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The Mobilization Serieson Social Movements,
Protest, and Culture
Series Editor
Professor Hank Johnston
San Diego State University, USA
Published in conjunction with Mobilization: An International Quarterly, the
premier research journal in the field, this series disseminates high quality new
research and scholarship in the fields of social movements, protest, and contentious
politics. The series is interdisciplinary in focus and publishes monographs and
collections of essays by new and established scholars.
Other titles of interest from Ashgate
Student Activism and Curricular Change in Higher Education
Mikaila Mariel Lemonik Arthur
Culture, Social Movements, and Protest
Edited by Hank Johnston
The Policing of Transnational Protest
Edited by Donatella della Porta, Abby Peterson and Herbert Reiter
8.
Violent Protest, Contentious
Politics,and the Neoliberal State
Edited by
Seraphim Seferiades
Panteion University, Greece
Hank Johnston
San Diego State University, USA
Contents
List of Figures vii
List of Tables ix
Notes on Contributors xi
Preface xvii
Section I Theoretical Perspectives
1 The Dynamics of Violent Protest:
Emotions, Repression and Disruptive Deficit 3
Seraphim Seferiades and Hank Johnston
2 Protest Movements and Violence 19
Frances Fox Piven
3 The Outcomes of Political Violence:
Ethical, Theoretical and Methodological Challenges 29
Lorenzo Bosi and Marco Giugni
4 Age Cohorts, Cognition and Collective Violence 39
Hank Johnston
Section II Regional Perspectives:
France, Germany and the United Kingdom
5 Political Violence in Germany:
Trends and Exploration of Causes 55
Dieter Rucht
6 The ‘Unusual Suspects’:
Radical Repertoires in Consensual Settings 71
Mario Diani
7 The Riots: A Dynamic View 87
Donatella della Porta and Bernard Gbikpi
11.
Violent Protest, ContentiousPolitics, and the Neoliberal State
vi
Section III Comparative Perspectives
8 Protest and Repression in Democracies and Autocracies:
Europe, Iran, Thailand and the Middle East 2010–11 103
Jack A. Goldstone
9 Contemporary French and British Urban Riots:
An Exploration of the Underlying Political Dimensions 119
David Waddington and Mike King
10 The Volatility of Urban Riots 133
Marilena Simiti
Section IV The Greek December, 2008
11 The Greek December, 2008 149
Hank Johnston and Seraphim Seferiades
12 Along the Pathways of Rage:
The Space-Time of an Uprising 157
Loukia Kotronaki and Seraphim Seferiades
13 The Accidental Eruption of an Anarchist Protest 171
Kostas Kanellopoulos
14 Radical Minorities, a Decade of Contention and
the Greek December 2008 183
Nikos Lountos
Bibliography 193
Index 221
12.
List of Figures
5.1Number of all protest events (PEs) and
participants per year, 1950–2009 60
5.2 Number of violent protest events and
participants per year, 1950–2009 61
5.3 Distribution of type of action by periods, 1950–2009 61
5.4 Evolution of right-extremist political violence according
to governmental statistics 63
5.5 Evolution of left-extremist political violence according
to governmental statistics 63
5.6 Issue domains of violent protests, 1950–2002 65
6.1 Alliance network in Glasgow 79
6.2 Alliance network in Bristol 79
6.3 Alliances between organizations prepared to engage in
confrontational protest in Glasgow 80
6.4 Alliances between organizations prepared to engage in
confrontational protest in Bristol 80
6.5 Alliances between organizations prepared to engage in
violence against objects (Glasgow) 81
6.6 Alliances between organizations prepared to engage in
violence against objects (Bristol) 82
11.1 Protest trajectory, December 5–31, 2008 153
11.2 Protest events with property damage, December 5–31, 2008 154
List of Tables
3.1A typology of the outcomes of political violence 31
5.1 Indicators of protest militancy 64
6.1 Forms of radical protest by city 76
6.2 Reports of protest repertoires 76
6.3 Links of ‘radical’ organizations to institutions by city 77
6.4 A profile of ‘radical’ organizations by city 77
6.5 Odds ratios predicting the use of ‘radical’ protest by city 78
7.1 Percentage of topics in statements by selected speakers 94
7.2 Selected causes by selected speakers 95
7.3 Percentage of space dedicated to institutional and
non-institutional speakers 97
7.4 How rioters are described by speakers 98
Notes on Contributors
LorenzoBosi is currently a Marie Curie Fellow at the European University
Institute, working on a research project on the development and demise of political
violence. His main research interests have been in political sociology and historical
sociology where his studies have focused on social movement development,
outcomes and political violence. He has published in several refereed journals:
Mobilization: An International Quarterly; Ricerche di Storia Politica; Research in
Social Movement, Conflict and Change; Historical Sociology; and The Sixties. He
is working on a book about the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Movement.
Donatella della Porta is Professor of Sociology in the Department of Political and
Social Sciences at the European University Institute. She has directed the Demos
project, devoted to the analysis of conceptions and practices of democracy in social
movements in six European countries. She is now starting a major ERC project,
Mobilizing for Democracy, on civil society participation in democratization
processes in Europe, the Middle East, Asia and Latin America. Among her recent
publications are: Mobilizing on the Right (with M. Caiani and C. Wageman,
Oxford University Press, 2012); L’intervista qualitativa (Laterza, 2011); Social
Movements and Europeanization (with M. Caiani, Oxford University Press, 2009);
(ed.) Another Europe (Routledge, 2009); (ed.) Democracy in Social Movements
(Palgrave, 2009); Approaches and Methodologies in the Social Sciences (with
Michael Keating, Cambridge University Press, 2008); Voices from the Valley;
Voices from the Street (with Gianni Piazza, Berghan, 2008); The Global Justice
Movement (Paradigm, 2007); Globalization from Below (with Massimiliano
Andretta, Lorenzo Mosca and Herbert Reiter, University of Minnesota Press,
2006); The Policing Transnational Protest (with Abby Peterson and Herbert
Reiter, Ashgate, 2006); Social Movements: An Introduction, 2nd edition (with
Mario Diani, Blackwell, 2006); and Transnational Protest and Global Activism
(with Sidney Tarrow, Rowman and Littlefield, 2005).
Mario Diani is ICREA Research Professor in the Department of Political and
Social Sciences of the Universitat Pompeu Fabra, Barcelona. Before that, he was
Professor of Sociology in the Universities of Strathclyde in Glasgow (1996–2001)
and Trento (2001–2010). He has worked extensively on social movements and on
social network approaches to collective action. His publications include Social
Movements (with Donatella della Porta, Blackwell, 1999 and 2006); Social
Movements and Networks (co-edited with Doug McAdam, Oxford UP, 2003);
and articles in leading journals such as American Sociological Review; American
17.
Violent Protest, ContentiousPolitics, and the Neoliberal State
xii
Journal of Sociology; Social Networks; Theory and Society; and Mobilization.
Current research interests include civil society networks in UK cities, on which he
is just completing a book, as well as individual participation in associations and
grassroots groups, and networks of migrant organizations. From 1997 to 2005 he
was the European editor of Mobilization.
Bernard Gbikpi is a lecturer in Political Science at Gonzaga University in Florence
(Italy) and in Spokane (WA). He earned his PhD in Social and Political Sciences at
the European University Institute in Florence in 1996 and holds a D.E.A. from the
University of Paris X-Nanterre. He has participated in various research projects at
the EUI. Among his publications are “Contribution à une théorie de la légitimation
politique des ordres politiques et sociaux modernes” (Cultures Conflits 1999);
“Dalla teoria della democrazia participative a quella deliberative; quali possibili
continuità?” (Stato e Mercato 2005); he co-edited (with Juergen Grote), Participatory
Governance. Political and Social Implications (Leske Budrich 2002); and he has
contributed to various edited books. His research interests are in modern political
thought, political theory and comparative politics; his current research interest is in
Machiavelli’s political thought.
Marco Giugni is a professor at the Department of Political Science and International
Relations and Director of the Institute of Social and Political Research (RESOP)
at the University of Geneva, Switzerland. His research interests include social
movements and collective action, immigration and ethnic relations, unemployment
and social exclusion. Professor Giugni is European Editor of Mobilization: An
International Quarterly.
Jack A. Goldstone is the Virginia E. and John T. Hazel Professor of Public Policy
at George Mason University. He is the author of Revolution and Rebellion in the
Early Modern World, was awarded the 1993 Distinguished Scholarly Research
Award of the American Sociological Association, and has published nine other
books as well as over a hundred research articles on topics in politics, social
movements, democratization, and long-term social change. He has been a Fellow
at the Center for Advanced Study at Stanford University, and has won Fellowships
from the MacArthur Foundation and the American Council of Learned Societies.
His current research focuses on conditions for building democracy and stability in
developing nations, the impact of population change on the global economy and
international security, and the cultural origins of modern economic growth. His
latest books are Why Europe? The Rise of the West 1500–1850 (McGraw-Hill,
2008), and Political Demography: Identities, Change, and Conflict (Paradigm,
forthcoming).
Hank Johnston is Professor of Sociology at San Diego State University. His
research focuses on nationalist movements, resistance against state repression,
framing theory, and cultural approaches to mobilization. He has lived and
18.
Notes on Contributorsxiii
conducted research in Spain, the Baltic and Transcaucasian states of the former
Soviet Union, Venezuela, and, currently, Mexico. He is the founding editor and
publisher of Mobilization: An International Quarterly. His latest books are States
and Social Movements (Polity, 2011); Culture, Social Movements, and Protest
(Ashgate, 2010); Latin American Social Movements (ed. with Paul Almeida,
Rowman Littlefield, 2008); Frames of Protest (ed. with John Noakes, Rowman
Littlefield, 2005); Repression and Mobilization (ed. with Chris Davenport and
Carol Mueller, Minnesota, 2005); and Globalization and Resistance (ed. with
Jackie Smith, Rowman Littlefield, 2002). He is also editor of the Mobilization
series on Protest, Social Movements, and Culture with Ashgate Publishers.
Kostas Kanellopoulos is an independent researcher based in Athens. He has studied
Political Science and Sociology at the University of Athens. In 2009 he defended
his doctoral dissertation at Panteion University. His main research interests are
on the theory of social movements, globalization, and the anti-globalization
movement. As a doctoral candidate he was a recipient of a scholarship from the
Greek Institute of State Scholarships. In the 1990s he was an active member of
the student movement. He is currently co-editing a volume, Contentious Politics
and Social Movements in the 21st Century (in Greek), with Seraphim Seferiades.
Mike King is Emeritus Professor at the Centre for Applied Criminology,
Birmingham City University, UK. He has researched and published widely
in the areas of public order policing and policing change, both in the UK and
internationally. Mike’s recent work includes a co-edited book with David
Waddington and Fabien Jobard, Rioting in the UK and France: A Comparative
Analysis (Willan/Routledge, 2009).
Loukia Kotronaki is a PhD candidate in Political Sociology at the Department of
Politics and History, Panteion University of Social and Political Science, Athens.
Her thesis is entitled “Beyond Consensus: Contentious Politics and the Dynamics
of Internationalist Collective Action – The Greek Case, 2000–2007.” She holds
a D.E.A. in Sociologie Politique et Anthropologie Politique from Paris I – La
Sorbonne, where she has also been a researcher at the CPRS. Her works have
appeared in edited volumes and journals such as Actuel Marx; Contretemps; and
Situations. She is also a regular contributor to the Greek national press.
Nikos Lountos is a PhD student at Panteion University of Social and Political
Science. His thesis is on the interaction between secular and religious discourses
in social movements in a Middle Eastern and a broader context. His MA thesis
was on the “Material and Intellectual Origins of the Egyptian Nationalism until
the Revolution of 1919.” His publications in the Greek language include a book
on the war and the resistance in Lebanon (2006) and an edited volume on the
movement against the Iraq War in Greece (2004). More recently, he edited a
volume on the Greek economic crisis (2011). He is a member of the editorial
19.
Violent Protest, ContentiousPolitics, and the Neoliberal State
xiv
board of the Greek socialist journal Socialism From Below and a member of the
Contentious Politics Circle.
Frances Fox Piven’s work reflects a preoccupation with the uses of political
science to promote democratic reform. Regulating the Poor, co-authored with
Richard Cloward, is a historical and theoretical analysis of the role of welfare
policy in the economic and political control of the poor and working class. First
published in 1972, it was updated in 1993; it is widely acknowledged as a social
science classic. Poor Peoples’ Movements (1977) analyzes the political dynamics
through which insurgent social movements sometimes compel significant policy
reforms. Piven and Cloward’s The New Class War (1982, updated 1985); The
Mean Season (1987); and The Breaking of the American Social Compact (1997)
traced the historical and political underpinnings of the contemporary attack on
social and regulatory policy. In Why Americans Don’t Vote (1988; updated as Why
Americans Still Don’t Vote in 2000) they analyzed the role of US electoral laws
and practices in disenfranchising large numbers of working class and poor citizens,
and the impact of disenfranchisement on party development. In 1992, Piven edited
Labor Parties in Postindustrial Societies. In The War at Home, Piven examines
the domestic causes and consequences of the foreign wars launched by the Bush
administration. Most recently, in Challenging Authority (2006) Piven develops a
theoretical perspective on the interplay of social movements and electoral politics
in American political development. In 2009, she published Keeping the Black
Vote: Race and the Demobilization of American Voters (with Lorraine C. Minnite
and Margaret Groarke), an examination of voter suppression in American politics.
Dieter Rucht is Professor of Sociology at the Social Science Research Center,
Berlin. His research interests include political participation, social movements
and political protest. Among his books are Social Movements in a Globalizing
World (co-edited with Donatella della Porta and Hanspeter Kriesi, 2009); Shaping
Abortion Discourse: Democracy and the Public Sphere in Germany and the United
States (with Myra Marx Ferree, William Gamson and Jurgen Gerhards, 2002); and
Protest Politics: Antiwar Mobilization in Advanced Industrial Democracies (with
Stefaan Walgrave, 2010). He has published articles in the American Journal of
Sociology; West European Politics; Mobilization: An International Quarterly; and
other top-ranked sociology and political science journals.
Seraphim Seferiades is an Assistant Professor of Politics at the Panteion University
of Social and Political Science, Athens, a Life Member in Politics and History at
the University of Cambridge (CLH) and co-ordinator of the Contentious Politics
Circle. For several years the Secretary of the Greek Political Science Association,
he has been Hannah Seeger Davis Fellow at Princeton University, Jean Monnet
Fellow at the European University Institute and tutor in Arts at the University
of Cambridge (CHU). His work spans European and Greek labour and social
history, contentious politics and social science methodology. He has edited or co-
20.
Notes on Contributorsxv
edited volumes on methodology, social movements and the Greek dictatorship
and published extensively in journals such as Comparative Politics; the European
Journal of Industrial Relations; the Journal of Contemporary History; the Rivista
Italiana di Scienza Politica; the Journal of Modern Greek Studies; Actuel Marx;
and the Greek Political Science Review. He is currently completing two volumes
on contentious politics and historiography.
Marilena Simiti is Assistant Professor of Political Sociology at the Department
of International and European Studies, University of Piraeus. She is the author of
New Social Movements in Greece: Aspects of the Ecological and Feminist Projects
(Department of Political Science, London School of Economics, 2002); and Civil
Society in the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership (Athens: Sakkoulas, 2008).
Dr Simiti has also published articles and chapters in edited books concerning civil
society and its actors (e.g., “Civil Society: New Forms of Collective Action,”
Spoudai 52:4, 2002; “Central and Peripheral Non-Governmental Organizations
in the International Community: The Construction of Social Networks,” in A.
Chouliaras and P. Sklias (eds), Diplomacy of Civil Society (Athens: Papazisis,
2002); “The Contemporary Feminist Movement: Ideological Conflicts and
Political Dilemmas,” Koinonia Politon 9, 2003; “Two Facets of Civil Society: The
Struggle for Hegemony,” in Y. Voulgaris and L. Kotsonopoulos (eds), Following
the Path of Antonio Gramsci (Athens: Themelio, 2010). She holds a Master ofArts
from Columbia University and a PhD from the London School of Economics and
Political Science.
David Waddington is Professor of Communications and Head of the
Communications and Computing Research Centre at Sheffield Hallam University,
UK, where he has been employed since 1983. His primary research interests are:
industrial relations, the sociology of communities, research methodologies, and
public order policing. He is author of Contemporary Issues in Public Disorder:
A Comparative and Historical Approach (Routledge, 1992) and Policing Public
Disorder: Theory and Practice (Willan, 2007). He is also co-author of Flashpoints:
Studies in Public Disorder (with Chas Critcher and Karen Jones, Routledge, 1989)
and has co-edited Policing Public Order: Theoretical and Practical Approaches
(with Chas Critcher, Avebury, 1996) and Rioting in the UK and France: A
Comparative Analysis (with Fabien Jobard and Mike King, Willan, 2009).
