for elderly people and children, who

90 Between Abundance and Insecurity consume the majority of drugs and prepared milk formula. Purity and danger take on specific material concerns in people’s fears of contamination. Medicine bottles and herbal supplements are carefully scrutinized for the source of production in case they may be fake or contain hazardous ingredients. Despite careful vetting on the part of consumers, however, it is not possible to entirely screen out counterfeit drugs, contaminated foods, or fake infant formula, even though knowledge about what is real or fake can be a matter of life or death. Ongoing concerns about tainted milk led many anguished parents across the country to bring their children to hospitals to check for kidney stones, a risk associated with consuming formula containing melamine. Chinese consumers are like canaries in mines: in this new global assembly line, contaminated consumable goods circulate without oversight. The concerns of consumer citizens are amplified worldwide as product recalls identify goods and foods that are hazardous to use or consume. The crisis of tainted goods due to lack of testing or oversight of production has led to a number of deaths linked to hazardous additives, and the global reach of Chinese manufactured products spans most international markets. The desire for safe foods, especially infant formula, led to shortages initially in Hong Kong and now in other regions. In this volume, Watts (chapter 8), Susser (chapter 9), and Rouse (chapter 7) discuss the concept of Africa as a laboratory in which vulnerability and endangerment have grown with the expansion of resource grabs across the continent. In the twentieth century, China’s exponential population growth offered scientists and policy makers a context for examining the impact of population on resources and the environment. In the twenty-first century, China continues to be a laboratory; consumers face a vast landscape of bioinsecurity in which contaminated or fake products, especially food and medicine, are a grave concern. Residents of both rural and urban areas live in toxic environments of polluted air, water, and land without easy access to objective information on safety monitoring levels. Food safety has been the primary topic of conversations with longtime friends in my visits to China since 2008. Ms. Lan (a pseudonym), an active and busy accountant in her forties, prepared all her family’s meals at home. Though her metropolitan family frequently ate out in the early 2000s when Beijing’s restaurant scene significantly expanded, she decided to pursue her passion for cooking in her leisure time, along with taking up yoga. She gave me a tour of her renovated kitchen: the sunny, expansive interior boasted a small greenhouse where she grew basil, mint, and rosemary, inspired by a visit to Europe. Her exploration of culinary arts led her to scrutinize food labels for ingredients and their provenance. With wry humor, she shared

91 Nancy N. Chen her concern about eating out, explaining further, “You can’t trust what’s served these days. If we looked inside any restaurant kitchen, we’d all run away.” She then pulled out a packet of Sichuan herbal spice mix and pointed to the green label, which signifies “organic” in China. She chose to pay a higher cost for the product because it provided a sense of cleanliness— free of pesticides. Her focus on her upper-middle-class family’s well-being extended to her shopping practices; she chose fresh produce from known local farmers at the weekend market near her home. Cooking oils, noodles, and other less perishable foods were purchased at hypermarkets or super- markets that carried goods with labels and expiration dates. The concern for safe or clean foods is shared across China, in rural or urban settings, by migrant workers, villagers, and urbanites. As Anna Lora-Wainwright’s (2013) ethnography of contemporary life in southwestern China shows, rural citizens living in areas with high rates of cancer (increasingly referred to as “cancer villages”) have to rationalize their concerns about contaminated food, water, and air on a daily basis. Chinese consumers have emerged in the twenty-first century as biocitizens concerned with ethics, care, and governance. The concept of biological citizenship, as Rose and Novas (2005:441) have suggested, has the capacity simultaneously to be “both individualizing and collectivizing.” The transformations that took place during the 1990s, mentioned above, reflect formations of corporeal individuality and self-management through consumption. At the other end of the biopolitical spectrum, the emergence of the Internet and the ever-growing blogosphere in twenty-first-century China offer alternative frameworks of collectivity—specifically, the new middle classes.1 By the end of 2011, China’s growing Internet users were estimated by the Chinese government as numbering around 505 million, including senior citizens, Chinese youth, and gamers (Lee 2012). The rise of netizens (wangmin), online community participants, and their active engagement on blogs and discussion forums has shaped new venues for expressions of moral outrage, petitions for collective action, and calls for regulatory change. Highly publicized incidents of Internet vigilantism in recent years, in which responses to corruption or questionable behavior were urged by netizens, have become discourses of national shame (Herold 2008). The human-flesh search engine renrou( sousuo) phenomenon, in which large groups of netizens collaboratively engage in exposing individuals, was described by Xinhua, China’s official news agency, as akin to “Internet lynching” (Xu and Ji 2012). The publication of personal information such as names, addresses, and telephone numbers has had a mul- tiplying effect, subjecting the targeted individuals to public humiliation

92 Between Abundance and Insecurity or harassment by way of hate mail or even death threats. But the growing platform for digital collectivity through microblogging, including the shorter formats of text updates, also serves a humanitarian function, which became critical in the aftermath of the Yushu earthquake in Sichuan for “citizen driven emergency responses” (Qu et al. 2011:25). Families seeking lost members could post updates using mobile phones without the need for computers. Media watchers and China scholars have noted the careful engagement of the state bureaucracy with netizens in which citizens are empowered “vis-à-vis the state” (Esarey and Xiao 2011) despite the intensive blog-censorship policy that has evolved (MacKinnon 2008). Shared concern for the safety of foods and medicines has drawn netizens, state media, and governmental agencies together to engage in reporting outbreaks and recalls of contaminated foods. Entreaties for more careful oversight of production lines have led to an overhaul of the Food and Drug Administration and its safety program in recent years. Penalties for individuals or institutions producing shoddy goods have been introduced. Some companies have been closed, and individuals, including government officials, have faced imprisonment or even the death penalty. For example, in 2007, the former director of the state Food and Drug Administration was executed for receiving bribes. Despite this dramatic response, more than 76,500 cases of fake foods were documented the following year (Pagnattaro and Peirce 2010). Social media networks and official Chinese news media have continued to engage in ongoing investigations of unsafe foods. Netizens have disseminated online lists of fake foods and warnings to consumers about the latest contaminated foods. China Central Television (CCTV), the leading state television channel, reported the extensive “gut- ter oil” scandal of 2011, in which restaurants and street food vendors were discovered using recycled oil collected from waste bins, gutters, or rotten animal flesh. Public security enforcement focused on finding the “gangs” involved in the production and sale of contaminated oil. The emerging response of the Chinese bureaucracy can be seen not only in the punitive measures but also in new oversight regulations. The Food Safety Law of 2009 (FSL) reflects the cumulative, coordinated efforts of different branches of the Chinese government. The Ministry of Health and the state Food and Drug Administration are the primary entities, along with nearly a dozen other agencies under the State Council charged with establishing and maintaining standards of food production, processing, management, and quality. The FSL outlines the specific duties and responsibilities of each department. Most significantly, the FSL defines basic terms, such as “food,” “food safety,” and “food safety accident,” in its sweeping

93 Nancy N. Chen articles (People’s Republic of China 2012a). The FSL even identifies civil society collectives as key participants in the promulgation of safe foods, in Article 8 of the general provision:

The state encourages social groups and autonomous grass-roots public organizations to engage in the work of popularizing food safety laws and regulations and food safety standards and information, advocating healthy eating styles, and enhancing consumer food safety awareness and self-protection capabilities. The news media are to publicize food safety laws, regulations, standards, and information for the public good and, by means of public opinion, exercise supervision over violations of this law. (People’s Republic of China 2012b:12)

The ordinance of 2009 made sweeping prescriptions for national regulatory alignment but lacked clear mechanisms for implementation at local levels in the fragmented food industry. Moreover, the fourteen entities charged with food safety had overlapping and contradictory standards. The FSL was thus revamped in June 2012, with more extensive requirements to abolish replication and to upgrade standards by 2015. By engaging social groups and grassroots organizations, the intensified state focus on food safety offers a distinct approach to biosecurity, or shenwuanquan. Biosecurity in China thus has a somewhat different genealogy from what Joe Masco addresses in chapter 1 in this volume, about the North American assemblage of institutional frameworks to deal with global biological emergencies or threats. It is notable that although the infectious diseases of H1N1 and SARS spurred US national framings of biosecurity that emphasized preparedness and anticipation, these outbreaks primarily took place in China. Biosecurity in a North American context is inherently about risk scenarios and averting future disasters. Moreover, it encompasses notions about the proliferation of threats and containment (Koblentz 2010). Yet, in China, where epic natural and human-made disasters continually take place and where struggles for daily existence are found in both urban metropolises and rural interiors, viral fears of dangerous consumption and extensive vulnerability are what ultimately galvanized critical formations of biosecurity there. In certain aspects, the resulting institutional changes were similar to early framings from Western agricultural and environmental groups concerned with biosafety and with preventing the transmission of infection to plants and animals. It is significant that subsequent provisions for food safety have entailed bilateral arrangements with the US

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Food and Drug Administration, including inspections of Chinese food- processing plants and factories. China has become the third largest supplier of food to the United States, after Mexico and Canada. It is also quickly becoming the third largest world food donor because China sends food aid to African nations (Zhang et al. 2010:187). Nonetheless, the importation of US standards and inspectors has not been as effective, due to obstacles in enforcement and legal disputes. In spite of doubts about questionable provenance and safety of a food or product, Chinese consumers take daily leaps of faith to trust in a label or purveyor or take measures to reduce their exposure to contaminated air, water, and food. But unlike water or air, both of which can be purified or filtered, the food distribution supply chain includes distributors that can easily sell fake or contaminated goods. Securing well-being and safety in the midst of abundant dangerous substances is but one face of the evolving regulatory apparatus. In similar fashion, the biotech industry also frames the good life in the new China by promoting images of self-reliance and securing the future. In what follows, I address how biotechnology is situated as a matter of life over death and the biosciences and scientific knowledge enable a distinct formulation of governance. It could be argued that the state’s focus on food security addresses vulnerability in the longer term.

Ten Thousand Genomes: Chinese Biotechnology as Public Good Science and its technologies have been embraced by Chinese leaders as the key to self-determination from the onset of the nation and its state planning. Few, however, would have predicted the global rise of commercial life sciences and China’s prominence in this industry in less than a decade. The biotechnology (shenwujishu) industry in China has followed a somewhat different trajectory from that of its counterparts in the United States. The biotech boom in Silicon Valley was propelled by private venture capital applying the knowledge of university researchers to develop the new industry. Biotechnology in China from its inception was a public-private hybrid, state funded yet driven by neoliberal markets to develop commercial applications. Biotechnology has been touted as the best solution to the problems of the world’s largest population, ranging from food shortages to health care. The aggressive promotion of this new science is deemed crucial not only for material resources but also for the well-being of the nation. The twelfth five-year plan (2011–2015) continues to list the biosciences as a key focus for development as a strategic industry.

95 Nancy N. Chen

Large-scale expositions, in which industry representatives display products, provide information about services, and educate potential clients, have become prominent sites for biotechnology firms to establish a public presence. The events tend to be held in capacious exhibition halls containing hundreds of temporary booths with portable tables, displays, and banners with company logos. Shanghai has hosted the largest annual biotechnology exposition, with several hundred firms and thousands of visitors. The scene seeks to re-create the street pharmacies of the 1990s, when customers could stroll by open-air displays, even impromptu clinics, selling the latest pharmaceutical goods. There remain many differences, however, between the two industries. Whereas Big Pharma swiftly became an established presence in Chinese markets via the culture industry on the streets, biotechnology tends to draw specialized audiences rather than the general public. Moreover, the vision of biotechnology as a generative force in Asian markets and society is inextricably linked as a response to ongoing concerns about population growth, unpredictable market economies, and epidemiological and ecological disaster. These states of exception underscore the risks and hopes in which formations of Chinese biotechnology are situated. What further distinguishes Chinese biotechnology from its American and European counterparts are the level of state investment and the volume of investment in the agricultural sector. Extensive applications in agricultural biotechnology make Chinese biotech projects different from those even in other countries in the Asia Pacific region. The expansion of the life sciences in twenty-first-century China is juxtaposed against a precipice of dire human needs. The drive to develop new products and to plant genetically modified crops is a continuation of an extensive agricultural history and concerns about feeding an ever-growing population. It is hard to escape survivalist accounts in which science and technology rescue China from a Malthusian fate of too many people and not enough food. Over the next three decades, it is estimated that the population will increase to 1.6 billion and food production must increase by at least 60 percent to match this growth. Another oft cited statistic is that China feeds 22 percent of the world’s population with only 7 percent of the world’s arable land (McBeath and McBeath 2009). Widespread starvation in the aftermath of the Great Leap Forward and other famines remain deeply etched in personal and institutional memories. Such Malthusian framings of necessity help to locate biotechnology as a savior rather than a problem. Feeding the nation in twenty-first-century China has evolved from focusing on the quantity of food to encompassing ongoing concerns about the quality and safety of foods. Yet, at the same time, patents on new GM

96 Between Abundance and Insecurity products and on the genomic sequences of agricultural plants and indigenous animals are seen as a critical platform for China’s push toward ownership of food sources. Ensuring the collective good in terms of sufficient food and material resources has facilitated formations of biotechnology as distinctively made in China. Rather than situate GMOs in monolithic “good” or “bad” categories, the broader framework of biosecurity as the overarching moral duty of the state to secure food sources brings different readings of GM foods. The technical elements of genetic engineering are portrayed as enhancements of preexisting foods to reduce the use of pesticides or to ensure volume, rather than as formations of “frankenfoods,” concern about which has been much discussed in Western media (Jasanoff 2005). Though China for centuries has faced ongoing concerns about feeding its people, considering the vast population as an exceptional situation enables biotechnology and market formations to be utilized as a double helix in the formation of the new China and its emerging biosovereignty. Age-old concerns for food security have shifted in the twenty-first century to encompass biotechnology as part of a national platform for biosecurity. The intensity of knowledge making and the development of biotech products in China offer insight into key questions of property and how a nation engages biosovereignty to promote a vision of the public good in an entrepreneurial fashion. The emphasis on GM crops and the volume that is being produced in China also raises questions of safety and whether the goal of feeding the nation justifies the new world of commercialized genomics. The Chinese bioeconomy is animated by emphasizing population needs over individual safety. Such an erasure of concerns, in essence, places food security over food safety. As Stone demonstrates in chapter 4, GM technology is inherently based on agnotological platforms: little is known about GMOs’ health benefits or hazards. Because there is ignorance about the hazards of GMOs, the concerns of bioinsecurity that surround fake or contaminated foods are not yet reflected in the debates about Chinese biotechnology. Instead, GM foods are posited as a means by which the state can fulfill its overarching duty to ensure food security through agricultural output. Rather than engage in discourses of fearful consumption of GM foods, as articulated by European and American consumers, Chinese biotech emphasizes the promissory securing of both biological life and the state’s economy. Whether in the form of GM rice or ten thousand genomes, such a bioeconomy platform is focused on ensuring the future through securing adequate food supplies. Little is currently known by Chinese consumers about the potential

97 Nancy N. Chen risks of genetically modified foods. Surveys conducted at the onset of the twenty-first century indicated that the majority of polled consumers had nearly no knowledge of biotechnology. Moreover, if any respondents had knowledge of biotechnology, their views were generally favorable (Ho, Vermeer, and Zhao 2006). GM labeling laws were introduced in 2003, but compliance with these regulations was difficult for most Chinese crop and food producers (Jia 2003). A more recent study, conducted after the GM labeling regulations were in place, indicated that people are willing to consume and even pay higher prices if the GM food item is considered to promote health with enhanced nutritional features through biofortification (De Steur et al. 2012). These findings are consistent with my ethnographic encounters with friends and acquaintances, who articulated few concerns about GM foods compared with more compelling burdens of ensuring adequate amounts of food and, most significant, safe foods to eat. In the summer of 2008, just prior to the Beijing Olympic games, food riots broke out in Haiti, Mozambique, and Brazil over the steep rise in the cost of grains, especially rice. Even in suburban Los Angeles County, rice was rationed at Asian markets. In spite of the worldwide increase in prices and the rice shortages at that time, consumers in urban China seemed indifferent to these events, citing the ability of the state to buffer against sudden shortages. Any potential doubts about GM foods seemed minimal in comparison with the more immediate dangers associated with adulter- ated and contaminated foods in the industrial food system. Notions of vulnerability seemed to follow a scale of temporal causality and effect focused mainly on food insecurity and unsafe food and did not yet extend to the unknown realms of GM food. Biosecurity is an evolving apparatus in the Chinese national context that simultaneously addresses its past, in the historical memory of famine, and its future, in the forging of biosovereignty through knowledge making and the ownership of genomic data. Bioprospecting in the twenty-first century, whether of plants or animal or human genetic material, reflects ongoing compromises between the ideal of open source information and the private capital that funds collaborative work on a global scale (Hayden 2003). Since its highly public role in publishing the rice genome in 2002, the Beijing Genomic Institute (BGI) has rapidly expanded from being a private enterprise providing fee-for-service sequencing and diagnostic tests for hospitals focusing on public access. The genomic research center also has gone global, with BGI headquarters in both the United States and Europe. Its youthful leaders have continued on an ambitious trajectory since its early days as a “sequence factory,” focusing on landmark

98 Between Abundance and Insecurity projects such as sequencing the SARS virus and Ötzi the Iceman. The list of ongoing projects shares near-mimetic qualities with mid-twentieth-century socialist endeavors: a thousand plants and animals, ten thousand micro- bial organisms, and a million human genomes, as well as the specialized sequencing of species associated with China, such as the silkworm and the giant panda (Cyranoski 2010).2 BGI’s multiple endeavors with both public and private capital embody Elta Smith’s (2012) analysis of biotechnology as a hybrid entity in which biotech firms rely on initial public funding and venture capital to pursue ambitious projects for private profit. From the state’s perspective, engaging in genomic sequencing and developing applications enhance a China-first position in biotech product lines and, ideally, freedom from multinational agribusiness firms. The emphasis on genetically enhanced agricultural products by state institutions also reflects an ongoing socialist concern for feeding the nation. Market principles of profit are not far from this endeavor. Farmers are enticed by the possibilities of fewer pesticide applications, with more capital and labor freed up for other entrepreneurial activities. Like their counterparts in many places around the world, farmers cultivating crops are dependent upon fluctuating circumstances like the weather and markets. Yet, this path is not without health and environmental concerns. Food safety concerns, such as allergenicity, and the ecological impact of GM crops on other species are proving to be serious challenges to the promotion that more output is better. The worries about food quality and purity on the part of consumers may still shift public views on GM foods. In Melinda Cooper’s (2008) framing of the emergent bioeconomy, she argues that neoliberalism requires “continual crisis” in order to autonomously reorganize. Chinese biotechnology is framed in the context of an ever-growing population, and the exponential growth of the biological is the ongoing crisis. It is impossible to discuss the production of rice without a consideration of water and labor—the key resources that enable its cultivation. The critical nexus of food, water, and energy increasingly determines the output of any crop, whether or not genetically engineered. Water governance in this context has a different genealogy from Steve Caton’s analysis of water in Yemen (chapter 6). China’s landscape has been shaped by centuries of wet irrigation—a massive agricultural feat despite the scarcity of resources. Iconic rural images of terraced paddies etched into hillsides or next to soaring mountains date back to late imperial China (Bray 1986). The claiming of Chinese waterways has been part of imperial state interventions and the contemporary bureaucracy. The intensive and resourceful engagement with land reflects the co-extensive relations between humans and rice

99 Nancy N. Chen cultivation over centuries. Rice continues in the present as a key site of assemblages of knowledge, technology, and nation making. Genetically modified (or transgenic) rice, in particular, has become the new locus for forging sovereignty in the face of disparity and projected futures of scarcity. As more frequent droughts and water shortages become the new normal, rice strains that rely on less water, maintain yields, or provide consistent levels of iron and other minerals are being examined as future food sources. Genetically modified rice falls into this continuum of research as part of ongoing efforts to secure food sources. Specific strains have been engineered for drought resistance or to grow with less water. In this moment when the newness of such phenomena are celebrated and seen as indicators of China’s ascendancy, we should note, however, that biotechnology is viewed by bureaucrats as a rational engine to con- join economic reform with technological innovation, not as social or political reform. In the case of new technologies, scientific knowledge becomes engaged as entrepreneurial promotion for scientists, bureaucrats, and investors. Science is not so much a regulatory force, but instead a generative force of new possibilities for self-determination and national legitimacy. Biotech frames the Chinese state and its desires for self-making. New consumers in China are raised in an environment where the market and biotechnology are conjoined. In this way, we can view the work of biotech as a means to cultivate biocitizens in new regimes of consumption and to secure certain futures as a public good. Bioinsecurity is erased from this utopian framing of biotech because the focus on food security is kept quite separate from the concerns about food safety. The greater fear of not having enough food for an expanding population supersedes concerns about the safety of consuming GM rice. The feared lack of consumption through scarcity and an inadequate food supply outweighs the fearful consumption of tainted food.

Conclusion: Securing Consumption In May 2012, China Central Television aired a seven-part documentary series called Shejian shangde zhongguo (China on the Tip of the Tongue), which Western media translated as “Bite of China.” Each episode, shot in high definition, follows local food makers as they cure ham, pickle vegetables, ferment bean curd or shrimp, and make other traditional dishes. The series enabled more than a hundred million viewers to see pastoral scenes of faraway rural villages and artisanal foods. The screenings have been instrumental in recharging the food industry by enticing food- ies with histories of regional dishes and creating a newfound desire for

100 Between Abundance and Insecurity culinary knowledge. Online sales of cooking tools increased during the screenings, and culinary tours based on the series have become the latest fashion. Book publishers have produced an encyclopedic compendium for the popular series. Spinoff series by other CCTV channels are in the making. As netizens critique the appearance of this show in the midst of ongoing concerns about contaminated foods, the title of the series offers insight into particular formations of twenty-first-century governmentality that are culturally specific. In Chinese medicine, the tip of the tongue is considered be a pathway to the heart. The nostalgic appeal to a perhaps bygone era of eating without fear suggests that governance can be most appealing when one’s stomach is secure. The reforms regarding food safety indicate the regulatory burden of the state in this new era of consumption. As incomes for households across China rise, family diets change from a primary reliance on rice and other grains to more varied diets, with increased protein consumption from meat and seafood (Aubert 2008; Gale and Henneberry 2009). Corn and soy use has also increased as secondary consumption for animal feed. Although biotechnology will provide breakthroughs in scientific knowledge and genomic products, there continue to be market gaps. Vulnerability reflects one’s position in an economic order. Rural and urban migrant communities face a vast spiral of environmental degradation, regional inequality, and poverty. In 2013, increasing protests and collective action focused on government accountability with regard to environmental destruction. All of these serve as reminders that bioinsecurity and vulnerability will continue to be primary challenges of governance in the twenty-first century. Securing consumption entails carefully negotiating rapid economic growth and governing desires. As China’s bureaucracy moves toward a planned green economy, navigating the dangers of an ever-present gray economy and profiteering will require skillful management of the public’s desire for food safety and security, rather than serving up the faux good life.

Acknowledgments SAR provided an incredible intellectual space that allowed me to reframe my ethnographic research. I am deeply grateful to all the participants of the advanced seminar, who gave invaluable feedback for revising this chapter. Michael Watts, as the discussant of the seminar paper, offered incisive insights and theoretical rigor. Special thanks to Lesley Sharp for her ongoing encouragement and good humor as co-editor. Thanks to Jiemin Bao and Wei Wei for their swift help when I sought original sources for the FSL.

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Notes 1. There are multiple categories or definitions of “middle class” in China, hence the use of the plural “middle classes.” 2. See also http://www.genomics.cn.

102 6

Global Water Security and the Demonization of Qāt The New Water Governmentality and Developing Countries like Yemen

Steven C. Caton

This chapter is unique in this volume in that it focuses specifically on certain discourses of water sustainability as a question of biosecurity. Though this question also appears in chapter 5 by Chen and chapter 9 by Susser, it is not their main concern. In their chapters, water appears as part of a larger context of frailty or vulnerability to which certain populations are exposed, in the case of China, unreliable pharmaceuticals and an uncertain food supply, and in the case of South Africa, inadequate transportation and nonpotable water in poorer areas. Water, of course, is indispensable for food (one might claim that this is also true for pharmaceuticals, though the connection is more indirect and subtle), and China faces enormous challenges with regard to water sustainability as it embarks on its ever more ambitious economic plans. What all three chapters make clear is that the problems of water security have been exacerbated, if not produced, by ambitious development, whether directed by the state, as in China, or by state and private partnerships, as in South Africa and Yemen. The contradiction lies in the fact that the same market is also invoked (at least in the cases of South Africa and Yemen) as the “solution” for a country’s water sustainability problems. This should not be surprising insofar as capitalism is often the first to respond with goods and services meant to cure or overcome the very ills it has produced. The same contradiction can

103 Steven C. Caton be found in the new security paradigm, one concentrated on water, that is the focal point of this chapter, a paradigm of public-private partnership. The year 2012 may well be the one in which “(bio)security” became the dominant mode for talking about water governance in the world. On February 2 of that year, the Office of the Director of National Intelligence came out with a report for the US Department of State titled Global Water Security, which issued a set of dire warnings:

Our bottom line: During the next 10 years, many countries important to the United States will experience water problems— shortages, poor water quality, or floods—that will risk instability and state failure, increase regional tensions, and distract from working with the United States on important US policy objectives. Between now and 2040, fresh water availability will not keep up with demand absent more effective management of water resources. Water problems will hinder the ability of key countries to produce food and generate energy, posing a risk to global food markets and hobbling economic growth. As a result of demographic and economic development pressures, North Africa, the Middle East, and South Asia will face major challenges coping with water problems. (US National Intelligence Agency, Office of the Director 2012:iii)

On March 22, in a speech commemorating World Water Day, US secretary of state Hillary Rodham Clinton announced a new initiative, the US Water Partnership, which is described on the US Department of State’s website as a “public-private partnership that seeks to mobilize US-based knowledge, expertise and resources to improve water security around the world— particularly in those countries most in need.” Among the new members of this partnership are Africare, the Coca-Cola Company, Procter & Gamble, the Nature Conservancy, the Rockefeller Foundation, the Ford Motor Company, and the Skoll Global Threats Fund. Clinton stated, “We believe this Water Partnership will help map out our route to a more water secure world: a world where no one dies from water-related diseases; where water does not impede social or economic development; and where no war is ever fought over water.”1 Given the tight nexus of national policy and scientific expertise, it is not surprising that in the same year, a number of important academic conferences on water security were held, including the “Water Security, Risk and Society” conference (April 16–18), organized at Oxford University,

104 Global Water Security and the “Water and Agriculture” conference (March 30), hosted jointly by Johns Hopkins University’s School of Advanced International Studies and the Center for Strategic and International Studies. These were preceded and followed by public lectures, panel discussions, and forums related to SAIS’s Year of Water. The year 2013 saw Stockholm’s World Water Week, and the 2015 World Water Forum will focus on water security. Academic institutions like Harvard University, Oxford University, and Australian National University, which had already formed programs around water security issues, were quick to take the lead in shaping and directing this new form of governmentality. I argue that countries like Yemen are being blamed by an international order of water experts and water managers for a crisis in water security that is of the international order’s own making as much as it is caused by the politics and policies of particular developing countries. Using Yemen as a case study, I show how agricultural policies pushed by the World Bank led to a ruinous situation for water in Yemen and that the blame for the problem has been deflected onto the cultivation and sale of qāt(mild stimulant) by local farmers. But to see this connection, we have to first understand what water security is thought to mean in international discourse. As Joseph Masco makes clear in chapter 1, biosecurity discourse came into prominence only about twenty years ago in the context of ranching operations in New Zealand; before 9/11, it was rarely used outside the confines of the potential threat to animal populations from infectious diseases. However, in the context of the US-led “war on terror,” the biological threat to human populations has become the key concern, beginning with the 2001 anthrax attack and then the February 2003 US allegations before the UN General Assembly that Iraq was stockpiling biological and chemical weapons, which, though proven false in the end, was the rhetori- cal argument for going to war. Biosecurity underwent a remarkably swift evolution, which Masco argues occurred not at the level of fact but at the level of threat perception and fearmongering. Following Masco’s mapping of the emergence and development of biosecurity discourse, one might say that from 1990 to 2000, in sites where food security was the paramount concern, water—though seen as essential to the food supply—was of secondary importance compared with the security of plant and animal populations. From 2001 until the present, terrorism has emerged as the number one threat, with the US population seen as most immediately at risk from Islamist groups like Al Qaeda; although concerns have been expressed about securing the US water supply, it has not been perceived as being in immediate danger.

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Today, the threat to the global water supply is being articulated most urgently, but terrorism per se, though hardly considered inconsequential, is not at the top of the list of concerns; rather, it is the “mismanagement” of water resources. For example, returning to the Global Water Security report, “water terrorism” is described as a physical attack on infrastructure such as dams, reservoirs, desalination plants, and irrigation facilities (US National Intelligence Agency, Office of the Director 2012:4), but “improving water management and investments” is emphasized over those concerns (6–7). In other words, bigger than the terrorist threat is the threat of mismanagement, largely by national governments, which requires intervention by the international community, led by the United States, to secure water supplies. It is important to understand this aspect of the newly emergent water security paradigm: blame is placed on governments, not on terrorist anarchy or destruction, as the fundamental threat. But like the terror-and-threat security development of the past decade or more, water security governmentality is led by the United States and defined according to its perceived political interests in the world. In other words, nations that the United States perceives as vital to its own security (however defined, economically, politically, and medically) must get help with securing their water supply because their future economic development and political stability (threatened by potential water conflicts) are at stake. Of course, the perception of which nations are crucial to US interests is not static: some nations are perceived as more important in some periods and less important in others. Afghanistan and Yemen, for example, though now high on US priority lists because of Al Qaeda, were not always so, whereas Pakistan is almost always seen as high priority because of its relations with India. If Al Qaeda were removed from Yemen, would the country still remain high on the US list of priorities? These considerations have a bearing on how much assistance nations can expect to receive over the long term to rectify complex water problems, aid that might not be forthcoming once the country is no longer high on the US list of priorities. The list of nations perceived as having water problems—to a degree that is seen as a threat to their security—is also not stable or transparent. Indeed, few nations in the world do not have severe water problems of one kind or another. It may seem ironic to some nations to be instructed by the likes of the United States on the proper management of water in the agricultural sector when it has hardly been a model in that regard. Consider the overexploitation of water in California’s Central Valley or the poisoning of groundwater through industrial waste that has led to high cancer rates in Texas. Is it not symptomatic of the problem that the United States is able to

106 Global Water Security announce as a matter of foreign policy what it seems incapable of announc- ing as national policy, namely, a responsible and just use of its own water resources? The key point, however, is that this new global governmentality is one the United States wants to dominate and control, riding on the wave of the war on terror that it instigated and led. The other important point is that the new partnership (read “coalition,” in the earlier terror discourse) includes partners in the private and public sectors, with no discussion of the possible conflicts of interest this might entail. Coca-Cola, for example, like Nestlé and other transnational corporations that are dependent on secure water supplies for their products, has been buying up water supplies and making them more scarce for locals, who depend upon the same water for their agriculture, domestic consumption, and hygiene. The World Bank and the IMF have led the drive to water privatization. On a practical level, at a time when governments are cutting back on spending, there seems to be no alternative but for them to partner with the private sector in order to pay for water security schemes. On an ideological level, what this vision of global water security entails is the governance of water by neoliberal principles; though these principles seem to be tempered by public goals and are partially administered by public institutions (in other words, there is some form of regulation and accountability or transparency), nothing is said about how this is really going to work. Just as nations with severe water problems might not get the assistance they need under this security initiative because they are not perceived as essential to the long-term political interests of the United States, so, too, they might not get such assistance if the private sector does not see a sufficient potential profit in investing in the solutions to their water needs (for example, water conservation and purification). Countries like Yemen, though clearly facing an existential threat where their water situation is concerned, may fall through the cracks of the new water security governmentality paradigm because they do not fit the “definition of the moment” in terms of serving US political interests, nor do they fit the profit motive of the transnational corporations supposedly willing to help with their water problems. Indeed, I would argue that these countries (or regions within countries) are already, and will continue to be, written off as having water problems whose solutions are intractable for the global water order. How many times have we heard, for example, that Yemen might become the first society in history to run out of water? If one ponders this proposition for even a moment, one realizes that it is nonsensical without qualifications such as “Its highland areas might run out of water” or “Its citizens might

107 Steven C. Caton have to move to coastal and other areas where water in some form would be available.” But this alarmist way of speaking about the problem, a doomsday scenario, is in keeping with the security threat paradigm out of which it emerges. And in a subtler and more insidious way, I argue, this position absolves the international community from succeeding in solving a problem that it ultimately has no political or economic interest in solving and that, moreover, would require other kinds of principles and partnerships than the ones that have been announced.

A Brief History of Water Governance in Yemen It is clear that the Global Water Security initiative has its genealogy in the biosecurity paradigm, especially the US-led war on terror that developed with such incredible speed and sweep since 2001, but this is only part of the story. To gain more perspective, it is helpful to review earlier regimes of governance and their impacts on a society like Yemen, which the initiative attempts to absorb or subsume within itself. Three such discursive regimes are historically salient, but for interest of space, I focus on only the second and third: the post–World War discourse of centralized development; the neoliberal discourse of water sustainability through market regimes; and integrated water resource management (IWRM).

Neoliberal Development Discourse The centralized development paradigm of the postwar period (1950– 1985) was roughly as follows. It was acknowledged that poorer, less developed countries needed assistance from the wealthier, industrial, and manufacturing nations so that they would not veer toward socialism, and the assistance usually took the form of direct financial aid to the governments of those developing countries, along with technical assistance. The states that were recipients of this aid were directly responsible for the distribution of the money to citizens who needed it, usually in the form of development projects that would meet local needs. Aid was centralized, and this was thought at the time to be a good outcome. For one thing, it strength- ened states, or so it was thought, on the principle that one of the bases of state power and legitimacy is the provision of key goods and services to citizens. It was also thought to be efficient, on the grounds that states would know better than outside experts who most needed assistance in their own countries and how to serve those needs. In the 1980s, a turn away from this state-centralized model began, in response to a host of problems with it. This discursive regime I call “neoliberal development.” The first of the complaints about the centralized

108 Global Water Security development model was corruption; large amounts of aid never reached the intended recipients because the money was funneled into the pockets of state officials and elites. The second was inefficiency, the very opposite of the argument made in favor of centralized aid to states in the first place. For example, governments tended to unnecessarily duplicate bureaucracies needed to manage or administer water resources, which in the end made the entire system unwieldy and needlessly expensive. But the third was the most telling complaint (heard to this day from neoliberal stal- warts): populations were made “dependent” on what was the equivalent of a welfare state, a criticism that emerged in full throttle with the decline of socialism after the fall of the Soviet Union through the supposed triumph of market capitalism. As is well known, poor countries like Yemen were urged to develop their resources for the marketplace, to commodify them and sell them for profit, and in the process to help pay for their own development rather than rely on outside donors and their largesse. To further this process, developing countries were required to sign up for structural readjustment programs as a condition of low-interest loans from the World Bank, programs that were supposed to decentralize development and make it dependent on and regulated by the marketplace. Concomitant with this market policy was yet another discourse that was convergent with it in the 1980s and 1990s: democratization. This was not so much about the fact that many states receiving aid were autocratic, but that they were still centralized, and there was a perceived need to empower local agencies rather than the state in the development process. This was supposed to solve several problems at once. It would make development less corrupt because it cut out the state actor (though never completely, of course). It would also make it more efficient, in that one would deal more directly with the recipients of the aid rather than through inefficient state mediators of that aid. And democracy was supposed to emerge through such agents as local water associations, which would decide collectively how water would be managed, on the naïve assumption that communities are relatively egalitarian and inherently more democratic than the state. Not surprisingly, governments were intensely ambivalent about this decentralization/democratization process, feeling that their authority and power were being circumvented and eroded. The international order, not the central state, had become the purveyor of goods and services, and this of course rankled. Because of concern that market forces would have a damaging effect on the environment, especially water, an ideal of sustainability was developed. There were many formulations, but the Brundtland Commission’s 1987 definition was probably the most influential: resources

109 Steven C. Caton should be developed to meet the needs of the current generation, but in such a way as not to jeopardize those resources and deprive future generations of them. Yemen is an example of how this neoliberal development regime went tragically awry. Before the discovery of oil (and, more recently, gas), The only substantial social capital that could be developed in this neoliberal regime was Yemen’s agriculture. Though located in one of the most arid regions on earth, Yemen has for millennia been an agricultural society. Ancient Yemenis figured out how to harness water through the famous Marib Dam, which irrigated one of the most expansive acreages of cultivation in the ancient world. That dam was in the desert. But Yemen is also a mountainous region, and the second, though less heralded, engineering feat was to develop terraced agriculture, which was dependent upon rain and groundwater (Varisco 1983). Until the 1980s, this agriculture was subsistence based and largely dependent on rainwater. But with the encouragement of the World Bank, the central government embarked on an ambitious development plan for its agricultural sector that would allow it to export products to national, regional, and, it was hoped, international markets. Loans to individual farmers or agricultural enterprises were made conditional upon structural readjustment, especially in regard to government subsidies of such things as diesel fuel and sugar. However, to expand the agricultural sector, water was needed, and this expanded need corresponded with a time of drought in Yemen that began in the 1970s and lasted well into the 1990s. Agricultural expansion that was dependent upon rainwater (delivered by seasonal monsoons—spring and summer) was therefore impossible. Another factor was the type of crops that might be profitable, such as wheat, fruit, and citrus, which are all very water thirsty and would require a considerable augmentation in the water supply. Then, the third key factor kicked in: the introduction of artesian wells (bore holes drilled deep into the earth until an aquifer is hit, whose water is then moved to the surface by diesel-fueled pumps), which farmers could purchase through low-interest loans from the World Bank. What was supposedly not known at the time (though it may have been ignored or suppressed) was that the aquifer under the Sana’a Basin, for example, contained “fossil water,” meaning that once this water was withdrawn, it would be naturally recharged at a very slow rate. In the rush to make money in the expanding agricultural sector, farmers drilled these wells almost indiscriminately (or, as they would later be vilified, “irrationally”), precipitating the crisis Sana’a faces today. In one sense, this neoliberal development regime worked: by bringing

110 Global Water Security agriculture into a capitalized, market economy, farmers began to prosper, and this prosperity led to improvements in the standard of living that lifted many people in Yemen out of poverty. But the concept of sustainability was strained in the process. It would have been nice to have sustained this level of development so that the next generation, too, would be lifted out of poverty, but it became clear that the present improvement would be possible only at the expense of a finite water supply. Experts were called in to see whether more dams should be built to harvest more of the little rainwater there was, whether desalination plants should be built on the Red Sea, or whether new sources of underground water might be found (as there have been in southern Yemen). But it was clear that these solutions were either unrealistic (the dams) or limited in their effectiveness (desalination—not to speak of the environmental damage to the sea) or unlikely (finding new water supplies).