Preface
This volume isthe fruit of an international conference, “Rioting and Violent
Protest in Comparative Perspective: Theoretical Considerations, Empirical
Puzzles,” held at Panteion University inAthens in December 2009. The conference
marked the first anniversary of the social eruption that shook Greece following the
murder of 15-year-old high-school student, Alexandros Grigoropoulos, by a riot
policeman in the centre of Athens. The dramatic protests that followed resounded
not only in national politics in Greece, but throughout Europe, demonstrated by
several immediate solidarity protests in other countries, and by militant action
by students in France, Great Britain, Spain and elsewhere, in years to follow.
Considering that these events all occurred in democracies subjected to neoliberal
restructuring, it seemed that something new and significant was unfolding,
which raised important theoretical questions for protest scholars. A conference
to explore these questions was organized by the Contentious Politics Circle
[Κύκλος Συγκρουσιακής Πολιτικής], an interdisciplinary network of scholars
based at the Panteion University of Social and Political Science,Athens (see http://
contentiouspoliticscircle1.blogspot.com/).
This volume aspires to advance theoretical debate by comparing and
synthesizing analyses of contemporary violent protest actions. The chapters that
follow seek, first, to identify the precise social and political characteristics of the
recent eruptions and compare them with other historical occurrences as a basis for
theoretical advance. Their analyses highlight different domains of mobilization,
organization, participation, repression, and the dynamics among different
elements, which can be summarized by the following points.
First, a key dimension includes the socio-structural underpinnings of violent
protest, such as labour market precariousness (especially among European
youths), the development of a new immigrant underclass, and mounting strains
on traditional social and political solidarity networks. A related element concerns
deficiencies in the way established political forces (especially parties and trade
unions) have responded to these shifts, and to protesters’ claims and tactics.
Second, our chapters trace how strategic-instrumental action interacts with
emotional and cognitive factors. They ask how can we assess the role of violence
in strategic efficacy, the interaction between the police and “disorderly crowds,”
and if we are witnessing a regression to the aggressive police tactics of the 1970s
and 1980s? Relatedly, is it possible to say that the recent eruptions bring about
contentious repertoire renewal and, if so, could that be modular?
Third, several chapters explore the different organizational phenomena at
work in violent protest: parties, unions, youth groups and collectives, student
23.
Violent Protest, ContentiousPolitics, and the Neoliberal State
xviii
associations and networks. Behind the scenes is the role that new technologies
play (websites, Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, blogs, instant messaging), and how
these technologies blend with conventional media. How do they allow protesters
to transcend traditional means of social control?
Fourth, what can be said about how narrative and discursive dimensions shape
violent protest? How do participants frame their demands and construct their
narratives of blame, mobilization and personal participation? How do established
political forces interpret violent protest and use their natural advantages regarding
access to the mass media? Have the ontological narratives adopted been premised
on some genuine frame transformation or have they, despite appearances, relied
on traditional understandings?
Finally, through which causal mechanisms did our national cases diffuse to
help shape protest in other countries? Did significant shifts in scale occur such that
mainstream political discourse was affected? Has violent protest had any tangible
results, and how are we to assess it? Does violent action tell us something about
the challenges and opportunities inherent in transnational collective action?
These questions, of course, constitute a tall agenda, and it is an exaggeration
to claim that all have been answered in the chapters that follow. But, then again,
these topics are extremely important. Even more than the theoretical and empirical
contributions that this volume makes, we present these chapters—above all—to
whet appetites for further debate.
Hank Johnston, San Diego
Seraphim Seferiades, Athens
Chapter 1
The Dynamicsof Violent Protest:
Emotions, Repression and Disruptive Deficit
Seraphim Seferiades and Hank Johnston
Distinctive among all other forms of contentious politics, violent protest evokes
contradictory responses. Apparently easy to initiate (as it bears comparatively
little logistic and organizational cost), violence is simultaneously the most visible
and sensational variety of collective action as well as the most difficult to sustain.
This is hardly a paradox. The literature detects a macrohistorical trend towards
declining violent forms as states’ coercive capacity has increased and ‘negotiated’
alternatives have developed. Brawls, vindictive attacks and machine breaking
have been consistently giving way to petitions, peaceful demonstrations and
negotiations. Collective violence, however, persists and as of lately proliferates:
the French banlieue outburst of 2005, the Greek eruption of December 2008, the
huge, class-based ‘red-shirt’ movement in Thailand in May 2010 being recent
large-scale actions. But more specific to our argument, and as we write these words,
more circumscribed but unexpected – by many observers – student militancy in
Italy, France, the UK, Ireland and Spain confirms the significance of our topic.
What is its political significance; how do we conceptualize the varieties of this
underspecified phenomenon; and how are we to appraise its outcomes as protest
repertoires challenging existing forms of democracy? Why and how do people
used to living with their categorical boundaries shift rapidly into insurrectionary
action and then (sometimes just as rapidly) shift back into relatively peaceful
relations? Is violent protest perhaps the way contentious politics is changing in
times of crisis?
Starting off from the observation that our overall thinking and analytical
tools – though useful – are ultimately insufficient to provide satisfactory answers,
this volume approaches violent collective action from a comparative-theoretical
perspective. The topic is, of course, normatively and politically charged. Most
accountscontinuetoperceiveviolentactionthroughideologicallenses,approvingly
idealizing it or, more often, castigating it as notorious psychopathological
dysfunction. Yet the most perspicacious research to date indicates that it is best
understoodasafunctionoftheinteractionbetweencontendersandtheirinstitutional
environment, involving both rational negotiation and strategic creativity. Aspiring
to understand the recent violent upsurge in its historical specificity and cross-
national distinctiveness, we also seek to further conceptual and theoretical debate
– assessing, verifying or refuting extant approaches.
27.
Violent Protest, ContentiousPolitics, and the Neoliberal State
4
Collective Violence: An Unknown Familiar, Familiarly Unknown
Despite strides made in recent years (e.g., Braud 1993; Tilly 2003), analysis of
militant, on occasion violent, collective action remains a great unknown – both
generally speaking, within political sociology and, more specifically, within the
field of contentious politics. This strikes us as a conspicuous paradox.As McAdam
(1999/1982), among others, has pointedly argued, non-institutional protest was for
a long time considered to be pathological owing to what may be construed as
the pluralist prejudice: the axiomatic assumption that political systems (at least
in the West) possessed sufficient expressive channels, which protesters, to their
detriment, evaded quite simply because they were ‘irrational’: ‘Why would any
group engaged in rational, self-interested political action ignore the advantages of
such an open, responsive, gentlemanly political system? [… Because m]ovement
participants are simply not engaged in “rational, self-interested political action”’
(p. 6). Incorporating insights from social theory and novel research findings (both
historical and contemporary), political process and contentious politics approaches
have problematized and eventually shattered the pluralist assumption: actors
engaging in contentious, non-institutional collective action are not irrational;
instead their departure from the proper channels reflects systemic channel
deficiency and is, if anything, eminently rational.
What of collective violence? The operative (and perhaps even unwitting)
assumption regarding collective violence is considerably more nuanced, hence
more difficult to pinpoint and formulate; yet it is no less consequential. Official
political institutions may be deficient as far as processing demands is concerned
(hence collective action may indeed be conceived as ‘rational’), but as long as
contentious organizations (trade unions, leftist parties, professionalized social
movement organizations) are operative and functional, resorting to violence does
indeed represent a pathological aberration. The theoretical starting point of this
volume is considerably different. Irrespective of whether or not violent action is
instrumentally counterproductive, that is, ‘strategically ineffective’, we claim that
casually assuming it to be irrational prevents us from adequately comprehending,
let alone interpreting and explicating it. It also prevents us from parsing it so that its
rational and emotional elements can be identified for study. As a result, collective
violence, an unknown familiar, an entity with which we increasingly have to deal,
but whose distinct nature and varieties still escape us, is progressively becoming a
familiarly unknown: a semi-legitimate cognitive gap, a new ‘black box’ to which
we are increasingly become accustomed to acquiesce. What this volume sets out
to accomplish is to make a contribution toward reversing this inauspicious state
of affairs.
As always, the starting point needs to be conceptual.
28.
The Dynamics ofViolent Protest 5
The Paradox of Conventional Protest
In an incisive recent study of violence generally understood, Michel Wieviorka
(2009) crisply counterpoised violence to conflict. ‘Conflict’, he argued, involves
the – more or less – institutionalized relationship between contentious claimants
and the state (or, more broadly, the authorities). It refers to an unequal relationship
between […] groups or ensembles that compete, within the same space, with the
aim or purpose […] of modifying the relationship, or at least strengthening their
relative positions’ (pp. 9–10).
Wieviorka does not deal with it explicitly, but it can safely be surmised that a
prerequisite of ‘conflict’ is its medium/long-term effectiveness qua relationship:
For ‘conflict’ to persist, claims need to be both adequately articulated (by the
claimants) and sufficiently responded to (by the authorities) – at least to an extent
and to a foreseeable future. Prolonged periods of conflictual irrelevance, a state of
affairs where either claimant actors fail to adequately express grievances, or the
state proves perpetually unable (and/or unwilling) to be responsive – what may be
construed as a reform deficit – leads to ‘conflict’s’ eventual collapse (if it had ever
emerged). This is where violence begins to set in. Epigrammatically put, ‘violence
is an expression of the exhaustion of conflict’ (p. 16).
This situation is not unknown to the early history of the European labour
movement. Institutionalized ‘conflict’ between labour and capital emerged only
in countries where sufficiently robust labour claimants were able to disruptively
extract concessions by elites, in turn willing (and capable) to effect political and
social reforms. Up until the outbreak of WWI, this was the case in Northwestern
Europe, a state of affairs starkly different from what existed in the European
periphery and semi-periphery (Eastern and Southern Europe), where labour
movements remained sparse, the elites reform-deficient, and the protest scene
intermittently convulsive (Seferiades 1998). As Tarrow (1998: 95) has pointedly
illustrated, ‘[It] was in such states as czarist Russia that terrorism first developed
– largely because protesters lacked access to legitimate means of participation and
were forced to clandestinity, where their only means of expression [were] violent’
(see also della Porta 1995).
Because it may easily slip our attention (as we believe it usually does), a
key element that needs to be stretched in this connection is the extent to which
‘conflict’ (as non-violence) is premised on claimant disruptive propensity, that is,
the tendency of contentious actors to act transgressively (though not necessarily
resorting to violence) in order to further their goals. Even if states are reform-prone
(and, nowadays, many seem viciously counter-reformist, both socioeconomically
and politico-institutionally), ‘conflict’ is not possible unless protest is sufficiently
pungent to disrupt the workings of the system: to exert pressure on opponents,
bystanders and authorities. But in contemporary Western democracies, and on
a variety of pretexts, official protest organizations, including several SMOs,
trade unions and, above all, the parties of the Left, tend to approach contentious
disruption as a relic of the past. Hoping to secure the consensual resolution of pent-
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6
up grievances, nominally contentious organizations are increasingly espousing
(often in a dogmatic fashion) the modalities of an exclusively conventional protest
repertoire. In their chapter, Kotronaki and Seferiades cite the letter addressed to
the Prime Minister by the General Confederation of Labour at the time of the
December 2008 uprising in Greece, where the unionists pronounced ‘the always
incontestably […] peaceful conduct of the forces of labour’, whilst the Communist
Party, abstaining from the insurrectionary mobilization, argued that ‘the uprising
was the work of agents provocateurs manipulated by obscure powers’. They both
went on to organize sadly irrelevant, ‘peaceful’ marches peppered with the usual
litany of ‘demands’.
In light of the preceding discussion, this disruptive deficit may lead to a
great paradox: in seeking conciliation through exclusively conventional protest,
institutionalized claimants end up inadvertently fomenting the kind of political
violence they most dread and despise. Indeed, this is all the more so, considering
that this disruptive deficit coincides with the reform deficit characterizing
contemporary neoliberal policies. In fact, the two gaps combine to produce a
conspicuous political vacuum liable to be filled by violence.
Drawing this conclusion may serve as a basis for a more fine-grained analysis
of the violent political phenomena that interest us in this volume. The disruptive
deficit leads to a state of affairs where large (and apparently growing) layers of
the population become estranged from both official politics as well as the politics
promoted by erstwhile contentious agents. Especially in times of crisis, this may
take the form of a profound ‘loss of political meaning’, whereby subjects begin to
drift without a clear point of anchorage in the institutional political arena. Always
remaining politicized (otherwise developments in the institutional arena would be
irrelevant) these are actors – some of them unlikely, as Diani demonstrates in his
chapter – become politically ‘floating’, feeling silenced, non-recognized, negated –
a void that tends to precipitate violent action.
But it would be erroneous to interpret such action as inherently ‘irrational’.
Nor is political alienation in any way synonymous to the familiar ‘mass society’
imagery, portraying protesters as disconnected, unintegrated individuals. Protesters
throwing rocks at police stations may appear ‘irrational’ in terms of the workings
of the political system and the fastidious calculations of institutionalized SMOs
and leftist parties, but this is because the official rationality canon is so hopelessly
lacking. In that sense, violence may well reflect an arduous or even desperate (but
rational) quest for political meaning in circumstances where none appears to exist:
a situation where, to paraphrase Gramsci, old politics is dying but a new cannot be
born. It seems to us that the vast majority of the chapters in this volume address
precisely this conjuncture.
This particular quest for meaning brings to mind Georges Sorel’s doctrine of the
general strike (as expounded in his 1908 Réflexions sur la violence), where violence
is assigned the important function of ‘constituting’ an actor. Loss of meaning is
thereby compensated by the hyper-production of transcendental significations often
bearing a mythical quality. As Wieviorka (2009: 151) keenly observed, this ‘allows
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The Dynamics ofViolent Protest 7
the subject to move into a different space, and therefore to get beyond the earlier
situation of emptiness, loss and lack’.
But in order to fully appreciate the particulars of this variety of violence,
one has to counterpoise it to alternative, less than fully political forms, often
combining with it. Though this is still a rough sketch of concepts remaining to
be fully stabilized, we venture to suggest that politically alienated individuals or
groups may also turn cynical, callous or passive. Cynicism and callousness refer
to basically reactive violence without any recognizable quest for meaning – the
former seeking temporary (if meagre) material or symbolic gains within a grim
world (e.g., looting), the latter haphazardly setting out to destroy it without caring
much about the ‘next day’(e.g., symbolically and instrumentally irrelevant arson).
Passivity, finally, may be construed as ‘internalized violence’ – violence directed
towards oneself: a truly pathological state of affairs where the collectivities or
individual subjects in question do little more than make painful amends to systemic
– neoliberal – violence. Violence directed against unprotected immigrants and
other typically anomic behaviours are obvious cases in point.
Claiming that politically consequential violence may represent a quest for
meaning owing to estrangement from official politics, however, leads our thinking to
two key themes in the study of collective action: emotions and the relational nature
of all protest. Although in later sections of this chapter we will have the chance
to further amplify our argument, we think it is important to stress three important
aspects that also frame our discussion as a whole.
The first concerns the ubiquitous nature of emotions in all militant protest. In so
arguing we concur with Goodwin, Jasper and Polletta (2001) who, over a decade
ago, complained about the failure of political process approaches to seriously deal
with (let alone theorize) emotions, even in cases where their importance was more
than palpable. As they pointedly put it, ‘Mobilising structures, frames, collective
identity, political opportunities – much of the causal force attributed to these
concepts comes from the emotions involved in them’ (p. 6). Political alienation,
indignation, outrage – the very stuff of violent protest – are, first and foremost,
emotional states. This, however, does not mean that they are also ‘irrational’states.
This leads us to our second point.
Max Weber and Talcott Parsons, these social science giants, have also
burdened us with the stark dichotomy of reason versus emotions. Over the years,
the polarity has taken on a variety of forms (‘affectually determined behaviour vs.
rational action’, in the case of Weber (1978 [1922]); ‘instrumental vs. expressive
action’, in the case of Parsons (1968 [1937]); ‘cognitive vs. emotional conduct’
in much else that followed), but the idea is fairly straightforward: emotions
are not part of rational action and vice versa. Along with Goodwin, Jasper and
Polletta, we disagree: not because we want to conflate, let alone liquidate, the
two dimensions, but because we think that the polarity qua polarity is misguided.
As the preceding analysis indicates, we treat the alleged opposition between
rationality and emotions as a possibility, a claim in need of logical substantiation
and empirical documentation, not as an assumption. In other words, although it
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8
is clear that we cannot rule out the possibility of a genuine discrepancy between
the two (not all that is emotionally laden is also ‘rational’ – e.g., what we might
label callous violent action), we are nonetheless inclined to argue that whatever
is politically significant in the violent political universe as well as more generally
in protest politics is both emotional and rational. Differently put, we claim that
rational action involves underlying commitments that are best rendered through
an emotional lens and vice versa – that emotionally charged acts are often
premised on cognitive-rational assessments of the sociopolitical environment.
Rational day-to-day social-movement activity, for example, is not possible unless
the emotional world of the membership is tapped and the obverse. As already
argued, ostensibly emotional acts such as meaning-questing violence may be the
product of hopelessly blocked institutional expressive channels and disruptively
deficient ‘protest’. In such circumstances, acting out ‘against the odds’, far from
being necessarily irrational, may well be eminently strategic. In this connection,
however, it is important to remind ourselves that violent protest (as well as protest
in general) is never undertaken in a relational vacuum. This is our third key point.
Rebutting the facile essentialism that is so prevalent in much of contemporary
social science, Doug McAdam, Sidney Tarrow and Charles Tilly (2001) have
argued for a relational approach in the study of social and political phenomena.
Sociopolitical entities (and the phenomena their action brings about) are not
eternally fixed, but are, rather, in a process of continuous ‘becoming’ – a function
of the relations in which they are embedded. McAdam, Tarrow and Tilly suggest
that, instead of focusing on ‘individual minds as the basic, or even unique, sites
of social reality and action’, we are well advised to seriously ponder the fact that
‘social transactions have an efficacious reality that is irreducible to individual
mental events’. This means that, for purposes of explanation, we are well advised
to look beyond individual ‘decisions and their rationales’(typical of rational choice
and phenomenological approaches) and focus ‘on webs of interaction among
social sites’(p. 23). In applying this perspective to the study of collective violence,
Charles Tilly (2003) suggested that there exist three ways of thinking about (and
dealing with) collective violence. Pending a fuller account of his argument at the
end of this chapter, he claimed that we can approach it as exclusively rational
(the product of ideological thinking and/or cost–benefit analysis – the practice of
‘idea people’); as exclusively ‘irrational’ (a result of passions and impulses – the
practice of ‘behaviour people’); or as relations (‘relation people’).
Our analysis so far indicates that we subscribe to the relational persuasion.
We think that violence does not so much reflect preset beliefs or the play of
autonomous motives, pro tempore urges or ossified opportunity structures, but
rather the interaction between contenders and authorities. In Tilly’s (2003: 6)
words,
collective violence […] amounts to a kind of conversation […] Relation people
often make concessions to the influence of individual propensities but generally
insist that collective processes have irreducibly distinct properties. In this
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The Dynamics ofViolent Protest 9
view, restraining violence depends less on destroying bad ideas, eliminating
opportunities, or suppressing impulses than on transforming relations among
persons and groups. (emphasis added)
These observations orient our analysis of collective violence. First, we see the
variable play of different forms of violence – some of which may arguably be
construed as belonging to the ‘quest for meaning’ variety, some others as cynical
or even callous. On the one hand, protesters may plan and strategically employ
violence as a means to gain attention and publicly assert their commitment. On
the other, unintended escalation occurs as anger and frustration drive protesters’
behaviours in the streets. Most empirical occurrences of collective violence fall
somewhere between these two extremes, and may even combine them sequentially.
Second, we see the two key actors that are almost always present together in
episodes of collective violence. On the one hand, there are the protesters. On the
other, there are the agents of social control – including its elite planners and the
troops in the streets. Sometimes, the police are absent at first, or it is possible that
they never arrive at the scene of violence. More often, however, they become
actors, as enforcers of a wave of state repression unleashed after a violent protest
or even before it, especially when – as nowadays is increasingly the case – they act
proactively. Because the police and military usually have overwhelming force at
their disposal, how our observation of calculated versus spontaneous action plays
out among them is crucial to the level of violence and its duration.
Violence and the Police
Protesting groups must consider the likelihood of repressive violence from the
forces of social control and how this may escalate into a pitched battle – in which
the odds are strongly against protesters and in favour of the police. Goldstone’s
Chapter 10 in this volume nicely portrays the unequal array of resources that
Revolutionary Guards and Basij Militia members employed in confrontations
against pro-democracy protesters in Iran, 2009–10. In democratic societies,
analysts of police actions agree that similarly draconian responses by the police
were characteristic of the protest cycle of the 1960s and early 1970s, sometimes
characterized as a period of escalated-force policing, meaning that protester–
police interactions usually resulted in a spiral of increasingly forceful, sometimes
brutal, repression. As social movements and protests have become more common,
so developed democracies have adopted a more tolerant stance towards extra-
institutional protest, which has had moderating effects on violence.
Since that time, however, a significant change has occurred in the way that
police departments and municipal agencies deal with protesters (McCarthy and
McPhail 1998; McPhail, Schweingruber and McCarthy 1998). Researchers have
noted a shift to less aggressive methods that began in the mid-1970s, when some
large police departments began to train their officers in non-violent crowd control.
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10
Waddington and King’s chapter in this volume traces the effects of non-violent
police strategies in several volatile situations in the UK and France. Also, the
process of obtaining permits for marches and demonstrations, which became more
formalized about the same time, tended to moderate the potential for violence on
both sides of the police–protester divide. Protesters provided plans, routes, times,
and even made concessions about the control of ‘unruly behaviour’ in exchange
for police guarantees regarding routing, traffic management and public safety.
This approach of protest policing, labelled the negotiated management model,
seemed to be a trend not only in the US but also in some Western European states
(della Porta and Reiter 1998). Researchers have noted that one of the principles
of this model was that violent groups had to be separated somehow from the rest
of the demonstration – and ‘self-policed’ if possible – to ensure the safety of the
peaceful ones and easy containment of the radicals (see Waddington and King’s
Chapter 9). As argued, however, to the extent that the negotiated model contributed
to the accumulation of a disruptive deficit (by forcing upon claimants an exclusively
conventional repertoire), it may have well contributed, however inadvertently, to the
political void eventually conducive to violent outbreaks – not only by ‘sworn radicals’
(increasingly cast aside and demonized), but also more generally.
Moreover, it is questionable whether the model really works. As ‘civilized’
as its principles sound, events on the ground are much more fluid and often crash
against the bounds of negotiated plans. As much as movement adherents can be
caught up in the excitement and passion of a protest (when strategic calculations
may well be placed in abeyance), so too can the police lose sight of the negotiated
management model in the heat of the moment. Earl and Soule (2006) have studied
violent protests from a police perspective, and identify two factors that seem to
strongly predict police violence. First, at the street level, police officers are highly
concerned with loss of control over the situation. Large numbers of protesters
increase the odds of this, as does the presence of counter-demonstrators, which,
in turn increases the pressure on the police to control the circumstances. Second,
when there are impending threats to personal safety of police officers, violence
is more likely in a protest event. Thus, when radical groups are present or when
confrontational tactics are likely, it is common that the police are there in force.
Should the throwing of stones, bricks, or Molotov cocktails occur, Earl and Soule
observe that police violence is likely.
In the protest studies field, most analyses of police repression assume that the
forces of social control, whether they are the police, military, or semi-official or
private militias (in non-democratic regimes), act at the behest of political elites to
protect their power. This is indeed so. And, as in the past, police violence is often
proactive, seeking to raise the cost of participation in disruptive protest before any
occurs (Seferiades 2005). Earl and Soule’s study (2006) is important, however,
because it acknowledges that there are also situational, on-the-ground factors in
police violence that originate among the police themselves. Moreover, members
of police forces and the military are subject to the same emotional responses that
we discussed earlier regarding protesters. Fear and anger may act reflexively to
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The Dynamics ofViolent Protest 11
spur police to violence when they perceive threats. Long-term emotions such as
hatred and resentment also are factors because the esprit de corps of rank-and-
file soldiers and policemen is often premised on an intense animosity against
specific strata of the population such as the youth and students. For example, the
brutal police repression of a peaceful student rally in Mexico City, October 1968,
which led to the death of over 40 students and injuries to hundreds, partly was a
reflection of class animosity against middle-class students. The brutality of the
Tlatelolco massacre, as it was called, was such that many observers mark it as
the beginning of the end of Mexican authoritarianism; yet its poignant and far-
reaching effects may have resulted largely from the emotional responses of the
young grenadieros who took part in the repression – observers reported a shooting
frenzy that night (Poniatowska 1971) – rather than from the miscalculations of the
political elite. The same class resentment no doubt fuelled some of the brutality
directed against Iran’s pro-democracy (and middle-class) students by the Basij
Militia and Revolutionary Guards, who typically come from the lower classes (see
Goldstone’s Chapter 8).
Finally, there is a social-psychological element that is closely linked to police
repression and too frequently in evidence when negotiated-management protesting
becomes more militant and impassioned. We have in mind police behaviour that
might loosely fall under the category of Philip Zimbardo’s ‘Lucifer Effect’ (2007)
and that – cast in terms of police action – takes the form of a sadistic embrace of
inflicting injury once confrontation is initiated. Certainly, this is not a universal
reaction among police and military, but it is fair to say that it can be a strong
tendency under the right circumstances.Although it may occur on both sides of the
conflict –police and protesters – it has special significance among those who are
heavily armed and have licence to inflict injury. Finally, these primitive reactions
are compounded by military and police socialization-emphasizing themes that can
easily lead to violent reactions: honour, machismo, pride, aggressiveness, physical
prowess and sacrifice for ‘comrades in arms’. The extent to which these values
take hold is, of course, variable among the police and military. Conscripts into the
army may be kids who just want to go home or may ferociously embrace these
values as part of their identity. Special forces and paramilitary units that receive
more training and develop an esprit de corps may be especially aggressive. Polish
ZOMO troops, a crack paramilitary unit, were known for their brutality during
marital law 1981–83, but the Polish People’s Army was often known for their
hesitancy and even defections.
Our point is that, despite the superiority of police resources, police violence, once
initiated, often can turn into violent rage – strong words, but not inaccurate when
pitched battles erupt. We have all seen it at times – for example, in news footage and/
or surreptitious cell phone pictures of police repression in Myanmar, Iran, Thailand,
China (and Tibet); namely, savage beatings of protesters, well beyond what is
necessary for crowd control or dispersing the protest. Similar images occur too in
the developed democracies once protester–police violence breaks out, for example,
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Violent Protest, ContentiousPolitics, and the Neoliberal State
12
G-10 protests in London in 2009 or the intense student–police clashes in Greece in
December 2008 (see Chapter 12 by Kotronaki and Seferiades).
Emotions and Collective Violence
Elaborating our earlier mention of scholarly attention to the emotions of protests,
from this literature we can identify several emotions that will be most relevant in
the violent episodes analyzed in this volume. Hatred as a motivation to harm and
inflict retribution comes immediately to mind, especially in regard to outbursts of
savage ethnic conflicts that have been all too common in recent decades. Goodwin
et al. (2004: 418) identify hatred as a social, affective emotion that, like love,
respect and trust, tends to persist over time. Akin to resentment, another injustice-
based affect, hatred simmers – by which we mean that it is not accompanied by
intensely experienced physiological changes as is the case with more reflexive
emotions, such as anger (or rage), fear and joy. Indeed, one might characterize
hatred as anger spread out over the long term and, as such, sapped of some of its
intense physical manifestations that persist beneath the surface of social relations
even when they do not appear in collective action for long periods of time. Needless
to mention, hatred is also the stuff of – eminently ‘rational’– responses to the twin
deficits we conceptualized at the outset of this chapter: the reformist (by the state)
and the disruptive (by nominally contentious organizations).
Be that as it may, the additional point we wish to stress is that hatred can be
activated quickly, by precipitating events that reveal intolerable levels of injustice,
by suddenly imposed grievances and/or by excessively coercive conduct on the
part of the police. As some of our chapters analyzing riots in the Paris suburbs
by disenfranchised immigrant youths show, hatred can be ignited into collective
violence by small events that begin an interactive chain that suspends normative
definitions of civic quiescence.
Della Porta’s (1995) study of radical groups shows that hatred can be
encouraged by ideological discourse, compounded by intense interaction under
pressure of repression. Under these circumstances, and free of its ethnic dimension,
hatred is a close cousin to resentment insofar as class inequality and/or social
injustice can fester as long-term negative predispositions with a strong emotional
content. Moreover, class-based negative affect is often compounded by state
repression. Della Porta (1995) observes that police beatings, imprisonment and
routine brutality against Italian and German radical groups fomented their hatred
of the repressive ‘fascist’ state, which was used to justify acts of revolutionary
anti-state violence. Under such conditions, long-term hatred quickly becomes
volatile, passion-fuelled (though, in the circumstances, ‘rational’) rage, especially
when taken into the streets and submitted to pressures of police confrontation
and counter-movement groups. The three chapters analysing the Greek December
2008 (by Kotronaki and Seferiades, Kanellopoulos, and Lountos) nicely capture
the simmering emotions that were easily turned to violence.
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The Dynamics ofViolent Protest 13
Though long-term sentiments, however, hatred and resentment come and
go in daily experience. They do not permeate all aspects of social life, but are
situationally activated in the context of protest. Compounding their effect and, we
suggest, fuelling the propensity to violence, are what Jasper (1998) calls reactive
emotions, those few involuntary and rapid responses that arise given appropriate
external stimuli. Paul Ekman (1973) identified six universal facial expressions
that can serve as quick measures of six fundamental reflexive emotions – anger,
fear, joy, surprise, sadness and disgust. It makes sense that all are relevant in
various ways to different kinds of social movement (Goodwin et al. 2004: 416),
but, regarding the intensification of collective violence, anger surely occupies first
place. Especially when spurred by police coercion, anger can strongly shape the
flow of protest and lead to violent outbursts.
Among the other reflexive emotions, fear, of course, disperses crowds. As
such, it is relevant in a negative sense to the police–protester interactions that
often underlie collective violence. In other cases of violence (especially cynicism
and callousness), joy may play a role. As already noted, however, emotions are
not to be counterpoised to rationality. In the words of Goodwin et al. (ibid.), ‘We
need to be wary of linking reflex emotions to irrationality. They can make us more
alert and focused on the problem at hand, and therefore more rather than less
rational.’ Other scholars, too, have challenged the link between irrationality and
reflex emotions (Barbalet 1998), but the other side of the coin – which should not
escape our attention – is that strong physiological reactions may focus attention
and heighten awareness in ways that are not conducive to rational behaviour in a
complex society. Rebutting the view that emotions are eo ipso irrational does not
imply that they are necessarily strategically propitious.
Strategic Violence
Over 30 years ago, Piven and Cloward (1977) suggested the contours of a strategic
perspective on disruptive collective action that is further specified regarding
violent tactics in Frances Fox Piven’s Chapter 2 in this volume. The theme of
strategic violence is also echoed in Kotranaki and Seferiades’s Chapter 12 and
Simiti’s Chapter 10. Piven and Cloward’s original argument was based on the
analysis of four cases of poor peoples’ mobilization in the US, and is well known
for its challenge to the – at that time – emerging emphasis on organizations and
resources to explain successful outcomes.Although their study was not specifically
focused on movement violence, Piven and Cloward found that disruptive tactics
could favourably influence the attainment of a social movement’s change goals –
precisely what is nowadays missing in the form of the disruptive deficit we have
noticed. Their analysis identifies the importance of vanguard groups that push hard
and long for change-oriented goals, reminiscent of anarchist radicalizing influence
in numerous global justice protests.
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14
A contemporaneous and influential study of tactics was Gamson’s (1990
[1975]) analysis of numerous ‘challenging groups’ in the US. He found that,
among other factors such as influential allies and resources, the use of disruptive
and militant tactics seemed instrumental in achieving movement goals. Taking
these two studies together, and recognizing that there are many kinds of militant
tactic of which violence is only one, it is useful to consider the inference that, if
disruption is effective, then the most disruptive tactics – property damage and
attacks on persons – strategically used, may be even more so. Gamson’s logic
was that disruption (hence, presumably, also violence) is effective because it
gets the attention of policy makers. But his study spanned over a century’s data
on challenging groups and their outcomes, and it is worth posing the additional
question whether the effects of violent tactics would be much the same today as
they were 50 or 100 years ago.
One thing that has changed is how the mass media today are key players in
transmitting the spectacle of challenge and response, and how the bar seems to
be continually rising for what is considered a dramatic and poignant challenge.
Social movements can ‘make news by making noise’ argued Thrall (2006: 417).
Observing the trends some 30 years ago, however, Gitlin (1980: 182) noted
that, although simple sit-ins or picket lines made the newspapers in 1965, ‘it
took teargas and bloodied heads to make headlines in 1968’. This was during
the student anti-war protest cycle in the US, and a curve plotting the threshold
of media attention became quite steep during those years. McCarthy, McPhail
and Smith (1996) examined a wide variety of media coverage and showed that
large numbers, creativity and radical actions in combination – including property
damage – are predictors of newspaper coverage.
The other side of the coin regarding violent tactics is that they run the risk of
alienating public opinion, especially when demonized by media coverage. Members
of bystander public and uncommitted groups comprise a movement’s pool of
potential allies, and a movement must be selective in its use of violence so as not to
scare away future adherents. Moreover, because movements are complex networks
of groups, organizations and individuals, there may be a few actors sharing the
same movement umbrella who advocate radical actions while the majority may
be tactically moderate. Protest and campaign organizers must balance the needs
of various groups that make up a movement with the long-term goals, first, of
maintaining membership, and second, of achieving policy change. Soule and Earl’s
US study shows a steady decline in property damage and violence in protests after
1967, when 33 per cent of protests were violent and 21 per cent caused property
damage (Soule and Earl 2005: 353). By 1986, fewer than 10 per cent of protests
were violent and 2 per cent caused property damage. Nowadays, of course, this is
changing – and several chapters in the volume indicate why and how.