Integrated Water Resource Management In the 1990s, approximately at the time that the neoliberal model of development was gaining ground, another regime emerged, IWRM (Orlove and Caton 2010). By now it has subsumed the sustainability concept of 1970s neoliberal discourse and has become hegemonic in many developing countries like Yemen (though usually only poor ones that cannot desalinate in bulk, for example). Integrated water resource management is enshrined in the World Water Council’s World Water Vision (2000), which states that to ensure sustainability of water, we must view it holisti- cally, balancing competing demands on it—domestic, agricultural, industrial (including energy), and environmental. The sustainable management of water resources requires systematic, integrated decision making. In other words, meeting the world’s water demands in such a way that economic growth can be sustained (and thereby alleviate world poverty) no longer means trying to increase the total water supply through expanding and improving water infrastructure, by manufacturing water through desalination, or by water prospecting (as in the exploration of Antartica), but by taking what is a finite and likely to be gradually diminishing resource and “managing” or “administering” this water supply more rationally and also more equitably. Sustainability has not been abandoned, but it certainly seems a less and less feasible goal. Scaling back is more realistic, but, for obvious reasons, it is far less popular. Several themes run through IWRM discourse. The first is its emphasis on the management of existing water resources rather than on efforts to augment water supplies through technology and engineering. Since it is

111 Steven C. Caton unlikely that new resources will be found, one has to make do with existing ones. The idea of management is bureaucratic, with varying levels of complexity and integration. The fundamental level is usually the watershed or water basin, and the management of water resources at this level must be integrated with the needs of all the users of this basin. This requires water associations at the most basic level, but also regional and state-level bureaucracies. The focus is still on democratic participation in water management at the local level, though assisted by state bureaucrats and international development experts. The second theme is that the solution to a nation’s water problems cannot be found in just one societal sector. It is generally believed that most of the world’s water is consumed in agriculture (up to 90 percent of the water used by humans on earth), so it seems logical that if the problem of water sustainability can be fixed in this sector, then the crisis of water will have been solved. But if the water supply is not going to grow over time and at best remains stable, where is the water going to come from to meet the demands of the agricultural sector? The solution can only be either managing water better in that sector (for example, water conservation) or redirecting water to it from other sectors, trade-offs that have difficult economic, political, and social consequences for the rest of society. A multi- sectoral approach is required, one that relates sectors to one another in a holistic way. The idea that this is not just a management problem but also a political one is often conveniently ignored, however. Third, although IWRM has a healthy respect for rational, universal- izing science (it is, after all, a paradigm that emerged from expert knowledge in the engineering schools of Europe), it is skeptical about narrow technological solutions to water shortages, arguing instead that technological approaches need to be measured or tempered by others—bureaucratic, legal, economic, political, cultural, and so forth. This is another holistic approach, except this time in terms of interdisciplinary knowledge. IWRM is a global regime for governing the world’s water, but how does this regime of governance translate into concrete political practices on the ground? In 2005–2006, I did fieldwork in Sana’a, Yemen’s capital, and the Sana’a Basin, the most water-stressed region of the country, to see how water experts in the national government and the international order (ranging from the World Bank to the GTZ [German Technical Team] and the Dutch embassy) were handling a crisis that even then was seen as being of epic proportions, symbolized in the assertion (now proven false) that Sana’a “would run out of water by 2008.” The estimate was later revised to 2013, but because Sana’a still subsists, the forecasts of its demise have now wisely ceased.

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To me, the most interesting anthropological question is, how does IWRM get implemented? First, Yemenis who have been trained in an older, supposedly unsustainable view of water (for example, engineers) have to be retrained in the principles of IWRM, either by taking refresher courses in European institutes (for example, Wageningen in the Netherlands) or by pursuing their training in institutes at home that have been revamped for that purpose (for example, the Center for Water and the Environment at Sana’a University). As one Yemeni put it to me, they are then turned into “social engineers.” Thus, there are important educational sites in which local Yemeni experts are “retooled” and in that sense brought under the disciplinary thinking of the new holistic regime of knowledge. Whether or not this succeeds was the focus of my ethnography of the institute and the classroom. Second, there are academic conferences at which IWRM is discussed, debated, and disseminated, in which experts from developing countries are further aligned in the new mode of thinking. I attended these, as well as seminars and workshops. Third is the way in which national development plans incorporate IWRM thinking (Yemen’s water plan explicitly does so), plans in light of which local development projects are regulated and kept in line. And, fourth, implementation involves—especially in the absence of policing or some other enforcement mechanism in Yemen— making financial assistance contingent upon the developing country meeting its planned goals (including poverty alleviation) in various sectors. Review boards, made up of international donors, interrogate local experts on whether the statistics they have compiled on their water management are consistent with the targets set in the IWRM plan. I attended a meeting of one of these review boards in Yemen. If the local projects do not meet those goals, they are not granted the full aid amount.

Water Security, circa 2011 As in the neoliberal paradigm, “management” (which almost always means “government institutions” on regional or national levels) is blamed for problems of water scarcity and quality, and a large part of the solution is seen in market terms. That is, let the market intervene with its capital and technological innovations, and of course it has to be understood that the market will in turn own a share—perhaps even the preponderant share— of a nation’s water resources and its uses. The difference, and it is a crucial one, is that previously it was “virtual water” the market commodified (that is, things like agricultural products that depend on water) whereas now it is “actual water” resources. If a company, for example, goes in and purifies or recycles a water supply, it has to defray the costs by passing them along

113 Steven C. Caton to customers, either by selling the purified water or by receiving a tariff of some sort from the government. Like IWRM, the notion of water security sees the solution to the problem of managing water resources to be a holistic and integrative approach. Here is another excerpt from the Global Water Security report. Under the heading “Improving Water Management and Investments,” it states:

We judge that, from now through 2040, improved water management (e.g., pricing, allocations and “virtual water” trade) and investment in water-related sectors (e.g., agriculture, power, and water treatment) will afford the best solutions for water problems.… Effective water management has several components [including] use of an integrated water resource management framework that assesses the whole ecosystem and then uses technology and infrastructure for efficient water use, flood control, redistribution of water, and preservation of water quality. (US National Intelligence Agency, Office of the Director 2012:6)

And in a footnote is added the following definition: “Water management includes pricing decision[s], allocations of water based upon hydrological modeling, development of infrastructure (dams, levies, canals, water treatment facilities, etc.), the use of water infrastructure to control water flow, trade of products with high water content, and effective transboundary water agreements” (note e). It should be noted that this is a very narrow understanding of IWRM, which reduces it to the environment and the ecosystem (as though human populations and their water use do not inhabit political spaces of determination) and puts forward management solutions predominantly in terms of economics and technology. But it is very much the kind of thinking that characterizes USAID, for example, in contrast with, say, the Dutch and their vastly more holistic views of IWRM, and it is presumably USAID that will lead the Global Water Security initiative in the public sector.

The Demonization of QĀt In this chapter, I use qāt, which is widely grown and consumed in Yemen, as an example of the changing discursive regimes on water. The shrub Catha edulis is cultivated in the highlands of the country. The plant did not originate in Yemen, however. It was probably introduced from Ethiopia in the fifteenth century. Its succulent leaves are chewed by men and women

114 Global Water Security for the plant’s euphoric effects. (For studies on qāt, see Kennedy 1987; Weir 1985; Al-Zalab 2010.) Qāt is banned in the United States because it contains an alkaloid, cathinone, which is an amphetamine-like stimulant, though it is legal in many countries whose rulings are based upon the same scientific evidence. Also, certain negative physiological effects are associated with its use: short-term ones include insomnia, acid buildup in the stomach and esophagus, mild constipation, temporary impotence, and suppression of appetite; longer-term effects may include increased blood pressure, liver damage, and oral and esophageal cancers (though not enough longitudinal studies have been carried out to fully substantiate these claims). Far more exaggerated and harder to verify are the assertions that qāt chewing can induce trance-like or even mildly psychotic states, including a high degree of emotionalism, agitation, and trembling in the hands and limbs of people who are presumed to be “normal” otherwise. It has also been suggested that it is a narcotic in the sense that habitués who go off it experience withdrawal symptoms, such as nervousness, irritability, and an inability to concentrate. (In the many years that I have chewed qāt in Yemen, I have experienced these symptoms only in their mildest form, if at all, and others have reported the same.) The side effects of withdrawal are more severe for coffee drinking, for example, or tobacco smoking. Qāt does not produce the same level of addiction as either of these substances, both of which are legal in the United States yet have far more deleterious side effects. It is hard to document, but my sense from living in Yemen for years and observing foreigners who deal with qāt (many of whom unofficially chew it with enthusiasm) is that it is thought of as a scourge: deleterious to one’s health, ruinous to poorer households, and symptomatic of what is wrong with Yemen, a country that is viewed as “out of control.” Qāt chewing often serves as a trope for the “primitiveness” of Yemen, and by controlling it (or, better yet, disciplining the qāt-chewing population), somehow the country will be more “modern,” more “healthy,” more “productive,” and more “rational.” When it is asserted that as much as 85 percent of the Yemeni population chews qāt, we are given no breakdown of consumption according to age, socioeconomic level, education, or even number of times individuals chew per week. Without such data, it is impossible to get a complete or nuanced view of qāt consumption. Among the educated classes, for example, many eschew qāt on a daily basis, consuming it only on Thursdays or Fridays (the Yemeni weekend) or on special occasions, such as weddings,

115 Steven C. Caton giving as reasons for this relatively abstemious behavior that their bodies “can’t tolerate more” or that they deem daily consumption to be profligate. But even well-to-do Yemenis may chew on a regular basis because of its importance in social gatherings where networking is crucial for their businesses or political ambitions. That said, it is more common these days for people to attend such gatherings without chewing qāt, and no disdain or social criticism is heaped upon them. Poorer people may in fact be among the heavier users, but that may be because one of its effects is to suppress hunger and another is to induce a feeling of euphoria even in the face of dire personal circumstances. Common laborers often chew it while working at arduous physical tasks because of the burst of energy qāt provides. Placing the practice of qāt chewing in its myriad social contexts allows one to understand its importance or value beyond its physiological and psychological impacts. Let us try to understand qāt chewing as a social event. Though individuals do chew qāt by themselves, it is more usual for people to get together in a sitting room, called a mafraj in Yemeni Arabic, since a chew, or takhzīn, is widely considered to be a social occasion. Indeed, some of its culturally understood effects are sociability and, above all, talkative- ness. Most chews involve close kin and friends, but there are also specialized chews that involve professional networks or the political and artistic interests of its participants. The qāt chew has an elaborate etiquette, which I do not have the space to go into here. Suffice it to say that the importance of the qāt chew in Yemeni society cannot be overestimated. It is not about getting high on a drug, but about getting into a mood, which is enabled by a substance that acts as a stimulus to socializing and eloquently discussing important topics. The political scientist Lisa Wedeen (2008), for example, has argued that the chew is fundamental to the practice of critical discourse in the Yemeni public sphere and hence is part and parcel of a democratic process, though most analysts who think in conventional Western analytical categories would not recognize it as such. My own experience bolsters this view. Chews can be freewheeling and profound discussions of current events, national and international, though they need not be. Often, they are just a lot of fun.

QĀt and Water Security Qāt has become a lightning rod in the discourse on water scarcity and public health. It is claimed that it consumes an inordinate amount of water in the agricultural sector (despite the more equivocal evidence discussed below) but is not adding to a nourishing food supply for the general population. It is said that 90 percent of the total water supply is expended in the

116 Global Water Security agricultural sector and 50 percent of that amount is expended on the cultivation of qāt. The simplistic conclusion? Get rid of or greatly reduce qāt cultivation and a large savings in the water supply would result (not to mention a public health benefit). If a direct causal link of this sort is not entirely convincing, a metaphorical level may be more persuasive: qāt consumption is like water consumption, “irrational and out of control.” Focusing on or obsessing about qāt is the sort of single fix or silver bullet that tends to come up in discussions of water security. But what does qāt cultivation really represent in terms of water consumption? Qāt is irrigated in the four to five months before the harvest, but the rest of the time (the winter and spring months), it is left dormant and qāt fields are dry. Grapes, another important crop, are also left dormant for five months (October–February) but then are subjected to heavy irrigation. Vegetables and animal fodder, like alfalfa, are more or less irrigated on a regular basis. If one compares the amount of water used per acre of these three crops, qāt uses the lowest amount, grapes the second lowest, and vegetables and fodder the highest (see Foster 2003). Therefore, it is not the case that a qāt plant is thirstier or requires more water than other crops in the agricultural system. Is qāt cultivation expanding? Qāt is a cash crop, in fact the most valuable cash crop in the present agricultural economy in Yemen. But it was not always so. Though it is difficult to document, anecdotal evidence suggests that qāt cultivation has been on a dramatic rise since the late 1990s, when several things happened. As already noted, with the encouragement of the IMF and financial assistance from the World Bank, Yemen embarked on an ambitious agricultural development scheme that would supposedly move it from a subsistence system to a market-driven one, with the idea that the country would be less dependent on foreign assistance and hopefully become competitive in regional economies on the peninsula (which had historically developed agricultural systems only in oasis date cultivation, not elaborate terraced agriculture as in the cases of Yemen and Oman). In order for this transition to take place, the total water supply in the agricultural sector had to be increased, which was not possible through flood or rainfall irrigation alone, especially at a time when Yemen was experienc- ing a decade-long drought. Instead, underground water sources had to be tapped, and these were made accessible through artesian drilling into basin aquifers (as already mentioned, it apparently was not known at the time that the largest of these under the Sana’a Basin, the Tawilah aquifer, was composed of fossil water—meaning that it could not be recharged quickly, if at all, once the water had been extracted). To pay for this drilling, farmers

117 Steven C. Caton were able to secure low-interest, long-term loans from the World Bank. Another contributing factor is that in Yemen in the 1980s, oil was discovered, which eventually made it possible for the government to subsidize the cost of diesel fuel (which was needed for the water pumps). Very quickly, artesian well drilling expanded and with it the cultivation of cash crops, including grains and citrus fruits—all water-thirsty crops—and though qāt was among them, it was hardly predominant. But the reckoning of what turned out to be a ruinous scheme came in the late 1990s and early 2000s, when it became clear to experts that Yemen was facing a severe overdraft of its water supplies. A scapegoat was needed, and it took the form of qāt. The 1990s retrospectively were cast as a decade of random and indiscriminate well drilling—if you will, the tragedy of the commons—and qāt was seen as the likely culprit. Then, in 2006, the IMF informed the Yemeni government that it could no longer continue its diesel fuel subsidy because of structural readjustment agreements. The price of diesel fuel doubled almost overnight, and so did qāt cultivation. From a rational economic perspective, this was predictable: qāt cultivation cost less money per cubic meter of water in comparison with other cash crops, like grapes, so farmers were getting more bang for their drop. But this is not how the international expert and donor community saw it: qāt cultivation was making the water supply of Yemen more insecure at the same time that it was increasing public health risks. My argument is that the demonizing discourse around qāt in the early 2000s occluded a larger problem with the economic reforms of the previous two decades, spearheaded by the IMF and the World Bank, which put Yemen’s water security at extreme risk. A market-driven model of agricultural production was ill informed (if informed at all) about the uncertainties of Yemen’s underground water supply, and the country was pressured into directions that proved ruinous. Rather than the market models that directed these reforms being criticized, the “irrational custom” of qāt chewing became the culprit, the “unbridled demand” for this “narcotic” substance fueling an out-of-control agricultural practice.

Conclusion As water is now being subsumed within biosecurity discourse, it is not the terrorist threat to the water supply that most haunts the security expert’s imagination, though this is a real concern, but existential threats that come from other quarters, such as climate change, industrial pollution and waste, Malthusian population growth, and, finally, war over

118 Global Water Security scarce water resources. Hyperbolically, it has been said that the next wars of the twenty-first century will not be over oil, but over water. To secure a reliable and sufficient water supply for local populations is now not just an imperative of development or of poverty alleviation, but of averting conflict and even existential death. One can run out of oil, but not water, if one is to survive. But let us not be deceived. Just as biosecurity is really about national security (as seen from the vantage point of a particular nation, such as the United States), there is an unacknowledged understanding that some countries—usually, developing countries—are under greater existential threat than are developed ones when it comes to their water supply. Furthermore, rich countries that face water scarcity, such as Arab Gulf countries, can buy lands in developing countries under which groundwater lies to grow food and thereby meet their food security needs (water and food being linked). It is someone else’s water supply—usually someone poorer and less powerful—that is threatened, not one’s own water supply. In other words, water insecurity is not experienced or endured equally, even among countries in the same climate zone. This biosecurity paradigm and water’s role in it are just emerging, and I have not had the chance to explore it ethnographically in the way I have IWRM, but it is clearly urgent to do so. A new politics of water is emerging, not a politics of life as we saw in older regimes, but a politics of thirst, a politics of death. For a country like Yemen, the prospects are terrifying, summed up by one expert who confided in me, “God knows what can be done about the water situation in Yemen. That country is doomed.” Yemen does not have life as a real prospect any longer, only death—and the question under this thinking is how to manage that death, if one is not to abandon the country to its fate. How to reverse this sort of fatalism and come up with another regime for life for Yemen—that, to me, is the great anthropological challenge. One can start, as I have done in this chapter, to subject the new water security paradigm to critical scrutiny, especially its twinned principles of US national security interests and neoliberal management, which couple with technology to make countries like Yemen (only episodically of political interest to the United States and too poor to invest in when it comes to the market) “unmanageable” under the new paradigm. And there is always qāt to blame as the fundamental cause of Yemen’s water insecurities, a scapegoat for the international order that does not want to examine itself as part of the problem.

119 Steven C. Caton

Note 1. www.state.gov./r/pa/prs/2012/03/186667.htm.

120 7

Don’t Let the Lion Tell the Giraffe’s Story Law, Violence, and Ontological Insecurities in Ghana

Carolyn Rouse

All those bands armed with cutlasses or axes find their nationality in the implacable struggle which opposes socialism and capitalism. —Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth

The World Bank’s 2013 overview of Ghana—the lion’s story—states:

Ghana progressed from forty-first to thirtieth position out of 179 countries and third in Africa on press freedom according to the “Reporters Without Borders” 2013 Press Freedom Index report. The 2011 report of the World Wide Governance Indicators places Ghana between the fiftieth and seventy-fifth percentile on political stability, government effectiveness, and regulatory quality, rule of law, control of corruption and voice and accountability. This performance reflects the positive effects of an improving environment for democratic governance, coupled with a gradual improvement in the effectiveness of public institutions and persistent economic growth, resulting in Ghana attaining a lower middle-income status.1

The report then turns to Ghana’s economic indicators as if the effectiveness of governance is unmistakably related to the growth of foreign direct investment and liberal economic reforms. Finally, the conclusion of the report, ambiguous at best, draws attention to significant gaps and contradictions in the indicators:

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The government has reiterated its commitment to reverse the cyclical fiscal slippages associated with election years in Ghana. However, a number of challenges continue to persist, mainly in the areas of quality and timeliness of statistical data, relatively weak country systems to deliver aid, non-functional domestic accountability systems to prevent corruption and election year expenditures.2

The authors never venture beyond their statistical data in order to assess whether fiscal slippages during election years suggest free market failure and democratic success or free market success and democratic failure. To do so would challenge the basic premise of their coding, which treats democracy and free market capitalism as essentially one and the same. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union or, more important, the dis- appearance of a counterdiscourse to American exceptionalism, claims by international policy experts that democracy, free market capitalism, and state security are co-constitutive have largely gone unchecked. The pre- sumption that where there is free market capitalism, there is democracy and state security is embedded in global indicators used to mobilize or restrict a country’s access to markets and aid. Initially used in business, these statistical approaches to ranking countries for purposes of decision making are now being used by the aid regime and human rights organizations to assess everything from quality of life to levels of state corruption to resiliency (Strathern 2000; Watts, chapter 8). Legal scholar Sally Merry (2011:S85) notes, “In the area of global governance, an increasing reliance on indicators tends to locate decision making in the global North where indicators are typically designed and labeled.” Although there is much to critique with respect to how the data are produced, in this chapter, I focus on the impact these rankings have on what Nancy Chen (chapter 5) describes as the mobilization of people and resources based on narratives about economic and political freedom. I argue that these rankings constitute narratives in the sense that they are statistical representations of what Richard Rorty (1989) might describe as historically contingent vocabularies and therefore are provisional methods of knowledge production. Built on narratives of human progress, global indexes are informed by political theories such as Walt Rostow’s (1960) stages of economic growth and are entangled in Western imperialist projects that confuse the economic and political interests of the United States and Europe with “evidence-based” development (Rist 2002). Missing from this overview is an assessment of the local insecurities and violence that

122 Don’t Let the Lion Tell the Giraffe’s Story continue to grow as Ghana scrambles up various lists of global indicators (Throup 2011). Abdul-Gafaru Abdulai (2009:22) notes in his working paper on the political context of contemporary Ghana, “The donor-dependent nature of the Ghanaian economy provides the country’s so-called development partners with significant policy leverage, and raises questions as to the extent to which Ghana can claim ‘ownership’ over its economic policy choices.… [A] prerequisite for fostering ownership is the capacity of the state to formulate and finance the implementation, monitoring and evaluation of its policies.” Importantly, increasing levels of insecurity can be traced to the way these indexes mobilize resources and people to essentially work against their own political interests in the name of some indeterminate economic freedom (Marx 1978; Whitfield 2005). Rather than simply being useful to think with, these global indicators are having real effects on local security. Ghana has received loans, aid, and foreign direct investment based on its rankings. However, ranking a state high or low on a democracy index based on elections alone, for example, often obscures how political interests are actually negotiated in seemingly nonpolitical arenas, including kinship, cultural markers of status, and non- monetized forms of exchange (Hasty 2005; Maurer 2005). Similarly, celebrating a state’s support for free market capitalism ignores the fact that corporate power and business interests often operate against the political interests of the demos, as can be seen in the chapters in this volume by Caton (6), Chen (5), and Stone (4). Regardless of how poorly the large conceptual categories relate to actual lived experience, to be ranked well on the Financial Times and Stock Exchange development index, the Democracy Index, the Index of Economic Freedom, or countless other indicators opens possibilities otherwise closed. Designating a “developing country” as more rather than less democratic or as more rather than less supportive of free market practices opens the door to an infusion of investments and donor aid that can be profoundly destabilizing. From the alienation of family land to the use of foreign capital to control political discourses and practices—a neocolo- nialist form of indirect rule—these indicators are producing local forms of bioinsecurity by shielding foreign businesses and donor organizations from having to evaluate for themselves whether an election actually means that people’s political interests are represented at the state and local levels or whether structural adjustments actually democratize the economy. Through ethnographic research, contributors to this volume have found that decisions to invest in or fund, for example, water projects, sustainable development, militarization, or new biotechnology have very little to do

123 Carolyn Rouse with protecting people’s political and social interests (Caton, chapter 6, Sharp, chapter 3, Vine, chapter 2, and Watts, chapter 8). My example is Oshiyie, a fishing village on the outskirts of Accra, which is the capital of Ghana. Since Ghana’s 2000 elections, when power transferred peacefully from one political party to another, the state has been celebrated as a stable democracy (Chalfin 2008; Gyimah-Boadi 2001). Now, this former British colony in West Africa has been designated a middle- income state by powerful international agencies like the World Bank. The celebration of Ghana has helped to attract foreign capital and enabled the government to secure loans, but the lion’s story of Ghana’s economic emergence and stability has more to do with its willingness to be “the best student of the IMF and World Bank” (a saying among West Africans) than with everyday forms of biosecurity, or assessments of emergent risks to human health and well-being (Masco, chapter 1). Country indicators of suicide, homicide, terrorism, and crime, for example, have almost no relationship to indexes of democracy and freedom. Rather, indicators of governance and the subsequent monetized forms of intervention, such as structural adjustments or austerity, often lead to social disruptions that threaten lives. In this chapter, I trace local insecurities in Oshiyie, Ghana, to growing inequities related to foreign interventions and the resulting contests over land. I also describe how the community tried to reconcile competing state and local interests through law, ontologies, and violence.

The Stakes The community violence started around three in the afternoon in Oshiyie, a fishing village on the western edge of greater Accra. At the time, the elders were at a District Assembly meeting, working on the final negotiations to bring back a faction that had rejected the legitimacy of Chief Afadi Annoh IV. For more than twelve hours, a group of forty or so men used machetes, gasoline, and rocks to inflict damage on people, houses, and cars. In the previous ten years, this village of about fifteen hundred had witnessed four such violent eruptions, and each time, the community did what it could to repair the damage through reconciliation and reparations, but to no avail. In 2008, the economic stakes in Ghana were simply too high. Community violence is extremely personal, and the incident in Oshiyie was no different. Knowing that the elders and chief were away at a meeting, the faction of young men gathered at the west end of the village and split into three groups. The first group headed for the cinderblock and mud brick houses crowded together along the beach. The second group targeted businesses along the only paved road that runs from Accra to the

124 Don’t Let the Lion Tell the Giraffe’s Story resort town of Kokrobite. The third group snuck in from the bush behind the houses on the hill. The men were armed with machetes, guns, sledgehammers, and gasoline and matches. The first target was themankralo ’s cinderblock and stucco house on the hill. The mankralo, who is one of the closest advisers to the chief, is by definition a supporter of the Annoh faction. From the appearance of the destruction around his house after the incident, it seemed as though the men were unsure at first about what type of symbolic violence to commit. One of the mankralo’s burgundy couches was removed from the house, as if theft was considered. The couch was then dropped a distance from the house and scorched in what appeared to be a futile attempt to set it on fire. The remaining contents of the house were then bathed in gasoline before being set ablaze. The damage in this case was thorough. Next to the mankralo’s house, his new one-room rentals were also targeted. The contents of each unit were picked through before the young men smashed holes in the corrugated tin roofs with boulders. They then methodically sledge- hammered the decorative cement honeycomb on the small front porches. While the hillside team continued to exact revenge on homes near the mankralo’s compound, the men responsible for disrupting the street tossed over the wooden food stands; these are typically owned by women who sell homemade food to hungry passersby. The food stands are simple wooden structures awkwardly capped with tin to protect the food from rain and sun. One woman whose corn-roasting stand was knocked over used her earnings to send her three children to the New Life Academy, a rigorous Christian school that teaches preschoolers to read. Another vendor, Gifty, had recently moved to Oshiyie with her husband because it was a place they could afford. They had already purchased a plot of land (about a quarter of an acre) and were hoping to pay off their debt so that they could start building a home and church. At the east end of the hamlet, the men on the street decided that it was time to use gasoline. Around 4:30 in the afternoon, three cars parked in a shed near the new chief’s palace were burned. About an hour later, a man not from Oshiyie, coming to take his sick mother to the doctor, had his car torched. In the same vicinity, a number of businesses owned by supporters of the current chief were burned, two literally to the ground. Meanwhile, the young men responsible for the beach vandalized the homes of the elders and community leaders, using machetes, sledgehammers, and fire. The violence could almost have been called systematic, except that the forty to fifty mostly young, undereducated, and underemployed men clearly lost their focus. As they swept through the village, anything in their

125 Carolyn Rouse way was treated as fair game. After several ineffective attempts by the police to stop the violence, the disaffected men became emboldened. For more than twelve hours, the police and the wrecking crew played a game of cat and mouse. The police would come, the men would scurry into the bush, the police would leave, and the men would return to do more damage. In response to my question about why the police did not treat the incident simply as violence that needed to be contained, the Kokrobite police sergeant said that the response was weak because it was a chieftaincy dispute. In other words, community sovereignty meant community responsibility. The night of violence in Oshiyie was meant to delegitimate the leaders responsible for the recent distribution and development of community land. Like many communities in sub-Saharan Africa, an exploding international speculative real estate market had altered the economic potential of the land, and in the early 2000s, investors recognized the value of Oshiyie as a tourist destination. Within ten years, almost all the available land was sold. The fact that many of the residents who sold their land lacked the education to understand the rights they were signing away, or the global scale of this lucrative market, meant that these transactions were essentially coercive. Many sold their land for what some in the community jokingly called “poverty remediation.” A better description would be desperation. In Oshiyie, where I have spent six years building a high school, the Pan African Global Academy, and studying the impact of the school on the community, the sale of much of the land to wealthy foreigners and rich Ghanaians has produced forms of insecurity that sometimes manifest in violence. The visible disparities are the most distressing to my high school students. Large estates, houses larger than 2,500 square feet, dot the hill, but the descendants of the founders of Oshiyie continue to live in tiny cinderblock homes by the seaside. In response to these inequalities, the students have formed a youth committee charged with repairing the damage caused by their elders’ land transactions. I do not want my students to try to rewrite the past through violence in the present, but instead to find ways to anticipate the future and to design sustainable interventions. I told Samuel, one of the youth leaders, that changing systems and laws takes time but the law has the capacity to mitigate the growing income and resource divide. In order to even participate in the discussions, however, it is critical for my students to understand the historical lineages and ontological claims that have credibility but are nevertheless open to negotiation. These ontologies provide the conceptual scaffolds upon which new logics can be built (Strathern 1992). Even as I counsel against violence, I also recognize that it has been a

126 Don’t Let the Lion Tell the Giraffe’s Story response to frustration and a sense of disempowerment on the part of the young. Violence is often thought of as endemic to sub-Saharan Africa, but it is more accurate to say that violence is endemic in places where there is tremendous social inequality and uncertainty about the existing rules and systems. When I spoke with Jacob, an advocate for the chief of Oshiyie, just months after the violence, he argued that going through the courts would not lead to justice. Justice, he said, would go to those who paid the judges and police the most. Jacob’s opinion was validated in 2010 when the faction that had come with gasoline and machetes in 2008 had the police indiscriminately arrest fourteen men for the murder of one of their supporters during the night of violence. A police van arrived in Oshiyie, and one man was given permission to identify any man on the street and finger him for arrest. I was told that during the police raid, men ran up the hill to hide. Just to give a sense of the randomness of this symbolic exercise—one of the men arrested was schizophrenic and spent his days talking to himself. It took thirteen months to release the fourteen from a prison without toilets and where as many as fifty men share a single cell. The arrests were another act of community violence and contributed to more community insecurity.

Local Insecurity In the case of war, two adages speak to contests over truth: “History is written by the winners” and the Nigerian proverb “Don’t let the lion tell the giraffe’s story.” But what about in Ghana, where different kingdoms share a nation-state? Which group’s history matters at the state level? Whose needs take priority when it comes to development and security? Which group should be given opportunities that others are not? With respect to land in Ghana, these questions are critical, given that utilitarian economic theories, the foundation of neoliberalism, equate free markets with free subjects.

The evolutionary theory of property rights tends to downplay political and power relations, and the extent to which dominant policies shape land relations. An effect of the policy discourse on transforming land relations is to present the interventions that dominant policy interests seek to initiate as natural, and as an integral part of the next stage in evolutionary development. This tends to present the story of those able to secure and alienate land in collusion with dominant political interests and policies, while it neglects the perspectives of the losers and their disil- lusionment with the contemporary world. (Amanor 2010:104)

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The relationship between land rights and biosecurity is so critical that the subject’s absence from biosecurity discourses is both troubling and fas- cinating. I would argue that it is missing because to introduce land into global discussions about biosecurity is to invite critique of the most sacred tenet of capitalism: private property (Polanyi 1944). The violence in Oshiyie is only one example of disruptions taking place all over the world as the logic of private property is increasingly used to justify the alienation of land from the poor (Schoneveld, German, and Nutakor 2011). In a 2009 report by the Oakland Institute, the authors argue that insecurities produced by land grabs pose a greater threat to food systems than terrorism does.3 Most notably, vast tracts of land have been purchased by hedge funds competing for the cut flowers and biofuels markets, and in China, rural families are being relocated to cities in a state urbanization project of unprecedented scale (Borras and Franco 2012).4 Given that wars are largely fought over land, land alienation could easily be characterized as the twenty-first century’s undeclared war on the poor. What makes it unique from land alienation in the past is that it is now done in the name of rationalizing property rights, increasing productivity, and expanding economic opportunity. Land alienation, in other words, is coded in country indicators as a good thing, another rung up the ladder toward developed status, but the indicators simultaneously obscure the social impact of this alienation. In Oshiyie, people who do not consider their new landless- ness a thing to celebrate are fighting to reappropriate their land through what the anthropologist Carola Lentz (2013:4) describes as an “oral land registry”—the giraffe’s tale—and, when that does not work, through violence. The institutionalization of land reform policies is a complex, sometimes brutal, but absolutely necessary part of statecraft. The Zimbabwe land reform that began in 2000, for example, drew international condem- nation for the sometimes violent seizure of white-owned farms. For years, the country endured economic sanctions and tremendous uncertainty, but by 2012, the redistribution of land to black Zimbabweans was hailed for enlarging the black middle class. Unfortunately, contemporary approaches to land policy in sub-Saharan Africa have been dominated by economic liberalization theories that see land policy as a means to generate larger export markets (Moyo 2000). What these market-based approaches fail to appreciate is that the legitimacy of any land policy is not based on the quality of the macroeconomic statistical data alone. Gross domestic product is meaningless as an indicator of economic stability if 80 percent of the country lives in poverty. Instead, the legitimacy of land usage is read through history and through changing understandings of distributive justice.

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In order to understand the current insecurities, it is essential to return to 1957 when Ghana, formerly the Gold Coast, became the first sub-Saharan African country to gain independence from colonialism. Ghana’s postcolonial land insecurity can be traced to the periods before and after independence as ethnic constituencies increasingly refused to back President Kwame Nkrumah’s Pan-Africanist policies. Ghanaians were united in their desire for sovereignty, but even before the elected assembly passed a motion demanding independence from Britain in 1956, political divisions along ethnic or regional lines had formed. Echoes of these unresolved debates are audible in the continuing legal struggle to integrate local and national understandings of authority, sovereignty, and legitimacy (Rathbone 2000). Nkrumah’s biggest intellectual failing was his inability to understand the role that local leadership could have played in stabilizing the nation post-independence (Rathbone 2000). Nkrumah’s brand of African socialism imagined a centralized state united by national economic interests and run by highly trained technocrats (Amamoo 2008). And he certainly was not the first socialist unable to fully appreciate that national and local interests are often at odds. An inability to understand the governing rationale behind checks and balances seems to be a consistent failing of most postcolonial leaders (Memmi 2006). But Nkrumah’s vision of a rational state in which the law and the government could easily replace regional authority was worse than ideological; it was naïve. Nkrumah’s seeming unwilling- ness to engage competing visions of Ghana’s future precipitated his quick descent from celebrated leader of independence in 1957 to overthrown ruler in 1966. By the time he was overthrown, Nkrumah had lost the support of those responsible for local security, namely, the local chiefs, queen mothers, and elders. For fifteen years following Nkrumah’s ouster, Ghana was led by seven consecutive leaders of varying authoritarian stripes. Each made explicit concessions to local authority, recognizing that Ghanaians, still leery of a centralized government, remained loyal to leaders who protected their regional interests (Amamoo 2008). It was Flight Lieutenant Jerry John Rawlings’s second coup in 1981, the second year of what is known as the Third Republic, that set in motion the series of reforms that now frame Ghana’s security system. They included the increased centralization of government power, in addition to increased guarantees of the rights of traditional authority known as “chieftaincy”— Rawlings’s form of checks and balances. In 1992, the institution of chieftaincy was guaranteed by the new constitution, and in the same year, Rawlings restored democratic elections and won the presidency (Amamoo

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2008). As a result, security was placed under the auspices of the nation-state and of the local political institutions in which traditional law is enacted. One could read Rawlings’s legitimation of traditional authority cynically, as a way to maintain a base of supporters despite his radical neoliberal reforms. A more nuanced analysis would acknowledge that Rawlings understood that the wounds of colonialism had yet to heal. During colonialism, the institution of chieftaincy was allowed to continue so long as local leaders facilitated the work of colonial administrators (Brobbey 2008:3). By codifying chieftaincy in the 1992 constitution, Rawlings restored the dignity and independence of an institution that was far from obsolete. Ultimately, Rawlings was able to do what Nkrumah could not: unite the country, but at a cost.5 The security experts Aning and Lartey (2009:17) argue, “In Ghana, chiefs are the custodians of cultural values and guardians of lands in trust of their people. The role and legitimacy of the traditional authorities in administering customary values and practices are guaranteed under the constitutions. However, the institution of chieftaincy possesses a parallel security system that does not fall within the ambit of the state security apparatus.” John and Jean Comaroff (2006:9) argue that in postcolonial states, these parallel systems produce what they call “cartographies of vulnerability”: “Here the reach of the state is uneven and the landscape is a palimpsest of contested sovereignties, codes, and jurisdiction—a complex choreography of police and paramilitaries, private and community enforcement, gangs and vigilantes, highwaymen and outlaw armies.” In Ghana, these vulnerabilities manifest in community violence as chiefs vie for control over land that, given neoliberal economic reforms, has become a valuable commodity in an international real estate market. Throughout Ghana, divergent cultural and historical understandings of the rights of people to land make it difficult to determine which ontological claim would form the basis of a national land rights policy. In addition, legally and administratively, in one arena, land is treated as private and in the other, as “communal,” a common term that does not fully capture the complexity of Ghanaian land stewardship. These different ontological understandings of land make particular claims about human rationality and utility and are built around very different understandings of citizenship and accountability. What this produces is ontological insecurity, or the loss of trust that the social and natural worlds are as they appear (Giddens 1984). Ontological insecurity is caused by repeated ruptures in economic and political life such that one loses a sense of one’s own moral grounding and agency (James 2010). This breakdown in the unwritten and unspoken

130 Don’t Let the Lion Tell the Giraffe’s Story cultural presumptions and anticipatory logics that enable people to understand the actions and feelings of others impacts institutional legitimacy. Without these cultural postulates, people have a much harder time establishing shared goals. It is important to note that positive systemic change can emerge from ontological insecurities, and doubt can therefore be a force for social good. But in the case of Ghana, where there are two primary legal systems and where economic markets are largely controlled by the West, it is profoundly unclear exactly where authority lies and which cultural postulates matter. At a practical level, what this means is that in order to publicly authorize an action or sale, Ghanaians must employ a legal and quasi-legal hybridity, including drawing from different legal systems, deploying historical narratives, and/or organizing groups for ad hoc policing. For example, if one loses access to land for reasons related to chieftaincy, one might then turn to the High Court. If one loses access to land based on administrative enforcement by the Lands Commission, one might then turn to the chieftaincy system. In Oshiyie, for example, the chief sold land to a private individual, Burger (a nickname given to Ghanaian expats and returnees and the name given to this man by the community), who promised to develop the land for the benefit of the community. But with the exception of an unfinished foundation for a building that was supposed to preserve the community’s fish catch, known as a cold store, Burger failed to deliver the houses and businesses he promised. In order for community members to nullify Burger’s right to the fifty acres of land he had legally registered with the Lands Commission, they had to return to traditional notions of land stewardship. The community said that the fact that Burger’s indenture was signed only by the chief invalidated it. Oshiyie land, they argued, is family land, meaning that the individual heads of the seven major family lineages should also have signed the indenture. But if Burger had delivered on his promised gated community, nobody would have challenged his right to the land. Burger has backed down from some of his land claims, but the community is still trying to sue him for land he has sold—sometimes for thirty times what he paid. Despite the antagonism, Burger is frequently seen at the one development project in Oshiyie that has worked, a bar and dance spot. Often missing from the community’s telling of this story is the fact that the chief was able to capitalize on the transaction. Burger paid him in cash and paid his rent for a compound for two years. It is important to note that the community violence has not been directed at the developer, Burger, but at Afadi Annoh IV, who, in his capacity as chief, is able to sell and resell land. As in all the communities surrounding Oshiyie, Chief Annoh has a

131 Carolyn Rouse competitor, Nii Akrashie, who claims to be the legitimate chief. In the past decade, Akrashie has employed community violence as a means to legitimate his claim. It is expected that should Akrashie prevail, he, too, would capitalize on his role as chief to resell and redistribute land. One of the residents of Oshiyie said, “If there was no land, there would be no chieftaincy dispute.” By reauthorizing chieftaincy in 1992, Rawlings unwittingly produced a third security apparatus, built around legal ambiguity, in which disputes are prosecuted through violence.