Especially strategic thinkers in large movements may take advantage of the
‘radical-flank effect’. By leaving more militant and/or violence-prone groups –
the anarchist Black Bloc, for example – to pursue their radical tactics, the
overall result for the movement may be ‘greater responsiveness to the claims
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The Dynamics ofViolent Protest 15
of moderates’ (Haines 1988: 171). From the perspective of policy makers, these
are, after all, people that you can talk to, not ‘wild-eyed radicals’. Just this kind
of consideration occurred in the 1999 anti-WTO protests in Seattle, in which
anarchists’ unsanctioned end-run around more numerous and tactically moderate
groups that formed the campaign coalition helped attract media attention and
public awareness of the campaign’s overall themes (Smith 2002). Although
violence at this and other global justice protests did not by itself budge the WTO
ministers or IMF officials, by punctuating protesters’commitment and broadening
diffusion of globalization’s impacts it may have forced policy makers to be more
sensitive and responsive to protesters’ demands, especially loan forgiveness in
the poorest countries. Thus, the strategic use of violence by social movements
seems to revolve around two decision matrices: (1) its Sorelian ‘actor constitution’
(as argued) and attention-getting benefits regarding policy makers, uncommitted
publics and the media, versus its alienating effects; and (2) internal relations and
negotiations within a movement regarding the first decision matrix, including the
ability of a movement to converse with its more radical wing – or its willingness
to do so, considering the positive benefits of militant tactics.
A Relational Perspective
In his influential treatment of collective violence we have already cited, Charles
Tilly (2003) rejects the possibility of an overarching causal model. He states –
overstates, really – that in explaining collective violence there are three kinds of
theorists: idea people, who lay stress on strategy, ideology and costs; behaviour
people, who stress emotions, passion and primordial impulses (to this Johnston’s
Chapter 4 adds cognitive orientations characteristic of life-cycle development);
and relation people, with whom he claims membership. In his view, collective
violence in its various manifestations can be understood by examining the relations
among the social actors, as we have been doing in this chapter (in addition to some
ideational and behavioural detours), to identify a ‘fairly small number of causal
mechanisms and processes that recur throughout the whole range of collective
violence – with different initial conditions, combinations, and sequences’ (Tilly
2003: xi).
This represents a shift to a mid-level analytical focus of identifying the
‘conditions, combinations, and sequences producing systematic variation from
time to time and setting to setting’ (ibid.). This approach to collective violence
grows out of the dynamics of contention programme (McAdam, Tarrow and Tilly
2001), which similarly seeks general and ‘robust’ causal processes that apply
beyond protest mobilization to other forms of contentious politics. In both works,
a broad range of rich and varied historical and contemporary examples is the basis
of inductively arriving at a surprisingly long list of generalizable ‘mechanisms and
processes’.
39.
Violent Protest, ContentiousPolitics, and the Neoliberal State
16
Tilly casts a wide net in his consideration of collective violence, including
forms as varied as cowboy brawls, gang violence, interethnic aggression and
genocide, insurgencies, and revolutions. Moreover, as a way to accomplish this,
he introduces several terms that transcend these familiar forms of violence. No
longer do we speak of riots, property destruction, insurrections, terrorism, hostile
outbursts; but rather opportunism, scattered attacks, broken negotiations, and
coordinated destruction, among others. The rationale for a new typology is that the
old terms carry conceptual biases that can inhibit the identification of generalizable
processes that work across all types of violence. Tilly’s new categories vary on two
dimensions: (1) the degree of coordination among violent social actors; and (2) the
degree of ‘salience of violence to the act’, which roughly refers to the degree to
which violence defines the action. Generally, more coordination among perpetrators
means more destruction, injury and death, as in civil wars and revolutions. This
volume’s focus places in abeyance certain forms of collective violence in Tilly’s
typology such as brawls (street fights and sporting event free-for-alls) and – at
the other end of the spectrum – coordinated destruction (civil wars, insurrections,
organized terrorism and genocide). Most of our chapters are analyses of collective
violence as an outgrowth of social movement and/or protest campaign mobilization,
a more narrow focus than Tilly’s. We are interested in familiar intermediate forms
that are direct products and/or manifestations of protest (such as what Kotronaki
and Seferiades call ‘insurrectionary collective action’, or what Diani in his chapter
attempts to conceptualize as a whole). Here, two of Tilly’s categories appear to be
particularly relevant.
First, scattered attacks describe a common form that occurs as a by-product of
and/or in conjunction with small-scale non-violent action (regime opposition, or
policy protests) such as when groups participating in a march strike out violently
to make their claims or register discontent. The Black Bloc violence at anti-IMF
and anti-WTO protests is a case in point. The key is that it was always part of their
strategy to do so (high salience of violence for the action) and that the violence is
carried out by one group, not a coordinated effort among many participating actors
in the protests (low coordination). Property destruction, such as when Earth First
militants torch a sales lot of SUVs is another example. Such scattered attacks are
usually strategic actions, and therefore planned and instrumentally rational. Within
the environmental movement network considered in its entirety, interaction between
a group or groups strategically using violence and non-violent groups is restricted.
Second, broken negotiations, in our reading, refer to the common situation in
which non-violent protests become violent in their entirety, such as when the luxury
hotels in Bangkok or Athens are attacked as a reflection of the situational non-
responsiveness on the part of authorities and the – more structural – accumulation
of the reform and disruptive deficits. Here, violence is an organic product of claim
making and the perception that authorities (and the political system as a whole –
including institutionalized ‘contentious actors’) are not responsive, and not the
tactic of a specific group. The banlieue riots analyzed by della Porta and Gbikpi in
Chapter 7 fall into this category, with the implication that authorities and community
40.
The Dynamics ofViolent Protest 17
leaders had been in contact about the grievances endemic in the immigrant suburbs.
In these instances, the ‘negotiation’ presumes that non-violent demonstrations
carry the kernel of potential settlement, and during demonstrations there is give
and take between authorities and protesters. This can take the form of meetings
among movement leaders and political elites, which is another site for breakdown
of negotiations. When this occurs, paradoxically, violence erupts in a way that
involves even greater coordination (interaction) among the segmented actors. In this
connection, there may be a felicitous parallel with Tilly’s theoretical schema and our
view that, to an important extent, contemporary collective violence is the product
of the combined accumulation of the reform and disruptive deficits – the former
reflecting impasses of the capitalist state, the latter the conspicuous political co-
option of erstwhile militant contentious SMOs and political parties.
Conclusions
Tilly’s relational approach to collective violence, a quest to identify processes and
mechanisms that are generalizable across different episodes of collective violence,
lays great stress on social perception and emergent processes of social definition.
As we close this chapter, this is not the place to undertake a broad critique of the
process-based approach characteristic of the dynamics of contention perspective,
but we do believe that future research in the relational perspective might be
more productive at higher levels of generalization such as the robust processes
of brokerage and polarization. Brokerage refers to the linking of two (or more)
social actors, often by a third who mediates the relations and perhaps does so with
others as well (Tilly 2005: 221). Brokerage is an important process – inherently
interactional – that often broadens conflict beyond isolated and/or local instances
by coordinating it. This can amplify the collective violence beyond an initial
outburst, a shift from scattered attacks to coordinated destruction.
Polarization is a ‘widening of political and social space between claimants in
a contentious episode’ (Tilly 2005: 222). This typically involves the movement of
uncommitted bystanders and/or moderates to one of the two extremes. Polarization
is a complex process of social definition of interests, of identity, and emerging
definitions of appropriate courses of action, but above all it is a process of social
construction. As such, its workings and effects can be seen after the fact, say,
examining the social history of the Rwandan genocide, or Bosnia, or the rise of
guerrilla movements in Mexico after the 1968 student massacre. Or, its workings
can be traced and refined as they unfold through closer attention to action, namely,
through engaged participant-observation research.
There are other processes that seem relevant to collective violence: ‘actor
constitution’ for one (McAdam, Tarrow and Tilly 2001), an iterative and
interactional category of identity construction forged in the fire of contention for
both protesters and opponents. Such general processes, we suggest, are important
sites for future research to focus and refine through observation how the processes
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Violent Protest, ContentiousPolitics, and the Neoliberal State
18
work in the heat of conflict. Their importance is compounded because they also
are sites where emotions may enter into the causal equation. Tilly’s descriptions
are surprisingly devoid of emotional inputs, but surely, in the polarization process,
anger, rage, shame and hatred may all play roles. It is fair to say that emotion
research in the social movements field is embedded in a process perspective insofar
as the preponderance of it usually describes how emotions figure into mobilization
for action and identity construction (for example, Bernstein 1997; Gould 2009).
A theme that we have developed in this chapter is that violent episodes are a
dramatic dance between multiple social actors: radicals and moderates within a
movement and the police, municipal authorities, and ruling elites. The usefulness
of the relational approach is that it captures this complex dance, and recognizes
that similar processes can guide the actions of both challengers and institutional
actors. The various processes and mechanisms that shape conflict can apply to
actors on all sides. So, too, do the emotions, which is why it is so crucial that
social scientists ponder what kind of methods and theories can adequately account
for both the relational and emotional elements of collective violence. As authors,
we have separately studied both the escalation of collective violence in the heat
of protests (in Greece) and the impassioned emotions of nationalist mobilization
(in Eastern Europe). Especially in police–protester confrontations, and especially
when we–they definitions activate the deep passions of identity, escalation of
protest into collective violence cannot be understood without emotions as a causal
factor. While we would resist returning to the bad old days of the frustration–
aggression hypothesis, the J-curve, and relative deprivation theories, we hold that
a full understanding of collective violence must consider how to incorporate into
the equation not only frustration and aggression, but also shame, resentment, rage,
pride and passion, among others.
42.
Chapter 2
Protest Movementsand Violence
Frances Fox Piven
Violence often is a critical factor in the emergence, development and success or
failure of social movements. But we have for some time not given it the attention it
merits.American scholars in particular have been reluctant to acknowledge the role
of violence. To be sure, it has not always been so. Indeed, until the mid-twentieth
century, those scholars who paid attention to collective action took for granted
that mass protests were associated with violence or the threat of violence, and
generally explained the association by attributing an irrational and explosive rage
or frustration to the participants. The turbulence of the 1960s, both in developed
industrial countries and in the southern hemisphere, propelled more scholars
to turn their attention to protest movements, and when they did they generally
discarded the nineteenth-century paradigm and its attributions of irrationality to
the movement. Curiously, however, the more recent American work neglected
rioting, and tended generally to shrink from even acknowledging the violence
that often accompanies protest movements (or else attributed such violence as
occurred to the authorities).
This tendency can be explained. It reflects the identification and sympathy
of many of those who studied collective action with a number of the protest
movements of the twentieth century, and especially with some of the movements
in Europe and North America. In the United States, this particularly meant
identification with the civil rights movement, known of course for its public
profession of a commitment to non-violence.1
But, obviously, not all movements
command our sympathies. The recent emergence of the Tea Party movement in
the United States, a movement that is overwhelmingly white, older and better
off than the population, as well as shockingly misinformed, reminds us of what
Richard Hofstadter called the “paranoid style” in American politics, and his
characterization of many American popular movements as backward-looking and
illiberal (Hofstadter 1948; Hofstadter and Wallace 1971; see also Brown 2006).
In any case, sympathies aside, the effort to justify protest movements by
ignoring the violence with which protest is associated is a mistake, because the
1 In fact, although they are usually ignored excluded from the movement by
definitional fiat, I think the civil rights movement broadly considered should include the
riots that broke out in the cities, and the unaffiliated armed self-defense teams that formed
among black farmers in the south. Mike Miller (2006) thinks of non-violence as a tactic
rather than a philosophy of the civil rights movement.
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Violent Protest, ContentiousPolitics, and the Neoliberal State
20
largely unexamined axiom that movements are non-violent distorts our analysis.
Episodes of rioting or other forms of collective violence are simply excluded
from study by definition. Think, for example, of Charles Tilly’s influential
characterization of the mass demonstration as an assembly of people intending
to display their worthiness, unity, numerous numbers and commitment, or
“WUNC” (e.g., Tilly 2003). In other words, the crowd is intent on appealing to
the authorities by displaying their own merits and the merits of their cause. In
later work, Tilly paid more attention to violence, although he never modified his
view of the demonstration (see Tilly 2003). There are demonstrations of this sort,
of course, particularly during electoral campaigns. But from time immemorial
the aggregation of people in the crowd or the mob has also implied the threat of
violence. To deny this is simply to ignore historical experience.
The long history of protest movements is in fact mainly the history of mobs
and riots. Only think of the history of labor struggles, which typically included
strikes and the accompanying vigilante actions by both employers and workers,
by hired goons on the one side and direct attacks by workers on property on the
other side. The anarchist Voltairine De Cleyre, writing at the turn of the twentieth
century, explains:
Now everybody knows that a strike of any size means violence. No matter what
any one’s ethical preference for peace may be, he knows it will not be peaceful.
If it’s a telegraph strike, it means cutting wires and poles, and getting fake scabs
in to spoil the instruments. If it is a steel rolling mill strike, it means beating
up the scabs, breaking the windows, setting the gauges wrong, and ruining
the expensive rollers together with tons and tons of material. If it’s a miner’s
strike, it means destroying tracks and bridges, and blowing up mills. If it is a
garment workers’ strike, it means having an unaccountable fire, getting a volley
of stones through an apparently inaccessible window, or possibly a brickbat on
the manufacturer’s own head. If it’s a street-car strike, it means tracks torn up or
barricaded with the contents of ash-carts and slop-carts, with overturned wagons
or stolen fences, it means smashed or incinerated cars and turned switches. If
it is a system federation strike, it means ‘dead’ engines, wild engines, derailed
freights, and stalled trains. If it is a building trades strike, it means dynamited
structures. And always, everywhere, all the time, fights between strike-breakers
and scabs against strikers and strike-sympathizers, between People and Police.
On the side of the bosses, it means searchlights, electric wires, stockades, bull-
pens, detectives and provocative agents, violent kidnapping and deportation, and
every device they can conceive […] besides the ultimate invocation of police,
militia, State constabulary, and federal troops.
Everybody knows this; everybody smiles when union officials protest their
organizations to be peaceful and law-abiding, because everybody knows they
are lying. They know that violence is used, both secretly and openly; and they
44.
Protest Movements andViolence 21
know it is used because the strikers cannot do any other way, without giving up
the fight at once. (DeCleyre 1912: 111)
The historical meaning of the picket line, of the massing of workers at the entrance
of the struck factory or mine, was to physically intimidate any workers or “scabs”
who were ready to take the place of the strikers, and thus break the strike. We forget
this history because the picket line is now so closely regulated—only so many
pickets are allowed, they must march at prescribed intervals from each other, and
they must keep moving—that we treat the picket line as merely a form of speech.
Or think of the sit-down strike, a tactic recurrently rediscovered by workers when
they are mobilized in protest against their employers, for the simple reasons that
it makes so much sense. The occupation of the workplace both threatens capitalist
property and makes it difficult or impossible to resume production. The widespread
use of this tactic by American workers in the 1930s led to bouts of fierce conflict
that are best described as local civil wars. And the tactic is being used again today,
as when French workers occupy a plant and threaten to detonate explosives if their
demands are not met (e.g., see Gall 2010; Shantz 2010). In the United States, in
2009, workers threatened by lay-offs occupied the Republic Door and Window
company, demanding the compensation they were owed. Not only did they move
President Barack Obama to tell the country that the workers were right in their
actions, but the bank that owned the company reversed the lay-offs.
To acknowledge and analyze the political significance of the actual or threatened
violence that can accompany protest movements, we need to begin with definitions.
It is customary to define violence as the destruction of things or human bodies.2
(I
should note, however, that some analysts restrict the use of the term to aggression
against people. See Graber 2001.)
However, such destructive behavior is so widespread, and occurs under such
varying circumstances, that it should be considered simply a human capacity that
can be activated by all sorts of conditions, an omnipresent possibility in human
communities. In this sense, violence is like the human capacity for caring or
helping or loving, a capacity that can be tapped by many diverse conditions.3
Young
men hanging on the street mug passers-by virtually everywhere, and under some
conditions they mobilize in crowds and go on looting expeditions, or they join in
street fights that used to be called rumbles or gang wars. The lynching of blacks was
routine in theAmerican south, a ritualized form of violence where the public murder
of the targeted black became a town holiday, complete with souvenirs of the event.
Lynching can be understood as a crucial element in the system of terror by which
2 Kalyvas (2006) comments that “violence is a conceptual minefield” but goes on
to define it at “a very basic level” as “the deliberate infliction of harm on people.” Keane
(2004) similarly defines violence as “the more or less intended, direct but unwanted physical
interference by groups and/or individuals with the bodies of others […]” Nieberg (1962).
3 “We May Be Born With an Urge to Help,” is the title of a New York Times article by
Nicholas Wade (2009) describing a study of very young infants and chimpanzees.