Securitizing Ghana for US and European Interests Knowing what I do about the extent of local violence and the limited authority and capacities of the police, I was very surprised when I flew into Kotoka International Airport in Accra in 2011 and was greeted with a fingerprint, or biometric, scanner. Since the 2000 elections and the discovery of a new oilfield in 2007, Kotoka had grown from a sleepy two-gate airport into a seven-gate, glass-enclosed, air-conditioned hub (Chalfin 2008). Now, the politicians and businesspeople outnumber the hippies and missionar- ies with whom I used to travel. The $45 million the government spent on scanners suggests that the state had the capacity to record, analyze, and store vast amounts of traveler and voter data. In fact, neither the Electoral Commission nor the government had a centralized computer system for storage or analysis. In addition to widespread reports that the machines kept breaking down, there was no indication that the data were secure against hacking.6 Not only did the scanners seem to have no power to ameliorate the community and political violence that represented the most immediate threat to the state, but also the new biometric voter registration drive had incited violence. Members of the two primary political parties accused one another of tampering with registrations and performing acts of physical violence.7 Finally, the scanner did not improve the situation: “Morale in the police force and the customs service is low, salaries are poor, and the temptation to take rewards…all too evident” (Throup 2011:11). Instead of indexing the current state of security in Ghana, the fingerprint scanners indexed the end point of an anticipated security trajectory. Like a national museum, the scanners told the story the state wanted to tell about itself. However, rather than objects representing the past, the scanners told the story of Ghana’s imagined future. Ghana’s security sector includes everything from high-tech airport security to ad hoc community policing with little to no authority to enact justice (Aning and Lartey 2009). Theorizing the scanner as a curatorial

132 Don’t Let the Lion Tell the Giraffe’s Story object, representative of an imaged future, helps make sense of the unevenness of actual security. In general, development experts within what political scientists call the “aid regime” are asking the Ghanaian government to choose between a future built around what they consider to be rational approaches to the law and markets and a past in which the law and markets are deeply embedded in local cultural histories. Welcoming progress, the government invests heavily in objects for the future (the scanners), but the museum celebrating the country’s liberation from British colonial rule, the Kwame Nkrumah Museum, remains underfunded and underwhelming. Nkrumah’s books are not sold at the museum and remain out of print, and there is no mention of the role postcolonial ideals might have in the present. Nkrumah’s leadership is celebrated, but bracketed as a past that the country had to transcend. Many of the intellectual architects of postcolonalism were inspired in part by a Marxian narrative of history and progress that includes the reappropriation of labor and land as the basis of liberation (Gaines 2006). Ghana’s first president, Kwame Nkrumah, aspired to that vision. In a foreign policy telegram sent from Ghana to the United States in 1960, the US embassy expressed concern over Ghana’s growing alliance with the Soviet Union. The anxiety was masked by a derisive condescension toward African socialism. A Department of State official asserted in that telegram, “To match USSR fully in cultivating friendship with Ghana we would have to be more positive in supporting Africa against European NATO powers. We would also have to oppose ‘neo-Colonialism’ in Africa and encourage Ghana’s desire to create (in the worlds of Nkrumah) ‘a socialist New Jerusalem’ in Ghana. In my opinion Ghana is not communist and I detect no desire here that it become so. It is trying to develop a type of socialism that has its roots in tribal life determined not to be exploited by East or West.”8 Nkrumah’s socialism included nationalizing Ghanaian industries and uniting the country with roads and railways. In a 1964 memorandum, Secretary of State Dean Rusk implored President Lyndon Johnson to warn President Nkrumah that any more anti-American attacks in the press or elsewhere would risk US friendship and assistance.9 In an audacious response to US pressure, Nkrumah wrote to Johnson, “It should be obvious to any who has followed the history of Africa’s development with impartiality that a planned economy and rapid industrial and agricultural development can be best achieved through a socialist course.”10 Agents of the United States acknowledged that Ghana was not likely to form deep economic and political relationships with the USSR, but to ensure that this not happen, the CIA destabilized Nkrumah’s

133 Carolyn Rouse presidency by funding the opposition. In 1966, Nkrumah was deposed in a military coup led by Emmanuel Kwasi Kotoka. A year later, General Kotoka was killed in a coup that ousted him from power. Between 1972 and 1981, Ghana experienced five more coups. In addition to the weapons and money used to battle socialism, the United States deployed cultural scripts to turn Ghana into the neoliberal state it is today. Encouraging Ghanaians to embrace a US-designed approach to development required, using the words of Lyndon B. Johnson, capturing the “hearts and minds” of Ghanaians. Buried in the foreign relations reports in 1964–1968 are concerns about too much information on race relations coming from the Voice of America radio broadcasts and encouragement to distribute more National Geographic magazines in Africa because these presented a good image of the United States.11 National Security Council adviser Robert W. Komer suggested, in a 1965 memorandum to LBJ, that showing sympathy for independence movements in Africa may break some crockery but “a few rousing speeches will buy…more than $200 million in aid.”12 And development aid was decidedly the carrot, the reward for embracing capitalist notions of progress and freedom. After a punishing decade in the 1970s, during which the economy was hampered by payments to service debt, high rates of inflation, the deterioration of the agricultural sector, high unemployment, and growing corruption, Ghana finally reached for the carrot. Since the institutionalization of structural adjustments in the 1980s, democratic elections in 1992, and the signing of the Heavily Indebted Poor Country initiative in 2001, Ghana’s absorption into the global economy has been swift (Gyimah-Boadi 2001). Structural adjustments bolstered Ghana’s export industries and stabilized the economy, leading to foreign direct investments, including investments by Ghanaian returnees and expats. It is estimated that in 2004, US$2 billion in remittances were transferred through Ghanaian banks, or about 22.4 percent of the GDP of Ghana.13 The devaluation of the Ghana cedi did very little, however, to improve non- export markets, and this lack of efficacy was marked by the fact that the percentage of the population living below the poverty line decreased by only 2.9 percent from 1992 to 2007.14 The census data from 2010 indicate that there was a growing middle class (about US$1,200 per capita), but the 5.7 percent increase in GDP per capita in 2009 was smaller than the 10.7 percent rate of inflation.15 In my own household surveys in Oshiyie in 2008, most families could barely afford US$100 for a year of school tuition. It was clear that poverty and lack of access to basic resources remained endemic. These daily insecurities were dealt with through local forms of exchange, including barter and community organizing (Grant 2009; Kraus 1991).

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Given the anxieties that come with economic uncertainty, the role local leaders played in maintaining a basic standard of living for members of their communities was critical. In addition to ensuring that everyone had access to water, food, and shelter, local leaders tried to improve existing institutions, redistribute resources, and maintain the rule of law. The fact that the state had yet to step in and consistently deliver these services was one of the reasons that in multiple studies of Ghanaian civil society, people noted higher levels of trust in local chiefs and elders than in lawyers and politicians (see, for example, Blocher 2006; Ubink 2007). But despite the continued vitality of community leadership, the legitimacy and power of traditional authority have been eroded as the administrative and economic structures encouraged by the EU, the World Bank, USAID, and the IMF have become the DNA, so to speak, of Ghana’s mode of state and fiscal governance (Abdulai 2009:22–24; Kraus 1991; Whitfield 2005). With respect to security, growing economic inequality is less of a factor in community violence than the law prohibiting the two parallel legal and administrative systems from working together. This allows local insecurities to be ignored by the state in the name of protecting community sovereignty. This bifurcated system remains in place even as the state has both the resources and the need to expand its authority beyond the capital. As the Ghanaian legal scholar A. K. P. Kludze (1998:37) describes in “Chieftaincy Jurisdiction and the Muddle of Constitutional Interpretation in Ghana,” the 1992 constitution mandated that the “High Court and the Court of Appeal have no jurisdiction in chieftaincy matters.” This differed from the constitutions of 1969 and 1979, which allowed for chieftaincy cases involving criminal and civil matters to be heard by the High Court and Court of Appeal. Stronger demands by the international aid community and foreign investors that the legal and political systems of developing countries mimic those of Europe and the United States have intensified this bifurcation and the accompanying ontological insecurities. What the new global indexes of governance fail to capture is that older security systems do not simply disappear when so-called rational approaches are introduced. Putting greater pressure on countries to protect private property has, as in the case of Ghana, simply expanded the repertoire of political-legal possibilities.16 The insistence on stronger legal protections for private property, for example, simply ignores the fact that land is understood in multiple dialects: the dialect of traditional land rights and stewardship, the dialect of private property and utility, and the dialect of rights (Oquaye 1995; Ray 1996). The policy solutions promoted by American and European experts remain

135 Carolyn Rouse historically tone-deaf and wedded to modernization theory, a one-size-fits- all approach that in the case of Oshiyie has led to bioinsecurities, including land alienation, food insecurity, and violence. In The History of Development: From Western Origins to Global Faith (2002), Gilbert Rist describes how notions of progress typically treat the past as something to be overcome. To succeed in the ways imagined by the current architects of development in Ghana requires the dissolution of chieftaincy, the rejection of President Nkrumah’s economic policies, and the refusal of any regional sense of shared destiny or economic unity, including nationalism and Pan-Africanism. Basically, Ghanaian leaders have been told that for Ghana to develop, it must put its national, regional, racial, and historical interests aside in order to secure the interests of multinational companies. The development-as-progress narrative requires a disavowal of the postcolonial discourses of the 1940s and 1950s that justified sovereignty based on ontological claims linked to land and culture. Yet, it was President Rawlings—who led two coups in 1979 and 1981, abridged human rights during the 1980s, brought back the IMF and World Bank, and resumed democratic elections in 1992—who spearheaded the development of the Kwame Nkrumah Museum and secured the inclusion of traditional leadership in the 1992 constitution. What currently exists is a state that supports the economic interests of multinationals through laws and practices that indirectly impact most Ghanaians (through scanners, deregulation, structural adjustments, and new legal systems). Community policing has a daily impact on most Ghanaians but is legitimated by an entirely different ontology (land stewardship, exchange practices, punishments and other forms of restitution and accountability). At a basic level, chieftaincy disputes in Ghana are a struggle over land, a resource that translates into power, money, food, and even education. More critically, the struggle is over the ontological narratives providing legal justifications for particular forms of local leadership and cultural ownership. Walking around Oshiyie years after the incident in 2008, I am still amazed that families living side by side fought one another using machetes and gasoline. After midnight, guns were added to the mix, which turned largely symbolic acts of violence into deadly revenge. In 2012, many relatives of the less legitimate chief, Nii Akrashie, had yet to return to fix up their houses, which were destroyed in the wee hours of the morning. Ghana’s cartographies of vulnerability are distinguished by the country’s particular cultural history. Although community violence may seem irrational and chaotic from the outside, it is rule bound. The chieftaincy

136 Don’t Let the Lion Tell the Giraffe’s Story system follows a set of historical possibilities and contingencies linked to accounts of land settlement, past tribal leadership, and acts of heroism that confer succession rights. Chieftaincy in Oshiyie is open only to the descendants of the original settlers of the land. In this respect, chieftaincy mir- rors the land rights of indigenous tribes in the Americas. The most critical aspect of the relationship of people to land in Ghana is that land is not one thing. Even before colonialism, land was sometimes a commodity and sometimes a sacred trust (Amanor 2010). The descendants of the original settlers of Oshiyie could have claimed all the tribal land as their inheritance and required everyone to lease or purchase land before using it. This principle of private property is something Americans hold dear, but land rights evolved differently in Ghana. Ownership confers rights of stewardship rather than rights of exploitation. Stewardship may have diminished economic growth and accumulation, but this is a problem only if one thinks that growth and accumulation are necessarily good. Given that civil wars in Liberia and Sierra Leone undermined social and environmental security, turning emergent economies into rubble, we might conclude that maintaining peace through land stewardship may slow economic growth in the present but sustain growth into the future. Therefore, at issue should not be promoting land rights that acceler- ate economic growth, but understanding the systems that protect people’s ability to participate in economies large and small. In Oshiyie, ontological narratives about who is owed what with respect to resources have the power to whip up resentment and feelings of exclusion. These same narratives, reinterpreted, have the power to resolve conflicts.17 And as much as foreign experts, and a number of Ghanaians, want to do away with traditional leadership, there are no comparable legal frameworks that would secure land for the poorest Ghanaians. Without traditional stewardship, most Ghanaians would lose control of their family lands.

Discussion: History, Law, and Security In addition to violence, the Oshiyie community deployed historical narratives as an approach to codifying traditional law. In order to legitimate Afadi Annoh’s chieftaincy, the community wrote down and submitted to the chieftaincy court the four-hundred-year history of Oshiyie. Although their historical account diverged from accounts in published journals, the fact that it was written gave it the legitimacy it needed to reduce ambigui- ties and local insecurities.18 The use of local history to adjudicate disputes and to promote security in Ghana can best be compared to case law, or the practice of using legal

137 Carolyn Rouse precedents to determine legal outcomes. Although there is plenty of room for interpretation in case law, case law has far less flexibility than local customary law has. Flexibility can also be a problem, however. The community violence in Oshiyie is a perfect example of what is wrong with chieftaincy: overreach of power, arbitrary decisions, uncertainties about one’s rights in the future. But chiefs serve at the behest of the community, and as imperfect a system as it is, traditional authority gives chiefs the power to redistribute land. A chief has the ability to help the landless and poorest members of the community in ways that are foreclosed by a centralized legal body devoted to securing private land ownership. If a local developer, for example, regis- ters newly purchased land with the Lands Commission, the court will back that claim. Currently, more than 80 percent of the cases adjudicated at the High Court in Accra are over land issues. But what about the Ghanaians without legal recourse, whose rights to land were given orally or who do not know that the plot they are selling for $1,000 today will be worth $30,000 in five years? Asymmetries in knowledge and power make it unclear whether the two parties that enter into a contract are equals. With land stewardship, a chief can take back land if the developer fails to develop the land as agreed upon. Similarly, when a new chief comes to power, he or she can renegotiate past land deals. Again, this may seem chaotic, but when done well, this flexibility allows for the alignment of land use with changing demographics and development needs. Twenty years ago in Oshiyie, a descendant of one of the ten major lineages could ask the chief for a plot of land. A man (the local inhabitants, who are Ga, are patrilineal) would be given a stone to throw, and the distance between the man and the stone would demarcate his new plot of land. Rising land values tied to an international speculative real estate market, and a concerted effort to register all lands, have meant that chiefs no longer have the right to redistribute land according to new needs. In many ways, the violence in Oshiyie is related to the fact that land rights exist between an emergent national agenda that does not yet have the capacity to secure the interests of the majority of Ghanaians and a local security system that does the actual work of protecting citizens but no longer has the administrative power to actually protect their rights. Aspects of this system do work. The state is divided into District Assemblies, which hear cases that can be adjudicated at the local level. The districts are not delineated by ethnicity, but because they handle local affairs, they can be read as either ethnic or regional. The paradox is that the assembly members are often elected by the president and members of

138 Don’t Let the Lion Tell the Giraffe’s Story his party. This means that the District Assemblies can be accused of being an arm of the central government rather than a body elected to balance the authority of the central administration. The increasing centralization of authority is a growing concern among security experts, given that party politics have become the new ethnic politics and are threatening Ghana economically and socially (Throup 2011). The refusal of Western donor institutions to attend to social dynamics, such as violence, that are exacerbated by this two-headed legal system is born of an expectation that if they institutionalize enough neoliberal financial, economic, and administrative systems, chieftaincy will disappear eventually. And they may be right. The example of Oshiyie makes clear that local leadership can be extremely problematic, particularly concerning the issue of land rights and gender. Many young adults, often migrants to Accra, say that they would like to see chieftaincy ended. But until the state is able to respond to local needs, it would be difficult to make a case that chieftaincy needs to be abolished through referendum. Currently in Ghana, it is difficult to identify an effective, indigenous biosecurity apparatus. The country barely has enough money to police its own borders, educate its young, or provide good health care to the majority of its citizens. Given its limited resources, it certainly does not have enough power internationally to control a global health agenda or international economic or migratory policies. High levels of human trafficking of sex workers and child labor throughout Ghana reflect the state’s complicity, ineffectiveness, or inattention to flows of vulnerable bodies. Finally, the breakdown of the biometric scanners during the December 2012 presidential elections became a point of dispute, and the threat of countrywide violence remained high for the eight months it took the Ghanaian Supreme Court to resolve the question of which candidate received the most votes. Communities like Oshiyie know firsthand what is at stake when the state is unable to protect its citizens. For those residents of Oshiyie who feel disfranchised and who do not think that there are any legal institutions they can turn to, violence has become a method for effecting social change. But in addition to being tragic, violence is inefficient. Four eruptions of violence in ten years failed to legitimate the opposing chief, Akrashie, and many of those identified as perpetrators of the 2008 night of violence have yet to return to their family lands for fear of reprisals. Those whose houses were burned and who were victims of machete attacks could have chosen to work with the police, but rather than seek justice through the state legal system, the supporters of Chief Afadi Annoh IV have attempted to create their own security through a kind of legal and

139 Carolyn Rouse historical bricolage built around narrative. In order to validate Annoh’s claims to chieftaincy, the leaders in the community have spent the past several years collecting oral histories to prove that only members of the Annoh lineage have the right to lead the Oshiyie kingdom. These written oral histories have been submitted to the District Assembly as evidence. The District Assembly does not, however, have any power other than to enter evidence into the legal record. The hope is to authorize a history of Oshiyie that can provide the foundation for the types of cultural presumptions and anticipatory logics that might enable the community to work together in peace.

Conclusion Changes in social demographics, technologies, and land pressures require a constant rethinking and restructuring of social relations around land. What chieftaincy does, which the free market does not, is to force communities to confront the moral economy of land distribution. In Ghana, “ownership” is not supposed to confer the right to exploit the land as one wishes, although there are increasing pressures to do so. Ideally, chieftaincy requires the balancing of the needs of individuals in the community in order to promote peace and to support enterprise. Given the potential of community leaders to promote social stability through fair land distribution, why is so much community violence related to chieftaincy? The inability of the leaders in Oshiyie to maintain security is in part related to their inability to authorize their own narrative about successful stewardship going as far back as 1623. Authorization of that narrative would delegitimate the claims of Nii Akrashie but would require the administrative and resource backing of the nation-state. One can only imagine the possibilities if the two security systems were integrated, providing a form of checks and balances against abuses on both sides. Currently, the chieftaincy disputes that make it into the news average about one per month, and during the summer of 2012, there were numerous identified “hotspots” of community violence. That Oshiyie’s 2008 night of violence received almost no news coverage makes me conclude that community violence is significantly underreported. This should remind security experts that the present system is unsustainable. The country’s inability to codify a relationship between the central government and local authority (or, more specifically, to codify a relationship that makes sense, given the inevitable legal, administrative, and ontological conflicts) has been one of Ghana’s postcolonial failures. Currently, Ghana’s security is maintained by everything from state-deployed biometric scanners to ad hoc local policing. These security structures are quasi-legitimate at best; most Ghanaians

140 Don’t Let the Lion Tell the Giraffe’s Story do not experience security at the level of the everyday. Low wages, high prices, unemployment, alienation from family lands, bureaucratization of informal markets, increased barriers to political and social capital, political corruption, and increasing economic inequality are frequent topics of conversation and are responsible for growing feelings of exclusion from emergent markets and institutions. Bitterness has found expression in community violence that, in many ways, is overdetermined by the uncertain status of the law. It is important to note that none of the complexity discussed above can be gleaned from the global indicators that are currently directing vast economic resources and mobilizing people in Ghana. All the local attempts to gain control of a fast-moving economy at the local level are constantly undermined by decisions made by national leaders, international policy experts, and foreign investors. Until national, local, and international interests are better aligned and power differentials less stark, one can only anticipate that violence will continue to be used as a tool to assert political authority and to push back against impending personal and economic insecurity.

Notes 1. See http://www.worldbank.org/en/country/ghana/overview. 2. Ibid. 3. Shepard Daniel, with Anuradha Mittal, “The Great Land Grab: Rush for World’s Farmland Threatens Food Security for the Poor,” Oakland Institute (2009), http:// www.rrojasdatabank.info/landgrab3.pdf. 4. Ian Johnson, “China’s Great Uprooting: Moving 250 Million into Cities,” New York Times, June 15, 2013; Carin Smaller, Qiu Wei, and Liu Yalan, “Farmland and Water: China Invests Abroad,” International Institute for Sustainable Development (2012), http://www.iisd.org/pdf/2012/farmland_water_china_invests.pdf. 5. The 1992 constitutional rules around chieftaincy can be abolished only through a prohibitively costly referendum. 6. “Headaches of the Ghanaian Diaspora over Biometric Voting Registration in Ghana,” Modern Ghana News (March 27, 2012), http://www.modernghana.com /news/385728/1/headaches-of-the-ghanaian-diaspora-over-biometric-.html. 7. “Biometric Registration: NPP to Match NDC Violence Boot-for-Boot,” Modern Ghana News (March 29, 2012), http://www.modernghana.com/news/386099/1 /biometric-registration-npp-to-match-ndc-violence-b.html. 8. Telegram from the Embassy in Ghana to the Department of State, Accra, August 25, 1960, in Foreign Relations of the United States, 1958–1960: Africa, vol. 14, ed. Glenn W. LaFantasie (Washington, DC: US Government Printing Office, 1958–1960), p. 659, http://digital.library.wisc.edu/1711.dl/FRUS.FRUS195860v14.

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9. Memorandum from Secretary of State Rusk to President Johnson, Washington, February 13, 1964, in Foreign Relations of the United States, 1964–1968: Africa, vol. 24, doc. 239, http://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1964-68v24/d239. 10. Letter from President Nkrumah to President Johnson, Accra, February 26, 1964, ibid., doc. 243, http://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1964-68v24 /d243. 11. Ibid. 12. Memorandum from Robert W. Komer of the National Security Council Staff to President Johnson, Washington, June 19, 1965, ibid., doc. 199, http://www.state.gov /www/about_state/history/vol_xxiv/s.html. 13. Grant 2009:76–77; “Ghana Financial System Stability Assessment Update,” International Monetary Fund, Prepared by the Monetary and Capital Markets and African Departments, May 2, 2011, p. 10: “Gender and Trade: Ghana Economic Over- view,” http://www.genderandtrade.org/gtinformation/164162/164409/164867/ghana. According to the Commonwealth Secretariat, Ghana’s GDP in 2004 was US$8.9 billion. 14. “Population below Poverty Line (%): Ghana,” CIA World Factbook, January 1, 2011, http://www.indexmundi.com/g/g.aspx?v=69&c=gh&1=en. The poverty rate decreased from 31.4 percent (1992) to 28.5 percent (2007). 15. “Ghana Economic Statistics and Indicators,” Economy Watch: Economy, Investment and Finance Reports, http://www.economywatch.com/economic-statistics/country /Ghana. 16. The creation of parallel legal systems was partly Rawlings’s strategy for appealing to his political base, which included chiefs who wanted Rawlings to guarantee that the economic, legislative, and administrative changes were not going to destroy their authority. 17. The strategic use of identity, in this case, lineage, varies little from the ontological discourses used to legitimate postcolonial struggles and even to settle disputes prior to colonialism (Tonah 2007). 18. Begona Aretaxaga (2004) similarly addresses the relationship between violence, narrative, and the extant struggle between national identities and sovereignty. Aretaxaga employs Giorgio Agamben’s (1998) argument that violence is in part related to how law has been usurped by neoliberalism. I argue similarly but avoid Agamben’s state-of- exception frame because in Ghana, resistance—in the form of chieftaincy courts—is institutionalized. Achille Mbembe’s (2003) necropolitics thesis helps but does not work as well as Aretaxaga’s focus on narrative. Violence does not clearly map onto power in Oshiyie. It takes the cultural work of writing the violence into a narrative, or web of signifiers, to give a violent act the power to effect change.

142 part iii Vulnerability and Resiliency The “Bio” of Insecurity

Figure iii.1 Oil fire in Nigeria. Photo © Ed Kashi/VII Photo.

The precariousness of daily life associated with accessibility of and rights to particular resources in marginal zones is portrayed in figure III.1. Nigeria is widely understood—and celebrated—as a rich source of precious fossil fuels, yet oil extraction is plagued by myriad forms of everyday violence (figure III.1) that limit the health, well-being, and safety of inhabitants whose lives are embedded within networks of pipelines, ponds of leaked oil, and raging fires. Security forces patrol the region not to protect human lives, but to safeguard the flow of the lucrative black gold. As figure III.2 demonstrates (similar to figure II.5), the evidence of bioinsecurity is visible, sometimes quite literally, on the bodies of the poor.

143 Vulnerability and Resiliency

Figure iii.2 Scar on kidney seller, Bangladesh. Photo courtesy of Monir Moniruzzaman.

The embodied violence is disturbingly evident in the permanent scars borne by Bangladeshi kidney sellers. Their lives are entangled in the globally emergent body bazaar, where the desperately poor sell parts of themselves in hopes of being freed from chronic debt. Customers/patients expend significant resources to guard their own form of medical biosecurity.

144 8

Resilience as a Way of Life: Biopolitical Security, Catastrophism, and the Food–Climate Change Question

Michael J. Watts

I’m searching for words to describe the period of history we’re living through.… I’m looking for nothing more than a figurative image to serve as a landmark.… The landmark I’ve found is that of prison. Nothing less. Across the planet we are living in a prison.… What kind of prison? How is it constructed? Where is it situated? Or am I only using the word as a figure of speech? No, it’s not a metaphor, the imprisonment is real, but to describe it one has to think historically.… What constitutes…incarceration…has been transformed. —John Berger, Fellow Prisoners

Resilience, from the Latin resilio (“to spring back,” “recoil,” or “retreat”): 1. The mental ability to recover quickly from depression, illness, or misfortune. 2. The physical property of material that can resume its shape after being stretched or deformed; elasticity. 3. The positive ability of a system or company to adapt itself to the consequences of a catastrophic failure caused by power outage, a fire, a bomb, or similar. —Merriam-Webster Online (www.merriam-webster.com)

It is hard to exaggerate the extent to which “resilience” has become a distinctively modern and increasingly ubiquitous “keyword”1—here, I am invoking Raymond Williams’s (1985) glossary of complex words whose shifting historical semantics are intimately bound to the social and political

145 Michael J. Watts changes of preceding centuries. Resilience is in fact a powerful technology of contemporary governance and neoliberal rule. Building resilient persons, communities, and institutions is the sine qua non of twenty- first-century forms of liberalism. Resilience provides an indispensable road map by which all of us are purportedly able to anticipate and tolerate the disturbances, dangers, and radical contingencies of inhabiting a complex world. To quote the president of the Rockefeller Foundation (2013:1) in its new resilience manifesto, “we cannot predict where the next major shock to our well-being will manifest.” This philanthropic project (“rebounding”) is centered entirely around “building a more resilient world.”2 Of course, “resilience” occupies a common semantic space with a larger, post-9/11 vocabulary: other keywords include “risk,” “uncertainty,” and “security” (Coaffee 2006; O’Malley and Bougen 2009). But the indis- putable fact is that each year sees another rash of books, policy documents, mission statements, and websites devoted to rearing resilient children; to building resilient communities; to constructing resilient states, critical infrastructures, cities, livelihoods, and financial systems; and, naturally, to making a resilient military populated by men and women emboldened by “enhanced resilience training.” A brief trawl through any search engine on the Internet reveals many millions of resilience citations—roughly twenty million, from a very cursory Google search—covering virtually every aspect of modern life, both ecological and social. Resilience is a staple, too, at the World Economic Forum; the idea of sustainable development is now virtually synonymous with the idea of “building resilience” (resilience, after all, is something to be learned and acquired, not inherited). It is not simply that resilience training is something of an epidemic; it is that its theoretical and practical ambition is positively Olympian. Resilience is a theory of just about everything; it has become what Antonio Gramsci (1971) calls “common sense.” Resilience encompasses far more than national defense and extends to everything from the Olympics—London’s 2012 Olympiad had a London Resilience Team—to international development, natural disasters, military training, engineering, teen development, PTSD, and criminology (see Coaffee, Wood, and Rogers 2009; Walkate, Mythen, and McGarry 2012). Here is a blurb from a 2008 resiliency conference in the United Kingdom:

The concept of resilience is now capturing high interest across academic, policy and popular debate. In a world where threats— whether linked to climate change, epidemic disease, or fluctuating financial markets—loom ever larger, resilience thinking

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valuably highlights the complex, open, path-dependent dynamics of coupled social-economic-environmental systems. Not only does it provide an increasingly vigorous and sophisticated body of analysis, resilience thinking also offers prospects for more integrated and effective policy making towards sustainability. (Leach 2008:1)

Global antipoverty strategies entail embedding resilience as a way of life among the world’s poor and vulnerable. On the World Bank’s website, the term “resilience” is found in almost ten thousand documents—educational resilience, climate resilience, ten principles of urban resilience—including the definitive blueprint, branded jointly with the UNEP and the World Resources Institute, titled The Roots of Resilience (WRI 2008), a manual for “growing the wealth of the poor.” The Bank’s twin sister, the International Monetary Fund, is in the business too: a perusal of the organization’s publications reveals “enhancing resilience to shocks,” “building up resilience in low income countries,” and promoting “global resilience,” measured by the capacity to recover from “downturns.” Inevitably, philanthropic organizations and the foundation world are energetic converts. Resilience is also a self-help movement. How-to manuals on the “whole life” approach to a resilient personality—Robert Brooks and Sam Goldstein’s The Power of Resilience: Achieving Balance, Confidence, and Personal Strength in Your Life (2006), Jane Clarke and John Nicholson’s Resilience: Bounce Back from Whatever Life Throws at You (2010), Chris Johnstone and Rob Hopkins’s Find Your Power: A Toolkit for Resilience and Positive Change (2010)—are widely available at any airport bookstore. No less an organization than the American Psychological Association has endorsed a Road to Resilience campaign that links the September 11, 2001, attacks to “the hardships that define all of our lives, anytime that people are struggling with an event in their communities” (qtd. in Neocleous 2013:6). And not least, a journal and in-house resiliency organ—Resilience, published by Taylor and Francis—was launched in 2013. In its ubiquity, resilience has shifted from the spectacular (the 9/11 attacks, Hurricane Katrina) to the banal (water treatment, transportation, financial networks) (Lundborg and Vaughn-Williams 2011). “Resilience” clearly provides a metalanguage to cut across widely disparate fields of practice and knowledge,3 a central plank in what Chen, chapter 5, and Sharpe, chapter 3, call the “new normal” of biosecurity. There are certainly differences in meaning and inflection in its deployment—some speak of resilience only as a metaphor or as a “boundary object” (Brand and Jax 2007)—but there are crucial family resemblances, including

147 Michael J. Watts an emphatic concern with the idea of rebounding from, coping with, or adapting to different changes, shocks, uncertainties, and perturbations.4 Systemic risk and adaptation are the avatars of resilience thinking; resilience entails securing life by embracing and taking risks. To take one example, a UN document on state building in conflicted settings—as the authors see it, the long march from fragility to resilience—defines resilience in the following way: “the ability to cope with changes in capacity, effectiveness or legitimacy…driven by shocks…[or] long-term erosions (or increases) in capacity, effectiveness or legitimacy” (OECD 2008, qtd. in Neocleous 2013:6, empha- ses added). Resilience may have reached an apogee in its role as handmaiden to the war on terror. In the United States, in the National Strategy for Homeland Security (US National Security Council 2007) and the 2010 Quadrennial Homeland Security Review (US Department of Homeland Security 2010)—and similarly in the United Kingdom, in A Strong Britain in an Age of Uncertainty: The National Security Strategy (Cabinet Office 2010)— the language of building resilient cities, institutions, infrastructures, and persons saturates the security doctrine (see Lentzos and Rose 2009; Neocleous 2013; O’Malley 2010, 2011). Resilience offers the prospect of nothing less than full spectrum human security. Above all, resilience is a “technology of fortitude” (O’Malley 2011). It is no accident that the humanitarian international institutions, most particularly in disaster management, adaptation to climate change, and famine relief, have shifted their gaze from vulnerability—the identification of at-risk populations and how to target them—to resilience. Confronting budget cuts and an increase in disaster costs, these organizations are less concerned with identifying vulnerable classes and institutional support— that is to say, victims, solidarity, and state assistance—than with promoting self-reliance, participation, and community and popular capacities to confront crises (Reghezza-Zitt et al. 2012). Resilience is offered as a more flexible strategy than either prevention or mitigation; it is validated through the capacities of individuals, organizations, households, and communities to self-organize and adapt. The UN Office for Disaster Risk Reduction in its foundational report, Living with Risk (UNISDR 2004), asserted the notion of adaptation to “hazards that can affect anyone, anywhere.” A policy of resilience, the document says, demands a consideration of almost every physical phenomenon on the planet. Resilience is nothing if it is not capacious in its remit.5 The UN Resilience Framework powerfully illuminates the prerequisites and normative expectations for achieving resilience, understood both as a set of practices and as a normative goal. Uncertainty is an opportunity and

148 Resilience as a Way of Life a challenge; it is central to life itself (to all living systems, as the Resilience Alliance would have it). Exploiting the omnipresent threat of shocks enables and encourages the invention of a new and better future and of a more adaptable, flexible, robust, and enterprising subject. The concept of resilience promotes the notions of managing one’s own risks, incubating innovation, personal responsibility, and empowerment. In decentralizing authority and resources to promote local-level disaster risk reduction, the United Nations barks at “citizens, including indigenous communities and other vulnerable populations [who] must participate, be actively informed, and take individual responsibility” (UNISDR 2012:4, emphasis added). Resiliency training enables everyone—the capitalist, the poor farmer, the troubled teen, the military grunt—to “live freely and with confidence in a world of potential risks” (Lentzos and Rose 2009:243). As Pat O’Malley (2011) puts it, in a magnificent turn of phrase, “uncertainty makes us free.” Irrespective of its specific referent object (children, security, drought), a defining quality of virtually all resilience thinking, at least in the social and socioecological sciences, is a robust relationship to systemic durability, flexibility, and a culture of preparedness, preemption, and precaution.6 So expansive is the prescriptive reach of resilience—there is now a Resilience Centre in Stockholm, a resilience network (the Resilience Alliance), and a rash of resilience thinking manuals—that it resembles what Paul Nasaday (2007) calls a “gospel.” But perhaps this is an underestimation. As a proc- lamation of good news, resilience is certainly draped in religious and normative overtones. But as Dillon and Reid (2009:87) note of contemporary liberal rule, resilience’s reference point is all of life itself and the practices required to “pre-empt the emergence of life forms in the life process that may prove toxic to life.”7 Resilience is in the business of forming govern- able subjects, a technology that, as Neocleous (2013:4) observes, facilitates the connection between state bureaucracy and the political imagination; it is, he says, “nothing less than the attempted colonization of the political imagination by the state.” Put differently, resilience provides a powerful anticipatory calculus, one of a flotilla of technologies associated with a security assemblage, rooted in a full-spectrum and, in some respects, para- noid social imaginary—a hyper-dangerous and threatening future. Resilience is a textbook illustration of biopolitics, understood as the administration and regulation of life processes (Lemke 2011), drawing, however, upon a distinctively modern theory of life as a complex and adaptive living system. I argue that resilience, as it has emerged as a set of practices deployed by state and civil society groups, forms the basis for addressing the uncertainties and instabilities not simply of nature, but of

149 Michael J. Watts contemporary capitalism and the national security state, and it does so by endorsing a distinctive form of biopolitics and technologies of the self. Resilience planning is an exemplary case of what Michel Foucault (2004) calls a “centrifugal biopolitical apparatus.”8 In regard to the themes of this volume, resilience has emerged as a crucial ingredient—the new normal— in the formulation of twenty-first-century biosecurity. I suggest, however, that resilience draws strength from a historically distinctive sort of biopolitical apparatus, that is, from powerful lines of what I call “catastrophist thinking” (I focus below on global climate change and its implications for food security and poverty in Africa). The scale and scope of these unpredictable shocks endorse a distinctively new logic of what Cooper (2006) calls “speculative pre-emption” (preemption because of radical uncertainty linked to catastrophic consequences). Resilience in its normative aspect has an elective affinity with neoliberalism, understood as a way of life (Foucault 2008).9 In its operations, this apparatus, to return to John Berger’s reckoning in the epigraph of this chapter, is a historically unique form of incarceration driven by the discipline of the market. Resilience is not so much a successful technology capable of managing and orchestrating populations under threat as it is a mode of governance unable to capture and enclose life. To echo the editors’ remarks in the introduction to this volume, resilience ushers in a life of bioinsecurity for which Berger’s invocation of the prison stands as a stark and terrifying marker.