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Violent Protest, ContentiousPolitics, and the Neoliberal State
22
black people were subjugated and exploited. However, as I will explain below, that
rationalistic “function” of lynching does not fully explain the culture of violence to
which it was central. Lynching as a regular feature of the social system was perhaps
distinctive to the American South, but the capacities for violence on which it drew
were not. Soccer crowds rampage and attack. Soldiers rape, and so do men who
are courting the women who become their victims. And gangster capitalists deploy
formal and informal security forces whose specialty is brutality in Niger (Joab-
Peterside and Zalik 2008), Darfur, Zimbabwe and Mexico.
Much of the time this capacity for violence is restrained, held in check or
channeled into ritual forms, including religious forms. However, when the
complex web of relationships, norms, and coercive controls that ordinarily
restrains or channels the human capacity for violence is torn or broken by the
dislocation that accompanies crop failures or wars or massive economic change,
violence may be more likely. Perhaps that is why neoliberal globalization
brought escalating violence in its wake.4
On the other hand, it is also the case
that accusations of violence are often made in response to what are in fact non-
violent forms of collective action. Only remember how the weavers assembling
at Peterloo in the early nineteenth century were mowed down because of the very
fact that their assemblage could be defined as a violent threat. My point for now
is that, if violence is an elemental human capacity and latent in all sorts of human
undertakings, we have to be skeptical of efforts to study violence in general.
The variety of precipitating conditions is reflected in the variety of theoretical
approaches invoked to explain violence, including “micro-explanations that focus
on individual frustration, social-structural explanations that focus on inequality
in society and the role of institutions, social classes, cultural systems, critical
theories, and the like; as well as a mixture of individual psychological factors and
the nature of the political system” (Conteh-Morgan 2004).
For these reasons I want to concentrate on explaining the violence that occurs
as a recurrent element of movement strategy. But before I turn to violence as an
element in movement strategy, a tactic intended to enhance or protect movement
power, I have to say a word about the dark underside of the violence that social
movements can generate. Violence can indeed become a force in its own right,
generating ideas and motivations that leave further and further behind any rational
calculus of achieving the goals of the movement. One obvious pattern is that
violence spurs what Jared Diamond calls “the thirst for vengeance,” which he
asserts is “among the strongest of human emotions” (Diamond 2008). And if the
desire for retribution is acted upon, cycles of violent retribution are set in motion
that may have little to do with any political goals. Rather it is participation in the
violence and the “endless cycles of retaliation” that become the motive.
4 On collective protest and violence in response to neo-liberal structural adjustment
programmes, see John Walton (1998). On the spread of global markets and ethnic conflict,
see Chua (2004). On the role of geographical displacement in nurturing terrorism, see
Sageman (2008)
46.
Protest Movements andViolence 23
The Herrin Massacre that occurred in Illinois in 1922 illustrates this
transformation. OnApril 1, 1922, soft coal miners across the nation went on strike.
The local union in Herrin, Illinois allowed the owner of a strip mine to continue
mining coal on condition that he did not ship it. By June, the owner was impatient,
and he fired the union miners and brought in scabs and armed guards. The union
men responded by looting the local hardware store to get guns, surrounding the
mine and beginning to shoot. Early on June 22, the scabs surrendered to the promise
that they would be escorted safely out of the county. So far, the use of violence to
protect the strike power is familiar. But as the scabs marched away from the site
“A slaughter began. Men were told to run and then were shot at. Some were tied
together and shot when they fell, some had their throats slit, some were hanged. In
all, nineteen men were murdered” (Hofstadter and Wallace 1971: 169–75).
Stathys Kalyvas’s discussion (2006: ch. 3) of the process by which civil war
leads to “barbarism” speaks to this process by which violence escapes rational
political motive. Merely the exposure to violent conflicts, he says, brutalizes
people, and the brutalization continues because violent conflicts can also remove
social controls, lower the cost of violence, bring people to prominence with a
propensity for violence, and create vested interests in violent skills. “All these
mechanisms,” he says, “converge to generate a culture of lawlessness and violence
that can be self-sustaining” (2006: 58).
Michael Taussig (2002) calls the culture of lawlessness and violence the culture
of terror. He is not writing about social movements or civil war, but about the
pervasive brutality of the colonizers in the Putumayo valley of the Amazon basin.
The ostensible goal was to harvest rubber, and ostensibly the culture of terror
reflected the search for profits and the need to control labor. But behind those
goals were “intricately constructed long-standing logics of meaning—structures
of feeling—whose basis lies in a symbolic world and not in one of rationalism.”
The catalog of horrors perpetrated by the rubber managers and their Indian guards
is shocking. But my point here is not the horrors, but that the culture of terror itself
generated the driving motives of men who “had lost all sight or sense of rubber-
gathering” (Taussig 2002: 219).5
Or consider again the American lynching:
To kill the victim was not enough; the execution became public theater, a
participatory ritual of torture and death, a voyeuristic spectacle prolonged as
long as possible (once for seven hours) for the benefit of the crowd. Newspapers
on a number of occasions announced in advance the time and place of a lynching,
special ‘excursion’ trains transported spectators to the scene, employers
sometimes released their workers to attend, parents sent notes to school asking
teachers to excuse their children for the event, and entire families attended,
5 For a gripping fictional account of such a “culture of terror” in a similar setting, see
Traven (1952).
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Violent Protest, ContentiousPolitics, and the Neoliberal State
24
the children hoisted on their parents’ shoulders to miss none of the action and
accompanying festivities. (Litwak: 2004)
My focus on the strategic use of violence to defend or enhance movement power
does not mean that I dismiss hatred, vengeance, anxiety and other emotionally
propelling causes of violence.And although Gurr (2000) shows that violent protest
episodes increased from 1945 to 1999, I am not arguing that protest movements
always generate violence. They do not. Koopmans’s data on Germany (1995)
shows that the overwhelming majority of protest events did not entail collective
violence. And I also do not think that the strategic view of violence in collective
action that I propose is exhaustive. People become aggressive and destructive
for expressive reasons as well, and the violent actions undertaken for strategic
reasons by some may be primarily expressive for others. I am simply arguing that
a strategic perspective gives us insight and part of an explanation of episodes of
collective violence. This requires, of course, that we also regard movements as
strategic, at least in part. Collective protests, whatever else they may also be, are
deliberate efforts at political change.
Several strategic uses of violence by movements in the pursuit of movement
goals seem to me evident. First, violence can be deployed to recruit adherents.
Violent acts can in a sense be inspirational, because they reveal the vulnerability
of the opposition, and the potential power of the movement insurgents. Gay
Seidman writes, for example, about the importance of even the limited violence
undertaken by the African National Congress because the display of military
capacity by the insurgents, by showing that the apartheid regime was vulnerable,
inspired courage and hope among potential recruits (Seidman 1994). To be sure,
for decades after its founding in 1910, the ANC had remained committed to non-
violence. But escalating repression by the regime was matched by the emergence
of armed struggle by the movement of Umkhonto we Sizwe that Nelson Mandela,
still in prison, refused to denounce (Ash 2009). Vincent Boudreau makes a
similar argument about the usefulness for recruitment of movement violence in
Southeast Asia (Boudreau 2008). And the theatricality of the kidnapping exploits
of the Tupamaros in South America seemed to be similarly intended as a way of
communicating and recruiting support for the insurgents. In all such instances,
violence generates drama, a symbolic show of power by the movement, and it may
invoke or even create sacred myths. When the American abolitionist John Brown
launched his bloody raid on the federal arsenal at Harper’s Ferry, the point was not
in the direct effect of capturing the arsenal but rather the hope that the spectacular
feat and the availability of arms that resulted would inspire a massive rising of
slaves across the South. In this, the attack failed dismally. Still, John Brown and
his violent exploits became an inspirational myth, captured in the refrain that
became the hymn of the abolitionists: “John Brown’s body lies amoldering in the
ground, but his truth goes marching on.”
Second, violence can be deployed in direct physical assaults against a target
group, or against the symbols that represent it. This is the violence that typifies
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Protest Movements andViolence 25
the action of the rioting crowd or, in an earlier language, the mob, and it is
often directed against property rather than persons. The crowd sometimes seeks
immediate material gain, or sometimes it shows its hostility by doing damage
that expresses the crowd’s grievances. The food riots that spread across Europe in
the eighteenth century were assaults of this kind, as are episodes of mob looting
generally. The pulling down of the houses of wealthy Tories in the period leading to
the American Revolution combined the immediate rewards of goods and alcohol,
with the satisfaction of destroying the property of the enemy. The goal is tangible
and immediate, and the action is direct, but it is no less strategic for those reasons.
Third, violent encounters may be staged to win the support of outsiders.
The conflict between movement insurgents, the groups that oppose them, and
governmental authorities is after all played out before an audience of the less-
involved public, and the display of violence may sway the audience to sympathize
with one side or the other. The movement may stand to gain from this drama if it
can precipitate violence by others of which the public disapproves. Sometimes,
indeed, the movement may inflict violence on itself, as when Irish Republican
Army adherents, or the student protestors in Tiananmen Square, engaged in the
drama of the public hunger strike, thus demonstrating the intensity of their own
commitment, and the callousness of their opponents. The American civil rights
movement relied on a scenario that depicted movement participants as Christ-like,
always ready to turn the other cheek in response to violent assaults (including
beatings, high-powered hoses, and menacing dogs) by enraged white Southerners.
But the movement was not simply the victim of this violence. Rather it sought
repeatedly to provoke the attacks.
Between 1961 and 1965, instances of black protest coupled with white violence
include repeated mob attacks on freedom riders (1961); white riots in reaction to
the integration of Ole Miss (1962); the highly-publicized use of police dogs and
fire hoses against demonstrators in Birmingham as well as the use of similar tactics
in Danville, Savannah and Plaquemine, LA, later that year; the Klan instigated
violence during SCLC protests in StAugustine and the deaths of Freedom Summer
participants in Mississippi (1964); and violence surrounding the community-wide
campaign in Selma (1965) (Santoro 2008: 1407).
Finally, and this is my main argument, violence has often been crucial in
the defense of the distinctive source of movement power, the ability to refuse
obedience to the rules of dominant institutions.6
This assertion directly contradicts
Hannah Arendt’s well-known argument that “[p]ower and violence are opposites;
where the one rules absolutely, the other is absent” (Arendt 1969: ch. 1). In
fact, the power sources of protest movements are not mainly in the display of
WUNC—worthiness, unity, numbers and commitment, with its implication of
electoral influence. Rather, movements exercise leverage when they can mobilize
the withdrawal of cooperation in major institutions of the society. Movements
pursue their goals in all sorts of other ways, of course. They march and proclaim
6 For the development of this argument see Piven (2006, 2008).
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Violent Protest, ContentiousPolitics, and the Neoliberal State
26
and petition and denounce. But they are most effective when they succeed in
persuading numbers of people to defy some of the rules that ensure cooperation
in institutionalized social life. The ensuing blockages, slowdowns or breakdowns
may give the movement a measure of power. In other words, movement power is
the strike power writ large.7
This kind of disruptive power is real and threatening, and it also typically
requires that movement participants break the rules that govern their usual
institutional roles (Piven and Cloward 2005). The most obvious example is the
labor strike, whether aimed at the bosses or at other workers perceived to be rate-
cutters or strike-breakers. But so is a student strike the refusal to participate in the
regular routine of the school or the university. When American soldiers in Vietnam
refused to participate in assigned missions, or indeed when any army suffers
desertions or the tacit resistance of foot draggers they are exercising disruptive
power. A highway blockade or a building occupation may be similarly disruptive,
as is mass looting, or milk spillages by farmers who refuse to send their product
to market.
The result is institutional disruption with ramifying consequences, and the
violence that often ensues should be understood as an effort on the one side to
repress the disruptive behavior, and on the other to defend the withdrawal and
refusal that causes the disruption. Because the institutional disruption discomfits
many groups, and also because the behavior that causes the disruption breaks rules,
it is likely to precipitate repressive violence by antagonists or by the authorities
that can more readily be legitimated because the disruptors are breaking rules. To
defend its disruptive power, the movement may try to counter repressive violence
with its own violence.
The history of the American labor movement provides endless instances of
the use of violence, violence by employers and government in the effort to end a
strike, and violence by strikers to protect their strike and the power it yields. The
strikes and sit-down strikes of the 1930s are good examples. In 1933, early in the
battle for unionization in the auto industry, the workers actually formed wrecking
crews to carry out hit and run raids on Detroit plants (Bernstein 1970: 97). But,
although violence played an important ancillary role, it was not violence alone
but violence in defense of the leverage of the strike that, in the words of the union
newspaper, “transformed wage slaves into men”Adamic 1936: 654). The potential
power of the strike was that it halted production and profits. And if the workers
also occupied the plant they not only halted production but prevented the use of
the plant by replacement workers, and also held the company’s property as hostage
to the resolution of the strike. And all sides used violence, in the effort to put an
end to the strikes and sit-downs, or in the effort to defend them.
7 This understanding of popular power has been touched on by a number of authors
besides me, although, as Womack has argued, it is an understanding of power that remains
elusive. See for example Sharp (1973: ch. 1) and Womack (2005).
50.
Protest Movements andViolence 27
Strikes and sit-downs could and were defeated by the deployment of company
guards and law enforcement officers. In February of 1936 when Goodyear Tire
and Rubber discharged 137 workers, a mass walk-out by other workers ensued.
Goodyear called up 150 law enforcement officers to reopen the plant. In response
5,000 menacing workers faced down the officers, and Goodyear agreed not only
to reinstate the fired workers, but to a number of other concessions. Before the end
of 1936 there were 52 additional sit-downs, accompanied by physical assaults by
the workers. Similar threats of violence, together with the less-than-lethal use of
violence, accompanied the strikes the next year by automobile workers. Indeed,
before the companies recognized the automobile workers union, and just in the
period between March and June 1937, there were 170 sit-downs in the plants. Jim
Pope (2006) tells the story of what became known as “The Battle of the Running
Bulls”:
On January 11, 1937, police battled strikers for several hours at Flint Fisher
Body No. 2. […] The police used firearms and tear gas against the strikers, who
retaliated by dousing the officers with a fire hose and bombarding them with a
variety of projectiles including two-pound automobile door hinges. Fourteen
strikers and supporters were wounded, mostly by gunshot, and eleven officers,
including Sheriff Wolcott suffered injuries, mostly head wounds from hurled
objects.8
Pope thinks that implicit in the widespread walkouts and sit-downs was an effort
by workers to unilaterally establish and enforce a new system of rules regulating
production. In this they did not succeed or, more accurately, they did not fully
succeed. But they won significant concessions nevertheless, albeit in the form
that Pope calls “bureaucratic contractualism.” A Goodyear report on the sit-downs
concluded that “In most instances resumption of production has been accomplished
only by substantial concessions on the part of management in the interest of peace
and continuing production during the present peak period” (Goodyear Tire and
Rubber Co. 1936, cited in Pope 2006: 54). And the automobile strikes and sit-
downs resulted in the first collective bargaining agreements in the industry.
Conclusion
All of which is to say that violence and the threat of violence are complexly
intertwined with the efforts of social movements to exercise power, and to study
movement power. We need also to study movement violence, both the violence
used against them, and the violence with which movements respond. To be sure,
the apostles of non-violence are indeed half right.
8 See also Fine (1969).
51.
Violent Protest, ContentiousPolitics, and the Neoliberal State
28
People power in the twentieth century did not grow out of the barrel of a gun.
It removed rulers who believed that violence was power, by acting to dissolve their
real source of power: the consent or acquiescence of the people they had tried to
subordinate. When unjust laws were no longer obeyed, when commerce stopped
because people no longer worked, when public services could no longer function,
and when armies were no longer feared, the violence that governments could
use no longer mattered—their power to make people comply had disappeared
(Ackerman and Duval 2005: 505).
Mass defiance is indeed the great, untapped source of popular power on which
movements draw. And when unjust laws are disobeyed, commerce halts, and
services no longer function, the great utopian movement of the future may be
unfolding. But all our experience tells us that the unfolding is not likely to be
peaceful.
52.
Chapter 3
The Outcomesof Political Violence: Ethical,
Theoretical and Methodological Challenges
Lorenzo Bosi and Marco Giugni
In 2009, a young Italian Muslim woman recalled her experiences at school, stating:
There was never enough discussion in class about intercultural issues, but after
9/11 many controversies about what was happening started to emerge. So also
in our class you could see that people were starting to talk about what foreigners
do, about what they come to do here, and about what Islam really is. From that
moment on, many schools have started to work on intercultural issues. (Bosi and
della Porta 2010: 18)
The Italian educational system has been often criticized for the absence of
intercultural approaches and its strong Catholic biases against other religions
(Queirolo Palmas 2006). Paradoxically, this seems to have improved after the
events of September 11. As the quote shows, a young generation of Muslims in
Italy, while explicitly condemning political violence and terrorism, felt somehow
“empowered” by 9/11 because it gave an explicit sign that they should be counted
and listened to. This was one, unanticipated consequence of political violence.
Whether unanticipated, threatened, or actual, political violence is a particular
confrontational repertoire aimed at inflicting material damage to individuals and/
or property with the purpose of influencing audiences for political purposes.1
While violence is not an intrinsic feature of contentious politics (McAdam et
al. 2001), neither is it rare—particularly in today’s world. Contentious politics
can include different forms of violence such as rioting, attacks on property,
sabotage, squatting, bombing buildings, bodily assaults, kidnapping, public self-
immolation, hunger strikes, murders, suicide attacks, to mention only a few. These
radical forms of contentious politics may be called either terrorism or resistance,
“depending on the circumstances and who is doing the naming” (Steinhoff and
Zwerman 2008: 213). Also, violence is culture-dependent in that what is violent
for one society can be perceived as an accepted, non-violent tactic in another, or in
another historical period. Also, technological change can challenge the definition
of violence. So-called “hactivism” strategically damages or attacks virtual property
1 We acknowledge the importance of state or state-sponsored violence as an object
of research, but this chapter focuses mainly on non-state actors as perpetuators of violence.
53.
Violent Protest, ContentiousPolitics, and the Neoliberal State
30
(e.g., hacking, defacing web pages, email floods, viruses and worms, and data theft
or destruction). Although it does not inflict material destruction characteristic of
older forms of protest violence, it is still perceived as violent action (Jordan 2002).
Thus, when we deal with political violence, much depends on how it is perceived,
received and, eventually, how much reaction it invites. It is obviously context
dependent.
In this chapter we focus specifically on the outcomes of political violence,
especially violence committed by armed groups. The literature on political violence
and terrorism has grown massively since 9/11, but has so far been mostly silent
about outcomes (Abrahms 2006, 2008; Crenshaw 1983; Gurr 1988). This is even
more striking if we consider that the very purpose of the vast majority of tactical
political violence is precisely to elicit reactions from the state. Although states
and state agents are the most common targets of armed groups, there are other
targets, such as private enterprises and corporations, as in the case of the Red
Brigades (della Porta 1995) or the Animal Liberation Front (Lutz and Lutz 2006).
Sometimes political violence may even express its concerns indirectly, by targeting
one institution but aiming to affect another—what social movement scholars call “a
proxy target” (Walker et al. 2008). Tourism, which has suffered in different armed
conflicts from attacks by armed groups that were indirectly targeting this sector in
order to influence state policies, is a clear example of that (Drakos and Kutan 2003).
Whether political violence has an impact or not is important for governments and
the general public, but also for the analysts of political violence as its impact
is critical to understanding its emergence, uses and spread both across time and
across places. Ethical issues and disagreement on how we can measure political
violence outcomes at the methodological level seem to have hindered systematic
investigation and theoretical developments in this important research area. Our
intention in this chapter is to stimulate further work on the outcomes of political
violence.2
First, we focus on the range of potential outcomes associated with political
violence. Second, we briefly review the difficulties of research on the outcomes
of political violence. Third, we compare non-violent and violent action, from the
less extreme to the more extreme, and ask which is more likely to be successful
and under which conditions. We conclude by underlining some avenues for further
research and how research on political violence contributes as well to the social
movement literature, particularly by enriching the relatively scant attention it has
paid to violent forms of political action. Throughout, we draw on empirical examples
obtained from the literature on contentious politics.
2 Throughout, we use the terms “outcomes,” “effects,” “impacts” and “consequences”
interchangeably.
54.
The Outcomes ofPolitical Violence 31
Political Violence and its Possible Domains of Impact
Drawing on the social movement literature (Bosi and Uba 2009; Giugni 2008),3
we
point to two main distinctions to establish a typology of the possible outcomes of
political violence. On one hand, we can distinguish between the political, cultural
and biographical impacts of political violence. On the other hand, we distinguish
between internal and external impacts, depending on whether they occur inside
the armed groups or affect the external environment. If we combine these two
dimensions, we obtain a typology that includes six main domains the effects of
which are possible.
Table 3.1 A typology of the outcomes of political violence
Outcome
dimensions
Internal External
Political Power relations within armed group Policy, procedural, institutional
Cultural Value change within armed group Public opinion and attitudes
Biographical Life-course patterns of militants Life-course patterns of violence targets
An example of an internal political outcome is a change in the power relations
within the armed group. Armed groups are not static actors possessing a single,
fixed program and strategy to advance their armed campaigns. The dynamic of
internal power relations may induce competition among members of the same
armed group. Competition for influence over the support base and the sectors of
public opinion that the armed group wishes to influence is an ongoing process.
Certain factions may disengage or deradicalize (Horgan 2008; White 2010; Bosi
and della Porta, forthcoming), leaving the armed group in the hands of other
cohorts and leading to changes in the group’s trajectory because of modifications
in the group’s composition. Such changes can lead to either radicalization of action
repertoires or to moderation, as when militant groups institutionalize into political
parties. The case of the armed group Movimento 19 de Abril (M-19), in Columbia,
is a good example of this. In 1990 it reorganized itself in the Alianza Democratica
and contested its first parliamentary elections. Internal splits, however, usually
lead to further radicalization, as was the case of the IRAin Northern Ireland during
the late 1960s and early 1970s. Subsequently, the Provisional IRA (PIRA) and
the Official IRA battled for the support of the broader republican constituency,
their competition leading to further radicalization. Once the radicalization process
3 For more on what has been done regarding social movements outcomes as well as
on who is working in the field today, see http://www2.statsvet.uu.se/moveout.
suoi due figlivennero chiusi nella stessa prigione da cui era stato
levato Andronico[294].
Dopo questa rivoluzione i Genovesi spedirono due galere per
prendere possesso di Tenedo, al quale oggetto erano muniti degli
ordini che Andronico dirigeva al governatore dell'isola. Ma questi
essendo, come pure gli abitanti, affezionato al deposto imperatore,
ricusò di riconoscere i due ciechi monarchi, chiuse il suo porto ai
Genovesi, e vedendo che colle sole sue forze non potrebbe a lungo
difendersi contro di loro, chiese soccorso a Donato Tron, ammiraglio
della flotta veneziana, che ritornava dal mar Nero, e gli consegnò
Tenedo colle sue fortezze. Il senato di Venezia che tutta conosceva
l'importanza di quest'isola, vi mandò all'istante due provveditori con
forte guarnigione, e le somme occorrenti per mettere i castelli in
buono stato di difesa. I Genovesi irritati persuasero Andronico a far
imprigionare il balio con tutti i Veneziani stabiliti a Costantinopoli, e
somministrarono all'imperatore dodici galere per intraprendere
l'assedio di Tenedo. Per altro eglino non dichiararono la guerra ai
Veneziani, e non presero parte all'attacco che in qualità d'ausiliarj de'
Greci[295].
In un altro regno del Levante i Genovesi sostenevano una guerra,
alla quale dovevano a vicenda prendere parte anche i Veneziani.
Pietro di Lusignano, re di Cipro, era stato ucciso nel 1372 dai suoi
fratelli a Nicosia, sua capitale; suo figliuolo ancora fanciullo,
chiamato Pietro, come il padre, era stato disegnato per succedergli. I
Veneziani ed i Genovesi, che avevano in quell'isola potenti
stabilimenti, pretendevano gli uni e gli altri di occupare il posto
d'onore nella cerimonia della coronazione. Gli zii del giovanetto re
decisero la disputa in favore de' Veneziani[296]; ma i Genovesi
ricusarono di stare al loro giudizio, e recaronsi al palazzo colle armi
sotto il loro mantello, per occupare a forza il posto cui credevano
d'avere diritto. Gli zii del re, avuto avviso del loro divisamento, li
fecero arrestare; si ritennero come prove del fatto le armi che
portavano nascoste, e senza formarne regolare procedura vennero
precipitati dalla sommità di una torre. I furibondi Ciprioti non si
57.
limitarono a farmorire i Genovesi ch'eransi recati al palazzo, ma
infierirono contro tutti i loro compatriotti sparsi nell'isola; tutti furono
uccisi e saccheggiate le loro case. Ad un solo Genovese gravemente
ferito in fronte, e creduto morto, riuscì di fuggire onde portare la
notizia dell'accaduto alla sua patria[297].
I Genovesi impazienti di vendicare tanto oltraggio, mentre armavano
una formidabile flotta, spedirono immediatamente Damiano Catani
ne' mari di Cipro con sette galere, per far sentire ai Ciprioti i primi
effetti della loro collera. Il Catani ottenne vantaggi assai maggiori di
quelli che potevansi sperare da così debole squadra. Con subiti ed
impreveduti attacchi egli occupò Nicosia il 16 giugno del 1373, e
Pafo il 23 dello stesso mese[298]. Settanta giovani donne di
quest'isola, altre volte consacrate a Venere, caddero in suo potere in
un'imboscata, ma malgrado il malcontento de' suoi marinaj rimandò
queste greche bellezze ai loro padri o mariti, senza permettere che
fosse fatto loro il menomo oltraggio. «Non è già per far prigionieri di
questa sorta che la nostra patria ne ha qui spediti,» rispose a coloro
che lo rimproveravano di non saper usare della vittoria.
Mentre Damiano Catani con tale condotta ispirava ai Ciprioti la più
alta idea della sua moderazione e della sua virtù, eccitava colle sue
vittorie e colle sue negoziazioni una reciproca diffidenza tra i membri
del consiglio di reggenza. Sospettavasi che avesse qualche
intelligenza coi grandi, e non si osava prendere contro di lui veruna
vigorosa misura. Intanto Pietro di Campo Fregoso, fratello del doge
di Genova, giunse avanti a Famagosta il 3 ottobre del 1373 con
trentasei galere e quattordici mila uomini da sbarco. Il giorno 10
dello stesso mese Famagosta fu presa, ed il giovane re co' suoi zii ed
il suo consiglio caddero in potere de' vincitori, e l'isola intiera fu
soggiogata. Per altro i Genovesi castigarono con moderazione
l'offesa che loro aveva poste le armi in mano, non avendo
condannati a pena capitale che tre dei gentiluomini che avevano
diretta la carnificina de' loro compatriotti: mandarono a Genova uno
degli zii del re, ed i figli dell'altro, che avevano il titolo di principi
d'Antiochia, con sessanta ostaggi della principale nobiltà; lasciarono
una guarnigione a Famagosta per tenere in suggezione tutta l'isola;
58.
ma vendettero ilsuo regno a Pietro di Lusignano, con obbligo di
pagare un annuo tributo alla repubblica di quaranta mila fiorini[299].
Il re di Cipro ed il suo popolo venuti in potere del conquistatore, ben
dovevano aspettarsi, dopo così grave offesa, un più rigoroso
trattamento. Ma Pietro di Lusignano non poteva perdonare ai
Genovesi nè il corso pericolo, nè la dipendenza in cui si rimaneva.
Tosto ch'egli seppe che la contesa pel possesso di Tenedo poteva
accendere la guerra tra i Veneziani ed i Genovesi, cercò l'alleanza de'
primi, e concertò con loro i mezzi di scacciare le truppe straniere che
occupavano Famagosta[300].
Nello stesso tempo il re di Cipro sposava Violanta, figlia di Barnabò
Visconti, signore di Milano, ed approfittava di tale parentado per
procurare nuovi nemici ai Genovesi. Chiese che i cento mila fiorini,
che Barnabò Visconti dava in dote a sua figlia, fossero da questo
signore impiegati nella guerra della Liguria[301]; ed in fatti, ad
istigazione del Visconti, i marchesi del Carreto si ribellarono, e
tolsero alla repubblica Castelfranco, Noli ed Albenga[302].
I Genovesi attribuivano all'odio ed alla gelosia de' Veneziani tutte le
guerre che avevano in Grecia, in Cipro e nelle montagne della
Liguria; e dal canto loro cercavano di risvegliare il coraggio, o di
aguzzare l'odio de' nemici di Venezia, onde opporre alla lega formata
contro di loro un'altra lega d'eguali forze.
S'addirizzarono perciò da prima a Francesco da Carrara, signore di
Padova, la di cui inimicizia contro i Veneziani aveva cominciato nel
1356 colla guerra degli Ungari. Questo principe aveva somministrate
vittovaglie al re Luigi, quando attaccò la repubblica, la quale non
avea mai più perdonato al Carrara questo cattivo ufficio. Il signore di
Padova, sempre esposto ai risentimenti della repubblica, cercò
d'acquistare, con un ardito attentato, un'influenza ne' consiglj della
repubblica che moderasse l'odio loro. I suoi confidenti lo avvisavano
ogni mattina di ciò che si era fatto in senato nel precedente giorno;
e ciò si poteva ben fare, trovandosi Padova a sole venti miglia da
Venezia, e il territorio padovano confinante colla laguna. Una notte
questo signore fece rapire dai suoi gondolieri nelle proprie case tutti i
59.
senatori veneziani cheavevano contro di lui perorato con maggiore
veemenza; li fece condurre a Padova nel suo palazzo, e loro
ricordando gli offensivi discorsi contro di lui tenuti, li minacciò di farli
morire. Per altro in appresso si addolcì, loro accordando la vita e la
libertà, a condizione che giurassero di seppellire quest'avvenimento
in un profondo silenzio, e di essergli più favorevoli nelle loro
deliberazioni. Il Carrara gli avvisò congedandoli, che gli sarebbe più
agevole il farli punire d'uno spergiuro con un colpo di pugnale di
quello che gli fosse stato il rapirli dalle loro case e dalla loro patria. Li
fece in appresso trasportare di notte sulla spiaggia di Venezia.
La religione del giuramento o il timore persuasero i senatori
veneziani a mantenere la promessa; e non fu che dopo molti anni
che quest'attentato venne rivelato dai banditi medesimi ch'erano
stati impiegati dal signore di Padova. I Veneziani provvidero con
maggiore vigilanza alla sicurezza della loro città, e determinarono di
vendicarsi del terrore che Francesco da Carrara aveva inspirato a
molti di loro[303].
Essi attaccarono lo stato di Padova in ottobre del 1372. Il re
d'Ungheria, che non aveva scordati i buoni ufficj di Francesco di
Carrara, spedì Stefano Laczk vayvoda di Transilvania in soccorso di
questo signore. Ma il vayvoda fu fatto prigioniero in una battaglia
che egli diede ai Veneziani il primo luglio del 1373, ed i suoi soldati
ricusarono di combattere finchè non fosse redento il loro generale.
Francesco da Carrara trovossi perciò sforzato dai suoi alleati
medesimi a firmare il 23 di settembre una pace umiliante. Suo figlio
venne a Venezia a chiedere in ginocchioni perdono al doge di averlo
ingiustamente attaccato, e promise di pagare in dieci anni trecento
cinquanta mila fiorini per le spese della guerra[304].
Quest'ultima umiliazione aveva raddoppiato l'odio del signore da
Carrara, onde l'alleanza offertagli dai Genovesi parvegli un'opportuna
occasione di vendetta, e l'accolse avidamente. Prima di manifestare
le sue intenzioni, fece in Venezia medesima immensi
approvvigionamenti di sali e di droghe, onde i suoi sudditi non
avessero bisogno per cinque anni di commercio marittimo. In pari
60.
tempo entrò intrattati con tutti i principi gelosi delle ricchezze di
Venezia, oppure offesi dal di lei orgoglio. Questo popolo, egli loro
diceva, unisce ad una illuminata ed uniforme politica tanto coraggio
e tante ricchezze, che s'egli acquista una volta qualche stabilimento
in terra ferma, non tarderà a signoreggiare l'Italia collo stesso
orgoglio con cui domina di già sui mari. Il re d'Ungheria, il patriarca
d'Aquilea, signore del Friuli, i fratelli della Scala, signori di Verona, il
comune d'Ancona, il duca d'Austria e la regina di Napoli, mossi dalle
persuasioni di Francesco da Carrara, accettarono l'alleanza dei
Genovesi, e si disposero ad entrare in guerra contro i Veneziani[305].
La guerra preparata da tutte queste negoziazioni scoppiò in fatti nel
1378 dall'una all'altra estremità della Lombardia. Barnabò Visconti,
che teneva al suo soldo i principali capitani avventurieri, mandò la
compagnia francese della Stella nella Liguria. Quest'armata
attraversò la Riviera di Ponente, guastò la Polsevera e s'avanzò fino a
san Pier da Arena. Ritirossi in seguito mediante una grossa somma
di danaro che il doge di Genova mandò a' suoi capi[306]. Giovanni
Acuto ed il conte Lucio Lando avevano contemporaneamente
condotta un'altra armata di Barnabò nello stato di Verona[307].
Intanto Giovanni Obizzi, generale di Francesco da Carrara, faceva
delle scorrerie nello stato veneziano, ed il vayvoda di Transilvania
guastava il territorio trivigiano[308]. In ogni luogo si combatteva, in
ogni luogo le campagne erano abbandonate al sacco, ed intanto non
accadeva sul continente verun fatto decisivo.
Le armate di terra non erano composte che di mercenarj indifferenti
alla causa che sostenevano; ma sopra le flotte delle due repubbliche
combattevano personalmente i cittadini di Genova e di Venezia, e
l'odio inveterato raddoppiava il loro accanimento. È noto che nella
prima campagna i marinaj dispersi dal commercio su tutti i mari non
avevano potuto essere richiamati in servigio della loro patria; erano
armate poche galere, ed anche queste trovavansi sparse in più
lontane parti. Aaron Stroppa comandava dieci vascelli genovesi ne'
mari di Costantinopoli; egli attaccò Lenno, ossia Stalymene, che
61.
apparteneva ai Veneziani,e l'occupò; assediò ancora Tenedo, ma la
guarnigione veneziana rese vani tutti i suoi tentativi[309].