The years 2008–2009 and 2011–2012 saw a rapid rise in world food prices. A June 2011 report to G20 agriculture ministers from the World Trade Organization, the World Bank, and the UN World Food Programme (United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization et al. 2011) noted that by 2050, food demand will increase by between 70 percent and 100 percent because of a projected population growth of at least 2.5 billion additional people. This alone, the report said, would put pressure on prices, and it is price, not volatility, that is the real problem for the global poor, who are overwhelmingly net food consumers. The Council on Foreign Relations has noted that the perfect storm of demographic growth, climate change, the onset of peak oil (with its consequences for fertilizer prices), and the burst- ing of the financial speculative bubble collectively point toward a major security challenge (http://www.cfr.org/food-security/food-price-volatility- insecurity/p16662). These cataclysmic events seem to be an echo of the 1970s oil/food/finance crisis, but in the social imaginary of the policy world, today’s situation is even worse. As Iain Boal (2009:3) puts it, the various iterations of a secularized neo-catastrophism have become—once

150 Resilience as a Way of Life more—the dominant paradigm among scientists, policy wonks, and the general public alike. What is on offer now is something unimaginable until relatively recently: the prospect of abrupt, radical, life-threatening shifts framed in the language of uncertainty, unpredictability, and contingency. The science of planetary disaster asks for urgent responses—policy, civic, and business—equal in scope and scale to the magnitude and gravity of the threat itself. A war on global warming, says Boal, must be declared to be as important as the global war on terror: “Are we not faced with inhabiting— once again—the rubble of a ruined world?” (Boal 2009:5). Discursively and practically, climate change represents, in today’s security argot, a planetary emergency; it encompasses, and has direct consequences for, two of the most basic human-provisioning systems: food and energy. The climate/energy/food nexus mobilizes powerful actors around the threat of massive, catastrophic risks and uncertainties—that is, it con- firms and endorses the prescriptive need for biosecurity broadly construed. Central to contemporary iterations of biosecurity is a construal of the nature of life itself that draws upon the molecular and digital sciences— complexity, networks, and information are its avatars—and shapes the nature of what is to be governed and how (the latter, as we shall see, involves both the liberal security state and neoliberal political economy). If life is constituted through complex and continual adaptation and emergence, it rests upon a sense of radical uncertainty in which danger and security form an unstable present, what Dillon and Reid (2009:85) call “the emergency of its emergence” or a life “continuously becoming dangerous” (see also Collier 2008; Lentzos and Rose 2009). Ash Amin (2012:138) sees this as the condition of calamity, or catastrophism: “The recurrence, spread, severity and mutability of the world’s natural and social hazards are considered as symptomatic of this state (of permanent risk), and its latent conditions are understood to be too volatile or random and non-linear to permit accurate prediction and evasive action. In the apocalyptic imaginary, hazard and risk erupt as unanticipated emergencies, disarming in every manifestation and in every way.” Two things can be said about this state of emergency (see Agamben 1998). First, although there remain important differences across different domains of life, there are close resemblances between the climate change/ energy/food nexus and how traditional biosecurity threats—bioterrorism, emerging illnesses, transpecies epidemics—are configured and enacted. For Melinda Cooper (2008), these arenas share deep state-led entanglements that conflate and draw together molecular research and the informational sciences, speculative finance and war. As a particular ontology,

151 Michael J. Watts catastrophism and a life of radical uncertainty have produced a distinctive (perhaps a distinctively new) culture of risk and risk (and fear) management. This ontology is what Laurent Berlant (2007) calls an “actuarial imaginary,” an assemblage made up of the institutions, technologies, techniques, and ethics whose goal is to maximize security, profitability, and well-being. In biosecurity terms, these wide-ranging threats are potentially catastrophic, often vague and spectral, but always promise the prospect of an imminent disaster (Anderson 2010b:779–780). Climate and food— to take my case—are stitched together into a new security fabric common to all threats and dangers, inevitably shaped and framed by the events of September 11, by global US military mobilization, by what Dillon and Reid (2009) call the “liberal way of war,” and by the hegemony of the marketplace. In all such disaster talk, the threat is already present, an incubus that can be discerned and visualized through a series of signs, early warnings, and simulations (Anderson 2010a). Second, if disaster is imminent, it is also indeterminate in a way that prioritizes what Jane Guyer (2007) calls the “near future.” Anticipatory actions become, as a result, the defining qualities of modern liberalism (everyone, Donald Rumsfeld famously said, needs to be proactive and not reactive, less bureaucratic and more like a venture capitalist). Preemption, precaution, and preparation are its key deployments—or political technologies—through which a wide range of crises and challenges are to be confronted (Amin 2012; Anderson 2010a). Anderson captures the matter brilliantly: the question is how to protect certain forms of valued life that revolve around a future—always uncertain, life-threatening, and full of surprises—that diverges from both the past and present. What constitutes governance and action “in the here and now before the full occurrence of a threat or danger” (Anderson 2010b:780)? In this chapter, I explore the contemporary apparatuses of biopolitical security associated with one particular problem space or object referent,10 namely, the climate/food nexus and, relatedly, the goal of food security in one of the poorest and most drought-prone regions of the world. My case study is the famine-prone African Sahel, seen in development circles as a textbook “basket case,” a vast transcontinental region with a deep history of food insecurity and drought proneness and widely held to be among the world’s most vulnerable regions in relation to anticipated global climate change (see IPCC 2007). The Sahelian case, I argue, discloses the rise, within the biosecurity paradigm, of resiliency as a technology of governance—as a synoptic field theory—for expressing and making a form of self-governing congruent with diverse environmental, terrorist, and

152 Resilience as a Way of Life economic risks. The geographical theater in which I explore this question has historically been a major crucible within which questions of environment, climate, and food have been forged and discussed since the 1930s and especially in the wake of the great and much televised famines of the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s. Arguably, the Sahelian crises were central to the consolidation of what Alex de Waal (2010) calls the “humanitarian international.” The genealogy of managing security in the Sahel, and its relationship to the history of catastrophic events and perturbations, constitutes a key starting point for grasping how the current obsession with producing resilient farmers and communities has taken hold. The food/climate nexus offers a broad setting in which the actuarial imaginary—the technologies of risk and order of governance under the sign of neoliberal financial capitalism—draws particular strength and expression. Foucault (2008:65) asks the question, what is the principle of calculation for the manufacture of liberal freedom? The principle, he says is security. Biosecurity, or, more properly, biopolitical security, denotes a vast arsenal of technologies put to the service of managing and organizing risk, resiliency, and threat as part of the regulation of life processes. Build- ing resiliency among poor African farmers in the face of climatic, market, and other volatilities involves the retooling of culture, local community institutions, indigenous knowledge, and individual behaviors and finely tuning them with the logics of the market, enterprise, and organizational theory and networks. At base, I argue, making the Sahel resilient (drought- proofing forms of African livelihood) represents a deeply Hayekian—or, more properly, neoliberal—vision of how a spontaneous market order will be built from and out of self-making and self-regulation by individuals and communities through calculation and commodification shaped by their own peculiar exposure to the necessary and unavoidable contingencies of life. As Anderson (2010a:29) notes, “through neoliberal logics of governing, the contingency of life has become a source of threat and opportunity, danger and profit.”

Biopolitical Security as Resilience: Climate Change and the Actuarial Imaginary in the West African Sahel

The new resilient self is also to be achieved rather than taken as natural.… [Resilience] is a technology that is imagined to equip the subject to deal with uncertainty in general.… resilience incorporates the enterprising and innovative stance that is “embracing risk.”…

153 Michael J. Watts

Knowing when and how to exploit uncertainty to invent a new and better future is equally a prominent feature of the adaptable, flexible and enterprising subject of resilience. (O’Malley 2010:505–506, emphasis added)

Bird flu, chemical, biological, and nuclear attacks, flooding and natural disasters, all loom over systems of production and exchange and the continuation of contemporary forms of liberal life. Cities, in particular, have been positioned as most vulnerable to these threats, and critical infrastructure protection has been elevated to the highest level of priority. But the securitization of life (Buzan and Weaver 2009; Floyd 2010) is no less visible in the policy shift from climate change mitigation to adaptation in response to the inexorable, if unpredictable, perturbations and threats associated with global warming (Adger 2006; Adger, Lorenzoni, and O’Brien. 2009). The aggregate emissions picture is, of course, mildly terrifying. The Kyoto Protocol (1997), which came into force in 2005, was established to achieve the stabilization of greenhouse gas concentrations in the atmosphere at a level that would prevent dangerous anthropogenic interference with the climate system. But carbon dioxide emissions are now 30 percent higher than when the Framework Convention on Climate Change was signed; atmospheric concentrations of carbon dioxide equivalents are currently 430 parts per million. At the current rate, they could more than treble by the end of the century. In effect, this would mean a 50 percent risk of global temperature increases of five degrees centigrade (the average global temperature now, for example, is only five degrees centigrade warmer than the last ice age). In 2009 a G8 commission agreed that an increase in global temperatures should be no more than two degrees centigrade above pre- industrial levels. According to the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change’s calculations, this would involve cutting global emissions to half their 1990 levels by 2050 (for richer countries, necessitating a reduction to two tons of carbon per head from levels above ten in Europe and twenty- four in the United States). In light of what seems to be, in the short and medium terms, an unassailable trend, the questions are therefore, How do governments, cities, societies, and economies withstand and bounce back from the consequences of climate change? How is life expected not only to endure but also to return to some sort of normality, either intact or reformed? How are forms of life expected to reset themselves, bouncing back into orderly patterns and routines? Central to the way these questions are framed—and to the potentially catastrophic consequences of climate change and all of its radical

154 Resilience as a Way of Life uncertainties—is the notion of resilience. Resilience’s lexicon customarily includes process, disturbance as opportunity, self-organization, adaptive capacity, acceptance of uncertainty, non-equilibrium dynamics, dynamic learning, flexibility, performance, and stress absorption (see Bahadur, Ibrahim, and Tanner 2010). Nowhere is this resiliency talk more visible than in the space—both geographical and discursive—in which poverty in the Global South meets up with global climate change, and nowhere is this meeting point more salient than in sub-Saharan Africa and especially the semi-arid Sahel, where survival in drought-prone environments is the central existential challenge. Almost a quarter of a billion Africans suffer from hunger and malnutri- tion. Nobody seriously expects that the Millennium Development Goals Report (United Nations 2012) objective of halving the number of hungry people between 1990 and 2015 will be met in Africa or globally. The incidence of famine—and famine mortalities—has probably declined since the 1960s, leading Cormac O’Grada in Famine: A Short History (2009:278) to refer to contemporary food crises as “small-scale famines.” Yet, Africa, especially Sahelian Africa, remains a striking outlier. In 2011 some ten million people were drawn into the clutches of the terrible food crisis in Somalia, Kenya, and Ethiopia. In 2012 the United Nations called for a massive food-aid mobilization in view of a looming subsistence crisis in the Sahel; according to the World Food Programme, more than eight million people will require “life-saving food assistance.”11 The Sahel, now seen geopolitically as a new front in the prosecution of counterinsurgency against radical Islam, is one of the regions on which, according to the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, the weight of global warming is about to fall. From quite different political vantage points—Christian Parenti (2011) on the left, the US Department of Defense (2011) on the right—this new conjunction of violence, poverty, food shortage, and climate change defines the coming apocalypse, the “tropic of chaos,” as Parenti calls it. The Sahel is a prime exemplar of catastrophism cutting across the ideological spectrum (Lilley et al. 2012). The current Sahelian food and environmental crisis on its face seems to be a tragic replay of the terrible famines that captured the world’s head- lines four decades ago. Indeed, one of the signal lessons learned from the serial failures to improve food security and life chances in the arid lands of West Africa is that the boundary lines between mass starvation and the longue durée of permanent hunger and undernourishment are porous and flimsy. Existentially, what we are witnessing is something close to slow death, or death by attrition: “The phrase slow death refers to the physical wearing out of a population and the deterioration of people in that

155 Michael J. Watts population that is very nearly a defining condition of their experience and historical existence” (Berlant 2007:754). In the Sahel, slow death and the radical reduction of human existence to bare life are the deepest expressions of what Mike Davis in Late Victorian Holocausts (2000) properly called the “war over the right to existence.” As it was earlier, when confronted with the massive droughts of the 1960s and 1970s, Africa is a laboratory for how to adapt to the potentially devastating impact of climate change. How is life to be made secure for some of the poorest and most vulnerable communities on the face of the earth?

Africa as Colonial Laboratory for Governing Nature Africa has long served as an experiment for the invention and circulation of development ideas and practice. Africa’s laboratories and their scientific contributions have changed over the past century, but, as Helen Tilley (2010) has brilliantly shown, across the colonial era, a number of arenas—race, medicine, and demography—were especially rich and generative. What concerns me here is Africa as a test site for environmental ideas—not ecological science narrowly construed, though the continent certainly served in this capacity too, but what now passes as sustainable development, or the governing of nature as a form of political practice or rule, what one might call “environmentality” or “green governance” as a particular expression of biopolitical security (see Li 2007; Malette 2009). The history of Africa as a laboratory for environmentalism runs deep, stretching back four to five centuries. Climate, forests, rivers, and range- lands all became parts of a considerable transdisciplinary enterprise that began even before the partition. Richard Grove’s (1987) pathbreaking work shows, for example, how some African islands suffered the ravages of large-scale production systems from the sixteenth century—and by virtue of their island biogeography were ecologically sensitive, in any case— and were the earliest markers of conservation thinking around issues such as deforestation, soil erosion, and water use. The geographical displacement of the cost of European industrialization onto the colonies makes the point that “much of the ideology of modern conservation thinking actually emerged out of the colonial rather than metropolitan conditions” (Grove 1987:23; see also Grove 1995). Formal colonial rule brought forth armies of scientists, research centers, commissions, and field expeditions. At the same time, colonialism had the effect of Africanizing science—that is, it converted Africa, in key domains, into an object of scientific scrutiny, on the one hand, and drew Africans and African knowledge into a constitutive

156 Resilience as a Way of Life process of what Tilley (2010) calls “vernacular science,” on the other. Africa’s scientific workshops were varied and multifaceted (Rabinow 1989; Richards 1985; Tilley 2008) and were achieved through a variety of institutions and networks and the circulation of ideas—and, importantly, the interplay between field and laboratory sciences—that were often at the heart of imperial government. The disciplines of ecology, geography, and anthropology were central to the vernacularization of scientific knowledge. In sum, the localization of scientific knowledge (that is, a clear distinction between what is universal and what is site specific) had a way of entering into the archive of global science even if Africans themselves were rarely driving the decision making (Tilley 2010). Some of this knowledge even entered into the subsequent debates over the future of Africa and its colonial status. The market, new crops and new farming practices, colonial scientific practitioners, and an array of African actors collectively constituted the mix within which both ecological and conservation ideas and practices were debated as part of the wider challenges of colonial rule (Hodge 2007). A number of historical moments— typically, crises of biopolitical security—were central to the genesis of a vernacular science of African ecology. First were the late nineteenth- century sleeping-sickness debates (Kjekshus 1977) and the relations more generally between livestock, human populations, and the local environment. Second was the nature of climatic and rainfall variation and the ability of peasants to accommodate such perturbations. Third, the Great Depression of the 1930s became an incubator for what the colonialists in western and southern Africa saw as a debilitating intersection of overpopulation (by humans and animals), soil erosion (“desertification”), and deforestation. The big push toward colonial conservation—and various patterns of resistance to conservation measures—became part of a wide-ranging global discussion, with connections to the dust bowl and to indigenous knowledge debates in the United States, South Asia, and Latin America,12 which animated scientific and colonial administrator constituencies across the French and British empires in the 1930s (Watts 2012[1983]). Finally, there was the process by which nineteenth-century imperial hunting (both colonial and precolonial) grew into scientific concerns about biodiversity, charismatic megafauna, and the push toward conservation areas and national parks, which, from the vantage point of communities that depended on local animal populations, appeared as a process of enclosure, criminalization of customary rights of use, and an authoritarian land grab by colonial states (Neumann 1995). African agency was obviously constitutive of this vernacular ecology

157 Michael J. Watts and incipient environmentalism. There was, first, African scientific knowledge of the environment. A growing cadre of anthropologists, often worked in conjunction with district and agricultural officers, who were sensitive to the flexibility and adaptability of African peasants and pastoralists and who promoted the utility of indigenous knowledge (and practice) in regard to what was seen as a hasty and inappropriate application of European farming methods (Beinart, Brown, and Gilfoyle 2009). By the 1890s, the World’s Exposition in Chicago was promoting the science of “ethnobotany.” A little later, agricultural officers in northern Nigeria could be heard singing the praises of peasant farmers and their local knowledge. Second, there were Africans who, if typically not scientifically trained, worked closely with the colonial research apparatus and in this sense approximated what, in a different setting, Steven Shapin (1994) has called “invisible technicians.” The green current running across colonial rule in Africa was deeply dialectical, emerging from the local and the global, the universal and the vernacular, the cosmopolitan and the parochial.

Postcolonial Scientific Workshops: The Sahel, Stockholm, and Limits to Growth The late 1960s through the early 1980s was a period of economic and political turbulence driven by the oil boom and bust, by financial liberalization and the launching of structural adjustment programs, and by the massive human ecological crisis triggered by the drought-caused famines that extended across the West African Sahel to the Horn and the eastern and southern regions of the continent. At base, the Sahelian tragedy was a crisis of social reproduction among the peasant and pastoral economies— dry land farming households and herders, for the most part—that occupied great swaths of the semi-arid savannas, which is the ecological heart of the continent. The great drought famines of the 1970s were framed by two important events: the first was the UN Conference on the Human Environment held in Stockholm in 1972, and the second was the release of the Club of Rome’s report The Limits to Growth (Meadows, Randers, and Behrens 1972) in the same year. Both were foundational to the rise of a sort of international environmentalism addressing what was later to be understood as the challenges of “sustainable development.” Both were fundamentally shaped by a robust Malthusianism. For the Club of Rome, founded as a global think tank in 1968 by the Italian industrialist Aurelio Peccei and the Scotch international scientific civil servant Alexander King, the oil crisis was a harbinger of the larger structural problems of resource scarcity, population pressure, and ecological degradation. Methodologically, the Club

158 Resilience as a Way of Life of Rome outsourced its study to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology’s Systems Dynamics Group, a team made up of seventeen researchers from a wide range of disciplines and countries, led by Dennis Meadows. The group assembled vast quantities of data from around the world to feed into the model, focusing on five main variables: investment, population, pollution, natural resources, and food. Calibrated to examine the interactions among these variables and the trends in the system as a whole over the next ten, twenty, and fifty years, assuming current growth rates, its scenarios predicted various sorts of system collapse or system unsustainability. In all, twelve million copies of the book have been sold, and it has been translated into thirty-seven languages. Limits to Growth became a touchstone for the global modeling of human ecological problems (in a sense, a forerunner of the IPCC) and provided a compelling narrative of global catastrophism that came to stimulate a debate over what King, then at the OECD, called “the temple of growth,” but it linked the “predicament of mankind” to questions of global inequality and called for a new international economic order. All of this, it should be said, was in parallel with two other important events. One was the UN Stockholm conference, which laid the foundation for the genesis and proliferation of international treaties and multilateral regulatory frameworks around global environmental issues. The other was the arrival at the World Bank of Robert McNamara, whose presidency between 1968 and 1981 would emphasize making the institution a development bank focused on the productivity crisis of the rural poor, especially the land-poor smallhold- ers of the Third World. In genealogical terms, these events helped shape how a run of African droughts, and the massive famines and food crises that attended them, was framed and understood as a particular sort of environmental crisis and as a development conundrum. Peter Taylor (1999), a historian of science and an ecologist, has referred to this as the prevailing discourse of “neo-Malthusian environmentalism,” and he interestingly made use of the influential studies conducted by MIT’s Systems Dynamics Group on agro-pastoral systems in the West African Sahel, conducted in the wake of the 1970s crisis. By 1973, the semi-arid Sahel region had experienced five years of drought, and the situation was developing into a crisis. Many pastoralists (livestock herders) and farmers were in refugee camps, their herds decimated and their crops having failed again. Prevailing analyses at the time focused not only on famine relief but also on the causes of the crisis and on prospects for the region’s future. This view heralded drought and famine as forerunners of demo- graphically driven scarcity (through human increases and related settlement

159 Michael J. Watts into increasingly marginal and overexploited environments and through animal overstocking on open ranges). In short, a Malthusian dystopia. The consensus was that the ecological resource base of the Sahel region had been seriously damaged. Once emergency relief was under way, discussion turned to the longer-term measures needed for recovery and for the prevention of future disasters. The US Agency for International Development funded a one-year, $1 million project at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology to evaluate long-term development strategies for the Sahel and the bordering Sudan region (Picardi 1974). The computer model (a regional variant of the Club of Rome’s global models) included a capacious menu of factors and mathematical relationships, all converted into a systems analysis anchored in (and confirming of) a tragedy of the commons. As calibrated, the model determined that overstocking and overgrazing were inevitable. Soil degradation and eventual desertification could be avoided only if all the pastoralists replaced their individual self-interest (and outdated forms of communal property) with long-term preservation of the resource base as their first priority, perhaps requiring them to enter ranching schemes that privatized or strictly supervised access to pasture.13 The agro-ecological crisis of the 1970s proved to be another laboratory for economic ideas. Ecology, food, and climate fed into arguably one of the founding documents in the rise and consolidation of neoliberal development theory and the rise of the Washington consensus: the Berg Report (1980; named after the Michigan economist Elliot Berg), which was released as Accelerated Development in Sub-Saharan Africa (World Bank 1981). At the core of Africa’s crisis were “domestic policy” and poor export performance in the basic commodities in which the continent had a comparative advantage. Distorted markets and state marketing boards became the conceptual frontlines in a ferocious assault on the African state, a critique backed up with the prescriptive heavy artillery of structural adjustment and stabilization. The solutions to the environment-development crisis resided in technical fixes (bringing the green revolution, irrigation, and improved transportation to the continent) and in exploiting export markets by free- ing peasants’ innovativeness from the yoke of the state. The African peasant emerged, in this account at least, as one part indigenous ecologist and one part diminutive capitalist (and rational economic agent). The shift since the 1970s toward market-driven forms of green governance has not been simply reflective of a shift to neoliberalism in the worlds of development theory and practice but in fact has been deeply constitutive of it. What model of biopolitical security was behind the African food/ climate/ecology crisis of the late 1960s and 1970s? It is worth recalling that

160 Resilience as a Way of Life a European iteration of the politics of food security was central to Foucault’s account of the rise of biopower, in which the “old power of death” was not abandoned, but justified through the “calculated management of life” and appeals to the improvement of and the control over populations (Foucault 2007; Nally 2008, 2010). Central to this shift was what Foucault variously referred to as the spaces of security, the management of uncertainty, mechanisms of normalization, and the population as a realm of conduct, each mobilized around the problem of scarcity (la disette) as a crisis of government. Food and famine (and the securing of the city) became, as a matter of government, about subsistence rights, the trade in grains, the management of droughts, and the control of food riots. The anti-scarcity system of the ancient regime—the customary entitlements of the Elizabethan period in England, for example, famously described by Karl Polanyi (1944)—was gradually displaced by the logic of the market and by concerns with agro- ecology, transportation, and the “improvement” of farming practices. Famine was no longer a natural act or bad luck; subsistence became a realm of governmentality (Foucault 2007:41–42). Those who did perish were not the object of management but were, to use the figure of nineteenth-century England, delinquents and “paupers,” not the hardworking and upstanding “laboring poor,” who simply required discipline and guidance to normalize their behavior in line with the freedoms of the market (Dean 2005; Nally 2008; Vernon 2007). There is a colonial African version of this story, a narrative that preceded the Sahelian crisis of the 1970s. In much of semi-arid West Africa, the colonial state was engaged in a biopolitical balancing act. On the one hand, the old indigenous anti-scarcity system—the moral economy of subsistence—was eroding, often quickly and under force; on the other hand, the effects of commercialization and states’ exactions were vastly expanding the likelihood of famine, which raised the possibility of millions per- ishing in what Mike Davis (2000) calls “late Victorian holocausts.” British imperialists reluctantly and ineffectively institutionalized a minimalist anti- famine policy (colonial welfare) for the indigent and invoked, with varying degrees of commitment, the “will to improve” colonial subjects who suffered from various indigenous deficits (recalcitrance, foot dragging, economic irrationality) and incompetencies. The food and ecological crisis of the 1970s represented a formalization of this emerging food/environment/security nexus. Not unlike David Nally’s (2010) stimulating account of colonial biopolitics in the Irish famine, development practice focused on agricultural (and pastoral) rationalization, population control or resettlement, and state discipline.

161 Michael J. Watts

If African starvation—whether in Ethiopia or Burkina Faso—loomed large in the media and in the expansion of a century-long process of the international humanitarianization of hunger, at base, the emaciated famine victim was always draped in the sackcloth of Malthusian overpopulation and demographic pressures. Garrett Hardin (1974) raised the specter of the “lifeboat ethic”—letting die, in Foucault’s terms—as the cost associated with the implacable logic of overpopulation, overgrazing, resource scarcity, and inadequate property rights, as displayed in the Club of Rome report. The commons stood as a metaphor for the old anti-scarcity system, which, as Malthus and others predicted in the early nineteenth century, compounded the problem of food security, improvement, and growth. Climate, environments, and populations needed to be managed: improvement, market forces, and property rights were its modalities. The vision of John Stuart Mill and Adam Smith was confirmed by the rash of market studies conducted in the wake of the famine by, perhaps appropriately, Elliot Berg and his associates at the University of Michigan, who confirmed that markets were efficient and “non-monopolistic” but required investments in transportation and credit to realize their potential (Berg 1977). Africa, wracked by food insufficiency, political corruption, and poor weather, was at least populated by some primitive form of Homo economicus. From the very outset, these emergent forms of governing nature, or green rule—largely, state centered and rooted in a variety of national and multilateral development institutions without a substantial nongovernmental institutional presence—were unstable and were gradually being threatened from within and without. The neo-Malthusian model and its technicistic beliefs and assumptions were increasingly questioned by a new wave of social science research rooted in careful ethnographic and local studies of human ecological dynamics and the intersection of social and ecological relations of production among rural producers. In a statistical sense, these represented the majority of Africans (see Richards 1985; Watts 2012[1983]). The challenge came from multiple quarters. First, Amartya Sen’s pivotal book Poverty and Famines (1980) decisively broke the purportedly causal connection between drought and famine. Food crises and starvation bore no necessary relation to absolute food decline, and the effects of drought were typically mediated by farming practices and the market (compounded by the deleterious effects of price increases and entitlement declines). Second, a body of work under the sign of peasant studies saw African communities as composed not of self-interested individuals (contra Hardin), but of people enmeshed in processes of commodification and social relations of production that rendered significant proportions of the

162 Resilience as a Way of Life rural populace vulnerable to all manner of ecological events even in “normal” times (Watts 2012[1983]). The effects of climate and of ecological conditions were, in other words, experienced differentially in relation to class, asset holding, and the operations of the market. This realization had direct implications for who was vulnerable, how ecological processes were experienced, and, in turn, how people and land might recover. Third, there was a proliferation of work on common property resources, which retained the significance of common property in Africa but, again contra Hardin, emphasized how customary institutions and rules, rather than open access, were their defining qualities, and indeed within them lay a capacity for environmental governance (Ostrom 1990; Wade 1988). Fourth, the sense in which indigenous knowledge and vernacular peasant practices could be captured and deployed was sharply constrained by the social relations of production in farming communities. The adaptive capacity much praised by geographers, anthropologists, and rural sociologists could be, and often was, undercut, eroded, or lost by the operations of the market. This was the heart of James Scott’s (1976) influential book on the moral economy of the peasantry. Finally, a poststructural account deploying a broadly discursive critique, led by Melissa Leach, James Fairhead, Jeremy Swift, and others (e.g., Leach and Mearns 1996), pointed to “dominant models,” or narratives of environmental crisis that reflected particular readings or constructions of local African conditions. In part, the framing of particular environmental problems—for example, desertification and the deterioration of range- lands—was also questioned by the rise of a “new ecology,” which focused on disequilibrium and a rethinking of the old static systems models of tropical ecology. This was an epistemological challenge. Outside experts drew on a long line of orthodoxies in which Africans were depicted, to quote Richard Grove (1987), as botanical “levelers.” Science was, in this account, politically and culturally embedded. By the 1980s and 1990s, these intellectual developments—partly rooted in the field of political ecology, partly in ecological science and science studies, and partly in anthropological critiques of development—represented a fundamental challenge to the legitimacy and standing of the conventional narratives of Africa’s environmental conditions, its actors, and its agents.

Neoliberal Biosecurity and Self-Organizing Resiliency

Security can be understood as a break with discipline and an intensification of biopolitics.… [It] is dispersive…[and its]

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object-targets are processes of emergence that may become determinate threats.… [As] production extends to all of life, all of life must be secured. (Anderson 2010a:34)

Since the 1990s, global climate change has become the vehicle for another laboratory revolution in African discourse and practice. In place of the managed environmentalism of the 1970s and the neo-Malthusian models, there is a new language turning on resiliency and adaptive community institutions linked through market governance (Gubbels 2011; WRI 2008). Gone is the language of overpopulation, incomplete markets, poor transportation, and local management deficits; gone, too, is any lingering sense of state welfare. There is now an assemblage of green rationalities—not all of which have the state as their guarantor and the nation as their locus of operation—that collectively expand the sense of security and securitization. The radical (if unpredictable) and life-threatening effects of global climate change are antithetical to the predictive modeling exercises practiced by the Club of Rome four decades ago (global climate change models are robust on system dynamics but weak on local predictions). The securing of the environment, which not only embraces the threats to food and water systems but also now encompasses the likelihood of conflict and violence around access to scarce resources,14 requires not so much a strong or disciplinary state operating within closed spaces of institutions, but something consistent with the multiple planes of movement of persons, information, and commodities and with an environment construed as a supplier of “ecosystem services.” The old modes of calculation—the insurance-based logic of calculable risks assessed through probabilities—have been replaced with modalities that can still render the uncertain future thinkable, an imaginary that can be prepared for, preempted, remediated. It is at this point that culture— especially institutions, many of which are indigenous or hybrids of local customs and postcolonial development institutions—meets up with resiliency and theories of complex adaptive systems. Its function is to incorporate social and economic systems into an overarching, complex science of “socio-ecological resilience” rooted in civil society (Adger, Lorenzoni, and O’Brien 2009; Folke et al. 2005; Holling 1986, 2001). Local knowledges and practices, notions of vulnerability and exposure—in other words, the critical responses to the neo-Malthusian approach—have been grafted onto a new turbo-charged systems theory, derived in particular from the work of the ecologist C. S. Holling (1973) and his associates, and have been brought together in a highly influential think tank called the Stockholm Resilience Centre.15 Resiliency is a risk-management tool—“adaptive co-management”

164 Resilience as a Way of Life is the term of art—for African development (Mitchell and Harris 2012) and for the vulnerable and crisis-prone Sahel (see Gubbels 2011). African communities can now be fine-tuned—paradoxically, building on their traditional strengths (for example, the social capital of village communities or city slums) yet supplemented by the expertise of development and state practitioners (Adger 2006). The strand of resiliency theory that has gained hegemony in the climate change/food arena is the ecological theory of Holling, published in the 1970s, which attempted to locate the equilibrium-centered work of systems ecology in the larger landscape of the biosphere as a self-organizing and nonlinear complex system (Lindseth 2011). Complexity science—the hallmark of contemporary systems ecology—represents a meeting point of multidisciplinary strands of science, including computational theory, non-equilibrium thermodynamics, evolutionary theory, and earth systems science (Folke et al. 2005). At the heart of Holling’s early work was how systems retain cohesiveness under stress or radical perturbations (such as climate variation). Resilience determines the persistence of relations in a system. In his later work, he explored the implications for the management of ecosystems by focusing less on stability and more on the unpredictable and unknowable nature of complex system interdependencies, which imply (in policy terms) the need to “keep options open, the need to view events in a regional rather than a local context, and the need to emphasize het- erogeneity” (Holling 2001:392). Through the Resilience Alliance and later the Resilience Centre, resilience and adaptive systems thinking was pushed far beyond ecology to encompass a co-evolutionary theory of societies (Gunderson and Holling 2002) and ecosystems as a single science (“panarchy”). Holling extended his view of resiliency by suggesting that all living systems evolved through disequilibrium and adaptive cycles, that instability was the source of creativity and the very stuff of all complex adaptive systems. What linked the social, economic, and ecological was the idea of capital as the inherent potential of a system available for change. What began as a study of the local ended as an abstract theory of “capital accumulation” marked by episodic change, turbulence, and a lack of predictability. The resiliency research program on adaptation to climate change claims to build on the insights drawn from the political-ecological critiques of neo-Malthusianism—in particular, that one must start from the patterns of social, economic, and political vulnerability of the poor and the sorts of entitlements they command (see Adger 2006). But the marriage is forced and unstable. Poverty and vulnerability appear in the paradigm of socioecological systems—adaptive capacity, resiliency, and flexibility in

165 Michael J. Watts local social systems—with no serious account of what the relations between words, concepts, and practices might suggest for an account of a distinctive form of governmentality, nor indeed a recognition that the processes that shape resilience operate at the level of the social relations of capitalism (MacKinnon and Derickson 2013). Resiliency theory has made no serious effort to engage with the wide-ranging debates of the 1970s that questioned systems theory, functionalism, the limits of the organic analogy (by which social systems are folded into living systems), and the deeply problematic legacy of cybernetics-style thinking when deployed as a form of social analysis.16 Naturally, it is important to document how households or individuals respond to (adapt to and cope with) droughts, food shortages, and other threats and to see how such responses are organized as part of an adaptive cycle (I myself laid out, thirty years ago, using the work of Gregory Bateson and Roy Rappaport, the adaptive and maladaptive structures of responses to drought among Nigerian peasants; see Watts 2012[1983]). It is no less important to acknowledge, as resiliency theory does, that not all individuals, communities, or states are equally resilient or equally adaptive; one needs to be clear about resilience for whom and for what purpose. As Pain and Levine (2012) point out, resilience is self-evidently common sense, yet it is conceptually and programmatically elusive. It reveals an impoverished sense of social relations and a bloodless and anodyne view of power and political economy. Capitalism has shown itself to be in some ways remarkably adaptive, resilient, and also crisis prone, yet resiliency theory tells us nothing about the exercise of power or the dynamics of capitalist accumulation. Resiliency theory is at base a set of managerial, functional, and organizational terms without, despite its vast assertions of what it is capable of explaining, providing any account of the logic of capital (Bene et al. 2012; Cote and Nightingale 2011; Hornborg 2009; Phelan, Henderson-Selllers, and Taplin 2012; ). Resiliency is now so central to the notion of environmentally sustainable development—the cornerstone of the major multilateral development and international environmental NGOs—that the complex adaptive systems framework, including the measures of standardization and accounting for assessing ecosystem resilience, has been taken up by the likes of the World Bank and UN-HABITAT in such diverse arenas as sustainable urbanism, ecosystem services, and climate adaptation and mitigation. A key policy document, The Roots of Resilience—bearing the imprimatur of UNEP, the World Bank, and the World Resources Institute—says:

Resilience is the capacity to adapt and to thrive in the face of challenge.… When the poor successfully (and sustainably) scale-up

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ecosystem-based enterprises, their resilience can increase in three dimensions. They can become more economically resilient—better able to face economic risks. They—and their communities—can become more socially resilient—better able to work together for mutual benefit. And the ecosystems they live in can become more biologically resilient—more productive and stable. (WRI 2008:123)

Resiliency is the form of governmentality appropriate to any form of perturbation and uncertainty: dealing with extreme weather events is not merely analogous to coping with recurrent financial shocks. It provides the means through which economics and social resilience are to be achieved. Roots of Resilience offers a full-blown theory of development (“growing the wealth of the poor”) in the same way that socioecological governance and adaptive, flexible climate risk management offer a form of neoliberal governmentality for climate change in Africa. At the time that Holling was laying out his first ideas (and in the midst of the Sahelian famine), Friedrich Hayek delivered his Nobel Prize speech (1974), which, as Walker and Cooper (2011) brilliantly show, expresses an affinity with Holling’s ideas. Hayek was moving toward his mature theoriza- tion of capitalism as an exemplar of the biological sciences: the extended market order is “perfectly natural…like biological phenomena, evolved in the course of natural selection” (Hayek 1988, qtd. in Walker and Cooper 2011:155). In his Nobel lecture, he returned to the epistemology of limited knowledge and an uncertain future, a position that led him to explicitly reject and denounce the Club of Rome’s Limits to Growth report. It was to biological systems and complex, adaptive, and nonlinear dynamics that he turned to provide the guide for his “spontaneous market order” of capitalism. Both endorse the view of limited knowledge, unpredictable environments, and order through survival (Gamble 1996; Mirowski and Plehwe 2009; ). It is intriguing that the Resilience Alliance precisely sees the affinity between the work of Holling and that of the neoclassical theorist of financial collapse Hyman Minsky.17 In an important synthetic article co- authored by some of the resilience theorists, one of the enabling conditions for resilience is openness, which is explicitly couched as “free trade between neighboring socio-ecological systems” (Carpenter et al. 2012:3253). The new post–Washington consensus view looks even more consistent with Hayek’s mature vision of the market order than its earlier, raw and crude neoliberal version did. Roots of Resilience proposes to scale up “nature based income [by]…cultivating resilience,” which requires ownership, capacity, and connection. Ecosystem-based enterprises, rooted in community

167 Michael J. Watts resource management, will entail local-state and private-civic partnerships and enterprise networking. Markets in ecosystem services, and the delega- tion of responsibility to communities and households as self-organizing productive units, will constitute the basis for survival in biophysical, political, economic, and financial worlds defined by turbulence, risk, and unpredictability. Some will be resilient, but others will be too resilient or not resilient enough. * * *

I think the multiplication of the enterprise form within the social body is what is at stake in neoliberal policy.… The stake of all neoliberal analyses is the replacement every time of homo economicus as partner of exchange with a homo economicus as entrepreneur of himself, being for himself his own capital, being for himself his own producer.… The individual’s life itself—with his relationships to his private property, for example, with his family, his household, insurance and retirement—must make him into a sort of permanent and multiple enterprise. (Foucault 2008:148, 226, 241)

In Security, Territory, Population (2007), Foucault also explores how early biopolitics revolved around the aleatory properties of populations. Just as populations are aleatory, however, so contingency is said now to be generi- cally constitutive of life as biological existence. Stuart Kaufman (2000), for example, who talks of the biosphere, sees science as offering a view of life as incalculable, non-algorithmic, beyond our capacity to predict. The biosphere is constructed by the emergence and persistent co-evolution of autonomous agents. The managerial/organization sciences, the science of complexity as much as the life sciences per se, turn now on the emergent properties of living systems. Adaptation within these systems is unpredictable, self-organizing, and self-engendering. Biosecurity, then, cannot be achieved through the avalanche of statistics and population management alone but is governed by laws of emergence. Contingency and transformation become the modalities of safety and survival, or, more properly, quali- tative change in the nature of the living thing itself is the condition of the possibility of security. Resilience planning is one such crucial condition of possibility, an expression of what Foucault (2007:45) calls “new elements… constantly being integrated…into ever wider circuits…production, psychology, behavior, the ways of doing things of producers, buyers, consumers, importers, and exporters, and the world market.” The question is, what sort

168 Resilience as a Way of Life of economy provides the “basic grid of intelligibility,” as Foucault calls it, for this historical form of the biosecuritization of politics? I have traced the instantiation of resiliency thinking as a form of risk management for climate change in Africa by placing it on the larger landscape of Africa as a laboratory for knowledge production but integrally part of a larger set of technologies devoted to “human security.” Risk is, by definition, about the probability of the unpredictable: it speaks to danger but is also, in the current parlance, an opportunity and a means for testing who is and who is not resilient (capable of absorbing and transcending shocks). Climate change is both a market opportunity and a source of profit by making contingency a fungible commodity; resiliency is a means by which exposure to various contingencies is not just a referent object, but a form of commodification (O’Malley 2006). In a world in which risks mul- tiply and circulate and are both monetized and “securitized” in a veritable avalanche of forms, resilience thinking not only provides a comprehensive and powerful discourse but also operates as a form of liberal rule. I have suggested that building African resiliency in drought-prone regions is in profound ways a sort of Hayekian project. A spontaneous market order will be built from and out of individual and community self- making and self-regulation through calculation and commodification. In my case study, the details of this construction will be shaped by the unique responses to the necessary and unavoidable contingencies of life confronted by poor peasants, slum dwellers, and pastoralists across the Sahel. This Hayekian universe of resilience as a way of life is a world of shocks, tipping points, thresholds, and survival. Ecological resiliency is the calcu- lative metric appropriate for the brave new world of turbulent capitalism and the global neoliberal order. It is a new ecology of rule. Africa’s bottom billion provides a laboratory in which the poor will be put to the test; in the Sahel, the test is the new and unpredictable turbulences residing at the intersection of global climate change and neoliberal capitalism. To return to Foucault and his notion of an expanded sense of biosecurity, resiliency is an apparatus of security that will determine the process of letting die. Resilience, to return to Foucault’s question about the economy providing a grid of intelligibility, is the managerial language of neoliberalism. He noted that neoliberalism should not be confused with laissez-faire but “should be regarded as a call to vigilance, to activism and to perpetual intervention” (qtd. in Mirowski 2013:53). Resilience theory offers a set of practices and policies for precisely these vigilant, perpetual intervention machines. Africa, once again, is the testing ground for a vision of security and care in which life is nothing more than living in permanent readiness

169 Michael J. Watts in the face of a permanent state of emergency, armed now with some adaptive capacities. This is an expression of the neoliberal thought collective in which the idea of a spontaneous market order has become, ironically, a form of sustainable development. Building resilient peasants and resilient communities in the West African Sahel turns on an amalgam of institutions and practices geared toward individuals armed with traditional knowledge but rooted in what Dillon (2008) calls a distinctive moral and behavioral economy of existence. Surviving and thriving in these systems is unpredictable, self-organizing, and self-engendering, consistent both with a capacious sense of life itself and with the idea of the operations of a neoliberal subject. The challenges of adapting to the radical uncertainties and perturbations of global climate change produce a new sense of Homo economicus; the African peasant, Foucault (2008:241) says, becomes “an entrepreneur of himself,” a sort of hedge-fund manager for his own impoverished life.