Un'altra flotta di dieci galere doveva, sotto il comando di Luigi del
Fiesco, proteggere la navigazione dei Genovesi nel mare di Toscana.
I Veneziani mandarono nello stesso mare Vittore Pisani, il più illustre
ed il più riputato de' loro ammiragli, con quattordici galere. Le due
squadre si scontrarono in luglio presso la riva d'Anzio. Una burrasca
sollevava gigantesche onde, che andavano a spezzarsi contro il
promontorio di Nettuno. Le galere, costrette ad orzare e sempre in
pericolo di rompere sulla costa, cessavano di manovrare per
combattere con accanimento, ed il furore degli uomini superava
quello degli elementi; ma i Genovesi meno numerosi furono alla fine
perdenti; una delle loro galere naufragò sulla costa; cinque furono
prese da Pisani, e quattro si salvarono colla fuga[310].
La giovane sposa del re di Cipro, figlia di Barnabò Visconti, fu
condotta nella sua isola da sei galere veneziane, le quali, colà giunte,
si associarono a cinque galere catalane che Pietro di Lusignano
aveva prese al suo soldo, e strinsero insieme d'assedio Famagosta,
mentre il re di Cipro le secondava con una armata di dieci mila
uomini. Dopo una accanita zuffa i Veneziani penetrarono nel porto, e
vi bruciarono alcuni vascelli genovesi; ma quando vollero in seguito
dare l'assalto alle mura della città, vennero respinti con tanta
perdita, che abbandonarono il porto di cui si erano impadroniti ed
ancora il mare di Cipro[311].
I due popoli si offendevano ancora più gravemente nel golfo di
Venezia. Luciano Doria, grande ammiraglio de' Genovesi, vi aveva
condotte ventidue galere; ed inoltre aveva trovati a Zara sussidj
d'ogni genere, che il re d'Ungheria aveva fatti apparecchiare pei suoi
alleati. D'altra parte Vittore Pisani, richiamato dal senato veneziano
aveva ricondotta nel golfo una flotta di venticinque galere per
proteggere il commercio della sua patria, ed i convogli di vittovaglie
ch'ella tirava dalla Puglia. Il Pisani ritolse al re d'Ungheria le città di
Cattaro, di Sebenico, e di Arbo, che gli erano state cedute in fine
della precedente guerra[312]. Nello stesso tempo Luciano Doria
62.
occupava Rovigno nell'Istria,saccheggiava e bruciava Grado e
Caorle, e spargeva il terrore fino nel porto di Venezia[313].
Vittore Pisano che già da lungo tempo teneva il mare, in gennajo del
1379 fece chiedere alla signoria la licenza di ricondurre la sua flotta
a Venezia per lasciar riposare la ciurma. Il senato ebbe timore che
Doria, rimasto in qualche modo padrone del golfo, bloccasse nel
porto la flotta veneziana, onde ricusò di ricevere il suo ammiraglio, e
Pisani fu forzato di passare l'inverno battendo le coste dell'Istria. La
malattia si manifestò ne' suoi equipaggi, ed alcune migliaja di
marinaj, che sempre in faccia a Pola sospiravano di prendere riposo
su quella riva ospitale, morirono nelle loro galleggianti prigioni, e
trovarono sepoltura sotto le onde[314]. Il Pisani era finalmente
entrato nel porto di questa città dopo avere fatto un nuovo viaggio
nella Puglia, quando Luciano Doria comparve il 29 maggio del 1379
colla sua flotta di ventidue galere in distanza di tre miglia. I marinaj
veneziani, impazienti di terminare la loro lunga cattività, obbligarono
il loro ammiraglio ad uscire dal porto colle sue ventiquattro galere
per venire a battaglia[315]. Si rimpiazzarono alla meglio i marinaj
rapiti dalla malattia facendo montare sulla flotta molti abitanti di Pola
con alcune truppe da sbarco[316]. Il Pisani tentò invano di supplire
col suo valore alla debolezza degli equipaggi. Attaccò con furore i
Genovesi, e l'ammiraglio Doria fu ucciso in principio della battaglia;
ma Ambrogio Doria, suo fratello, prese subito il comando della flotta.
I Genovesi animati dal desiderio di vendicare il loro ammiraglio
raddoppiarono i loro sforzi, ed in un'ora e mezza fu decisa la
battaglia: quindici galere veneziane caddero in mano dei nemici con
mille novecento prigionieri, tra i quali contavansi ventiquattro
membri del maggiore consiglio; e Vittore Pisani, che si era rifugiato a
Venezia con soli sette vascelli, fu posto subito in prigione, quasi
fosse colpevole della sua cattiva fortuna[317].
La vittoriosa flotta dei Genovesi venne bentosto portata al numero di
quarantasette galere da Pietro Doria, che la signoria mandò nel golfo
per succedere a Luciano. Il nuovo ammiraglio si avanzò fino a san
Nicolò di Lido, una delle aperture della laguna, per concertare le sue
63.
misure col signoredi Padova; dopo comparve il 6 agosto innanzi alla
porta di Chiozza colla flotta da lui comandata[318].
La laguna che separa Venezia dal continente, e che alla caduta
dell'impero romano salvò le isole ch'ella racchiude dall'invasione de'
Barbari, è altresì provveduta dalla banda del mare d'una naturale
fortificazione. Una linea d'isole lunghe e strette formano un bastione
contro la furia del mare. In verun luogo ha più di mille passi di
larghezza, mentre la sua lunghezza è di trentacinque miglia. Viene
chiamata arzere, argine, e su quest'argine sono costrutte le famose
muraglie detti i muracci. Sei aperture, che dall'alto mare comunicano
alla laguna, hanno tagliato l'argine in tante isole prolungate, ognuna
delle quali aperture tiene luogo di porto[319]. Alcuni più stretti canali
tagliano altresì le grandi isole; e più a mezzogiorno le aperture di
Brondolo e del Fossone, che servono di foce alla Brenta ed all'Adige,
comunicano pure colla laguna.
Il senato di Venezia, dopo la disfatta di Pola, erasi affrettato di
chiudere tutte le aperture della laguna. Venne tesa una triplice
catena a traverso ad ogni porto, che di tratto in tratto era difesa da
sandoni, grandi vascelli immobili carichi di macchine da guerra e di
soldati. In alcuni luoghi i Veneziani aggiunsero a queste catene una
specie di fortificazione galleggiante composta di grandi travi
artificiosamente legate assieme, le quali sembravano rendere ogni
avvicinamento impossibile[320].
Pietro Doria dopo avere corsa tutta la lunghezza dell'argine risolse
d'attaccare di preferenza l'apertura di Chiozza lontana venticinque
miglia da Venezia. Francesco da Carrara, informato del divisamento
dell'ammiraglio genovese, aveva preparate a Padova cento barche
armate, che fece scendere verso Chiozza per i canali della Brenta, e
questa flottiglia attaccò per di dietro la catena che chiudeva il porto
e le fortificazioni galleggianti, mentre il Doria l'attaccava di fronte. Il
sandone o vascello immobile, ch'era posto tra i due nemici, non potè
fare lunga resistenza, ed i soldati, che lo difendevano, fuggirono il 12
agosto del 1379 dopo avervi appiccato il fuoco[321].
64.
Essendosi in talmodo resi padroni dell'ingresso della laguna, i
Genovesi assediarono Chiozza per assicurarsi del possedimento del
suo porto. Francesco da Carrara mandò metà della sua armata
nell'isola di Brondolo, sul di cui lato interno è posta Chiozza: i
Genovesi sbarcarono parte delle loro truppe per assecondarlo, e
l'armata degli assedianti, contando le forze di terra e di mare,
ammontava a ventiquattro mila uomini. I Veneziani avevano
introdotti tre mila uomini in Chiozza, i di cui abitanti facevano pure il
servigio militare. Un sobborgo, detto Chiozza piccola, fu ben tosto
preso dagli assedianti. Questo sobborgo comunicava colla città per
mezzo d'un ponte lungo un quarto di miglio, che attraversava bassi
fondi e lagune. I Veneziani occupavano ancora questo ponte il 16
agosto, quando un marinajo genovese riuscì a condurvi di sotto un
battello incendiario. Le fiamme ed il fumo, che si videro
improvvisamente sollevarsi, fecero credere ai Veneziani che il ponte,
su cui trovavansi, avesse preso fuoco, onde fuggirono, sorpresi da
panico timore, e furono inseguiti così da vicino che non ebbero
tempo di alzare dietro loro il ponte levatojo. I Genovesi ed i Padovani
entrarono con loro in Chiozza, e se ne resero padroni; ottocento
sessanta Veneziani erano morti combattendo; tre mila ottocento
furono fatti prigionieri[322].
I Genovesi presero possesso di Chiozza a nome di Francesco di
Carrara, e la dichiararono a lui soggetta. Era questa una delle
condizioni del trattato fatto con lui. Quest'acquisto assicurava oramai
ai Genovesi una comunicazione co' nemici de' Veneziani sul
continente, e loro apriva colla laguna la stessa città di Venezia[323],
di cui Chiozza era come un bastione avanzato. Fu perciò estrema la
costernazione de' Veneziani, ed il popolo affollavasi intorno al
palazzo di san Marco, e piangendo supplicava la signoria di
domandare la pace ad ogni costo, e di salvare in tal modo la
repubblica dalla sua estrema ruina[324]. Le virtù repubblicane e la
costanza ne' pericoli, sembravano appartenere in Venezia
esclusivamente alla nobiltà, che sola governava lo stato. Il doge
Andrea Contarini oppose il suo coraggio e la sua fermezza
all'abbattimento del popolo desolato; ma egli stesso conosceva tutto
65.
il pericolo chesoprastava alla sua patria, e spedì tre ambasciatori a
Chiozza a domandare la pace ai Genovesi.
Il consiglio di guerra, in cui questi deputati furono introdotti, era
preseduto da Pietro Doria e da Francesco da Carrara. I Veneziani
confessarono la propria disfatta, ed invitarono i loro rivali a non
abusare della vittoria. «Il doge ne ha dato questo foglio bianco
(dissero essi presentando una carta a Francesco da Carrara) affinchè
vi facciate scrivere voi medesimi le condizioni che vi piacerà dettare;
egli tutte le accetta preventivamente, e non si riserva che una sola
cosa, che la libertà veneziana rimanga intatta.» Il signore di Padova
parve premuroso di conchiudere una pace di cui dovevano essere
così vantaggiose le condizioni; ma Pietro Doria, che voleva affatto
distrutta la rivale della sua patria, persuase i suoi alleati a ricusar di
trattare, incaricandosi egli di rispondere agli ambasciatori, e loro
disse: «Vi giuro per Dio, signori Veneziani, che voi non avrete mai
pace col signore di Padova o colla nostra repubblica, se prima non
abbiamo noi medesimi messa una briglia ai cavalli di bronzo che
sono sulla vostra piazza di san Marco. Quando gli avremo imbrigliati
colle nostre mani, noi ben sapremo renderli quieti[325].»
Quando fu riferita a Venezia questa risposta insultante tutto il popolo
ad altro più non pensò che a difendersi contro nemici che non
lasciavano nulla sperare. Frattanto avevasi successivamente notizia
che Terra nuova, Cavarzere e Mont'Albano, fortezze poste alla foce
dell'Adige o ai confini del padovano, eransi arrese senza combattere,
atterrite dalla rotta di Chiozza; che Loredo e Torre delle Bebe erano
state prese pochi giorni dopo; e finalmente che il forte delle Saline
era bloccato; questo per altro coraggiosamente si difese fino alla fine
della guerra[326].
Il 24 agosto furono viste avanzarsi ventiquattro galere genovesi e
quaranta barche armate dalla banda del Lido; la stessa città di
Venezia era minacciata di uno sbarco; ma nell'istante in cui i
Genovesi vollero prender terra furono respinti con un vigore
inaspettato, e dopo la loro ritirata i Veneziani pensarono a fortificare
i canali pei quali i loro nemici erano giunti in vista della capitale[327].
66.
Un solo uomoaveva l'intera confidenza de' marinaj e del popolo di
Venezia. Uscito da una famiglia nella quale i trofei marittimi
sembravano ereditarj, Vittore Pisani veniva riputato il degno
successore di Niccolò Pisani, che nella precedente guerra avea
combattuto coi Genovesi al Bosforo, e gli aveva rotti in Sardegna. Ma
quest'ammiraglio, reso dal senato responsabile dell'insubordinazione
de' suoi equipaggi, e dei capricci della sorte, era stato gettato in
prigione dopo la disfatta di Pola. Stava egli chiuso sotto le volte che
sostengono il palazzo di san Marco dalla banda del porto. Ode
all'improvviso il popolo ammutinato invocare la signoria e circondare
il palazzo, gridando: «Se volete che noi combattiamo, rendeteci
Vittore Pisani, nostro ammiraglio; viva Vittore Pisani!» egli allora
carico di catene, si strascina verso una delle finestre della sua
prigione: «fermatevi, grida egli, Veneziani, voi non dovete mai
gridare che viva san Marco[328]!» Frattanto la signoria fece uscire
Pisani di prigione e lo nominò capitano del mare. Molti cittadini si
offrirono all'istante di armare galere a loro spese per servire sotto di
lui, e tutto il popolo si affrettò di equipaggiare una nuova flotta.
Mentre si stava allestendo, il Pisani fece fortificare tutti i canali che
conducono a Venezia, come pure l'argine di Malamocco; fece
chiudere con paloni ed antenne galleggianti il canal grande e quello
della Giudecca; stabilì barche di guardia tutt'all'intorno di Venezia, e
pose di stazione agli sbocchi de' primarj canali, cocche, o grandi
vascelli rotondi, carichi d'artiglierie. Le armi a fuoco erano finalmente
diventate di uso comune, e per la prima volta nelle guerre d'Italia si
videro adoperate in tutte le battaglie[329].
Il re d'Ungheria, informato de' prosperi avvenimenti de' suoi alleati,
aveva mandato Carlo di Durazzo con dieci mila uomini ad attaccare il
territorio di Treviso; ma Durazzo, invitato da Urbano VI a conquistare
il regno di Napoli, desiderava di terminare la guerra di Venezia. Entrò
dunque in trattato col doge, e gli permise d'approvvigionare Treviso,
di modo che per tutto quest'anno i Veneziani non ebbero sul
continente perdite importanti[330].
67.
In mezzo ailoro disastri i Veneziani ricevettero qualche conforto dal
Levante. In sul finire del precedente anno avevano mandato in Corso
Carlo Zeno, uno de' loro più esperti ufficiali, che per lo innanzi aveva
comandato con gloria le truppe di terra nel distretto di Treviso. Zeno
uscì di Venezia con otto galere[331] e passò in mezzo alla flotta
genovese senza esserne impedito. Egli aveva tolti ai Genovesi molte
navi mercantili nei mari di Sicilia, e negoziato con prospero successo
presso Giovanna di Napoli, per renderla alleata della sua patria. Erasi
in appresso diretto verso la Liguria, affinchè i Genovesi tremassero
per sè medesimi nello stesso momento in cui la vittoria di Pola loro
ispirava maggiore arroganza; diede la caccia ad alcune galere
nemiche nel golfo della Spezia, e bruciò o abbandonò al sacco Porto
Venere, Panigaglia e molti altri ricchi villaggi situati lungo la riviera
del Levante[332]. Dopo avere incusso un profondo terrore a tutti gli
abitanti di quelle coste, Zeno aveva fatto vela verso la Grecia. La
repubblica gli aveva mandata una galera, che lo raggiunse a Livorno;
altre sei ne trovò egli a Modone, che avevano ajutato Giovanni
Paleologo a risalire sul trono imperiale. Esse avevano scacciati da
Costantinopoli suo figlio e suo nipote; e questi due principi ciechi
regnavano presentemente a Selymbria[333]. Finalmente quattro altre
galere veneziane erano stazionate a Tenedo, le quali si posero altresì
sotto gli ordini di Carlo Zeno. Quest'ammiraglio con una flotta,
diventata formidabile, andò a cercare a Beryta le merci che i
Veneziani avevano accumulate in questo porto della Siria pel valore
di cinquecento mila fiorini, e che essi non ardivano di far venire in
Europa. Giunto ne' mari di Cipro ebbe la notizia della presa di
Chiozza, e l'ordine di ricondurre la flotta nel golfo per difendere la
sua patria[334].