Acknowledgments I thank Nancy Chen and Lesley Sharp for their suggestions and constructive criti- cisms, and I also thank the other participants, especially Joe Masco, at the School for Advanced Research seminar. I am especially indebted to the work of Pat O’Malley.

Notes 1. The historical semantics of the word are complex, and the term is certainly not, as is often inferred, the invention of ecological theory. The word was deployed in a legal sense by Ovid, Seneca, and Pliny in classical times but became associated with science in the seventeenth century through none other than Francis Bacon. Resilience came to refer to the notion of rebounding but was also employed by the late eighteenth century to mean elasticity, fortitude, and fickleness. By the nineteenth century, it was normalized in the fields of mechanics, engineering, and medicine. By the twentieth century, resilience was central to the rise of systems theory and cybernetics and by the 1950s was adopted in psychology and psychiatry (see Alexander 2013). 2. The Rockefeller Foundation’s most recent mission statement, Rebound: Building a More Resilient World (2013:2), the Rockefeller Foundation says that “humans are not born resilient—we learn it, adapt it, improve upon it. The same is true for organizations, systems, and societies.” Their hundred-year-long program of research and learning has taught the foundation that resilient systems share five core characteristics:spare capacity, which ensures that a backup or alternative is available when a vital component of a system fails; flexibility, the ability to change, evolve, and adapt in the face of disaster; limited or “safe” failure, which prevents failures from rippling across systems; rapid rebound, the capacity to reestablish functions and avoid long-term disruptions; and constant

170 Resilience as a Way of Life learning, which requires robust feedback loops that sense and allow new solutions as conditions change. These characteristics are shared, according to contributors in Rebound, by Michael Bloomberg, Coca-Cola, and the urban poor. 3. In a comprehensive theoretical overview, Martin-Breen and Anderies (2011:7) define resilience as “the ability to withstand, recover from, and reorganize in reponse to crises.” Drawing upon the lineage of ecological theory and Holling’s hugely influential work, Nelson, Adger, and Brown (2007:396) define resilience as the amount of change a system can undergo while retaining (1) the same structure and function and (2) the option to develop. Both of these definitions clarify the extent to which system, function, structure, and capacity to adapt—that is to say, the conceptual hardware of general systems theory associated with Ludwig von Bertalanffy—are resilience’s defining properties. 4. “Resilience is a diffuse and contested concept. Yet there are some commonalities …[reflecting concerns with] overcoming and/or learning from adversity/disturbance in such a way that ensures the viability and/or integrity of the ‘individual’ or ‘system’” (Walkate, Mythen, and McGarry 2012:189). 5. The various, and often contested, meanings of resilience across social, ecological, engineering, medical, and scientific fields cannot be covered here (see Martin- Breen and Anderies 2011; Bahadur, Ibrahim, and Tanner 2010 for a review of resiliency theory). In brief, one can gloss this vast literature by saying that in engineering or “disease” resilience (returning to normal in the wake of a stressor), social-psychological (individual and group responses to adversity), sociological (collective and structural aspects of coping with stress), and ecological (complex adaptive living systems) perspectives, there are considerable debate and ambiguity over whether resilience is a state, a capacity, or a condition; whether resilience inheres in individuals, communities, and institutions; and whether it refers to short- or long-term responses. Typologies of resilience and shopping lists of resilience properties abound (see Bahadur Ibrahim, and Tanner 2010; Brand and Jax 2007; IDS 2013). 6. Resilience now stands as something like a unified field theory or paradigm (see Walker and Salt 2006; Zolli 2012). 7. In establishing the Resilience Alliance, Holling and his colleagues saw resilience as central to the co-evolution of societies and saw ecosystems as a complex adaptive totality (so-called panarchy) in which adaptive cycles shape four key processes: growth/ accumulation, conservation/organization, destruction/release, and restructuring/ reorganization. This is as grand a totalizing theory as any classical political economy. 8. In Society Must Be Defended (2004), Foucault distinguishes centripedal disciplinary mechanisms (the isolation and enclosure of spaces to regulate bodies) from centrifugal apparatuses that work with and govern through wider circuits of flows and social

171 Michael J. Watts complexity (see the discussion of molar and molecular security in Lundborg and Vaughn-Williams 2011). 9. Cooper’s point is precisely that speculative preemption emerged from the speculative financialization of capitalism during the high water of neoliberalism in the last decades of the twentieth century and was further endorsed by September 11 and by the subsequent financial crash of 2008. 10. I use the term “biopolitical security,” which is derived from Foucault’s (2008) discussion of biopower and security, to describe various forms of governing associated with the modern technologies of risk and threat management. This term encompasses a far wider terrain than “biosecurity” as conventionally understood, namely, the ways in which bioterror and emerging illnesses are linked to the national security state (see Masco, chapter 1). 11. See World Food Programme, Fighting Hunger in the Sahel (February 12, 2012), http://documents.wfp.org/stellent/groups/public/documents/communications /wfp244897.pdf. 12. Important work is being done on this issue by Greta Marchesi, a doctoral student in the Department of Geography at the University of California, Berkeley. 13. The contours of the crisis were an echo of similar debates conducted in the British and French colonial offices during the 1930s. West Africa had, in the colonial interpretation, its own dust bowl experience, in which advancing deserts, rapid deforestation, and declining soil productivity were driven by the poor land-use practices of African peasants and the weight of population pressure. Colonial scientists, nonetheless, were deeply divided in the 1930s as to whether and how fast desertification may have been taking place in the West African Sahel. 14. The literature includes a rash of studies by the US military and defense intelligence communities on the climate change/conflict/resource scarcity nexus. See Barnett and Adger 2007; US Department of Defense 2011. 15. The literature is vast and its genealogy is complicated, drawing from the sciences of living systems, operations research, cybernetics/systems theory, and management/organization/corporate strategy literatures (see Bahadur, Ibrahim, and Tanner 2010; Mitchell and Harris 2012). The in-house journal is Ecology and Society, and much of this is drawn together in Kaufman 2000. 16. The important debate between Roy Rappaport and Jonathan Friedman over ecological anthropology and the debates over adaptation are key (see Friedman 1974; Rappaport 1984). 17. See the blog of Garry Peterson: http://rs.resalliance.org/2013/03/07 /connecting-the-instability-of-markets-and-ecosystems-c-s-holling-and-hyman-minsky.

172 9

Bioinsecurity, Gender, and HIV/AIDS in South Africa

Ida Susser

Based on fieldwork in South Africa, this chapter considers the less dramatic forms of bioinsecurity facing poor populations and the political challenges facing new democratic states in addressing these issues. My work has focused on the lives of women, who sometimes lack governmental support for fundamental public health measures, trying to access needed medications and other forms of health care (Susser 2009).1 Here, I explore the important achievements of science and global funding in providing treatment for and prevention of AIDS as an aspect of global investment in biosecurity. At the same time, I use the concept of bioinsecurity to describe the ways in which global policies with respect to water and attention to global economic pressures may increase the insecurity of the lives of poor women and men. Overall, the history of social movements around AIDS suggests that only constant demands and vigilance have led to benefits in the Global South from the scientific achievements funded for biosecurity. In addition, only alleviation of the bioinsecurity of the majority-poor African populations and the implementation of prevention and treatment in this social context can fully stem the AIDS epidemic. I consider the diverse daily challenges faced by women in South Africa (in the informal settlements around Durban and in the surrounding rural villages) and outline the overall issues confronted by their families. Such

173 Ida Susser findings, which might be characterized as bioinsecurity, are considered in light of the impact of broader national and global policies that have been characterized as promoting “biosecurity.” Here, I include a broad range of policies, such as the Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Rights (TRIPS) agreement,2 the promotion of global policies on water and national efforts to build new business-friendly airports and transnational highways rather than affordable public transportation. The World Trade Organization’s (WTO) policies protecting patents and promoting international trade, and global policies with respect to water and the environment, have been developed with the stated aim of building more stable, national economies and, in the case of water, global environmental preservation. However, examination of their impact in specific places raises questions about their effects on the poor households that are crucial to the social reproduction of a healthy and educated population. Michael Watts suggests in chapter 8 in this volume that current market- driven policies relating to the WTO, water, and economic stability are associated with a neoliberal discourse of “resilience.” I argue that this cor- responds to the current capitalist regime of flexible accumulation, which has replaced the industrial era (Harvey 1990). Watts sees this new discourse as following the breakup of the Bretton Woods agreements, which were put in place after World War II. Under Bretton Woods, global structures, such as the United Nations and the financial institutions, operating from a Keynesian economic perspective, channeled economic programs directly through the states. We can see such past efforts to build effective state governments as corresponding to an industrial era with, as some have labeled it, a Fordist regime of accumulation. As Watts points out, the new discourse of resilience and flexibility can be directly linked to a new form of governance with an increasing emphasis on civil society and individual entrepre- neurship, which may bypass national governments in the Global South or may be fully adopted by them. Watts shows that, as Foucault claimed, such neoliberal thinking, rather than solving problems, purports to manage risk in an unpredictable future in which we can expect that those who do not have their own forms of “resilience” will die. Thus, the disconnect that I describe in this chapter, between global policies to prevent and treat AIDS and the ongoing suffering of people at the local level, can be understood as part of larger global conditions that often lead, among the poor of Africa and elsewhere, to “letting them die” (Campbell 2003). However, I suggest that in spite of the neoliberal global discourse, we can also see people at all scales struggling to survive, implementing, as Watts notes, realistic communal projects and working toward a more equitable social transformation.

174 Bioinsecurity, Gender, and HIV/AIDS in South Africa

In addressing these questions, why consider South Africa? Southern African countries have had the highest rates of AIDS in the world since the mid-1990s, and South Africa is now the country with the largest population of people living with AIDS (5.6 million people).3 South Africa has a powerful record of collective action and political mobilization for change (for a fuller discussion of these issues, see Susser 2009). Following forty years of struggle, domestic and international movements transformed a fascist state based on a black-white racial divide into an interracial democracy. Yet, twenty years after liberation, South Africa has become one of the most unequal economies in the world (Seekings and Nattrass 2005).4

AIDS and Biosecurity AIDS has long been incorporated into the discourse of biosecurity. As a global pandemic (Mann and Tarantola 1996) that crosses national and continental boundaries, HIV/AIDS has infected more than sixty million people, particularly youth and midlife productive workers, and about thirty-four million worldwide are now living with AIDS.5 HIV/AIDS is also global in an economic and political sense. Since the early 1980s, the spread of HIV/AIDS has affected the reproduction of households and domestic economies, as well as undermining the stability of many communities. In South Africa, many young people are growing up without parents or work, which threatens social and political stability in numerous ways. The political effects of AIDS were seen in the denialist policies of Thabo Mbeki, the president of South Africa from 1999 to 2007. They were powerfully evident in the broad coalition of health activists, unions, churches, and others who voted to depose Mbeki as leader of the African National Congress (ANC), primarily because of his refusal to implement large-scale AIDS treatment programs (Nattrass 2007; Schneider 2002; Schneider and Stein 2002; Susser 2009). Beyond national governments, possible treatments for and prevention of AIDS have been severely constrained and directed by global politics. The histories of colonialism, labor migration, war, and tourism shape the contours of this health crisis, while the contemporary unequal distribution of wealth and power and the global networks of corporate investment, information, and patent regulation determine access to prevention and treatment. Thus, an understanding of the bioinsecurity of survival with AIDS in southern Africa has to be grounded in an analysis of the impact of the global policies of structural adjustment and free trade, as well as the resistance to such policies. TRIPS has been particularly significant to the access to treatment for

175 Ida Susser people in South Africa and elsewhere. It has been implemented in stages, each more restrictive than the last, and is part of the larger project of the World Trade Organization. The first phase of TRIPS, instituted in 1996, required countries internationally to respect US intellectual property regulations. As a consequence, US corporations could sue international manu- facturers, such as those making generic drugs, that were now violating US patent regulations. In the late 1990s, the minister of health, Nkosazana Dlamini-Zuma, claimed the right to break the patent for drugs for the AIDS emergency, and the South African government was actually sued by thirty-nine pharmaceutical corporations. In November 2001, the World Trade Organization held a ministerial conference at Doha, Qatar, after the assault on the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. At these meetings, there was one significant political success for the Global South: the ministerial declaration that TRIPS “can and should be interpreted and implemented in a manner supportive of WTO Members’ right to protect public health and, in particular, to promote access to medicines for all.”6 The WTO reversal at Doha was seen by many as a direct response to the anthrax scare in the United States, barely a month earlier. In October 2001, anthrax powder had been mailed to two senators and two journalists and en route had polluted numerous post offices. Five people died and seventeen were made seriously ill through this assault, which was subsequently characterized by the FBI as “the worst biological attack in U.S. history.”7 The disaster and subsequent fear revealed the lack of availability of the antibiotic Cipro, which was the only known treatment for anthrax. The United States had to consider breaking the patent for the production of Cipro should a widespread distribution of anthrax occur. Following, as it did, swiftly on the heels of 9/11, the anthrax powder that was mailed to TV stations and the Capitol building and found in the post offices was imagined to be part of an international terrorist threat. In fact, the letters that accompanied the anthrax included the statements “Death to America. Death to Israel.”8 However, later evidence showed that the anthrax was mailed domestically by a top-level scientist involved in biosecurity research, Dr. Bruce E. Ivins, at the US Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. At Doha, it was the US reaction to the perceived international biological threat of anthrax poisoning that allowed a minor improvement in the biosecurity of people living with AIDS in the Global South. Although, at the same 2001 ministerial conference, poor countries failed to achieve their goals for less damaging policies in agricultural areas and even in garment production, the Doha Declaration represented a step

176 Bioinsecurity, Gender, and HIV/AIDS in South Africa forward for countries such as India and Brazil, which were already manufacturing their own AIDS drugs (Bello 2001). Such countries had been pronounced by US pharmaceutical companies to be in violation of the TRIPS regulations. The Doha Declaration finally recognized the principle of “compulsory licensing,” which had been outlined in the original TRIPS, to allow countries to overrule pharmaceutical patents in emergency situations. Numerous protests and court cases calling for compulsory licensing in Brazil had preceded the WTO capitulation at Doha, and six months earlier, the thirty-nine pharmaceutical companies had been forced to abandon their case against the South African government’s claim for compulsory licensing of HIV/AIDS drugs (for fuller discussions of these issues, see Nattrass 2007; Petchesky 2003; Susser 2009). The declaration represented one limited victory in a long struggle around the affordability of treatment for and prevention of HIV/AIDS. However, the South African government never translated this victory into action, and since that time, the emergency permission to break patents has scarcely been used. Indeed, over time, WTO negotiations have led to stiffer sanctions for the violation of TRIPS. In 2006 at the Toronto International AIDS Society Conference, Bill and Melinda Gates personally (of course, representing the new funding priorities of their foundation) called for and began to fund pharmaceutical solutions to prevention. This is one of many examples of investments in biosecurity and science in which the directions for research have been framed largely by corporate funders rather than public health researchers or the local people in need. In fact, a perusal of the local framing of prevention and the work of many public health researchers at the time included an emphasis on community-based education, community health workers, and male and female condoms (for example, Dworkin and Ehrhardt 2007; Jana et al. 2004; Kalipeni et al. 2004; Mantell, Stein, and Susser 2008; Parker 2001; Schoepf 2001, 2004; Susser 2007; Wellbourn 2006). As a result of the new initiatives announced by the Gateses, there was little, if any, scale-up in the areas of community education and a dearth of global funding for the social and behavioral aspects of prevention. We can also see the emphasis on clinical interventions and new scientific endeavors as once again reflecting, in some ways, Watts’s discussion of the use of Africa as a laboratory for experimental technologies. Although most of the research on new preventative measures is being carried out in southern and eastern Africa, as we shall see, many of the findings can be more easily and effectively implemented in the Global North. Eventually, these measures might save lives in the Global South, but the effective implementation of such new technologies

177 Ida Susser among poor people, who are lacking so many other institutional and economic supports, is much harder to arrange. Meanwhile, the UN millennium goals, generated globally in 2000, included developing an integrated approach to HIV/AIDS prevention and family planning. This aim was also little funded and scarcely implemented (Susser 2009). If both of these local and public health goals had been attended to, we would not have spent so many years with practically no forms of prevention seriously advocated on the local level. The promotion of barrier methods, such as male and female condoms, was abandoned in many global arenas, in tandem with the anti-condom conservative initiative of PEPFAR (President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief) during George W. Bush’s presidency (Gollub 2000; PATH and UNFPA 2006; Susser 2002, 2004; Susser and Stein 2000; Welbourn 2006). In fact, barrier methods were not even mentioned in plenaries at the 2006 International AIDS Society Conference that were calling for prevention. Although UNFPA, UNAIDS, and other global foundations continued to distribute male condoms and eventually also women’s condoms, the major impetus for prevention was in “new technologies” rather than such barrier methods or social organization. After decades of an emphasis on scientific solutions, in 2013, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation returned to basics and initiated a call for more creativity in the design and distribution of barrier methods such as condoms. If the simple millennium goal to integrate family planning and AIDS prevention, which can be achieved only by advocating barrier methods, had been accomplished, we would not be facing another global dilemma with respect to injectable contraceptives. Recent studies suggest that injectable hormonal contraceptives (e.g., DMPA, known as Depo-Provera), the most common contraceptive worldwide, double the risk of AIDS infection in women and also increase AIDS infection in their male partners (Heffron et a1. 2012).9 A second dilemma that faces AIDS prevention today is that the first microbicide, a topical vaginal gel containing the antiretroviral drug Tenofovir, was proved significantly effective in preventing AIDS infection among women in 2010 but did not work in a second study (see Abdool Karim et al. 2010; Kuhn, Susser, and Stein 2011; Susser 2010; Susser and Stein 2010). Although there is a likelihood that it did not work because women did not actually use it, this means that there is no microbicide approved for use. Again, the failure here is that social questions, such as how to foster the use of this practical preventative gel, were never researched or modeled. In 2013, Tenofovir pills were shown to be effective as prevention for both

178 Bioinsecurity, Gender, and HIV/AIDS in South Africa men and women. This method requires medicating sexually active people who are not HIV-positive in order to prevent infection. Some populations in the Global North may be able to use this approach. However, minimal funding has been directed toward how men and women live their lives and how particular goals fit with their needs and experiences. We need to understand not only that global policy directions have not been implemented by people at the local scale but also that professional expertise, involving public health researchers, epidemiologists, anthropologists, and others, only partially explains the direction of research. Global and national politics and major corporate funders powerfully frame the direction of research and policy. In 2011, the efficacy of treatment as prevention was confirmed. Now, we know that people who are HIV-positive and on treatment rarely transmit the virus and that seronegative partners can dramatically reduce their rates of infection by taking antiretroviral drugs (ARVs) as prevention. Thus, in terms of the AIDS virus, at least theo- retically, biosecurity could be promoted simply by treating people who test positive for AIDS earlier than was previously recommended and by treating the entire population at risk, whether they are originally positive or negative for the virus. Hypothetically, such treatment for prevention would also lower the viral load for the total population and thus decrease the rate of HIV infection. However, such findings have raised many questions that highlight the issues of bioinsecurity. First, although funding has been provided by US governmental agencies, the Gates Foundation, and others for the research on treatment as prevention, it is not clear where the increased funding for large global programs to implement these findings will be found. Even now, in both the wealthier and the poorer countries, many people with AIDS are going untreated. The United States is failing to reach many poor and African American men and women with either testing or treatment. In South Africa, which is not even among the poorest nations, even though the health department was scaling up ARVs, only a little more than one half of the needy were on treatment in 2010.10 As the overall aims of AIDS treatment are expanding, the resources available for such programs are decreasing, partly in relation to the worldwide recession and partly because of a backlash against the needs of patients with AIDS in the face of all the other pressing health needs of poor countries (UNAIDS 2009). Second, long-term treatments have side effects, some of which are only now beginning to be understood. Treatment as prevention puts people who are positive for the AIDS virus on medications when they are not yet sick, which is both expensive and risky. The treatment of healthy people who do

179 Ida Susser not have HIV puts them at risk for all the side effects of ARVs, such as liver and heart damage. Third, the use of ARVs for prevention increases the possibilities for the development of resistance to particular drugs, both in the individuals taking them and in the population at large. Many people are currently becoming resistant to first-generation ARVs. Second-generation ARVs have been more effectively patented by the corporations that produce them, with, owing to TRIPS, powerful international restrictions on their production outside of the costly pharmaceutical companies. If people are taking ARVs for prevention, not treatment, the problems of resistance will be greatly multiplied and the need for second- and third-generation drugs will be speeded up. To make matters worse, in low-resource countries, where access to treatment and prevention is difficult and often disrupted by outside events, as well as by problems such as a consistent lack of transportation, resistance is much more likely to occur (Farmer 2001). Thus, even on the scientific side, easy answers to biosecurity present much greater pitfalls than might first be evident. The most obvious global impact on poor South African women of AIDS treatment and prevention has been the patenting decisions of the World Trade Organization with respect to AIDS drugs. The battles around this issue have been central to life and death in South Africa since the 1990s. For ten years after AIDS treatment was available in Western countries, poor South Africans had little access to such life-saving medications. The South African government first fought TRIPS to be allowed to obtain cheaper generic drugs. Then, for about five years, South Africa prevented its own population from receiving treatment. Drugs invented before the first TRIPS regulations in 1996 were reproduced outside the US patents without major global sanctions in India, Spain, and elsewhere. However, as world trade negotiations proceeded, countries, such as India, that were producing generic drugs without patents came under greater sanctions in their battle against agricultural tariffs. Because of the WTO’s ever more comprehensive powers, it could enforce TRIPS by imposing sanctions in other areas, such as agriculture. Companies manufacturing generic drugs have also received payments to discourage the production of second-tier ARVs. Thus, some battles for affordable treatment have been won, but the costs of treatment still haunt the poor.11 From the side of the people with AIDS, many of these issues seem far removed from the daily struggle to survive. Most of the challenging issues of daily life are not directly caused by the disease, but they stand in the way of people’s benefiting from dramatic scientific breakthroughs. The

180 Bioinsecurity, Gender, and HIV/AIDS in South Africa old-fashioned problems of economic and social security are what undermine the possibilities for biosecurity. In South Africa, African women might be seen to have landed in the crosshairs of the AIDS epidemic, subjected to the vestiges of colonialism followed by the apartheid regime and then, under Mbeki, the drastic synthesis of government budget cutbacks and nationalist patriarchy (Susser 2009). Of the African women living in the small houses and shacks in the informal settlements, with their irregular supplies of clean water, erratic electricity, and improvised forms of transportation, more than 40 percent are unemployed and, when employed, women earn less than men. In KwaZulu-Natal, where this fieldwork was conducted, more than 50 percent of the women coming to prenatal care were HIV-positive (Welz et al. 2007). In addition, the complexities of intimate relations, or even the expectations of starting a family, put both men and women at high risk for AIDS infection.

Women’s Burdens in Treatment and Prevention Clearly, the history of colonialism, migrant labor in the mines, and the ruthless policies of apartheid forced men to leave home and women to depend on remittances and hard work on small, inadequate rural landholdings. By the time of the liberation from apartheid, 1992–1994, the rural areas where Africans had been allowed to live were too densely populated for agriculture to yield enough to feed households, and both men and women were migrating to the cities in search of employment. Unfortunately, since the late 1990s in South Africa, in spite of early investments in public housing, water, and education, the fundamental contradictions institutionalized in the urban-rural system have been exacerbated rather than reduced. Initially, economic policy concentrated on investment in the formal economy with, in South Africa, a predominantly male labor force. The implementation of structural adjustment policies and stringent economic constraints led to increasing male unemployment, as well as the commercial sale of privatized land to the highest bidder. As the South African historian Peter Delius (1996:206) notes about the transition to the new democracy, “efforts were made to allay the anxieties of local businessmen, and leading figures in the ANC appeared to embrace precisely the chiefs and homeland leaders whom youth and some migrant workers regarded as principal foes.” Land redistribution in the rural areas has been relatively slow and dominated by patriarchal policies in the communal areas (James 2007), which are the rural lands where Africans had been forced to live under traditional rule during apartheid. The communal areas composed only about 13 percent of the land in South Africa as

181 Ida Susser determined by the Land Act of 1913, but under apartheid, these were the only areas where Africans could farm their own land. In the 1990s, outside the communal areas, which were the majority of rural landholdings, a new policy of support for black entrepreneurs as farmers was introduced (Walker 2002). Unlike Rouse’s (chapter 7) illuminating analysis of the conflicts of scale and the parallel governance and importance of chiefs in land negotiations in Ghana, most of the land in South Africa had been appropriated for white business purposes long before the democratic liberation in 1994. Under such conditions, the chiefly rights to land in South Africa do not appear to have the same relation to local security as that delineated by Rouse for Ghana. In addition, decisions about the few remaining communal lands may have differing impacts on women and men. Researchers have argued that the twenty-first-century policies have continued to undermine men’s ability to support their families (Hunter 2010; Morrell 2001). Increasing unemployment may have led men to pursue sexual liaisons with numerous women rather than seek to establish a domestic base (Morrell 2001). Whereas men previously might have claimed two wives (or a rural wife and an urban mistress), now they routinely claim to have eight or nine women as sexual partners (Hunter 2005, 2010), including a wife who is expected to accept such behavior. A practical if much contested acceptance of dependence on men’s wages was evident in my fieldwork (Susser 2009). However, rather than emphasize men’s unemployment, we also have to consider women’s unemployment more centrally. As in most societies, women’s lack of steady paid work is made less visible by the preponderance of women involved in unpaid labor in both rural and urban areas and those earning meager sustenance in the informal economy (Bentley 2004; Kehler 2001). Even though more men may have become unemployed, overall, many more women are excluded from the formal economy. If one examines the employment and income figures for South Africa, rural black women continue to be the poorest population (Bentley 2004; Seekings and Nattrass 2005). Although the rural areas are predominantly associated with women, women are at a disadvantage in accessing the land they have worked for more than a century. Thus, the idea that a prosperous formal economy, which may yet be developing in South Africa, will support women, children, the elderly, and the disabled is premised on the expectation that men will send remittances to the rural areas. Such remittances, combined with public assistance grants for children and the elderly, are seen as an assumed hidden income, which supposedly sustains the 40 percent of the population who are unemployed (Seekings 2007; Seekings and Nattrass 2005).

182 Bioinsecurity, Gender, and HIV/AIDS in South Africa

But this assumption requires further scrutiny. First, we do not know who the remittances are sent to, what is expected in exchange, or even how much is sent (Walker 2002). Second, such an economy exacerbates gendered sub- ordination since it employs some men at reasonably high incomes and a few at extremely high sums and then expects women to depend on men to support their children. In the rural areas, processes of dispossession erratically progressing since the early twentieth century have been reinstituted with intensified, gendered implications. Women may have lost more bargaining power with respect to communal land, and new policies subsidize a small number of new black entrepreneurs on the rest of the land in an effort to address historically inherited racial inequality (Walker 2002). The issues of rural development have been heavily debated in South Africa and obviously vary greatly by region (James 2007). However, a detailed analysis of how land reform is working in the Eastern Cape points out that the policy shifts that occurred in the rural areas after 1996 did not necessarily lead either to successful market reforms or to better living conditions (Bank and Minkley 2005). In the urban areas since 1994, much informally settled land has been allocated to the urban dwellers, and new working-class housing has been built. However, in some areas, when land is sold in the rapidly gentrifying housing market, poor women and men may lose their homes and livelihoods. As Mamphela Ramphele (1993) documented in her pathbreaking ethnography of men’s mining hostels under apartheid in South Africa, women were not allowed their own beds in the oppressive boardinghouses where the men lived. As a result, women came with their children to illegally share a bed with a worker and in exchange for the “bed called home” carried out extensive domestic chores. Such mining hostels have changed since the end of apartheid. However, because most women are excluded from formal employment and often from the housing associated with it, as well as from rights to land and decision making, many must attract the attention of a few well-paid men to supplement their meager earnings or to encourage these men to send remittances. Child grants, disability grants, and even pensions institutionalize women as responsible for the burden of care in South African society without providing women with sufficient income to support themselves or their households. Some have labeled the institutionalization of entitlements rather than employment as the production of a rural “pensionar- iat” rather than a rural proletariat (Beinart, qtd. in Bank et al. 2005:15). When women do have access to more entitlements and, specifically, pensions, than men do, this may also exacerbate gendered and generational

183 Ida Susser conflict particularly focused on older women. Young women in the rural areas may still have to accept men’s behavior on the chance of receiving remittances, access to housing, and rights to land. In addition, the erosion of educational and health services, particularly in the rural areas, rebounds as troubles for the women, young and old, who are trying to rear both boys and girls but with little hope for their own futures. The combination of gendered policies implicit in the paradigm for development with the general lack of investment in the capacities of the population is a recipe for disaster with respect to AIDS. In 2008, the social movements around AIDS, heavily supported by poor African women, contributed to the downfall of Mbeki. As a result of this power shift, child grants and investments in other social services increased, and, as noted above, the government committed to rolling out AIDS treatment. However, poor African women and men continue to struggle with insecurities concerning work, land, and water. Based on participant observation in rural KwaZulu-Natal, which I and several students (including Kate Griffiths and Sindisiwe Munduni) conducted in 2009–2012, we came to speak of precarious households framing the lives of mothers and children.12 We documented children living in households where the mother was afraid to access the minimal benefits to which she was entitled because of the controlling, alcoholic, unemployed father. We saw working mothers supporting entire households of grand- mothers, sisters, and multiple children through their weekly work away from home. The best-supported children were those living in a homestead that doubled as an informal bar (shebeen), where the mother and grand- mother were able to survive financially despite the constant threat of bat- tering and rape. Mothers missed AIDS testing and treatment even when it was available, and HIV-positive babies slipped through the cracks of clinical testing and grew up without knowledge of their illness or the possibility of treatment (Chhagan et al. 2011). Overall, no household was immune from the damages of unemployment, poverty, AIDS, or, as we noted, the precariousness created by increasing inequality caused by contemporary neoliberal policies, globally and locally. Unveiling the gendered nature of development policies and the lack of support for capacity building suggests that young girls, who are regarded as recklessly chasing the three Cs—cell phones, cars, and cash—in their relations with older men (Phleta 2007), are in fact pursuing the main route to income available to them. Following this economic logic of investment, we can clearly see why young girls in South Africa are now five times more likely to become HIV-positive than young boys the same age. Campbell’s (2003) work dramatically illustrates one extreme of the

184 Bioinsecurity, Gender, and HIV/AIDS in South Africa sharpening of inequalities between men and women, as well as the degradation caused by the widening unemployment. She describes the unemployed men who control the lives of women sex workers on the edges of the mines, largely through a combination of threats and violence. A related phenomenon (Niehaus 2003) is a trend toward the naturalizing of the rape of women in the talk of men in the mines. Others have documented the epidemic violence against women in the contemporary era (Jewkes et al. 2004; Jewkes et al. 2002). Feminist or women’s groups in South Africa have mobilized against gendered violence since the 1970s (Bennett 2001; Hassim 2006; Park, Fedler, and Dangor 2000). Many argue that such violence has been exacerbated by the twin forces of HIV/AIDS and economic insecurity for men and women (Jewkes et al. 2002). Men and women, locally and globally, have fought for access to AIDS treatment, and many are alive today who would not have survived a decade ago. However, the bioinsecurity we found in KwaZulu-Natal, such as the household precariousness combined with violence against women, contributes massively to the spread of AIDS. Under apartheid, people who became ill were often pushed back to the rural areas, and even today, people may return there to survive on less money. With the onslaught of AIDS in the 1980s, it became the official policy of the mines to force people with AIDS, seen as “foreigners,” to return to their “homelands.” In the post-apartheid era, Anglo American and other major industrial investors in South Africa confronted AIDS, and they began to fund treatment through the benefits of the formal economy. However, since men still predominated in these jobs, women found themselves dependent on men’s willingness to name them as partners, in order to access AIDS treatment (Lurie et al. 2003), and women had to compete with one another to have their liaisons officially recognized by employers, in the hopes of accessing ARVs. Women have also been the target of marginal transnational corporations established in the rural areas (Hart 2002; Mikell 1997). Such plants, which sprang up throughout the rural areas in the late 1960s and increasingly under the global economy of the 1990s, hired predominantly women. However, in contrast to the highly capitalized and unionized mining industry, the low-paying, low-capital, non-unionized manufacturing plants have given very little or no consideration to AIDS treatment or prevention. In the case of South Africa, the devastations wreaked by retrench- ment combined with AIDS may have stretched women’s traditional protections beyond the breaking point. Sexuality, femininity, masculinity, and reproductive rights have all become contested in the emergence of a new

185 Ida Susser

African nationalism (Morrell 2001). The construction of AIDS prevention, protection, treatment, and care in terms of “traditional values” and even the resort to traditional healing are central to that project (Susser 2009). A careful revisiting of the ethnographic record suggests that historical views of sexuality and reproduction may have been more flexible than the current representations of “tradition” in the nationalist image. In addition, on-the-ground observations of discussions of sexuality suggest that many women, even in the rural areas, still see their options in practical terms rather than according to principles of abstinence or virginity. The contradictions inherent in the necessary flexibility of women’s roles as they strategize to support their households in poverty combined with the construction of a patriarchal militant masculinity in the new nation may be contributing to the turmoil over women’s sexual and reproductive autonomy in the contemporary era. As we have seen, the global policies of drug pricing and the internationally funded research on treatment as prevention for AIDS are crucial contributions to biosecurity at every scale. However, increasing economic and political inequalities that have been precipitated by global and national neoliberal policies create risk and bioinsecurity. In South Africa and elsewhere, including the United States, the effects of inequality are fundamentally intertwined with hierarchies of race and gender, which further exacerbate bioinsecurity. Social policies that take this broader context into account might facilitate conditions in which scientific endeavors actually transcend the experimental trials.

Women’s Burdens in Transportation and Water As relations of inequality everywhere undermine the promises of science, similarly, modern infrastructural advances leave a gap between the needs of the majority poor black population and the business and professional, domestic and international elite in South Africa. Whereas the new South African government has invested heavily in the Trans-Kalahari Highway and in new airports, high-cost trains, motorways, and bridges, there has not been a corresponding investment in affordable public transportation, municipal buses, and local trains. The cost of local transportation falls dramatically on the backs of women care providers; it has been estimated that transportation expenses account for 40 percent of the cost of home-based care (Abdool Karim and Abdool Karim 2005). Both transportation issues and water have been the focus of public activists in the new South Africa, but although the issues are crucial for people with AIDS, the women whom we observed were not directly involved in activism about

186 Bioinsecurity, Gender, and HIV/AIDS in South Africa these issues. In spite of the widespread protests with respect to the infrastructural issues common in South Africa (Desai 2002), there has been little coordination between these groups and AIDS activists. Thus, the clear connections between general infrastructural needs and the problems of people living with AIDS are seldom linked in public discourse.

Transportation Sufficient funding for primary care or medications for AIDS is becoming easier to access, but in the search for treatment and care for AIDS, people have to travel long distances. Only in certain hospitals are ARVs available, and people have to figure out where and how to access these life- saving medicines. Thus, the need for public services such as transportation has become greater in the face of the epidemic, and the costs of caring and replacing services have increased (Thomas 2003). Much of the labor and cost of caring for families and people who do not have access to AIDS treatment, predominantly provided by women, is compounded by policy decisions about infrastructure with respect to such needs as transportation and water. Transportation issues hamper both the rural and the urban poor affected by AIDS. One woman who was trained by a government program as a volunteer “community health educator” in the rural midlands (outside Durban) commented, “Transport is usually a problem for me to reach out to a lot of people. I don’t work and therefore cannot reach out to a big area.… Houses in the area are scattered.” Similarly, urban dwellers faced transportation problems in visiting the sick. On another occasion, I observed a woman with AIDS who had walked five miles up and down hills, carrying a hefty five-month-old boy, in search of subsidized infant formula. Although she managed to get two cans of formula, it turned out that the hospital warehouse was low on formula and awaiting a new delivery, and she had to return a month later to pick up the rest of her allowance. Here, we might note that support for breastfeeding, a cost-free alternative with benefits for infant and maternal health, would also alleviate some measure of bioinsecurity among poor African women, even HIV-positive mothers (Kuhn et al. 2005). Group taxis are available all over South African cities. If people are well enough, they can walk to one of the recognized stops and wait for a (usually crowded) van. If a rider can squeeze into a corner of a seat and pay a few rand (maybe fifty US cents), the group taxi will take him or her to other designated stops along the route. However, the vans follow prescribed routes that tend to bypass the informal settlements or poorer townships. If a

187 Ida Susser person is too sick to walk to one of the main stopping places or to sit upright in a crowded van, individual rides have to be arranged. It is here that the cost of transportation adds dramatically to the labor of caring. Taxis almost never drive past individual homes in the informal settlements and certainly not in the rural areas. Home care providers, especially in the rural areas, walk many miles each day to visit the sick. However, if the sick person needs medical attention, the cost of transportation can be extraordinary. In July 2003, during interviews in a rural area in the Drakensberg Mountains, I met a woman who was trained as a care volunteer by a church organization. She talked about visiting many incapacitated people in the surrounding area. She pointed to the small houses below her homestead, on the slopes of a hill, and enumerated people whom she visited and people who had died. She worked for no pay. Transportation to visit other home- steads was difficult and time-consuming, and people who worked as care givers might walk for many miles. Just as in the rural areas and informal settlements around Durban, one of her great expenses and problems was travel to a municipal center in order to help people to register for assistance grants. She said that sometimes these were not forthcoming from the bureaucracy until after the grantee had passed away. Again and again, I heard descriptions of the cost of taxis or rides to bring sick people to the hospital. From the townships just outside Durban to the hospitals that provide treatment, one round trip in a private taxi might cost 300 rand (about US$50). This is before any costs are incurred for testing, visits, medications for opportunistic diseases, or frequently unattainable treatment. On one occasion, the family of a woman with AIDS finally collected the funds for a taxi to pick her up at home. The patient was not seen by a doctor that day but was asked to come back for further tests. The next visit was scheduled for a few days later, but she was so sick that she died en route, in the taxi. The family then had to find money to bury her. Most of the costs and the labor of transportation are borne by the sick person and the women care providers.

Water Ironically, as a consequence of important changes in access to clean water, caring also costs money in new ways today. As discussed by Caton (chapter 6), this also reflects global decisions at the Rio Conference in 1992 that water should be paid for. As Watts (chapter 8) and Caton (chapter 6)suggest, this new policy, like TRIPS, can be traced to the neoliberal discourse of market management. In the South African government

188 Bioinsecurity, Gender, and HIV/AIDS in South Africa initiative to provide clean water to the rural areas and the informal settlements, water is in the process of being privatized. In the African townships and rural areas, the old communal faucets provide free water. The more convenient water, piped to or near the houses, is rationed, and any use above a minimum (estimated by Patrick Bond [2006] as two toilet flushes) must be paid for. As a result of the national policy to privatize water, households must choose between using up the ration of prepaid water and the extra labor of going to the village faucet and collecting water. After the prepaid ration is used up, there is no alternative to the long walk for water and sometimes no alternative but the polluted river water of pre-improvement days. In one rural area, I spoke with three young men washing their van in a shallow inlet. They explained that they did not want to use the water at home because of the rationing, and this seemed entirely environmentally appropriate. However, I also saw many women collecting water, sometimes pushing wheelbarrows full of plastic bottles up the hot dusty hills, and children, sent to collect water, playing with their containers around a public faucet. When the water rations run out or the faucets do not work, women return to the rivers to wash themselves and their clothes, and they carry the river water back to their houses. As a result, there have been several dramatic outbreaks of cholera in the new South Africa, belying the success of the investment in water pipes and water distribution. Extra work for women care providers and the return of cholera have been two results of the new selling of water in the poor rural areas of South Africa. So, as the state privatizes water and does not invest sufficiently in public transportation, the costs fall disproportionately on the sick and on the care providers, whether related women or community volunteers. In 1992, the same women who came to meetings about AIDS had also organized to demand community water taps in the informal settlements. Since then, poor people have mobilized to demand both water and transportation facilities. However, women still have to struggle with many of these structural barriers in order to work as urban or rural caregivers or health activists. People with AIDS are trapped between two logics, one promoting universal access for treatment for AIDS and the other, the privatization of public goods. Both of these logics are promoted by international agencies in the Global South. Now, people are beginning to have access to treatment, which is to be celebrated, but they are also confronted by the older barrier, familiar to all but exacerbated since the 1980s neoliberal turn, the privatization of public goods.

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Bioinsecurity, Social Movements, Gender, and Tradition Today, women have the space to speak out in public. Some women are gaining access to schools, to employment, and even to political and religious leadership. In 1999, Gugli Dlameini announced that she was HIV- positive and was stoned to death in her Durban township (Albertyn and Hassim 2003). But she did not die in vain. Since that tragic event, many women have joined people-with-AIDS groups and the Treatment Action Campaign and become open about their HIV status. But women are still subject to violence in private and sometimes in public as well. As a reflection of growing gendered hostility, lesbian women have become a particular target of public violence. For example, on July 8, 2007, Sizakele Sigasa, an outreach coordinator for the Positive Women’s Network and a lesbian and gay rights activist, and her friend Salome Masooa were tortured and murdered. The Positive Women’s Network arranged a memo- rial, supported by many organizations around the world. As noted earlier, there is much to suggest that as poor men have lost their early foothold in wage labor and women have not found such work, the division of labor and, specifically, gendered patterns of caring have hard- ened (Hunter 2010; Susser 2009). Despite liberation, there have been a loss of jobs and an increase in inequality in the neoliberal economy promoted by the new South African government, which is competing for position in the global arena. As a result, the gendered division of labor in the household, policed and exacerbated by violence, has emerged from long-term practices and beliefs combined with the loss of jobs for men and women. The increase in private brutality, from rape in the streets to violence in the home, has narrowed the strategies available to women for negotiating around burdens of care in the household or for sexual protection. Many discussions of men and women’s relationships in South Africa have implicated customary law as the basis for gendered violence. In fact, in 2012, there was an effort to strengthen customary law and a bill to give it primary power over constitutional law in the communal areas, but it was stalled in the face of concerted opposition from women’s and other groups (Meer 2013). A brief perusal of the published discussions illustrates that this was seen in South Africa as an attack on women’s autonomy. There is much to reinforce this view. For example, I checked the list of chiefs in KwaZulu-Natal in 2012. Not one woman was listed among more than a hundred chiefly positions. In 1992, when I first began fieldwork in South Africa, there were several women chiefs in the Zulu kingdom, and people thought that this might be an indication of changing values. In 2012, the

190 Bioinsecurity, Gender, and HIV/AIDS in South Africa traditional council of the village where I was conducting research included only one woman among ten to fifteen men. It would be mistaken to assume that customary law restricted and constrained women and the new constitution liberated them. As might be expected, the picture is murkier. Women find spaces of autonomy and political influence under customary law. In some ways, perhaps in the domestic and even in the sexual arena historically, customary law may have offered autonomous women a limited form of shelter. In the area of KwaZulu-Natal I visited in 2012, forty out of fifty traditional healers who answered the call of the paramount chief to attend a meeting with the department of health were women. Women appear to have established a powerful position in the healing sphere. Nevertheless, at this point, emphasizing customary law, which has become deeply enmeshed with the patriarchal assumptions of Western colonialism, probably weakens women’s position. In the new South Africa, land reform and rights are hotly contested, and customary law continues to find its way to constitutional courts. The 2005Bhe decision,13 which ruled in favor of two girls who were denied inheritance of their father’s estate because of customary law, marked a significant victory for women’s inheritance rights. But as other patriarchal customs are contested, the outcome may very well push women back under the domination of colonially shaped “traditional” authorities. As Rouse documents in chapter 7, land rights determined at the national level may come into direct conflict with rights claimed through inheritance at the local level. Since gender is so enmeshed with ideas of inheritance at both levels, these contradictions may result in the exacerbation of violence against women. In addition, laws establishing women’s new constitutional rights have proved to be easier to implement in the public sphere but slow in the domestic or extended family environment. Thus, we get the difficult situation in which women may have little autonomy with respect to important HIV-related rights, such as sexuality. As important, under customary law in KwaZulu-Natal and other places, women do not have rights over their children. In the light of their new constitutional visibility, they are well represented in government, if not in the traditional authorities. Women are able to look for work and speak out in public more easily than before, but they may be subject to greater violence in their own homes. The history of Western law involves a focus mainly on contract law for private property and the market. Constitutional law in most parts of the world has not been very successful in protecting women in the domestic sphere. Such issues are currently much contested in the negotiations about

191 Ida Susser household tasks, caring, and safer sex for women (Jewkes et al. 2002; Park, Fedler, and Dangor 2000). In this respect, shifts in global decisions and funding for women’s reproductive and sexual rights become particularly significant for the negotiation of AIDS prevention, treatment, and care. Thus, to return to biosecurity, the widespread use of hormonal injections to prevent pregnancy over the long term has been crucial to a woman’s ability to control her own body. However, contributing to bioinsecurity is the fact that such hormonal injections have been shown to double the risk of the woman contracting AIDS and even increase the risk of transmission to her male partner. Thus, the limits of science throw us back once again on the daily, gendered struggles of inequality and poverty. In terms of care for AIDS, the domestic burden on women remains heavy, but, as in the history of HIV in general, the most optimistic picture can be found in health activism. Such activism has resulted in the possibility of universal access to treatment and in the implementation of government programs that take the burden of care into account.

Conclusion In South Africa, we face the contradictions of biosecurity and bioinsecurity. In pursuit of biosecurity, we find Western scientific research searching for pharmaceutical interventions, the production of transportation infrastructure for a world economy, and global policies of water preservation leading to a free common resource becoming a cost. Simultaneously, we find bioinsecurity as the product of the same global and national, economic and political decisions that create inequality and deprivation in spite of the improvements they might imagine. To revisit the concept developed in Watts’s chapter 8 in this volume, we may see Africa serving as a laboratory for the Global North with respect to AIDS. Although many of the scientific studies for AIDS treatment, microbicides, prevention pills, and vaccines are tested among women in South Africa or elsewhere in Africa, scientific successes are not as readily or as easily implemented in the Global South. This is partly because of global funding priorities, but also because of national politics and inequality. In order for poor African men and women to benefit from new scientific findings, social relations and social policy have to be continually reexamined and reinvented by people on the ground, and their demands have to be heard. Since 1992, women’s demands for jobs as community health workers, for protection from violence, for inheritance rights, and for AIDS treatment represent battles for democracy. They are making demands for everyday

192 Bioinsecurity, Gender, and HIV/AIDS in South Africa survival to counteract what we have termed bioinsecurity. Meanwhile, global elites offer miracle solutions and simultaneously exacerbate the challenges of daily survival. Women’s and men’s demands for practical interventions have been echoed by public health professionals, doctors, many local people, and the Treatment Action Campaign and other social movements (Susser 2011). However, the battle for treatment, despite its strategic success, has not yet addressed the myriad issues affecting women at the grassroots. A transformative movement that takes into account the overall impact of the policies whose most tragic consequence has been the worsening of a disastrous epidemic, partly through gendered violence and the need for women to find multiple partners to support their households, has not yet emerged. The gendered conflict and desperation precipitated by global and national economic policies may undermine the successes evident in the new science of AIDS treatment and prevention, as well as the new urban infrastructure and water distribution, unless a reframing of the broader issues emerges.

Notes 1. This chapter draws on my own research (Susser 2001, 2002, 2004, 2009, 2011) and includes some excerpts from previously published work. 2. See http://www.who.int/medicines/areas/policy/wto_trips/en/index.html. 3. See http://www.unicef.org/esaro/5482_HIV_AIDS.html. 4. For 2011, see http://geocurrents.info/economic-geography/inequality-trends -in-south-africa#ixzz1ye08fMYo. 5. See http://www.avert.org/aroundworld.htm. 6. See http://www.who.int/medicines/areas/policy/doha_declaration/en/index .html. 7. See http://www.justice.gov/amerithrax/docs/amx-investigative-summary2.pdf. 8. Ibid. 9. For further discussion, see Gollub and Stein 2012. 10. See http://www.avert.org/aidssouthafrica.htm#contentTable4. 11. See http://www.plusnews.org/Report/90041/Analysis-HIV-generics-under -threat-from-tighter-patenting-rules. 12. This research was part of the ASENZE study, an interdisciplinary collaboration between epidemiologists, psychologists, and anthropologists seeking to understand the impact of psychosocial factors influencing childhood development and disability in peri-urban KwaZulu-Natal. The ASENZE epidemiological team tracked a cohort of children aged four through six across five communities, collecting a wide variety of data on

193 Ida Susser the physical and mental health of the children and their caregivers. It was funded by the National Institute of Drug Abuse, and the principal investigators were Leslie Davidson and Shuaib Kauchali. I was the co-principal investigator in charge of the ethnographic component (Griffiths et al. n.d.). 13. See http://www.saflii.org/za/cases/ZACC/2004/17.html.

194 10

Domestic Organ Trafficking Between Biosecurity and Bioviolence

Monir Moniruzzaman

On the first day of my fieldwork at Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujib Medical University Hospital (BSMMUH), the premier organ transplantation center in Bangladesh, I saw a policeman holding a rifle and standing in front of the Department of Nephrology. The front gate was open only about twelve inches and was hooked by a metal chain so that no unauthorized personnel could trespass. The police officer asked me whether I had permission to enter. During the rest of my fieldwork, he got to know me a little and we often smiled and chatted with each other. Once, I asked a nephrologist why a policeman was guarding the department at BSMMUH. He replied that the security was summoned by the nephrologists to ensure that no one could illegally trade a kidney on the premises. Despite such biosecurity enforcements, the People’s Republic of Bangladesh has turned into an organ bazaar. The “miracle” success of organ transplantation has created an illegal but thriving market of “fresh” human organs, including kidneys, livers, and corneas. In Bangladesh, organ trafficking from the impoverished populations has risen for more than a decade. According to my rough estimation, about three hundred live organs are trafficked each year from commercial donors to transplant recipients, since cadaveric organ donation virtually does not exist there. Organ commerce is openly endorsed by the Bengali

195 Monir Moniruzzaman national media, which regularly publish newspaper advertisements seeking living organs and any other transplantable parts of the human body. Every day, organ classifieds reach millions of poor rickshaw pullers, petty farmers, day laborers, and slum dwellers, some of whom eventually sell their body parts to try to get out of poverty. The recipients are both domestic and dia- sporic (Bangladeshi-born foreign nationals) residents who purchase organs in Bangladesh and then obtain their transplant surgery mostly in India, as well as in Bangladesh, Pakistan, Thailand, and Singapore. Amid this trading, a number of organ brokers have expanded their networks, and they receive hefty fees. Medical specialists also benefit from this illegal exchange. The average price of a Bangladeshi kidney is 100,000 taka (US$1,333) and a liver lobe is 300,000 taka (US$4,000)—figures that have been gradually dropping due to the greater supply of body parts from the poor majority. The market in human organs is theorized as both a macroeconomic and a macroethical phenomenon, which explains how impoverished populations, mainly from developing countries, become organ suppliers to prolong the lives of the Western few (Scheper-Hughes 2000, 2003a, 2004, 2006, 2011). In contrast, my research reveals domestic organ trafficking, exploring how organs are procured from the Bangladeshi poor and transplanted in local, regional, and overseas wealthy recipients. Domestic organ trafficking needs to be examined because it composes perhaps the majority of organ trade worldwide. Based on my ethnographic fieldwork in the underground market of Bangladesh, I argue that organ trafficking constitutes a novel form of bioviolence against the poor, whose vulnerable bodies become sites of organ harvesting. Yet, the quotidian aspects of this bioviolence and its severe impacts on the victims are entirely overlooked in biosecurity interventions. The (dis)connection between bioviolence and biosecurity results in endless benefits for the privileged few and the bodily exploitation of the desperate underclass.

Bioviolence in Biomedicine Western biomedicine has a long history of exploiting natural bodies, both human and animal, through various forms of bioviolence (Moniruzzaman 2012; see also the use of pigs in experimental xenotransplant research in Sharp, chapter 3). Bioviolence is an instrument for dissecting, dismembering, and dismantling bodies, living or dead, whole or in parts, and is routinely carried out in biomedicine. Although “violence” is generally defined as the use of physical force against a person or a group (Krug et al. 2002), I define “bioviolence” as the infliction of violence against vulnerable bodies in biomedical practices. Only recently has the

196 Domestic Organ Trafficking term been used to identify bioterrorism, which is defined as a hostile infection or disease through microorganisms (Kellman 2007). In my meaning, bioviolence is an act of inflicting harm and of intentional manipulation in order to exploit certain bodies as a means to an end. This term refers not only to the act itself (i.e., extracting organs from the physical body) but also to the processes involved (i.e., deception and manipulation for organ procurement) in the exploitation of a body that is being materialized for medical consumption. In essence, bioviolence is a blend of biological, structural, and symbolic violence against holistic bodies. For example, biomedicine procures a human body and extracts its biological resources, including blood, bone, cartilage, fascia, skin, spleen, tendon, and thymus, as well as solid organs, such as a kidney, liver, lung, heart, pancreas, or cornea (Hedges and Gaines 2000; Helman 1988; Sharp 2006b); all of these actions are justified for the sake of medical advancement. Bioviolence is invisible beneath scientific experimentation, becoming a vehicle for structural exploitation in order to fulfill the needs of the privileged class, but at a high cost to the deprived majority. In a blatant fashion, the great majority of whole bodies and their parts are harvested from the disenfranchised. Numerous actions of bioviolence have been individualized, materialized, and normalized in biomedicine over the centuries (see Lock 2000:271, 2002:65–70). At the dawn of the sixteenth century, Andreas Vesalius provided a fuller description of human anatomy by dissecting the corpses of executed prisoners in public demonstrations (Park 2006:215– 217; Townsend 2001:2). The historian Ruth Richardson (1987) reveals that in eighteenth-century England, only the corpses of hanged murderers were available for medical anatomists; as a result, legally procured cadavers for dissection were scarce, and snatching the bodies of the exhumed poor was rife. During World War II, Japanese scientists used thousands of Chinese prisoners’ bodies (men, women, children, and infants) for various forms of vivisection; their organs were removed while they were alive, often without anesthesia, in order to study the effects of disease on human bodies (Barenblatt 2004; see also Nazi medical experiments). Between 1932 and 1972, the US Public Health Service in Tuskegee, Alabama, used hundreds of poor black men as guinea pigs for studying syphilis; all of them died of it, as researchers deliberately undertreated the men’s syphilis in order to follow the progression of the disease (Goliszek 2003; Reverby 2009). There are many other examples, but these few reflect how human bodies are subject to notorious bioviolence carried out for scientific experimentation, technological advancement, and medical triumph.

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In recent times, the cutting edge of the life sciences, particularly biotechnology, has dispensed yet other far-reaching bioviolence against human bodies. Biotechnology has fragmented the body as a whole into more than 150 reusable parts in order to alter, increase the performance of, and prolong the lives of the privileged few (Hedges and Gaines 2000; Sharp 2000, 2007). However, these “spare parts” are procured almost exclusively from marginalized populations by inflicting bioviolence on them. For example, transplant technology has resulted in the gross abuse of Chinese executed prisoners, whose organs are extracted and then allegedly transplanted into wealthy “tourists.” Similarly, assisted reproductive technology (e.g., in vitro fertilization in a surrogate mother) has generated another form of bioviolence, whereby poor women reluctantly conceive, carry, and deliver children for wealthy infertile couples, at the expense of their own physical health. In this case, the body of the surrogate mother remains intact, unlike the case of organ trafficking, in which the body of the commercial seller is fragmented. “Biopiracy” refers to a form of bioviolence in which the corporate class and developed countries are patenting biological resources, such as genetic cell lines or plant substances, using the marginalized populations without fair compensation or agreement. For instance, in Iceland’s Genome Project, the genetic, genealogical, and personal medical records of the entire population were sold to deCODE Genetics, a biomedical company that has patented and monopolizes research data to detect genetic traits and to design drugs to treat diseases (Pálsson and Rabinow 2005). Bioviolence is an important analytical tool to examine the bodily exploitation of the impoverished populations living on the margins of “other cultures” but now the target of new biomedical technologies. In this chapter, I document the bioviolence that stems from the organ transplant enterprise, and I examine the biosecurity interventions that have become dormant in the state of Bangladesh.

The Labyrinth of Bioviolence in Organ Trafficking Thirty-three Bangladeshi organ sellers—all of them poor—document how they were victims of widespread bioviolence; this violence was deliberately inflicted in order to harvest kidneys from their bodies. These sellers reveal that the buyers, both recipients and brokers, created a desire in the poor—most of whom do not understand the function of bodily organs but are tempted to “donate” a kidney because of the buyers’ fraudulent claim that organ “donation” is a safe, lucrative, and noble act. Once the sellers

198 Domestic Organ Trafficking were seduced, buyers exploited them through deception, manipulation, coercion, and misinformed consent and then cheated them after the surgery was performed and the scar had become permanent. In doing my ethnographic fieldwork, I faced tremendous difficul- ties, particularly in gaining access to organ sellers, since they are secretly involved in the underground organ market of Bangladesh. Most sellers did not disclose their actions to anyone—not even to spouses or siblings— because the organ trade is outlawed and selling organs is considered a disgraceful and humiliating act there. I was able to interview thirty-three organ sellers (thirty male and three female), but only after gaining the trust of Dalal, an organ broker who became my key informant and interme- diary. As my research would not have been possible without Dalal’s support, I consider the key informant technique to be effective in gaining access to “hidden populations” (Moniruzzaman 2007). I used informal interviews, participant observation, focus group discussions, and case study methods to collect the data. My interviews with organ sellers were in-depth, and my conversations with transplant recipients, organ brokers, and medical specialists were open ended. I spent an average of ten hours with each organ seller; all interviews were narrative based. Although it is often argued that the poor make an autonomous choice to sell their organs, their everyday realities of enduring poverty belie the claims of altruism (see Epstein 2007:474). Bangladeshi organ sellers stated that they participated in organ “donation” because of their microcredit debts and other societal problems, such as high unemployment, medical expenses, and dowry payments. Under these dire conditions of poverty, the poor were lured by newspaper advertisements, then tricked and forced by organ buyers, and turned into victims of organ trafficking. The monetary reward, false promises, and misleading information offered by organ buyers acted as a form of duress, under which the sellers gave voluntary consent to “donate” their organs. It is therefore due to exploitation, manipulation, and the coercion of poverty that the vulnerable are induced to make tragic choices and become victims of invisible bioviolence. Many Bangladeshi sellers mentioned that they bartered their organs to pay off their microcredit loans. These funds were borrowed from local NGOs, such as the Grameen Bank, BRAC, and Proshika. To pay back the loans, the organ sellers took out new loans and thus became caught in a web of debt. As they noted, when the local NGO officials put them under unrelenting pressure, threatened them with jail, and even dismantled their house roof and sold the tin to recover the loan, the sellers felt helpless and humiliated for living amid mounting debts. One seller noted:

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I borrowed money from five different NGOs and started a poultry business. When my poultry were attacked by Ranikhet disease [a highly infectious viral disease that results in high mortality], I lost the business but needed to pay off my NGO loans. The NGO officials regularly came to my house and often waited the entire day until I paid my weekly installments. When I was unable to pay them at all, they used vulgar language, pressured me to sell my house, threatened to put me in jail, and finally filed a police case. In despair, I left my village and came to Dhaka and pulled a rickshaw for my living. For about two years, I could not return to my village, except for the few times I visited my family, but only in the dusk—I left home at dawn. I am relieved to pay off my NGO loans by selling my kidney.

Likewise, many sellers sought quick cash to open a business, obtain a visa for migrating overseas, or arrange a bribe to get a job. Selling an organ was their last resort to get out of poverty. Newspaper advertisements are the primary mode of circulation of organ trafficking in Bangladesh. Organ buyers typically recruit the vulnerable poor through such advertisements. I collected 1,288 organ classifieds published in five Bengali national newspapers Daily( Ittefaq, Prothom Alo, Jugantor, Janakantha, and Inqilab) between 2000 and 2008. In the advertisement in figure 10.1, the recipient offered false “rewards” for kidney “donation,” since he would not be able to arrange the seller’s visa, citizenship, and job in Europe. In the advertisement in figure 10.2, the broker posed as a German recipient and sought organ sellers with different blood groups. This advertisement reflects the possible expansion of Bangladeshi organ brokering abroad. In addition to these newspaper advertisements, organ brokers and their agents prey on the desperate poor by recruiting them from village markets, urban slums, and major hospitals and then retailing their organs to wealthy would-be recipients. The Bangladeshi sellers I interviewed revealed that they were mostly unaware of the function of the organs in the body. Mofiz, a forty-three- year-old tea vendor and kidney seller, mentioned, “I saw an ad looking for the kidney, posted in the Daily Ittefaq in 2000. I asked one of my friends, ‘What is a kidney? Where is it located? What does one need to do when it is damaged? How can you donate your kidney? How much money can I get?’ I did not know that a kidney could be sold for money.” The sellers hoped that by selling their kidneys, they would end their economic hardships. The sellers contacted the newspaper advertiser, who was either a

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Figure 10.1 Advertisement requesting a kidney for a resident in Italy, Daily Ittefaq, June 25, 2000 (the buyer’s name and telephone number have been redacted). Translation: "Kidney Wanted: A kidney is needed for a seriously ill patient. Blood group B+. The patient is living in Italy. If a good- hearted person donates a kidney, s/he will be amply rewarded or offered a job and citizenship in Italy. Contact within three days Dr. ——, between 10 a.m. and 12 p.m. or 5 p.m. and 8:30 p.m. Telephone: —— (office). Image and translation courtesy of Monir Moniruzzaman."

Figure 10.2 Advertisement requesting a kidney for a resident in Germany, Daily Ittefaq, March 7, 2003 (the buyer’s telephone number has been redacted). Translation: "Kidney Wanted: Blood group B+, O+, and O− (female preferable). Contact phone: —— in Germany between 2 p.m. and 1 a.m. Bangladeshi time (can be called through the Internet)." Image and translation courtesy of Monir Moniruzzaman.

201 Monir Moniruzzaman recipient or a broker. Over the phone, the buyers/advertisers conveyed that organ “donation” is a “noble act” that saves lives and does not harm the “donor.” Brokers also lured poor Bangladeshis by telling a fictional tale about the “sleeping kidney.” The story goes like this. A person has two kidneys: one works and the other one sleeps. If one kidney is infected, the other kidney automatically starts working. But if one kidney is damaged, the other one will be damaged too, because of the polluted blood. Therefore, everyone can be healthy with only one kidney. During the operation, the doctor first starts a donor’s sleeping kidney with medicine. The “newly awakened” kidney stays in the donor’s body and the “old dormant” kidney is removed and given to the transplant recipient. In this manner, selling a kidney is presented as a win-win situation, since the second kidney is just baggage, a cash reserve buried in the lower back. The sleeping kidney story is widely circulated in Bangladesh to entrap impoverished populations and turn them into organ sellers. Once the sellers are persuaded, buyers agree to pay them 100,000 taka (US$1,333) for a kidney but warn that the entire amount will be given after the operation. If the sellers are not pleased, the buyers deceptively promise them a job, promise to arrange a visa and citizenship abroad, and/or promise to allocate some land. Finally, the buyers arrange fake passports for the sellers and provide them with forged legal documents to prove that the person is “donating” a kidney to his or her kin. To establish this commodified kinship before the hospital review board, a seller named Hiru underwent circumcision, which goes against his Hindu religious beliefs, because his Muslim recipient insisted that he do so. Hiru’s case documents how organ buyers materialize bioviolence by any means. After sellers cross the Indian border, the buyer seizes their passports, so the sellers cannot return to Bangladesh without relinquishing their kidneys. A seller named Sodrul, a twenty-two-year-old college student, was beaten up, assaulted, and forced by an organ broker to go to the operating room when he asked to break the contract. Mofiz was held captive by three bodyguards at the recipient’s house and was unable to attend his sister’s funeral because of the surgery. All sellers but one were unaware that if the buyer had paid $200 more, the surgeons could have used laparoscopic surgery, which requires an incision as small as four inches; instead, the sellers carry rough scars of fifteen to twenty inches on their bodies. After returning to Bangladesh, sellers are under constant pressure to explain their long absence to their family and community. Some sellers are unable to hide their scars; they are socially stigmatized and are often called “the kidney men.” A few sellers also decide not to get married ever,

202 Domestic Organ Trafficking due to the high social stigma associated with having sold part of themselves. In addition, 81 percent of sellers did not receive their full payment; Monu received only 40,000 taka (US$533) from his recipient—one-third of the promised amount. Most sellers used the money to pay off their debts; others took up organ brokering to support their family. Abdul, a thirty- year-old seller, therefore mentioned, “I lost my kidney, as well as my job. Now I cannot engage in heavy lifting jobs such as rickshaw pulling, cultivating land, or heavy industrial lifting. What kind of life is this? If I had the strength in my body, I could work anything and could easily earn that little sum I received from selling.” Further, sellers experienced numerous health problems, including pain, weakness, weight loss, and frequent illness. None of the sellers could afford the biannual postoperative health checkup, which costs about 2,500 taka, or US$33 (see Budiani-Saberi and Delmonico 2008; Cohen 1999; Goyal et al. 2002; Naqvi et al. 2007; Padilla 2009; Scheper-Hughes 2000, 2003b; Zargooshi 2001). Above all, my research reveals that selling an organ has profound psychological and psychosocial impacts, especially in relation to the organ sellers’ selfhood. The narratives of the organ sellers signify that living without a kidney is not just a physical alteration, but a disembodiment and an ontological impairment of their being in the world. Many of the sellers I interviewed felt that kidney commodification jeopardizes the homeostatic balance of their body and self. Post-vending, they sensed that lacking a part of their body had split their entire body; some of the Bangladeshi sellers said that they turned into a “half human” (see also Moazam, Zaman, and Jafarey 2009). Many sellers also felt as if they were living in nothingness. Every day, Mofiz recites a verse from the Koran—inna lillahi was inna ilayhi raji’oon (To God we belong and to him we will return)—one that Muslims recite when they hear any news of death or see a dead body passing by. These ontological sufferings cultivate a distressed self. In addition, most Bangladeshi sellers felt disembodied, because the act of organ selling vio- lates their long-standing cultural and religious practices, such as bodily integrity, body ownership, and human dignity. Many sellers expressed fear and emptiness at not being able to return their whole body to God in the afterlife. They believe that God is the owner of their body, and they regretted selling God’s gift. Furthermore, many sellers considered organ commodification to be one of the most disgraceful acts a human being can commit; they said that they lost their self-respect, intrinsic worth, and moral judgment after selling their kidneys and identified themselves as “subhuman.” Due to such disembodiment and ontological sufferings, the self of Bangladeshi sellers has been severely damaged. The sellers I

203 Monir Moniruzzaman interviewed tended to withdraw from their family, friends, and society. Mofiz told me that he often sat down, silent, in a dark place and thought about committing suicide. Keramat, a twenty-five-year-old seller, said while weeping uncontrollably, “We are living cadavers. By selling our kidneys, our bodies are lighter, but our chests are heavier than ever.” Bangladeshi organ sellers experience a cycle of bioviolence inflicted on their bodies. Both brokers and recipients tricked, manipulated, and coerced the poor, whose sense of agency was profoundly affected by the actors, actions, and processes of organ trafficking. The sellers did not make a free choice to sell their organs, but rather their agency was limited, diverted, and determined by social conditions and the dominant actors of organ commerce. Although the magnitude of the bioviolence and the suffering of the victims are deeply disturbing, biosecurity regulations are scant when it comes to addressing the quotidian practices of bioviolence, which are the customary modus operandi of the Bangladeshi state.

Biosecurity Intervention and Its Discontents The biosecurity position on preventing organ trafficking has been reiterated by international organizations and major summits, which have taken an explicit stand against any form of payment or commerce in human organ transfer. In 1991, the World Health Assembly adopted this guiding principle (slightly modified in 2003) in order to “protect the poorest and vulnerable groups from transplant tourism” (World Health Organization 2004:57). The assembly has stated that advertisements for organs with a view to offering or soliciting payment, as well as brokering, should be prohib- ited (World Health Organization 1991:4). The World Medical Association (2006:1) similarly has declared that the organ trade should be banned because economic incentives compromise the voluntary nature of decision making and the altruistic basis of donation. The Transplantation Society (1986:2) also has addressed and continues to oppose organ commerce, noting that “if the organ donation process were to be relegated to the law of the market place, the less privileged might be exploited to improve the health of the more privileged.” The Declaration of Istanbul (2008:3) came to the consensus that organ trafficking targets vulnerable populations; therefore, the declaration prohibits all types of advertising, including electronic and print media, for the purpose of transplant tourism. The Asian Task Force on Organ Trafficking (2008:4) similarly noted that organ trafficking facilitates the exploitation of the poor; although poor sellers experience disproportion- ate risks to their physical and psychological health, they are not provided

204 Domestic Organ Trafficking with sufficient information, are coerced by financial offers or other material considerations to provide organs, and cannot make a decision using their better judgment, due to deception. The Bellagio Task Force (Rothman et al. 1997:2741) likewise considered that abuses in the organ trade are so grave that the self-determination of impoverished sellers must be curtailed to protect the most vulnerable. All of these resolutions oppose the organ trade, indicating that it is an exploitation of the poor. Although these biosecurity resolutions have taken timely steps to control global organ trafficking, they refer only briefly—often in one or two terse sentences, with no supporting arguments—to the possible exploitation of the poor in local settings (e.g., Rothman et al. 1997:2739). Notably, these resolutions fail to underscore how bioviolence is individualized, materialized, and contextualized, as well as its severe impacts on organ sellers worldwide. It was not until 2004 that the Amsterdam Forum on the Care of the Live Kidney Donor stated that the living kidney donor must receive a medical and psychosocial evaluation and give appropriate informed consent. In 2006, the Vancouver Forum on the Care of the Live Organ Donor discussed such issues as the evaluation of potential living donors, the criteria of living donor medical suitability, operative events, donor morbid- ity and mortality, and the responsibility and duration of donor follow-up (Delmonico 2008:xxx). Evidently, these two forums addressed the burdens of altruistic donors, a group that is visibly different from commercial sellers (altruistic donors commit to a generous act, whereas commercial sellers engage in an illegal deal). Global biosecurity resolutions take into account the exploitation of altruistic donors, but they have been largely discon- nected from the coarse realities of bioviolence that dominate the lives of commercial sellers. As mentioned above, these biosecurity resolutions focus mainly on global organ trafficking rather than on domestic organ trade. They promote Eurocentric values that do not correlate with the social, political, and ethical contexts of organ trafficking in the developing world. Further, no resolution has clearly stated a position on those countries where a regulated organ market is still operating (e.g., Iran) or being proposed (e.g., Saudi Arabia). Rather, they urge each country to take legal action against organ trafficking but do not specify the ways to implement this provision in a local setting. The global biosecurity resolutions therefore take a liberal standpoint of balancing the needs of nation-states, corporate stakeholders, professional groups, and ailing patients. Notably, most of the global resolutions do not explicitly indicate—a few of them simply state with discretion- ary language—the penalty for recipients, brokers, and doctors, all of whom

205 Monir Moniruzzaman unlawfully exploit organ sellers. These resolutions are still inadequate to document, expose, and strike against the bioviolence routinely carried out to harvest organs from the poor. To complement these global biosecurity resolutions, Bangladesh and almost every other country in the world have adopted legal guidelines against organ trafficking. The Parliament of Bangladesh passed the Human Body and Organ Transplant Act, which was approved by the president on April 13, 1999. The Bangladeshi act imposes a ban on the sale of body parts, including the kidney, liver, heart, pancreas, cornea, bone, tissue, and skin, except for donations from mature close kin in a manner that causes no harm to the donor. “Close kin” refers to blood-related kin— in particular, children, parents, siblings, maternal and paternal uncles and aunts, and any other consanguine relatives—along with emotionally related kin, which includes spouses only. The Transplant Act also prohibits publishing newspaper advertisements for buying or selling human body parts. It indicates that all university medical hospitals, private transplant centers, dialysis clinics, and postgraduate research institutes must maintain a registry to record recipients’ and donors’ blood groups and tissue typing and all other basic information, including their lawful heirs. According to the act, anyone violating or assisting to violate it could be imprisoned for a minimum of three years to a maximum of seven years and/or penalized with a minimum fine of 300,000 taka (US$4,000). If a physician breaches the law, the same statute will apply, and his or her medical license will be revoked. The act further says that any legal proceedings related to the human body and organ trade will be ruled by the criminal procedure code of 1898 (Bangladesh Gazette 1999:1815–1819). In addition, the Bangladeshi medical community enforces other biosecurity regulations, including stationing police in major hospitals to combat organ trafficking, as mentioned earlier. But few major hospitals have formed an authorization committee consisting of local professional groups, such as nephrologists, urologists, and psychiatrists, to verify the actual relationship between patients and donors. Some transplant and dialysis centers post signs in the patients’ waiting room stating that the organ trade is illegal whereas a living donation from a healthy person is life saving and trouble free. Furthermore, a few hospitals circulate a pamphlet noting the illegality of the organ trade but underlining the nobility of organ donation. In spite of these variable biosecurity enforcements, the organ market has expanded and the bioviolence against the poor has intensified in Bangladesh. Clearly, these biosecurity interventions, despite the legal and professional guidelines, are substantially ineffective in curbing organ trafficking

206 Domestic Organ Trafficking in Bangladesh. After more than a decade of implementing the Transplant Act in Bangladesh, not a single case of organ trafficking has been set for trial. It was not until August 2011 that the local police revealed an organ racket that allegedly harvested kidneys from nearly fifty villagers living in Joypurhat, a northern district of Bangladesh. Prior to this police investigation, the Bangladeshi Transplant Act was neither being well circulated nor being put in the public domain for discussion, debate, and refinement. As one of my respondents claimed, the Parliament passed the Transplant Act without any alteration; a group of medical doctors, who were members of the political party then in power, had drafted the decree because neighboring India had implemented a similar law a few years earlier. Evidently, the biosecurity agendas are both inadequate and ineffective in impeding the bioviolence against victims of organ trafficking. There is a disconnect between biosecurity regulations and bioviolence realities, as is evident in organ trafficking in Bangladesh and beyond. On one hand, the biosecurity apparatuses are ineffectively enforced, often at a snail’s pace, and on the other hand, the initiatives are failing to address bioviolence and act against it. The gap between biosecurity and bioviolence has widened due to the exploitative neoliberal regime that preys upon the poor, whose lives are expendable while the organ transplant enterprise grows.

The Bloody Harvest, Inc. In neoliberal capitalism, more and more things are turning into market commodities. Even human bodies are seen as bags of spare parts with price tags attached. Based on this economic (de)construction, liberal bioethicists propose that organs be treated as commodities in a supply- and-demand market model (Cherry 2005; Friedman and Friedman 2006; Hippen 2005; Matas 2008; Radcliffe-Richards 1996; James Taylor 2005). In contrast, I argue that an organ market is highly unethical because it thrives on bioviolence against surplus bodies and on the commodification of spare parts. In this section, I elaborate on how bioviolence is deliberately unleashed but condoned for the benefit of a dominant few and biosecurity apparatuses become mere accessories of economic life. As the triumphant progress of neoliberal economization has penetrated every aspect of life and as the commercialization of human life has risen to new heights, there has inevitably been produced “surplus populations,” or, more correctly, “human waste,” as argued by Zygmunt Bauman (2004). These “superfluous bodies,” as Brunkhorst (2001) similarly put it, are an inseparable outcome of economic progress—in particular, a direct

207 Monir Moniruzzaman consequence of globalization. They are deprived of adequate means of basic survival; they possess no defined social status; their voices are not heard; and they are deemed redundant from the point of view of material and intellectual production (Bauman 2004:40). For them, informal sur- vivalism is the new primary mode of livelihood (Davis 2004:26), and their biological materials fuel a “political economy of hope” for a better life yet simultaneously reveal the limited possibilities to enact this hope (Ticktin 2011:143). The production of “disposable bodies” and their quotidian exploitation have long been an integral part of the capitalist arrangement. Karl Marx ingeniously explained that capitalist production thrives on the exploitation and commodification of life, in particular, the extraction of surplus value from human labor. Michel Foucault (1979:141) similarly explained that capitalism would not have been possible without the controlled insertion of bodies into the machinery of production and the adjustment of the phenomenon of population to economic processes. With the rapid growth of the biotech industry, the economizing and politicization of surplus bodies and their bodily exploitation (not only surplus labor but also blood, bones, tissues, and organs) have deeply penetrated, are widely executed, and continue to be greatly multiplied. Following Marx, Melinda Cooper (2008:159) argues that biotechnology and neoliberalism are inextricably linked and sustained by systemically reproduced violence, with their promise of a better life. She therefore notes that violence is the natural manifestation of capital and the tendency of capital is to produce surplus through violence. In this way, the forms of violence, obligation, and debt servitude against surplus bodies become natural in the neoliberal bioeconomy and consequently become institutionalized and legal. Waldby and Cooper (2008:60) argue that women’s participation in the sale of their own eggs involves a very literal form of reproductive labor, as well as a new form of biomedical and clinical labor (which also includes participating in clinical trials and selling organs and other bodily tissues as a means of livelihood). They claim that the contemporary permutations of reproductive, biomedical, and clinical labor lie at the heart of the neoliberal restructuring of capital. What neoliberalism seeks to make available is not merely a permanent surplus of labor power but also a surplus of reproductivity, a reserve of low-cost suppliers of reproductive services and tissues, who perform unacknowledged reproductive labor in the lowest echelon of the bioeconomy. As Waldby and Cooper argue, the biotech enterprise will not be able to establish itself as a fully fledged, integrated

208 Domestic Organ Trafficking market until it has also mobilized a sizable reserve of tissue suppliers and experimental subjects. In the organ transplant enterprise, as Nancy Scheper-Hughes (2000: 193) illuminates, neoliberal globalization has produced a global flow of bodily organs that move from South to North, Third World to First, poor to rich, black and brown to white, and female to male. She argues that organ transplant shapes “new relations between capital and labor, bodies and the state, belonging and extra-territoriality, and between medical and biotechnological inclusions and exclusions, which now take place in a transnational space, with both donors and recipients following new paths of capital and medical technology in the global economy” (Scheper- Hughes 2003b:197). Lawrence Cohen (2005:81) explains that the development of life sciences with the growth of the neoliberal economy has vastly expanded the “bioavailable” population in a process that renders more bodies available for disaggregation, whether as donors or as experimental subjects. He underscores that this bioavailability enables local clinics to meet or exploit new demands for supplementarity, the “ability of an individual or population…to secure longevity through the mobilization or acquisition of the organic form of others” (Cohen 2011:31). Cohen (2002:11) concludes that the suppression, not recognition, of viable donors has turned transplantation into a major industry. Aslihan Sanal analyzes the complex set of relationships in the transplant hospitals, particularly among doctors, patients, and brokers, in an attempt to illuminate the conditions under which body parts are trafficked. Sanal (2004:285) argues that privatization has become intertwined with private investors’ desires to make a profitable business of body parts and that physicians and patients create a complex complicity in the “crime in medicine.” Sanal considers that Turkish doctors are encountering ethical dilemmas in “balancing ‘ethics’ as defined by law, ‘ethics’ as defined by their values of saving life, and the ‘ethics’ of their personal conscience” (284). All of these studies point out how global capital, bioavailable populations, and flexible ethics constitute and function in neoliberal regimes. The dominant economic system has rendered particular bodies as surplus and then commodifiable because they are one of the few sites available to repay debt. At the same time, it has produced circuits of actors, networks, and practices that have cost-effectively been mobilized, synergized, and utilized to extract economic profit and to extend the lives of the affluent few through the growth of the organ transplant enterprise. At the core of capitalism’s agenda, bioviolence has become a means of body economicus (following Foucault 2008:267) and a steady supply of surplus life.

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After two centuries of British colonialism and three decades of neoliberal reforms, Bangladesh, which was once called the “golden Bengal” for its economic prosperity, has turned into a land of poverty (Hartmann and Boyce 1998:11). Currently, Bangladesh is ranked 146th among all countries, and 36 percent of its population lives on less than US$2 a day (United Nations 2011). The nutritional status of Bangladeshis is substandard; about one-quarter of all households are hungry, and more than half of preschool- age children manifest stunted growth (United Nations 2009). Overall, 77 percent of Bangladeshis lack the minimal requirements for a healthy human existence; the average lifespan of the country’s inhabitants is only sixty-eight years (United Nations 2011; Zora 2005). The transformation from agrarian economy to market capitalism in Bangladesh has contributed to widespread economic inequality, health disparities, and dispossession of the poor; a staggering number of petty farmers have lost their lands and belongings (see also the impacts of global policies in the West African Sahel in Watts, chapter 8, and in South Africa in Susser, chapter 9). Many of the wretched poor migrate to urban slums to eke out a bare existence; the men become rickshaw pullers, and the women become maids. To empower the millions of very poor, the Nobel laureate and Bangladeshi economist Muhammad Yunus invented the Grameen Bank, which offers small loans to start income-generating enterprises. Nowadays, the microcredit industry is viewed as a neoliberal triumph and is deeply supported by the World Bank. The advocates of the microcredit revolution claim that it has reduced some 40 percent of moderate poverty in rural Bangladesh (Khandker 2005:284). In contrast, my research finds that microcredit has serious adverse effects on borrowers; a few of them have ended up as organ trafficking victims. Often, microcredit borrowers are worried about or struggle to pay back their weekly loan installments (the loan is offered for a year with a fixed interest rate of about 20 percent) because the credit does not ensure an entrepreneurial opportunity. Increased competition among various nongovernmental organizations has led many borrowers to belong to five or six NGOs; they often borrow from one NGO to pay off another (Karim 2011:74). Abul Barakat, a Bangladeshi economist, found in his study that 80 percent of borrowers are caught in a spiraling debt trap (qtd. in Karim 2011:xxviii). When the borrowers are incapable of paying off their installments, NGO officials use virulent forms of verbal abuse and social pressure. They break into people’s houses, sell the borrowers’ personal belongings, incarcerate them in local offices, or turn them over to the police and the courts for loan recovery (Karim 2011:90–92, 117– 118; see also Muhammad 2006; Rahman 1999). Some borrowers escape to

210 Domestic Organ Trafficking urban slums, unable to return to their homes, yet their defaulted loans are not forgiven by the NGOs. Many of the interviewed kidney sellers noted that they had to sell the only thing they had left—their bodies— to meet their microcredit obligations. The liberal development discourse deepens the vulnerability, violence, and suffering of the poor who default on their debt. The desperate poor enter the organ market at a time when their life is already plagued by debt. Yet, the kidney sale does not alleviate their poverty but rather exacerbates it. As my ethnography documents, 78 percent of the kidney sellers reported that their economic condition deteriorated after selling their body part. Whatever money the sellers received was used mainly to pay off their debts and/or start a business, arrange a dowry, pay bribes to go overseas, and buy material things, such as a cell phone, a television, or gold jewelry. Most sellers could not pay off their entire loans (especially when their kin had incurred more loans in their absence) and were back in debt after the operation (see also Cohen 1999:152). Usually, the sellers quit their jobs to participate in the organ trade, but their earning power diminished in the post-vending period: the majority remained unemployed, and the others worked fewer hours because their bodies no longer allowed them to engage in physically demanding jobs, such as rickshaw pulling, cultivating land, or industrial lifting. To support themselves and their families, 15 percent of the sellers I interviewed had already turned to organ brokering; they now prey on others who are in as drastic circumstances as they themselves had been. The bodies of the impoverished populations thus become privatized and open for purchase, one part at a time. In the body bazaar, the kidney sellers are subject to a doubling of exploitative practices: first, the organs are being extracted from the most desperate, and, second, they are lied to about what they might acquire (see also the discussion on the notion of trust in Chinese food insecurity in Chen, chapter 5). As my ethnography illustrates, the sellers experienced many layers of exploitation: they were tricked with false promises, manipulated to obtain consent, controlled to travel with falsified papers, coerced to complete the contract, and, finally, cheated with partial payment. This is a world plagued by deceit: not only the brokers but also the recipients and their family members withhold payment (81 percent of sellers did not receive the full payment they were promised) and pay for only minimal post-surgical care. The sellers trusted the buyers’ refrain that selling a kidney would change their fate, but their economic, social, and health conditions declined seriously in the post-vending period. In this market

211 Monir Moniruzzaman transaction, the bodies of the poor, their last resort, cannot ensure the bar- est necessities of life but rather are seriously damaged by organ extraction. Thus, on one hand, the desperation of debt peonage and extreme poverty has generated a high number of organ suppliers; on the other hand, the growth of the transplant industry and the commercialization of health care have produced a soaring demand for fresh organs. Kidney transplant, an expensive medical procedure (starting at about 225,000 taka, or US$3,000), has been rapidly increasing in Bangladesh as local elites, private stakeholders, and foreign companies invest heavily in the transplant industry. More than ten transplant centers are currently operating in Bangladesh: the majority of them were launched since 2007 and are run by private capital, competing with one another. Although the poor are at the greatest risk of organ failure due to socioenvironmental factors, such as arsenic poisoning, air pollution, pesticide use, and smoking tobacco, they die prematurely without receiving a transplant, let alone dialysis. Meanwhile, their bodies become sites of organ harvesting as other groups, such as transplant recipients, kidney brokers, and medical specialists, ensure endless profit through naked class exploitation (Harvey 2005:119; Vogl 2007:3). My ethnography reveals that many Bangladeshi wealthy and middle- class recipients typically purchase organs from the poor rather than seek organ donation from their family members. These recipients often claim publicly that they needed to buy a kidney because (a) they were unable to match tissues with family members or (b) their family members were unwilling to donate. For example, Umma Habiba Dipon, a twenty-seven- year-old, middle-class, Bengali fashion designer, arranged a charitable art exhibition and a musical concert in Dhaka, and with the funds raised, she purchased a kidney from a poor villager. What is highly immoral in Dipon’s case is that she not only spent the charity money on the outlawed practice but also publicly concealed and misrepresented her kidney shopping. After receiving this information (which was given to me by one of her friends), I repeatedly asked Dipon’s husband why he did not donate one of his own kidneys to his wife. He eventually admitted that he was the only breadwin- ner in the family, so he decided not to give away his kidney and gamble with his life. He also told me that he felt a “family obligation” not to put any of his relatives at risk, since organ donation can cause life-threatening health complications. The man was desperate to save his wife’s life, so they purchased the kidney from a poor, young, healthy seller. I do not know exactly how many recipients hold such corrupt ethics, but several questions arise: If organ donation is risky and harmful for the wealthy, why is it not so for the poor? Why is recipients’ kidney shopping supported through

212 Domestic Organ Trafficking charitable donations, newspaper advertisements, and professional groups? Why have these recipients never been prosecuted despite the Transplant Act in Bangladesh? Bangladeshi organ brokers also inflict bioviolence for their own economic gain. The brokers and their agents openly compete for clients in major transplant centers and recruit organ sellers from villages and slums. Organ brokering has become such a lucrative business that it has even expanded from local and regional to national and international levels. The expansion of organ brokering in Bangladesh is summarized through the following diagram:

some sellers ⇒ very few brokers ⇒ more sellers ⇒ some brokers and their agents ⇒ many sellers ⇒ more brokers ⇒ more agents ⇒ numerous sellers

As the diagram shows, at first, only a few poor Bangladeshis sold their kidneys (in arrangements that tended to be made directly with recipients). Of these kidney sellers, only a very few turned into organ brokers (this stage literally represents Batpar and Dalal, two prominent brokers in Bangladesh), who entrapped more potential kidney sellers. Some sellers then started working as brokers’ agents on commission. A few of them eventually started their own independent brokering, and others continued to work as brokers’ agents; all of them turn the desperate poor into kidney sellers. As long as the organ brokers are well protected by their powerful clients—that is, the recipients, doctors, and businessmen—the organ trade flourishes and their acts of bioviolence against the poor silently intensify. Local transplant specialists whom I interviewed utterly denied the existence of illegal organ transplantation in their homeland, since their personal interests often trump their professional ethics (see also the culture of denial around the US military bases in Honduras in Vine, chapter 2). Since these medical specialists benefit directly from the expansion of the transplant industry, they follow a general rule: more transplants mean more profits. So far, these transplant specialists have not published a single article on this topic. The Renal Journal of Bangladesh does not acknowledge this trade at all; rather, it regularly publishes advertisements from pharmaceutical companies. During my fieldwork, when I challenged one of the notable nephrologists, pointing out a kidney seller’s advertisement that was posted on the door of the doctors’ seminar room in his hospital, the nephrologist acknowledged that organ classifieds are published in Bangladesh, but he claimed that all kidney transplants of Bangladeshis who are not related to each other (i.e., illegal transplants) are performed outside the country.

213 Monir Moniruzzaman

However, my key informant, the broker Dalal, claimed that over the years, he has brought quite a few kidney sellers at a time to certain nephrologists who overlook the entire situation upon receiving their consulting fees. At the end of my fieldwork, I confronted one of the senior nephrologists who had initially claimed to me that the Transplant Act is “strictly maintained” in his country. When I told the doctor that I had evidence against his statement, he quietly replied, “We always maintain ethical protocol, but sometimes there might be a very few cases that we are unaware of.” When I challenged him again, he insisted that nephrologists are not the police and their role does not include spying on recipients. The doctors’ roles are indeed limited, but perhaps I should have asked why they are acting as dhori mach na chui pani, or catching fish without touching water, a Bengali proverb that illuminates the role of local transplant specialists. These doctors diligently conceal the organ trade for their own profit accumulation, and their bioviolence is denied and completely buried in their corporate practice. While recipients, brokers, and doctors dispense bioviolence to harvest organs from the poor, the Bengali media, which are mostly privatized, circulate the organ trade by fulfilling the needs of their customers (wealthy and middle-class Bangladeshis), profiting from the revenue collected and from the higher circulation numbers. By publishing these classifieds (making it appear as if recipients and sellers are participating in “organ donation”) and by not reporting on organ commodification, let alone the bioviolence associated with it, the national media normalize the organ trade in Bangladesh. In sum, the powerful elites set the stage for profiteering off the poor, and the bioviolence proceeds apace; biosecurity interventions are almost absent or are dysfunctional. If the bioviolence is ever exposed, the dominant class either denies its existence or implements a trendy biosecurity apparatus or rearranges the institutional settings in a twisted way that favors financial stability. For example, the Bangladeshi police officer who made the only bust of organ trafficking in 2011 was transferred to the railway division after just four months of his investigation. According to a local journal- ist, the Bangladesh Medical Association pressured the Ministry of Health, which ultimately appointed a “politically biased” police officer who turned the investigation in a different direction. During my fieldwork, I also found out that all of the arrested brokers managed to get bail, since the local police and judiciary are known for widespread corruption (Transparency International 2008). After being released from custody, these brokers went underground, but they are recruiting villagers and trading kidneys just as

214 Domestic Organ Trafficking before, as many of the kidney sellers openly claimed. When I challenged one seller, he replied that he would bring forward concrete evidence if I ensured that legal action would be taken against the brokers. Evidently, the state of Bangladesh has become the handmaiden of vulture capitalism. In this chapter, I document in detail how bioviolence is being materialized to procure organs from the poor. Yet, the grim realities of bioviolence are not addressed in biosecurity interventions, either national or global. The wide gap between bioviolence and biosecurity is a product of sociopolitical forces that shelter the personal benefits of the dominant class at the expense of a bloody harvest from the surplus victims. Because bioviolence has become a means of body economicus, the role of the Bangladeshi police is largely limited to gatekeeping.

Acknowledgments My special thanks go to Lesley Sharp, a long-standing mentor whom one could only hope to meet; her deeply insightful comments and helping hands nourished me and this chapter. Nancy Chen was a compassionate discussant and editor whose intellectual direction was invaluable to refining my drafts. Ida Susser, all the other SAR participants, and two anonymous referees helped me tremendously to find clarity in this chapter. It is an immense pleasure to be connected with these wonderful scholars in one volume, not to mention the shared intellectual thoughts in the SAR seminar rooms and well beyond.

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A Strong Britain in an Age of Uncertainty: The agro-ecology, 161 National Security Strategy (United Kingdom), Aguacate, 31–32, 35 148 AIDS, xi, xix–xx, xxvii, 49, 61, 62n2, 64n12; Abdulai, Abdul-Gafaru, 123 activists, 187; antiretroviral drugs (ARVs) academic: capitalism, 72–73, 81–82, 85; for, 178–180, 185, 187; and biosecurity, conferences/programs on water, 104–105, 175–181, 192; and contraceptives, 177–178, 113; science, 72–73, 80–81, 84 192; political effects of, 175; and prevention academy-industry relationship, xxiii, 81–85 funding, 173, 177–179, 185–186; prevention/ Accelerated Development in Sub-Saharan Africa (Berg treatment of, 173–180, 184–189, 192–193; Report), 160 spreading of, 175, 185; and transportation, 10, 186–189. See also pharmaceutical Accra, xxv–xxvi, 124, 132, 138–139 industry activists, 169, 190; animal rights, xxx, 48, 53, air pollution, 91–92, 95, 212 55–56, 59, 62n4; consumer, xxxi, 31; and GM crops, 66, 79; health, 175, 186–187, airports, xxvii, xxix, 1, 4, 174, 186 189, 192 Akrashie, Chief Nii, 132, 136, 139–140 “actuarial imaginary”, xxvii, 152–153 Al Qaeda, 105–106 Afghanistan, 27–28, 36–37, 106 Albright, Madeleine, 18, 20–21 Africa, xvi, xxvi, 1, 36, 38, 121, 133–134; climate allergenicity, 99 change in, 167, 169; colonialism in, 156– allografts, 48, 50–51, 61 158; droughts in, 159, 169; ecological/ Americas, xvi, 38, 137 environmental crisis in, 159–161, 163; Amin, Ash, 151 famines in, 152, 159; food crisis in, 95, 159, Amsterdam Forum on Care of the Live Kidney 160–162; as laboratory, xvii, 91, 156–158, Donor, 205 164, 169–170, 177, 192; overpopulation of, Anderson, Ben, 152–153 157, 162; peasants in, 157–158, 160, 162–163, Andhra Pradesh, India, 65–66 166, 169–170, 172n13; political corruption Animal Welfare Act, 64n16 in, 162; poverty in, xxvii, 128, 150, 153, 155, animals, 57, 64n8, 160, 162, 196; dependence on, 169, 173–174, 184, 186, 190, 192; resilience 157; diseased, xi, xiv, xxx, 47, 94; feeding in, 164–165, 169–170; violence in, xxv. See of, 63n7, 101, 117; as food source, 4, 47, 50, also South Africa; specific places 54, 63n7, 64n14; genetically engineered, African Americans, 179 xvi, 45–46, 48, 50–51, 55; genomes, 97–98; African National Congress (ANC), 175, 181 husbandry, xxii, 47, 49–50, 52–53, 55–56, Africare, 104 61, 63n7; industrial farming of, 49–50, 55, Agamben, Giorgio, xv 63n7–8; and infectious diseases, 3–4, 6, agnotology, xvii, xxiii–xxiv, xxix, 55, 58, 72–74, 8, 47, 50, 105, 200; as organ donor source, 80–85, 97 45–46, 48–49, 51–54, 59–61, 64n16; protec- agribusiness, 52, 99 tion of, 6, 50, 54, 64n16; safety of, 6, 23n1, agricultural: biotechnology, 96–97; crises, 52, 105; and transpecies grafting, 62n4. 159–160; development, xxxi, 117, 133; See also activists: animal rights; epidemics; groups, 94; industries, 40; policies, 176; transgenics production, 86n2, 118; rationalization, 161; Aning, Kwesi, 130 research, 54; safety, 6; systems, 78; tariffs, Annoh, Chief Afadi IV, 124–125, 127, 131–132, 180; technology, 74–75; water management, 137, 139–140 105–106, 110, 112–113, 116–118 anthrax, xvi, 5–6, 8, 10, 12–14, 22, 47, 105, 176

265 Index antigenic shift, 3 bioethics. See ethics: bio aquifers, xxiii, xxv, 110, 117 biogeography, 156–157 Arab Gulf countries, 119 biohazards, 4, 10, 52, 54–56, 60–61, 64n11, 97 Argentina, 30–31, 38 bioinsecurity: biosecurity reframed as, xviii–xx; ASENZE study, 193n12 concept/definition of, xiv, 27, 173; images Asia, xvii, 4, 38, 96 of, 1; production of, 28, 42; and SAR semi- Asian Task Force on Organ Trafficking, 204–205 nar, xiv–xvi, xxviii–xxix Assange, Julian, xxii biological: agents, 9, 13; attacks, 11, 13, 16, 154, 176; resilience, 167; resources, 197–198; Associated Press, 4 science, 167; surveillance, 9–10; threats, 6, Atlantic Storm exercise, 18–22 94, 105, 176; weapons, 7–10, 12–13, 19, 22, Australia, 27, 36, 64n15 23n3, 23n5, 105 avian flu, xi–xiv, 3, 12, 47 biologists, 80 biomedicine, 8–11, 13, 45–46, 58–61, 89, Bacillus thuringiensis (Bt) plants, 65–66, 78, 83 196–198, 208. See also xenotransplantation Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujib Medical University science Hospital (BSMMUH), 195 biopiracy, 198 Bangladesh, xx, xxviii, xxix; bioviolence in, biopolitics, xvi, xxvi, 92, 149–150, 152–153, 156– 198–204, 206–207; laws against organ 157, 160–161, 163–164, 168–169, 172n10 trafficking, 206–207, 213–214; microcredit biosafety, 64n11, 94 programs in, xxxi, 199–200, 210–211; biosecurity: definition of, xii–xiii, xviii, xxi, organ sellers in, xxxi, 8, 144, 198–204; xxviii, 6–9, 23n1, 47; global, xxvi, 173; organ trafficking in, 195–196, 198–204, history of, xii, xiv, xvi, xxii, xxxi, 23n1, 206–207, 210–215; poverty in, xxxi, 105; investment in, 177; national vision 199–200, 210–213 of, xxiv; need for, 151; origins of, 49–50, Bangladesh Medical Association, 214 61; planetary, 9–10; post-9/11 notions of, Barakat, Abul, 210 52; prevalence of, xi–xiii, xviii, 4; and Barnard, Christiaan, 63n5 push back, xxx–xxxi; and SAR seminar, Bateson, Gregory, 166 xiv–xvi, xx, xxx, xxxiii n6; use of term, Bauman, Zygmunt, 207 6–9, 23n1, 105 Bayh-Dole law, 82 Biosecurity Interventions (Lakoff and Collier), Beauchamp, Tom, 56 xx–xxi Beck, Ulrich, xiii, xvii–xviii, xxviii–xxix, xxxi, BioShield program, 10–11 71–72, 85 biosovereignty, 97–98, 100 Beidelman, T. O., 51, 57 biotechnology, xxvi, 9, 209; and bioviolence, 198; Beijing, xxiii–xxiv, 87, 91, 98 in China, 81, 88–89, 95–101; and genetic Beijing Genomic Institute (BGI), 98–99 engineering, xxiv, 71–72, 74, 77–78, 80, Bellagio Task Force, 205 84–85; growth of, xxxi, 81, 208; investment in, 123–124; and scientific research, 81–83; Belmont Report, 56 and swine research, 45–46, 58; in United Benson, Peter, 73 States, 84, 95–96. See also technology Berg, Elliot, 160, 162 bioterrorism, 7–8, 10, 13–15, 20–22, 23n1, 23n5, Berg Report, 160 52, 151, 172n10, 197 Berger, John, 145, 150 bioviolence, 196–207, 209, 213–215 Berlant, Laurent, 152 BioWatch program, 10–11 bin Laden, Osama, 41 bird flu, 50, 52, 154 bioavailability, 209 “blowback”, xvii, xix, xxii, 27, 41, 42 biocapital, xx, xxviii, 46, 61 Boal, Iain, 150–151 biocitizens, 92, 100 body economicus, 168, 170, 209, 215 biodefense, 1, 5, 7–14 Bonilla, Juan Carlos, 40 biodiversity, 157 borders/boundaries, xi–xiv, xx, xxix, xxxi, 7, 13, bioeconomy, 88, 97, 208 47, 50, 139

266 Index

Boston, Massachusetts, 29 foods in, 70, 88, 90–93, 97–98, 100–101; Boyd, William, 52, 63n7 contaminated goods in, xvii, xx, xxiv, Brazil, 28, 38–39, 98, 177 xxvi, 66, 70, 90–91, 95; counterfeit goods Bretton Woods agreements, 174 in, 90–91, 93, 95, 97; fearful consumption in, xxiv, 11, 66, 88–95, 97, 100–101; food Brooks, Robert, 147 safety in, 66, 70, 88–101; food security Brundtland Commission, 109–110 in, 89, 96–101, 211; genomic research in, Brunkhorst, Hauke, 207–208 97–99; GM products in, xxiv, 89, 96–100; Bt plants, 65–66, 78, 83 and infectious diseases, 4, 11, 94; Internet Bush, George W., 6–8, 10, 23n3, 178 vigilantism in, 92–93; media of, 90, 92–94, 100–101; medicines in, xvii, xxiv, 88, 90–91, Calgene, 79 93; middle class of, 88–89, 92, 102n1; California, xv, 54, 63n7, 80, 106 “netizens” in, xxxi, 92–93, 101; population Calne, Roy, 61 growth in, 91, 96–97, 99–100; profusion Campbell, Catherine, 184–185 of foods in, 87–89; regulatory agencies/ reforms of, 88–89, 92–95, 101; self-care in, Canada, 18, 64n15, 95 88–95; and water, 103. See also pharmaceuti- cancer, 92, 106, 115 cal industry capital, xxii, 113, 141, 165–166, 168, 208–209 Claridge, Duane, 30 capitalism, 22, 103, 160, 174; academic, 72, Clarke, Jane, 147 81–82, 85; and bioviolence, 209, 215; climate change, xvi–xvii, xxvi, 118, 163; adapting market, 109, 122–123, 167, 210; neoliberal, to, 148, 165–166, 170; consequences of, 22, 153, 172n9, 207–209; notions/tenets of, 154–156, 164; and food, 151–153, 155, 165; 128, 134; and resilience, 150, 166–167, 169 global, 150–152, 164, 169–170; manage- Carrel, Alexis, 48, 62n4 ment of, 162, 167; mitigation of, 154, 166; catastrophes: averting, 1; future, 17–18, 22–23; and resilience, 146, 153–156, 165–166, 169 imagined, 5–9, 18, 23; potential, 14; Clinton, Hillary Rodham, 104 preemption of, 12, 22 Club of Rome, 158–160, 162, 164, 167 catastrophism, xxvi, 150–152, 155, 159 Coca-Cola Company, xxiv, 104, 107, 171n2 Caton, Steven C., xvii, xxi, xxiii–xxvii, xxx, 10, Cohen, Lawrence, 209 99, 123, 188 Cold War, 12–13, 16–18, 21–22, 30, 36–37 Center for Biosecurity, 18 Collier, Stephen J., xiii, xviii, xx–xxi Center for Water and the Environment (Yemen), 113 Colombia, 27, 38, 40–41 Centers for Disease Control (CDC), xii, 12, 14, colonialism, 123, 129–130, 133, 137, 142n17, 22, 49 156–158, 161, 172n13, 175, 181, 191, 210 Central America, xvii, xxvi, 1, 25–26, 28, Comaroff, John and Jean, 130 32–34, 41 community, xxxii n3; education, 177; health Central American Regional Security Initiative, 34 workers, 177; leadership, 135; marginalized, 89; policing, 136; resilience, 146, 153; Central Asia, 36, 38 sovereignty, 126, 135; survival, xiv; violence, Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), xvii, xix, xvii, 124–127, 130–132, 135, 138–141; xxvi, 25, 30–32, 35, 41, 133–134 vulnerability, xxv Chakrabarty case, 82–83 Conference on the Human Environment Chapela, Ignacio, 78, 83 (Stockholm), 158–159 Chen, Nancy N., xiv–xv, xvii, xxi, xxiii–xxviii, conservation, 156–157 xxxi, 11, 46, 103, 122–123, 147, 211 Contras, 25, 28, 30–33, 41 Cheney, Dick, 22 Cooley, Alexander, 36 Childress, James, 56 Cooper, David, 45–46, 55–56, 58, 60–61, 62n3 Chile, 31, 36, 38 Cooper, M., 167 China, xii, 1, 9, 39, 128, 197–198; biotech Cooper, Melinda, 88, 99, 150–151, 172n9, industry of, 81, 88–89, 95–101; competes 208–209 for global power, 28, 38, 66; contaminated

267 Index corporations, xxiv–xxv, 72–74, 81–84, 86n2, 93, Marburg virus, 13, 61, 64n12; prevention/ 104, 107, 123, 136, 175–179, 185, 205. See containment of, xxvii, 6–7, 12–13; simu- also specific names lated for biosecurity game, 18–22, 24n10, corruption, 109, 121–122, 134, 141, 162, 214 24n11; spreading of, 47, 63n7, 175, 185; Costa Rica, 32, 36 study of, 12–14, 197; threats of, xix–xx, cotton, 65–66 xxvi, 6–8, 151; transpecies, xix, 60, 94; water-related, 104; West Nile virus, 12, Council on Foreign Relations, 150 62n2. See also animals: and infectious counterterrorism, 5–18, 22 diseases; epidemics; pandemics; pathogens; Cuba, 27, 28 PERVs; specific types; zoonoses Dlameini, Gugli, 190 aily Ittefaq, 200–201 D Dlamini-Zuma, Nkosazana, 176 danger, xxviii, 1, 151; anticipated, xii, 10–11, DNA, 71–77, 81, 83, 86n1, 86n5, 88 15–16; containment of, xiii, 47; definition Doha Declaration, 176 –177 of, 51; future, xxviii–xxix, 5–6, 11, 15–16, Doha, Qatar, 176 –177 21, 149; imagined, xviii; imminent, xii, 17; moral framing of, 52; notions of, xvii, xxiii; Dominican Republic, 28 potential, xxx; of science, 59–60, 85; spe- droughts, xvii, xxvi, 100, 110, 117, 149, 152–153, cialized forms of, 61; tracking of, 47; world 155, 158–159, 161–162, 166, 169 in state of, xxvi drugs. See medicines; narcotics; pharmaceutical Dark Winter exercise, 22 industry Davis, Mike, 156, 161 Durban, South Africa, 173–174, 187–188, 190 de Waal, Alex, 153 death, xxxi, 7, 14–16, 20–21, 26, 39–41, 91, 119, East Asia, xvi, 36 155–156, 205 Ebola virus, 13, 61, 62n2, 64n12 Declaration of Istanbul, 204 ecological: anthropology, 172n16; crises, 96, deforestation, 156–157, 172n13 158–161; degradation, 158–160; dynam- democracy, xxvii, 109, 112, 116, 121–124, ics, 162; impacts of GM crops, 78–79, 129–130, 134, 136, 173, 175, 181–182, 192 83–84, 99; processes, 163; relations, 162; resilience, 169; risks, 72; science, 163, 165; demography, 84, 104, 138, 140, 150, 156, 159, 162. theory, 170n1, 171n3 See also population growth/pressures ecologists, 78, 83–84, 160, 164–165 desertification, 157, 160, 163, 172n13 ecology, 146, 156–158, 160, 163, 165, 169 development, xxx, 163, 211; in Africa, 134, 165, 170, 183–184; institutions of, 162, 164; economic: control, 28–30, 38; crises, xiv, 20; sustainable, 123–124, 146, 156, 158–159, debt, xxxi; development, 104, 106, 108–109, 166, 170; theory/practice, 160–161, 167; US 113, 117; disruption, 7, 20; forces on approach to, 134, 160 research, 82; freedom, 122–123; growth, 101, 104, 111, 121–122, 124, 137, 210; hard- Dillon, M., 149, 151–152, 170 ship, 200, 211; independence, 38; inequal- Dipon, Umma Habiba, 212 ity, 175, 186, 210; initiatives, xxii; insecurity, disaster, 89; awareness, xi–xii; ethos, xix; future, 141, 185; order, 101, 159; programs, 174; 94; human-made, 94; imminent, 152; progress, 207–208; reforms, 33, 89, 118, inevitability of, 11; management of, xxi, 121; resilience, 167; restructuring, xvii; 148; mitigation of, 148; planetary, xxvi, 20, risks, 153, 167; sanctions, 128; stability, 128, 151; prevention of, 148, 160; relief, 26, 33, 174, 181; systems, 164; transformation, xxvi; 37; sociopolitics of, xvii. See also natural turbulence, 158; unity, 136; vulnerability, disasters xxv, 165 Disaster and the Politics of Intervention (Lakoff), xxi economy: agrarian, 210; and biotechnology, Disaster Risk Reduction, Office of, 148 97; formal, 181–183, 185; informal, 182; disease, 5–6, 81, 172n10, 198; as biological market, 89, 96, 111, 131; neoliberal, 190, weapon, 7–9, 12–13, 22, 47, 197; cholera, 207–209 189; engineered, 18; and the environ- ecosystems, 47, 72, 77–79, 114, 164–168, 171n7 ment, 62n2; fears of, 4, 11, 105; Hepatitis Ecuador, 34, 36, 38 C, 13; images of, 17, 22; Lassa fever, 12–13;

268 Index

Ethiopia, 155 plants, 105; and resilience, 153; of water- El Salvador, 25–26, 28, 32, 34, 36, 41 thirsty crops, xxv, 70, 110–111, 117–118. See emergency, state of, 15, 151, 170 also genetically modified (GM) crops; food; energy, 5, 85, 99, 104, 111, 151 plants England, 161, 197. See also Great Britain; United fascism, 175 Kingdom Fauci, Anthony, 13 environmental: crises, 155, 159–160, 163; fear: amplification of, 17; and counterterror state, destruction, 6, 22, 101, 109, 111, 172n13; 9–10, 14–16; economy of, 23; production of, governance, 163; groups, 94; impacts of 10–11; propagated by biosecurity, xix GM crops, 66, 79, 80, 84, 86n2, 99; impacts Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), 5, 176 of population growth, 91; NGOs, 166; pres- Federal Emergency Management Agency, 16 ervation, 174; risks, 152–153; security, 137; Fellow Prisoners (Berger), 145 studies, 156–157 financial: aid, xxiii, 25, 106, 108–109, 113, 121– environmentalism, 156–159, 164 124, 134–135; crises, 150, 172n9; institu- epidemics, xi–xiv, 4, 12, 21, 146, 173, 187; as tions, 174; liberalization, 158; market, 146; biological weapon, 7–9; control/ networks, 147; shocks, 167; stability, 214 containment of, xi–xiii; drugs/vaccines Find Your Power: A Toolkit for Resilience and Positive for, 8, 10–11, 13, 18–20, 22; and the Change (Johnstone and Hopkins), 147 environment, 62n2; mad cow, xi, xiv, 52; management of, 52; responses to, 18–22; flooding, 14, 16, 104, 114, 117, 154 swine, xiv, xvi; tracing source of, 47; Florida, 31–32 transpecies, 151. See also AIDS; pandemics; food, xi–xiii, xvi, xxiii, xxv, 11, 84, 92, 135; aid, specific types; zoonoses 95, 155; and climate change, 151–153; erasure, forms of, xiv, xvi, xix, xxii, xxviii, xxx, contaminated, xvii, 14, 66, 70, 88, 90–93, 47, 53, 59–60, 97, 100 95, 97–98, 100–101; control over, 86n2, ethics, xix, 76, 80, 92, 152; bio, 51–53, 56–60, 97; crises, 150, 155, 159, 161; genetically 63n6, 64n15, 64n17, 207; definition of, engineered, 8, 63n7; lack of, xxii, 89, 155; 63n6; ordinary, 51–54, 57–58; and organ oversight of, 93–94; prices of, 150, 162; trafficking, 205, 207, 209, 212–214 production, 10, 52, 63n7, 89, 93, 96; rights Ethiopia, 162 to, xxv; and riots, 98; safety, xxi–xxii, xxiv, Europe, xii, 18–19, 28, 36, 96–98, 112–113, 122, 4, 8, 23n1, 50, 52, 66, 70, 88–101; scarcity, 133, 135, 154, 156, 161 xvii, xxvi–xxvii, xxx, 6, 8, 95–96, 98, 166; European Union (EU), 135 security, xxiv, 66, 89, 96–101, 105, 119, 150, 152, 155, 161–162; sources of, xxi, 4, 9, 97, exchange, 123, 134, 136, 154, 168 100; supplies, 60, 86n2, 97–98, 103–105, 116; threats to, 128, 164; and water sources, airhead, James, 163 F 103–105, 116–117, 119. See also animals: as Famine: A Short History (O’Grada), 155 food source; climate change; genetically famine/hunger, 27, 148, 161; in Africa, xxvi, modified (GM) crops; specific countries 152–153, 155–156, 158–159, 162, 167; in Food and Drug Administration (China), 93 Bangladesh, 210; in China, xvii, 96, 98; and Food and Drug Administration (United States), droughts, 152–153, 158–159, 162; and GM 94–95 crops, 84, 96 Food Safety Law (China), 93–94 Fanon, Frantz, 121 Ford Motor Company, 104 Farmer, Paul, xix Foucault, Michel, 150, 153, 161–162, 168–170, farmers/farming: in Africa, 157–159, 181–182; 171n8, 172n10, 174, 208 and animal diseases, xiv, 6–7, 50; of Framework Convention on Climate Change, 154 animals, 49–50, 52, 55, 61; in Bangladesh, France, 52, 157, 172n13 210; and biosecurity measures, 6–7; and droughts, 162; and European methods, Friedman, Jonathan, 172n16 158; and herbicide-resistant crops, 79; in fuels: affordable, xxi; bio, xi, 128; denial of, xxii; Honduras, 28–30; industrialized, 63n8; diesel, 110, 118; emergencies, xxvi; fossil, and insect resistance, 78; and market xvii, 143; for military bases, 34; scarcity of, economy, 110–111; and pesticides, 99; of qāt xxx; subsidies for, 110, 118

269 Index gaming, 17–22, 24n10, 24n11 dangers, 4; economy, xiii, xxiv, 11, 20, 38, Gates, Bill and Melinda, 177–178 88, 134, 173, 185, 192–193, 209; environ- Gates Foundation, 177–179 mental issues, 158–159; epidemics, 18–22, 24n10; financial crisis, xxi; food issues, gender, xviii, xxxi, 139, 181–186, 190–193 8, 104, 150; funding, 173, 177; genomic genetic engineering, 86; effects/impacts of, research, 98–99; health issues, xx, 7, 11, 71–73, 76–79; and agnotology, 72–74, 139, 179; indicators/indexes, 121–124, 135, 80–85, 97; and capitalism, 81–82; danger/ 141; initiatives, xii, xvi; marketplace, xxv, risks of, 71–75, 79–81, 86n2; explanation 70, 90–91, 168; network of military bases, of, 86n1; and ignorance, 72–79, 83, 85, 97; 36–37; networks of corporate investment, information concerning, 74–76; and intel- 175; organ trafficking, 144, 204–206, 209; lectual property, 81–83, 85; laws/patents pandemics, xxvii, 57, 175; policies, 173–174, for, 81–83, 86n5, 96–97; and pleiotropic 179, 192, 210; politics, 175, 192–193; pow- effects, 76–77; process of, 71–73, 75; as ers, 27–28, 38, 66; profits, xxvii; resilience, research tool, 75; as scientific tool, 72, 147; sanctions, 180; scarcity of organs, xvi; 74–75; in United States, 71–72, 81–83 security, xi–xiv, xxiv, 1, 58; stage, xviii; genetically modified (GM) crops, xvi–xvii, structures, 174; think tanks, 158–159; xxiii–xxiv, xxix; and academy-industry threats, xii, xxii–xxiii, 1, 5, 21, 94; water partnerships, xxiii, 81–85; availability of, issues, xxv, 106–107, 111, 112. See also cli- 71; in China, 96–100; corn, 78, 81, 83; mate change; governance; infrastructure; cotton, 65–66; debates over, 66, 71, 78–79, market; neoliberalism 84–85; explanation of, 75; and fertilizer, Global News Network (GNN), 18–20 74; hybrid, 83; impacts/risks of, 75–84, Global North, 177, 179, 192 89, 97–99; patents for, 82–83, 96–97; rice, 97–100; and seed DNA, 74; and water use, Global South, 65, 155, 173–174, 176–178, 189, 192 99–100 Global Water Security report, 104, 106, 108, 114 genetically modified organism (GMO), 72, globalization, xii, 208–209 76–78, 83–85, 86n1, 97 Goldstein, Sam, 147 genomes, 75, 78–79, 97–99, 198 governance, xii, 6, 9, 11, 151–152, 167, 172n10, German Technical Team (GTZ), 112 174; in China, 88–89, 92, 95, 101; conflict- Germany, 19, 27 ing forms of, xxiii; and disaster preparedness, 17; and food security, 101; formation Ghana, xvii; biometric scanners of, 132–133, of, 89, 95; in Ghana, 121, 124, 129, 132–133, 136, 139–140; and “chieftaincy”, 129–132, 135, 139–140; global, 5, 21, 122; “green”, 135–140, 141n5, 142n16, 142n18, 182; coups 156–158, 160, 162; and imagined threats, in, 134, 136; development in, 136, 138; 15–16; market, 164; regimes of, xxv, 112; economy of, 121–124, 126–131, 133–136, and resilience, 146, 149–150, 152–153, 174; 139, 141; foreign intervention in, 133–135; socioecological, 167; of water, 99, 103–114. gains independence, 129–130, 133; and See also democracy Heavily Indebted Poor Country initiative, 134; human trafficking in, 139; land owner- governmentality, xxv, 107, 166–167 ship in, 130–131, 135–140; legal systems of, Grameen Bank, xxxi, 199, 210 131, 135–140, 142n16; local insecurity in, Gramsci, Antonio, 146 122–124, 127–132; and ontologies, 130–131, Grandin, Greg, 39–40 135–137; poverty in, 134, 137; ranking of, Great Britain, 27, 29, 129, 133, 146, 157, 161, 121–124, 135, 141; reforms in, 129–130; 172n13, 210. See also England; United relations with US, 133–134; security in, Kingdom 132–141; violence in, xvii, xxv, 10, 69–70, Great Depression, 157 130–132, 139. See also Oshiyie, Ghana Greentree, Todd, 30 Gill, Lesley, 38–39 Griffiths, Kate, 184 Gillem, Mark, 36 Grove, Richard, 156, 163 global: antipoverty strategies, 147; biosecurity, Guatemala, 28, 36, 41 4, 128, 205–206; calamities, xi–xiv, xviii– Guyer, Jane, 152 xix; catastrophism, 159; concerns, xxvii;

270 Index

H1N1 influenza, xix, 3–4, 8, 11–12, 94 xiv, xvi, xix–xxvi, xxii–xxiii, xxvii–xxviii, Haiti, 28, 30, 98 xxx, 26, 70, 88, 119, 167, 174, 180, 193, 208; Haney, Eric, 32 well-being of, xvii, 70, 89–90, 92, 95, 124, 143, 152 Hardin, Garrett, 162–163 Hussein, Saddam, 8 Hayek, Friedrich, 167, 169 health care, xvi, xxv, xxx, 4, 6, 9–10, 95, 212. See also public health Iceland Genome Project, 198 Henderson, D. A., 20 ignorance, xvii, 72–79, 83–85, 97. See also agnotology herbicides, 79, 86n3 India, xxviii, xxix, 106; and AIDS drugs, 177, History of Development: From Western Origins to 180; genetically modified (GM) crops in, Global Faith, The (Rist), 136 65–66; and organ transplants, 196, 202, HIV, xxvii, 10, 175, 177–181, 184–185, 192. See 207; seed companies in, 65–66 also AIDS industrial: agnotology, 55; development, 133; Holling, C. S., 164–165, 167, 171n3, 171n7 era, 174; farming, 49–50, 52, 55, 63n7, homo economicus. See body economicus 63n8, 74; food processing, 89; food system, Honduras, xix, xxvi; assassinations in, 40; as 98; investors, 185; pollution, 118; society, “Banana Republic”, 28–30; “blowback” in, 72, 80; wastes, 64n11, 106 27–28, 40–42; Contras in, 30–31; death/ inequality, 42, 101, 119, 126–127, 135, 159, 175, violence in, 26–27, 31–32; militarization of, 183–186, 192, 210 25–28, 35, 38; poverty in, 30, 41; protests infrastructure, xi, xx, xxii, xxvi; and biosecurity, in, 26; US aid to, 25–26, 30, 40; US military 4–5, 15, 19, 21–22; building of, xviii–xix; in, xxix, 25–41, 42n1. See also violence: in of cities, 154; global, 5, 9; governmental, Honduras 6; inadequate, xxvii, 47; neglect of, xxiv, Hong Kong, 91 xxx; of power, xxx, 9–10; preventative, xxx; Honolulu, Hawai‘i, 67, 70 resilient, 146, 148; in South Africa, xxvii, Hopkins, Rob, 147 186–187, 192–193; for water, 106, 111, 114 Human Body and Organ Transplant Act, insecticides, 85 206–207, 213–214 integrated water resource management (IWRM), human organs, xix, xxviii; animal organs used 108, 111–114, 119 for, 45–46, 48, 51–53, 58–61, 64n16; “arti- intellectual property, xxiii, xxvii, 66, 72–73, ficial” organs for, 46, 48; commoditization 81–83, 85, 174, 176 of, 202–203, 207–209, 214; donors of, xvi, Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, xxix, 50, 51, 61, 63n5, 195, 199, 205–206, 154–155 209; prevent trafficking of, 204–207; prices International AIDS Society Conference of, 196, 202–203, 207; scarcity of, xix, (Toronto), 177–178 xxviii, 45–46, 48, 50, 52–53, 57; selling of, International Monetary Fund (IMF), xxv, 107, xx, xxviii–xxix, xxxi, 8, 46, 144, 198–206, 117–118, 124, 135–136, 147 208, 211, 213–215; trafficking of, 195–196, 198–206, 209–215; transplants of, xvi, xxiv, Internet, 92–93, 101, 146 xxix, 8, 46, 50, 63n5, 195–196, 204, 209, Iran, 32, 36, 205 212–214. See also allografts; xenografting; Iraq, 10, 21–22, 23n3, 27–28, 36–37, 105 xenotransplantation Islamist groups, 105–106, 155 human rights, 26, 39–40, 122, 136, 138 Israel, 31 human trafficking, 139 Italy, 27 humanitarian efforts, 26, 33, 35, 37–38, 42n2, Ivins, Bruce E., 176 148, 162 humans: and bodily exploitation, 196–199, Jain, S. Lochlann, 14 204–208, 211–212; expendability of, xii, Japan, 23n5, 27, 197 xiv, xx, xxii, xxviii, xxxi, 207–209; safety Johnson, Chalmers, 41 of, xi–xii, xx, 47; suffering of, xiv–xv, xix, Johnson, Lyndon B., 30, 133–134 xxi, xxix–xxxi, 46–47, 51–54, 59–61, 174, Johnstone, Chris, 147 204; as “surplus”, 207–209, 215; survival of,

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Kashi, Ed, xxix Levine, Simon, 166 Kaufman, Stuart, 168 liberalism, 146, 149, 151–154, 169, 205, 207, 211. Keck, F., 52 See also neoliberalism Kennedy, John F., 30 Liberia, 137 Kenya, 155 Limits to Growth, The (Club of Rome), 158–160, King, Alexander, 158–159 162, 167 Kirsch, Stuart, 73 Living with Risk (United Nations), 148 Kleinman, Arthur and Joan, xxix Lora-Wainwright, Anna, 92 Kloppenburg, Jack Ralph Jr., 81 Los Alamos National Laboratory, xv, xxxii n4 Klotz, Lynn C., 12 Kludze, A. K. P., 135 Magnus, Davis, 86 knowledge: access to, 89; expert, xxiii; formation Mahyco seed company, 65–66 of, xxii; indigenous, 153, 156–158, 163, Malthusian models/thought, xxiv, xxviii, xxx, 84, 170; interdisciplinary, 112; local, xxx, 158, 96, 118, 158–160, 162, 164–165 164; lost, 73; politics of, 72, 81; production, Manning, Chelsea (Bradley), xxii xxiii, 73–74, 81, 97–98, 122, 169; scientific, market, xv, xx, xxii, 99, 152–153, 162–164; xxix, 80, 85, 95, 100–101, 157; “uncomfort- capitalism, 210; and climate change, 169; able”, 73–74, 83 commodities for, 207; export, 128, 160, 168; Kokrobite, Ghana, 125–126 forces, 109, 118, 162; free, 122–123, 127, Komer, Robert W., 134 140, 161; global, xx, 38, 70, 91, 104, 110; Kotoka, Emmanuel Kwasi, 134 informal, 141; management, 188; order, 153, 167, 169–170; and organ commerce, Kouchner, Bernard, 18–19 204, 207; policies, 109, 174; reforms, 183; Kwame Nkrumah Museum (Ghana), 133–134, 136 and water security, 113 KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, 181, 184–185, Martineau, Belinda, 79 190–191, 193n12 Marx, 208 Kyoto Protocol, 154 Masco, Joseph, xvi, xviii, xxii–xxiii, xxviii–xxix, 49, 94, 105 La Moskitia, 35, 37, 39, 42n2 Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 159–160 La Tripartita. See Contras Mbeki, Thabo, 175, 181, 184 laboratories, xxxi, 12, 14, 19, 47, 49–51, 54–55, McNamara, Robert, 159 57–58, 60, 80, 85, 157 Meadows, Dennis, 159 LaFeber, Walter, 29 media, xii, 5, 51; and anthrax scare, 176; of Lakoff, Andrew, xiii, xviii, xx–xxi, xxxiii n6, 16 Bangladesh, 195–196, 199–202, 213–214; in Lambek, Michael, 51, 57 China, 90, 92–94, 100–101; and community land, xi, xxiii, xxv, 78, 96, 140, 172n13; aliena- violence, 140; mass, 8, 16, 19, 22, 24n12; tion of, 123, 128, 141; communal, 126, and organ trafficking, 196, 199–202, 204, 181–183; dispossession of, 27, 41; disputes 206, 213–214; and Press Freedom Index over, 69–70; and ecological processes, 163; report, 121; and race relations, 134; and by inheritance, 191; polluted, 91; and the smallpox outbreak, 18–20; and starvation poor, 40, 159; redistribution, xxv, 138, 181; in Africa, 162; Western, 97, 100 reforms, 128–130, 183, 191; rights to, xxv, medical biosecurity, 144 39, 70, 126–128, 130–131, 135, 137–139, 157, medical research: corporate funding for, 81; 182–184, 191; tenure, xvi, xvii, xxv; wars experimental, 56–61, 62n4, 63n5, 64n10; over, 39, 128; and water security, 119 and longue durée, 59–60; policing/ Lanza, Robert, 45–46, 56, 58, 60–61, 62n3 regulation of, 56–58. See also xenotrans- Lartey, Ernest, 130 plantation science Late Victorian Holocausts (Davis), 156 medical services, xx, xxii, xxvii, 20 Latin America, 28, 30, 33–34, 36, 38–40, 157 medicines, xi, xx, xxiii, xxv, 13, 156; access to, Leach, Melissa, 163 173, 176, 180, 187; China’s market for, Lentz, Carola, 128 89–91, 96; contaminated, xvii, xxiv, 88, LeoGrande, William, 31–32 90–91; genetically engineered, 71; herbal,

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89, 91; high cost of, 180; for HIV/AIDS, natural disasters, xi, xiii–xiv, xxi, 16, 33, 67, 70, 176–180, 185, 187; lack of, xvii, 89; safety of, 146 –147, 151, 154 93; and world trade, xxvii Nature Company, xxiv Merry, Sally, 122 Nature Conservancy, 104 Merton, Robert, 80 Neocleous, M., 149 Mexico, 28, 40, 78, 95 neoliberal: capitalism, 153, 169, 172n9, 207; microbes, 7–8, 10, 13, 18, 99 development, xxv, 108–111, 160, 170; microbiologists, 78, 84, 86n1 governance, 153, 167; markets, 95, 188–189; microcredit programs, xxxi, 199–200, 210–211 political economy, 151; reforms, 130, 210; Middle East, xvi, xxvi, 1, 104 states, 134 migrants, xi, 92, 101, 139, 175, 181, 210 neoliberalism, xxiii, 127, 139, 142n18, 167–168; in Bangladesh, 207; and biotechnology, militarization, xv, xvi, xxii, 16 208–209; and “continual crisis”, 99, 170; military, xviii; aid, 25, 35, 40; and counter-terror- global, 169–170, 209; and resilience, xxvii, ism, 5, 7; and diseases, 8–9; 146, 150, 169, 174; in South Africa, 184, initiatives of, xv, xxii; investment in, 188–190; and water, 107–108, 113, 119 123–124; mobilization of, 16; operations Nestlé, 107 by, xxvi, 10; proliferation of, xix, xxix, 2, 4, 36–37; and training, 25–26, 31–33, 35, Netherlands, 112–114, 205 37–39, 41, 146. See also US military; war New York Times, 34 gaming; wars New Zealand, 6, 23n1, 64n14, 64n15, 105 Mill, John Stuart, 162 NGOs (nongovernmental organizations), xxi, Millennium Development Goals Report, 155 166, 199–200, 210–211 Minsky, Hyman, 167 Nicaragua, 25–26, 28, 30–33, 35–36 Moniruzzaman, Monir, xviii, xx, xxvii–xxix, Nicholson, John, 147 xxxi, 8, 46 Nigeria, 143, 158, 166 Monroe, James, 28, 38 Nkrumah, Kwame, 129–130, 133–134, 136 Monsanto, 65–66, 74, 81, 83 North Africa, 104 moral: economy, 140, 161, 163, 170; interven- Novas, Carlos, 92 tions, xxvii; judgment, 203; logics, xxiv; nuclear: attacks, 154; crises, xi, 21; deterrence, medical research, xix, 49–55; reasoning, 16, 18; policies, 17; simulation, 16; threat, xxiv, xxx, xxxi; responsibility, xvi 16–17; war gaming, 17–18, 21; warning morality, xv, 51, 56–57, 60–61, 63n6 system, 13; weapons, 10–11 Mozambique, 98 Munduni, Sindisiwe, 184 Occupy Wall Street movement, xv Muslims, 202–203 O’Grada, Cormac, 155 Myriad case, 86n5 oil, 119, 150; control over, 38; for cooking, 90, 92–93; crises of, 150, 158; exploitation of, Nally, David, 161 xvi; extraction of, xxix, 143; in Ghana, 132; in Nigeria, 143; reserves of, xxvi; in Yemen, narcotics, 5; in Central America, 41–42; traffick- 110, 118 ing of, 26, 32–33, 35, 41; US war on, 33–35, 38–40 Ong, Aihwa, xxviii Nasaday, Paul, 149 ontological: claims, 126, 130, 136–137; conflicts, 140; insecurity, xxv, 130–131, 135–137; nation-states, xi, 11, 127, 130, 140, 205 suffering, 203 National Geographic Magazine, 134 ontology, 124, 126, 136, 151–152 National Institute of Allergy and Infectious origin stories, xxiii, 49–51, 80 Diseases, 13–14 Oshiyie, Ghana: authority contested in, 10, 70; National Institutes of Health, 12–13 food insecurity in, 136; foreign inter- National Research Council (NRC), 81 vention in, 124; historical narratives of, National Strategy for Homeland Security (United 137–140; inequalities in, 126–127; land dis- States), 148 putes in, 69–70, 84, 124, 126, 128, 131–132, NATO, 20–21, 133 136–138; and ontologies, 124, 126, 137;

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poverty in, 126, 134; violence in, 69–70, politics: and the counterterror state, 8, 10; eth- 122–128, 131–132, 136, 138–141, 142n18. See nic, 139; of food security, 161; global, 38; of also Ghana intervention, xxi; of knowledge production, Ostlie, Ken, 83 xxiii; racist, xxvii; of reproductive health, Oxford University, 104–105 xxvii; of science, 163; security, 17; of water, xxvi, 105–107, 112, 114, 119 Pain, Adam, 166 pollution, 91–92, 95, 118, 159, 189 Pakistan, 106, 196 poor, the, 89, 159; in Africa, 173–174; and AIDS, 184, 187; and bioinsecurity, 144, 156; bio- Palmerola (Honduras). See Soto Cano violence against, xxviii, 196–204, 206–207, (Honduras) 213–215; expendability of, xiv; and food, Panama, 28, 32, 34, 36, 38 150, 152; and health care, xx, 173, 179; and pandemics, xi, xiii, xx, xxvii, xxviii, 4, 11, 47, land rights, 128, 137–138; and neoliberal 49–50, 53, 57, 61, 70, 89, 175 development, xxv, 108–109, 111; and organ Parenti, Christian, 155 trafficking, 8, 195–196, 198–206, 209–215; pastoralists, 158–160 and resilience, 147, 166–167, 169; and trans- patents, xxiii, 82–83, 86n5, 96–97, 175–177, 180, portation needs, xxix; and US-backed wars, 198 26, 39, 41; vulnerabilities of, 89, 165–166; pathogens, 12–13, 46–48, 50, 55, 60, 63n7 and water, 70, 103, 111, 119 Peccei, Aurelio, 158 population growth/pressures, 96–97, 99–100, personal responsibility, xxiii, 6, 149 104, 118, 150, 157–160, 162, 164, 172n13. See PERVs (porcine endogenous retroviruses), 49, also demography 55, 57–60 poverty, 6, 101, 119, 165–166, 192. See also poor, pesticides, 97, 99, 212 the; specific countries pharmaceutical industry, xxvii, 12, 14, 50, 192, Poverty and Famines (Sen), 162 198, 213; and AIDS drugs, 176–180; and power, xxii, 1, 129; American, 5, 9–10, 27–28, drugs for allografts, 51; and antibiotic 36–39; corporate, 123; European, 28; Cipro, 176; “Big Pharma”, 89, 96; and inequality, 141, 175; relations, 127; state, biomedical/herbal drugs, 89; in China, 9, xxv, 10, 108; traditional, 135, 138 89–90, 96, 103; and drug patents, 176–177, Power of Resilience: Achieving Balance, Confidence, 180; and drug prices, 186; and fake drugs, and Personal Strength in Your Life, The 90–91; and production, 46, 52, 54; and (Brooks and Goldstein), 147 street clinics, 90, 96; and water supplies, preemption, xii, 11, 15, 17, 21, 149–150, 152, 164, 103 172n9 pigs. See swine preparedness, xi–xii, xiv, 4, 10, 15–22, 24n10–12, Pioneer, 83 67, 70, 89, 94, 149, 152, 164 plants, 8, 94, 105. See also farmers/farming; preservation, 174, 192 genetically modified (GM) crops; trans- President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief genic: plants (PEPFAR), 178 Polanyi, Karl, 161 press, the, 4, 32. See also media political: assassinations, 40; authority, 70; primates, 54–55, 59, 61, 62n4 borders, 4; capital, 141; change, 145–146; principlism, 56–57, 59 control, 28; corruption, 141, 162; divisions, Proctor & Gamble, xxiv, 104 129; ecology, 163; economy, 151, 166, 171n7, Proctor, Robert, 72–74 208; extremism, 47; freedom, 122; imagina- property: common, 160, 163; private, 80, 128, tion, 149; independence, 38; inequality, 135, 137–138, 168, 191; rights, 162. See also 186; influence, 191; insurgencies, xi; land interests, 122–124, 127; mobilization, public health, xii–xiii, xvi, xx–xxi, xxxi, 1, 3, 9, 175; power, xvii, 141; practices, xxv, 156; 176, 210; and biomedicine, 197; in China, regimes, 13; resources, 17; risk, 79; stability, 89–95; and counterterror state, 7–8, 12–13; 106, 121, 175; systems, 135; technologies, crises of, 18–20, 175; emergent risks to, 152; turbulence, 158; violence, xxvi, 132; 124; and epidemics/pandemics, 47, 52; vulnerability, 165 and funding, 173, 177; in Ghana, 139; and

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GM crops, 79–81, 86n2, 98–99; initiatives, of, 169; everyday consciousness of, xviii; xviii, xix–xx, xxii, xxvii; and national/ forms of, 8, 22, 85; and GM crops, 71–73, global security, 19–21; and qāt chewing, 75–84; management of, 84, 149, 152–153, xxv, 115–118; and self-care, 89–95; in South 169, 174; moral framing of, 52; permanent Africa, xxvii, 173; and tobacco industry, state of, 151–152; and resilience, 148, 73; as US security matter, 12–13, 20. See also 168; technologies of, 172n10; and visual activists: health; health care imagery, xxviii–xxix Risk Society (Beck), xiii, xvii–xviii, 71, 85 qāt plants, xvii, xxv, xxx, 68, 70, 105, 114–119 Rist, Gilbert, 136 quarantine, xxx, xxxii n3, 4 Rockefeller Foundation, 104, 146, 170n2 Quist, David, 78 Roosevelt, Franklin D., 27 Roots of Resilience, The (World Resource Institute), race, xxvii, 134, 156, 175, 183, 186 147, 166–167 Ramphele, Mamphela, 183 Rorty, Richard, 122 RAND corporation, 17 Rose, Nikolas, 92 Rappaport, Roy, 166, 172n16 Rostow, Walt, 122 Rawlings, Jerry John, 129–130, 132, 136, 142n16 Rouse, Carolyn, xvii, xxiii–xxvi, xxv, xxvii, xxix– Rayner, Steve, 73 xxx, 10, 40, 91, 182, 191 Reagan, Ronald, 11, 25–26, 30–32 Rumsfeld, Donald, 84, 152 refugees, xi, 26, 41 Rusk, Dean, 133 Reid, J., 149, 151–152 Russia, 19, 38. See also Soviet Union Renal Journal of Bangladesh, 213 reproductive health/rights, xxvii, 177–179, 181, Sahel, xxvi, 210; development in, 160; droughts 185–186, 192, 198, 208 in, 152–153, 155, 158–159; ecological resilience, xv, xvi, xxvi–xxviii, xxx, 6, 122, crisis in, 158–161, 172n13; food crisis in, 152, 168, 174; in Africa, xvii, 70, 153; 152, 155–156, 159, 161, 167; pastoralists and climate change, 153–156; concept/ of, 158–160, 169; and resilience, 153, 165, definition of, 145–150, 153–155, 166–167, 169–170 170n1, 170n2, 171n3–5; conferences held for, 146–147; and the environment, 164, Sana’a Basin (Yemen), 110, 112, 117 166; as form of governmentality, 167, 174; Sanal, Aslihan, 209 as risk-management tool, 164–165, 169; Santa Fe, New Mexico, xiv–xvi and sustainable development, 166 SARS virus, xix, xxi, 8, 11–12, 62n2, 94, 99 Resilience Alliance, 149, 165, 167, 171n7 Saudi Arabia, 205 Resilience: Bounce Back from Whatever Life Throws at Scheper-Hughes, Nancy, 209 You (Clarke and Nicholson), 147 School for Advanced Research (SAR), xiv– Resilience Centre (Stockholm), 149, 164–165 xvi, xviii. See also biosecurity: and SAR Resilience journal, 147 advanced seminar resistance, xv, 150, 157 science, xxii–xxiv, xxvi, xxviii, 8, 11, 151; resources, xii, xvi, 61, 135, 168; access to, 143; academic, 72–73, 80–81, 84; and academy- control over, 38; critical to survival, xvi, industry partnerships, 81–85; Africa’s xx–xxvi, xxii; development of, 109–110; contributions to, 156–158; bio, 80–81, 95; extraction of, xxvii, xxix, xxxi; global, xxv; and bioviolence, 197; of complexity, 168; population impact on, 91; preservation of, experimental, xxiii, 48–49, 51, 53–54; and 160; protection of, xv; rights to, 143; scar- GM crops, 66, 80–81, 85–86, 100; and HIV/ city of, xi, xv, xvii, xxviii, 134, 158, 162, 164; AIDS, 173, 177–178, 180, 192–193; hybrid, sustainability of, 109–110; and vulnerabil- 58; investment in, 177; Merton’s views on, ity, xvii, xxvi. See also fuels; oil; water 80; “pure”, 80; reliance on, 83; and risk, 76, Richardson, Ruth, 58, 197 85; self-policing of, 80–81; and social jus- Rights Action, 39 tice, 52, 59; translational, 58; “vernacular”, risk, xii–xiii, xvii, xix, xxxi, 11, 17–18, 49, 146; xxx, 157–158; and water security, 104–105, aversion, xiii, xxi, 94; and biomedical 112; xeno, 49–55. See also biotechnology; research, 58–60; calculable, 164; definition laboratories

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Scott, James, 163 rights in, 181–183, 191; mine workers in, security measures, xi–xii, xiv; “blowback” of, xvii; 181, 183, 185; Positive Women’s Network clandestine, xix; collective, xxi; concept of, 190; protests in, 187; transportation in, of, 5; doctrines concerning, 148; failures, 103, 186–189; treatment for AIDS in, 179, xxi; images of, 1; and resilience, 148–149; 185, 192–193; unemployment in, 181–182, unevenness of, xxvi 184–185, 190; and violence against women, security state, 5–6, 8, 10, 14–17, 22, 122, 150–151, 184–185, 190–192; water issues in, 103, 188– 172n10 189; women in, xxxi, 173–174, 180–193. See Security, Territory, Population (Foucault), 168 also Africa; AIDS; KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa self: care, 16, 70, 89–90, 92, 94, 147; determination, 89, 95, 100, 205; making, 100, 153, 169 South America, 38, 40–41 Sen, Amartya, 162 South Asia, xvi, xviii, xxvi, xxviii–xxix, 1, 104, 157 September 11, 2001, xi–xii, xxi, xxxii n3, 4–5, 13, South Korea, 27 41, 52, 105, 108, 146–147, 152, 172n9, 176 Southern Command (Southcom), 33–34 Shanghai, 96 Soviet Union, 17–19, 23n3, 23n5, 33, 38, 122, 133 Shapin, Steven, 158 Spain, 180 Shapiro, Robert, 74 state, building of, xiii, 148, 174. See also security Sharp, Lesley A., xiv–xvi, xix, xxi–xxiii, xxvi– state xxvii, xxix–xxx, 4, 8, 147 Stewart, Neal, 83 Sierra Leone, 137 Stockholm, 149, 158–159 Sigasa, Sizakele, 190 Stone, Glenn Davis, xvii, xxiii–xxiv, xxvi–xxvii, Singapore, 196 xxix, 8, 58, 63n7, 97, 123 Skoll Global Threats Fund, 104 structural adjustment, xv, xxiii, 123–124, 134, 136, 158, 160, 175, 181 smallpox, 8, 12–13, 18–22, 47 sub-Saharan Africa, 126–129, 155, 160 Smith, Adam, 162 subsistence, 110, 117, 155, 161 Smith, Elta, 99 surveillance, xi–xiii, xxi, 10, 13, 21 Snow, Allison, 83 Susser, Ida, xv, xviii, xx–xxi, xxv–xxvii, xxix– Snowden, Edward, xxii xxxi, 10, 28, 42, 91, 103, 210 social: capital, 110, 141, 165; change, 139, Sweden, 19 145–146; contracts, 10, 15; danger, 49; good, 131; imaginary, 149–150; justice, xxv, Swift, Jeremy, 163 52, 56, 59; media, 92–93; movements, 173, swine, xix, 3, 62n4, 64n14; bred for experiments, 184, 193; processes, 57, 63n6; relations, 54–56; carry diseases, xiv, 49, 53–55, 41, 140, 162–163, 166, 192; reproduction, 57–60, 63n7; flu, xi, xiii, 3–4, 47, 50, 55, 158, 174; resilience, 167; science, 72, 149, 63n7; genetically engineered, 45–46, 55, 162; stability, 140, 175, 181; status, 208; 61; “humanized”, 51, 53, 56, 58, 60–61; stigmatization, 202–204; systems, 164, 166; industrial farming of, 49–50; and organ vulnerability, 165 transplants, 45–46, 48–49, 51–54, 58–61, socialism, 88, 99, 108–109, 121, 129, 133–134 64n10. See also PERVs Society for Applied Anthropology, xiv Sylvester, Edward J., 12 soil, 156–157, 160, 172n13 Syngenta, 83 Somalia, 155 Somoza Debayle, Anastasio, 30 Taylor, Peter, 159 Soto Cano (Honduras), xix, xxix, 25–26, 31–35, technology, 9, 13, 66, 74–75, 81, 84, 112, 114, 119, 43n3 149, 152, 169. See also biotechnology South Africa, xxvi, xxvii, 63n5, 210; apartheid in, terrorism, xiii, xviii, xxi, xxx, 11, 52; anticipation/ 181–183, 185; customary law in, 190–191; preemption of, 5, 7–8; attacks of, 18–20, disease in, xxvii, 10, 189; and drug patents, 23n5; and food systems, 128; in Ghana, 124; 176–177, 180; and health care/crisis, xxvii, imagined, 18, 176; and infectious diseases, 10, 173, 175, 185; and HIV-positive babies, 7–8, 11–12, 18–22; risks of, 152–153; simula- 184; infrastructure in, xviii, 186–187; land tion of, 15–22; and US, xxiii, xxvi, 7–8,

276 Index

14–15, 47, 176; and water supplies, 105–106, United States, xi–xiii, xxvi, xxix, 41, 122, 154, 118. See also bioterrorism; counterterrorism 157; academic capitalism in, 81–82; and Texas, 106 AIDS funding, 179; and biodefense, 1, 5, Thailand, 196 7–14; and biosecurity, 4, 6–9, 12, 119; and threat: adapting/responding to, 166; amplifi- biosecurity games, 17–22; bioterrorism cation of, 9, 12–13; future, 11, 49, 108, in, 14–15, 23n5; and Contras, 28, 30–33; 149; invented, 78; management of, 153, as counterterror state, 5–18, 22; and food 172n10; perceptions of, 105; potential, 14; safety, 94–95; global strategies of, 27–28; production/mitigation, 11–12; and resil- and GM crops, 71–72, 76, 79, 81–83, 86n5, ience, 146–147; simulation of, 15–22 97; hegemonic aspirations of, xxv, 38; and imagined threats, xxii–xxiii, 6–11, 14–16, Tilley, Helen, 156–157 22; and intellectual property, 176–177; tissue engineering, 45–46, 48 nations crucial to, 106–107, 119; and pre- tobacco industry, 73 paredness exercises, 15–22, 94; regulatory TOPOFF exercises, 15 agencies in, 56–57, 63n7, 64n15; relation- tourism, 126, 175 ship with Ghana, 133–134; research in, trade, xxvii, 41, 114, 150, 161, 167, 174–176, 180. 12, 81–82, 98; secret operations of, 26, 32, See also World Trade Organization (WTO) 35–36, 41–42; security of, xix, xxv, 7–8, 11, Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property 22–23, 27–28, 148; and smallpox vaccine, Rights (TRIPS), 174–177, 180, 188 8, 10, 22; surveillance programs of, 10–11; transgenic: animals, xvi, 24, 28, 30, 50–51, 61; and water security, xxiv–xxv, 104–108. See crops, 79, 100; organ donors, 30; organ- also anthrax; Cold War; Honduras; terror- isms, 81; plants, 71, 77–79 ism; US military; War on Terror transgenics, xvi, xix, xxiv, xxviii, xxx, 83 US Agency for International Development, 160 transpecies, 60, 62n4, 151 US Congress, 31–32, 34–35, 40 Transplant Act. See Human Body and Organ US Department of Defense, 11–12, 22, 155 Transplant Act US Department of Health and Human Services, 10 transplantation. See allografts; human organs; US Department of Homeland Security, xii, xxiii, xenotransplantation science 16, 22, 49 Transplantation Society, 204 US Department of State, xxiv, 26, 40, 104, 133 transportation, xxii, xxvii, 161; affordable, 186; US Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA), in Africa, 160, 174; and AIDS treatment, 22, 39 186–189; and biological threats, 23n5; and US embassy, 133 drug trafficking, 41; fraudulent, 29; and US Federal Civil Defense Administration, 16 heightened security, 1; inadequate, xx, US military: bases of, xvi–xvii, xix, xxix, 2, 4, 9, xxix, 103, 164, 181; and infectious diseases, 25–28, 30–39, 42n1–2, 60, 213; in Central 19–20; investment in, 162, 186, 189; lack of, America, 25–26, 28; global network of, 10, 180; neglect of, xxvii, xxix; and resil- 36–39, 42n3, 152; interventions by, 28, ience, 147; as source of risk, 11; in South 30, 35–37, 41; “lily pad” bases of, xxix, 27, Africa, 186–187, 192 35–39; and WMD, 10–12, 16, 22 Treatment Action Campaign, 193 US National Security Council, 22, 134 Turkey, 19–21, 37, 209 US Pentagon, 26, 31, 34–39 Turse, Nick, 37 US Postal Service, 10 US Public Health Service, 197 UN-HABITAT, 166 US Supreme Court, 82–83, 86n5 UNAIDS, 178 US Transportation Security Administration, 49 UNEP, 147, 166–167 USAID, 114, 135 UNFPA, 178 United Fruit Company (Chiquita), 28–29 Vancouver Forum on the Care of the Live Organ United Kingdom, xiii, 61, 64n15, 146–148. See also Donor, 205 Great Britain Venezuela, 38–39, 41 United Nations, xii, 105, 148–150, 155, 158–159, Vesalius, Andreas, 197 174, 178

277 Index veterinarians, 52, 55 infrastructure; integrated water resource Vietnam, 4, 36–37 management (IWRM); politics: of water; Vine, David, xvi–xvii, xix, xxii, xxvi, xxix–xxx, specific countries 9, 213 “Water and Agriculture” conference, 105 violence, xxviii, 8, 18, 142n18, 155, 164; and “Water Security, Risk and Society” conference, capital, 208; community, xvii, xxv, 124–128, 104 135, 138–141; and drug trafficking, 39–41; Watts, Michael J., xv, xvii–xviii, xxi, xxvi–xxvii, forms of, xxix, 6, 10, 22, 143–144; gen- xxix, 6, 52, 63n7, 84, 174, 177, 188, 192, 210 dered, xxxi, 185, 190, 193; in Ghana, xxv, weapons: biological, 105; chemical, 10, 105, 154; 10, 69–70, 122–128, 135–136; in Honduras, of mass destruction (WMD), 10–12, 16, 22; 27, 31–32, 39–42; in Latin America, supplied by US, 25, 31–32, 35, 41; and ter- 39–40; political, xxvi, 132, 141; against rorist attacks, 47 poor, xxviii, 210–211; reproduced, 208; Wedeen, Lisa, 116 structural, xiv, xix, 89; symbolic, 125, 127, West Africa, xxvi, 124, 155, 158–159, 161, 170, 136; against vulnerable bodies, 196–198; 172n13, 210 against women, 184–185, 190–192. See also Western: agricultural/environmental groups, 94; bioviolence biomedicine, 196–198; colonialism, 191; vulnerability, and bioinsecurity, 61; “cartogra- imperialist projects, 122; law, 191; market phies” of, xxv, 130, 136; explanation of, xiii, control, 131; media, 88, 97, 100; scientific xv, 148; of human bodies, 139; locations of, research, 192 89; notions of, 164 WikiLeaks, 35 Wilhelm, Charles, 34 aldby, Catherine, 208–209 W Williams, Raymond, 145–146 Walker, J., 167 women, xx, 182; bear social burdens/blame, war gaming, 17–22 xxvii, 192–193; as chiefs, 190–191; and War on Terror, 6–9, 12–13, 18, 22–23, 105, HIV/AIDS, xxvii, 177–181, 184–185, 190, 107–108, 148, 151 192; rights of, 191–192; in South Africa, wars, xxviii, 70, 137, 151–152, 175; backed by US, xxxi, 173–174, 180–193. See also gender; 25–28, 33, 35–37, 41, 105, 107–108; and reproductive health/rights biological/chemical weapons, 105; fought World Bank, 112; on food demands/prices, 150; over land, 39, 128; “new way” of, 35–37; and Ghana, 121–122, 124, 135–136; and over right to existence, 156; over water, 104, microcredit programs, 210; low-interest 118–119; on the poor, 128. See also weapons loans of, 109–110, 117–118; and resilience, Washington Post, 32 147, 166–167; under Robert McNamara, water, xi, xx, xxii, xxv, xxvii, 156, 181, 193; 159; and water privatization, xxv, 105, 107 access to, 70, 135, 188–189; associations World Economic Forum, 146 for, 109, 112–113; conflicts over, 70, 104, World Food Programme, 155 106, 118–119; contaminated, 95; and World Health Assembly, 204 food, xxiv, 103–105; global policies for, World Health Organization (WHO), xii, 4, 173–174; and GM crops, 99–100; holis- 19–20, 57 tic approach to, 111–114; investment in, World Medical Association, 204 123–124; management of, xvii, 10, 104, World Resources Institute, 147, 166–167 106, 109, 111–114, 119; pollution, 91–92, 106, 189; privatization of, xxv, 70, 107, World Trade Organization (WTO), 150, 174, 188–189, 192; and public-private partner- 176 –177, 180 ships, 103–104, 107; quality of, 103–104, World War II, 27, 30, 64n11, 174, 197 113–114; rainwater, 110–111, 117, 157; and World Water Council, 111 resilience, 147; safety of, xx–xxi, 88; scarcity World Water Day, 104 of, xvii, xx, xxvi, 99–100, 104, 107, 113, 116, World Water Forum, 105 118–119; security, xvi, xxiv–xxv, 103–107, World Water Vision (World Water Council), 111 113–114, 116–119; sustainability, 103, World Water Week (Stockholm), 105 109–112; threats to, 105–107, 118–119, 164; World Wide Governance Indicators, 121 and water-thirsty crops, 116–118. See also

278 Index xenografting, xxx, 45–46, 48–49, 55, 59–61 in, 109, 111, 113, 115–116, 119; and qāt xenotransplantation science, xxviii, 8, 64n9; and plant, xvii, xxv, xxx, 68, 70, 105, 114–119; bioethics, 56–59; explanation of, 45–46, water crisis in, 107–108, 110–113, 118–119; 61, 62n3; laboratories for, 49–51, 54–55, water governance in, 108–114; water mis- 57–58, 60; and lethal pathogens, 46–50, 55, managed in, xvii, xxiv–xxv, xxvi, 111; and 60; and longue durée, 59–60; moral terrain water security, 103, 105; and water-thirsty of, 49–53, 56–57, 60–61, 63n6; purpose of, crops, xxx, 70, 110–111, 116–118 59; regulation of, 56–58, 61, 63n6, 64n15; Yunus, Muhammad, 210 scientists involved in, 46–53, 55–61, 62n3; social ramifications of, 58; and transla- Zelaya, Manuel, 40 tional science, 58, 64n17. See also human Zemurray, Sam, 29 organs Zimbabwe, 128 zoonoses, xii–xiii, xvi, xix, xxvi, 3–4, 49–50, Yemen, 10, 99, 106; and IWRM, 111–113; and 52–53, 62n2 neoliberal development, 108–111; poverty

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Sixteenth-Century Mexico: Southwestern Indian Ritual Drama The Work of Sahagun Charlotte J. Frisbie, ed. Munro S. Edmonson, ed. Meaning in Anthropology Keith H. Basso & Henry A. Selby, eds. Participants in the School for Advanced Research advanced seminar “Biosecurity and Vulnerability” co-chaired by Nancy N. Chen and Lesley A. Sharp, October 9–13, 2011. Standing, from left: David Vine, Steven Caton, Glenn Davis Stone, Carolyn Rouse, Monir Moniruzzaman, Joseph Masco, Michael Watts; seated, from left: Nancy Chen, Lesley A. Sharp, Ida Susser. Photograph by Jason S. Ordaz.