I Veneziani riponevano ogni loro speranza nella flotta che Zeno
aveva adunata. Di già cominciavano a mancare di vittovaglie; i
Genovesi chiudevano la via del mare, e Francesco Carrara quella di
terra, e non introducevansi dal Trivigiano approvvigionamenti in
Venezia che a traverso di mille pericoli[335]. Il popolo disperato
domandava di essere condotto alla battaglia, piuttosto che esposto a
morire di fame. Alcune galere disarmate trovavansi ancora nel porto
68.
dell'arsenale, altre incostruzione sui cantieri erano quasi terminate,
ma il tesoro era esausto, e per armare una nuova flotta bisognava
ricorrere al patriottismo del popolo. La signoria promise d'inscrivere
nel ruolo della nobiltà i trenta plebei che avrebbero mostrato
maggiore zelo, e di accordare a coloro che verrebbero in seguito
esenzioni e privilegi, trasmissibili ai loro discendenti. Il doge Andrea
Contarini, che aveva settantadue anni, scese sulla piazza di san
Marco, portando tra le sue mani il gonfalone ducale, e dichiarando
che monterebbe egli medesimo sulle galere che faceva armare.
Invitò poscia il popolo a difendere con lui la giusta causa della patria
e della pubblica libertà[336]; e malgrado la ruina del commercio, e
l'universale povertà, si videro giugnere in folla al palazzo facchini
carichi di danaro, ch'essi deposero ai piedi della signoria; e coll'ajuto
di queste spontanee contribuzioni, prima della fine d'ottobre, venne
compiutamente armata una flotta di trentaquattro galere[337].
Ma Vittore Pisani non si affrettava di condurre contro i Genovesi i
vascelli che si erano posti in mare. La loro ciurma era composta
d'artigiani, che sebbene nati in mezzo alle acque, appena
conoscevano la navigazione. L'ammiraglio adunque gli esercitò ne'
canali della Giudecca e di san Niccolò di Lido, aspettando che
giugnesse Carlo Zeno, sul quale pareva che si fondasse tutta la
fortuna dello stato[338].
I Genovesi concepirono qualche inquietudine quando videro
esercitarsi una nuova flotta nelle lagune. Concentrarono le loro forze
per non essere sorpresi o divisi, ritirarono da Malamocco e da
Poveglia le truppe che vi avevano poste, diminuirono il raggio di
Chiozza, di cui accrebbero le fortificazioni; e per ultimo disarmarono
venti galere per dare, durante l'inverno, qualche riposo agli
equipaggi. Appostarono in seguito tre vascelli per guardare il porto,
e ne spedirono ventiquattro nel Friuli, a cercare vittovaglie; perchè a
Chiozza mancava il frumento come a Venezia; e queste due città,
collocate in mezzo alle lagune, si affamavano a vicenda, e loro
giugnevano i convogli con eguale difficoltà.
69.
Il doge Contarini,dopo due mesi di ammaestramento, credette di
poter condurre i suoi marinaj alla pugna, e nella notte del 23
dicembre 1379 s'avanzò verso Chiozza con trentaquattro galere, due
grandi Cocche, sessanta barche armate e più di quattrocento
battelli[339]. La flotta genovese mandata sulle coste del Friuli per
cercare vittovaglie era di già rientrata nel porto di Chiozza, e si
andavano scaricando le munizioni che aveva portate; le
quarantasette galere comandate dal Doria erano tutte chiuse nello
stesso seno, ed i Genovesi senza verun sospetto non pensavano che
que' nemici, cui avevano negata una vergognosa pace, pensassero
ad attaccarli[340].
Il doge aveva sbarcati ottocento soldati stranieri, e quattro mila
Veneziani innanzi a Chiozza piccola; ma queste truppe vennero
respinte con perdita. Nello stesso tempo aveva spinta una delle sue
cocche nel canale che dall'alto mare comunica colla laguna, e che
vien detto il porto di Chiozza, con intendimento di fermarla sul luogo
e di fortificarla per chiudere l'ingresso del porto. Questa cocca fu
vigorosamente attaccata dai Genovesi e presa, dopo un'ostinata
resistenza, da sette galere che l'avevano circondata. Ma i Genovesi
nel caldo della zuffa ebbero l'imprudenza d'appiccarvi il fuoco: la
cocca bruciò fino a fior d'acqua, e colò in seguito a fondo all'ingresso
del canale. I Veneziani fecero giugnere in sul momento alcuni battelli
carichi di pietre, che colarono a fondo nello stesso luogo, ed
approfittando d'un accidente che loro era meglio riuscito che i proprj
divisamenti, terminarono in poche ore di chiudere il canale o porto di
Chiozza, naturale uscita della flotta de' loro nemici. Scesero dopo ciò
sulla punta di terra detta la Lova, cui i Genovesi non potevano più
abordare, e v'innalzarono un ridotto per difendere i lavori che
avevano fatto alla bocca del porto[341].
La città di Chiozza, fabbricata come Venezia in mezzo alle acque,
viene separata dall'alto mare dall'isola lunga o Arzere di Brondolo. Il
canale che circoscrive quest'isola al nord, è quello che dicesi porto di
Chiozza; un altro canale termina la stessa isola a mezzodì, e si
chiama porto di Brondolo. La laguna, meno larga presso di Chiozza
70.
che presso Venezia,trovasi tagliata da minore quantità di canali. I
Genovesi, seguendo il canale di Lombardia, potevano presentarsi
avanti Venezia, o uscire per qualcuna delle aperture settentrionali
della laguna; potevano inoltre uscire a mezzogiorno per il porto di
Brondolo, e riguadagnare l'alto mare: ogn'altra uscita era loro
chiusa. Vittore Pisani, che si era avanzato egli medesimo per il
canale di Lombardia, e che l'occupava colla sua flotta, colò a fondo
molte barche per chiuderlo ai nemici. Uscì dopo ciò dalla laguna e
venne ad appostarsi all'ingresso del canale di Brondolo per togliere
ai Genovesi quest'ultima uscita.
La sorte della guerra era attaccata all'intrapresa di Vittore Pisani: con
marinai senza sperienza e scoraggiati dai rovesci de' loro
compatriotti aveva intrapreso a bloccare una flotta vittoriosa e
superiore di numero. Vero è ch'egli approfittava della circostanza che
i Genovesi non potevano manovrare nel canale o presentarsi in linea
di battaglia; ma d'altra parte egli era costretto di tenersi
all'imboccatura del porto sotto il fuoco dell'artiglieria, che i Genovesi
avevano posta nel convento di Brondolo. Se un colpo di vento, una
burrasca, o il fuoco nemico lo allontanavano alcune ore da questa
stazione, la flotta genovese usciva in alto mare, e la sua decisa
superiorità le assicurava la più compiuta vittoria. Il doge Andrea
Contarini per ispirare il suo coraggio al soldati giurò in loro presenza
di non tornare a Venezia prima d'aver presa Chiozza, ed il Pisani
appostò due delle sue galere nello stesso canale di Brondolo; nel
tempo stesso cercò di sorprendere un ridotto situata sull'altra riva
del canale, sulla punta del Fossone, in faccia al convento che
occupavano i Genovesi; ma i suoi lavoratori a Fossone erano a
mezza portata delle bombarde di Brondolo, e perdevano molta
gente; mancavano i viveri all'armata, i suoi soldati dovevano sempre
essere sotto le armi; le due galere che avvicendavano per custodire
l'ingresso del canale trovavansi ogni momento esposte a colare a
fondo sotto il fuoco de' nemici, e le altre, che manovravano a non
molta distanza dalla riva, correvano rischio di rompere sulla
medesima ad ogni colpo di vento. I soldati ed i marinaj ugualmente
scoraggiati domandavano caldamente di essere ricondotti a Venezia;
71.
erano stati lungotempo lusingati colla speranza dell'imminente
arrivo di Carlo Zeno, e della flotta che ottenuti aveva tanti vantaggi
in Levante; ma nè volevano, nè potevano più aspettarla in così
pericolosa situazione, onde il doge fu costretto di promettere che se
il 1.º di gennajo 1380 non giugneva il desiderato soccorso, leverebbe
l'assedio di Chiozza. In tal caso Venezia sarebbe stata a vicenda
assediata dai Genovesi, e di già si stava consultando, se convenisse
abbandonare la capitale e trasportare in Creta la sede della
repubblica[342].
Lo stesso giorno indicato per prendere questa funesta
determinazione fu quello che apportò la salute alla repubblica. La
mattina del 1.º gennajo 1380 si vide comparire innanzi al porto di
Venezia Carlo Zeno con quattordici galere cariche di
approvvigionamenti da guerra e da bocca e con ricchezze d'ogni
maniera[343]. Ne' susseguenti giorni quattro galere d'Arbo e di
Candia vennero ad unirsi alla flotta veneziana, portandola, con quella
del Pisani, al numero di 52 vele.
In un solo giorno fu rimessa l'abbondanza sui mercati di Venezia,
riempiuto il tesoro dello stato, rincorati i soldati ed i marinaj, ed
assicurata ai Veneziani la superiorità delle forze marittime, di modo
che se i Genovesi avessero potuto uscire di Chiozza, invece di
trionfare facilmente de' loro nemici, non sarebbersi probabilmente
sottratti ad una disfatta. Frattanto Vittor Pisani riprendeva con ardore
il progetto di chiudere i Genovesi in Chiozza; egli li battè in terra il 6
gennajo alla punta della Lova[344]; e pochi giorni dopo terminò il
ridotto che stava innalzando all'estremità del Fossone. Colà pose due
grosse artiglierie, una delle quali lanciava pietre del peso di cento
novantacinque libbre e l'altra di cento quaranta. Caricavansi in tempo
di notte questi micidiali stromenti, che di que' tempi chiamavansi
bombarde, e si scaricavano la mattina. Sembra che non si facesse
più d'una scarica in ventiquattr'ore, e le pietre probabilmente
lanciate verso il cielo, come fanno le nostre bombe, descrivevano
una parabola; perciò spessissimo non toccavano il luogo
determinato, ma quando coglievano nel segno cagionavano una
72.
prodigiosa ruina. Lefortezze non avevano nè bastioni, nè terrapieni
che potessero sostenerne i colpi, perciocchè, fino a tale epoca,
muraglie di conventi o di chiese, torri e campanili, avevano sostenuti
lunghi assedj; ma tutt'ad un tratto si videro interi pezzi di muraglie
rovesciati da un solo colpo di bombarda, e schiacciati i difensori
sotto le loro ruine. Pietro Doria, l'ammiraglio genovese, era venuto a
Brondolo per assicurare la difesa di così importante posto. Il 22
gennajo un colpo di bombarda rovesciò sopra di lui un pezzo di
muraglia del convento, e l'uccise con suo nipote; all'indomani un
altro pezzo della muraglia dello stesso convento schiacciò ventidue
soldati[345]. Napoleone Grimaldi successe al Doria nel comando de'
Genovesi chiusi in Chiozza. I Veneziani, protetti dall'artiglieria del
Fossone, avevano colate a fondo due galere nel canale di Brondolo,
e avendole unite assieme con grosse catene avevano interamente
chiusa quest'uscita agli assediati. Il Grimaldi tentò d'aprirsi una
nuova comunicazione coll'alto mare, scavando dietro il convento di
Brondolo un canale che doveva tagliare l'argine, e supplire ai due
porti che avevano chiusi i Veneziani.
Il doge per impedire questo lavoro risolse di tentare una discesa
nell'isola di Brondolo. Egli aveva prese al suo soldo due compagnie di
mercenarj, in tutto di cinque mila uomini, e pensava di affidarne il
comando a Giovanni Acuto, ch'era stato chiamato a servire la
repubblica. Ma non arrivando così famoso avventuriere, fu posto alla
testa delle truppe di terra Carlo Zeno, mentre Vittore Pisani s'incaricò
d'attaccare con trentasei galere il convento di Brondolo.
Zeno il 19 febbrajo sbarcò sei mila uomini a Chiozza Piccola, e subito
attaccò la testa del ponte che unisce questa sobborgo alla città. Otto
mila Genovesi all'incirca si avanzarono su questo ponte per difendere
il loro ridotto, mentre avevano fatti uscire mille cinquecento uomini
della guarnigione di Brondolo per prendere i Veneziani alle spalle.
Zeno gettossi con tanta rapidità su quest'ultimo corpo, che non solo
lo ruppe, ma gli tagliò la ritirata sopra Brondolo. I fuggitivi
precipitaronsi allora sul ponte di Chiozza, dove scontraronsi nella
colonna genovese che marciava avanti, e le comunicarono il loro
spavento. La testa rinculava mentre le ultime file avanzavano ancora,
73.
e questi dueopposti movimenti accumularono talmente la folla in
mezzo al ponte, che non potè sostenerne il peso e si ruppe. Molti
Genovesi si annegarono nel canale, altri molti, rimasti sulla parte del
ponte separato dalla città, furono uccisi o fatti prigionieri. A questa
perdita tenne dietro ben tosto quella del convento di Brondolo
rimasto quasi privo di difensori, poi quella di dieci galere che Pisani
tolse ai Genovesi avanti ai mulini di Chiozza[346].
Dopo ciò i Genovesi trovandosi assediati non più nell'isola di
Brondolo ma nella medesima città di Chiozza, cominciarono a sentire
la mancanza di vittovaglie; e dovettero il giorno dopo distribuire le
razioni con maggiore economia: fecero allora uscire di Chiozza le
donne ed i fanciulli, che vennero umanamente accolti dai Veneziani.
La signoria di Genova, informata del pericolo in cui trovavasi a
Chiozza la sua flotta e l'armata, mandò per terra Gaspare Spinola,
onde prendere il comando della città[347], mentre che Matteo
Maruffo partiva il 18 gennajo con 13 galere per il golfo
Adriatico[348]. Maruffo prese cammin facendo sette galere
veneziane, che trovò cariche di viveri a Manfredonia. In pari tempo
Francesco Carrara fece entrare in Chiozza quaranta barche cariche di
vittovaglie, avendogli un'escrescenza d'acqua aperti de' passaggi,
che fin allora erano stati chiusi[349]. Combattevasi continuamente
intorno a Chiozza, ed il valore de' Genovesi punto non si smentiva
ne' rovesci; ma le comunicazioni rendevansi ogni giorno più difficili, i
viveri si andavano consumando, ed i Veneziani, tenendosi sicuri della
vittoria, ricusavano la resa di Chiozza a prezzo della quale lo Spinola
voleva salvare la sua flotta[350].
Come i Veneziani avevano con impazienza aspettato cinque mesi
prima la flotta di Carlo Zeno, così i Genovesi, assediati a Chiozza,
sospiravano l'arrivo di Matteo Maruffo. Questi aveva chiamati sotto la
sua insegna i vascelli genovesi sparsi nel Mediterraneo, e dopo
essersi rinfrescato a Zara, comparve il 6 di luglio avanti al porto di
Chiozza. Ma i Veneziani avevano determinato di non esporre
all'incertezza d'una battaglia un vantaggio omai sicuro. Essi non
conservarono che venticinque galere armate, e le ritennero entro le
74.
lagune di cuiavevano fortificate tutte le aperture: il rimanente de'
loro marinaj e soldati di marina vennero distribuiti sopra varie barche
ai confini dello stato di Padova. In tal modo veniva tolta ogni
comunicazione ai Genovesi di Chiozza tanto per terra che per mare,
e mentre Maruffo cercava con insulti d'ogni genere di risvegliare il
risentimento de' Veneziani per determinarli ad una battaglia, questi
non gli opponevano che il silenzio ed il riposo[351].
Matteo Maruffo condusse allora la sua flotta a Fossone, ed occupò il
passaggio pel quale i Veneziani tiravano da Ferrara i loro convogli di
vittovaglie. Vittore Pisani uscì subito dal porto di Venezia per riavere
quest'importante comunicazione, offrì ancor egli la volta sua la
battaglia a Maruffo e lo trasse in alto mare. Ma quando,
allontanandolo da Fossone, ebbe dato tempo di entrare nella laguna
ad un convoglio di barche che aspettava da Ferrara, manovrò con
tanta accortezza, che riguadagnò la laguna, senza che il nemico
potesse raggiugnerlo[352].
Ne' sei mesi che aveva durato l'assedio, i Genovesi avevano
successivamente perdute tutte le loro barche; ma questi industriosi
marinaj ne fabbricarono altre colle tavole e con varj mobili trovati in
città. Il 15 di giugno fecero forza di superare la palafitta de'
Veneziani per riavere i vascelli de' loro compatriotti, ai quali avevano
ordinato di recarsi a poca distanza dall'Arzere. Ma venivano essi
sopravvegliati dagli assedianti, e furono attaccati nel più difficile
momento, mentre attraversavano il Fossone; e malgrado la loro
resistenza, i battelli che avevano fatti con un'industria straordinaria,
e ne' quali era riposta tutta la loro speranza, vennero bruciati mentre
uscivano dal porto[353].
Dopo questo sgraziato esperimento, gli assediati, pressati dalla
fame, chiesero nuovamente di capitolare: essendo state rifiutate
tutte le loro proposizioni, il 21 giugno si videro forzati d'arrendersi a
discrezione. Di quarant'otto galere, che si erano chiuse in Chiozza,
non ne rimanevano più di diecinove in buono stato; la guarnigione,
che montava al di là di quattordici mila uomini, era ancor essa
diminuita assai, e perchè i Veneziani licenziarono senza taglia i
75.
soldati avventurieri ch'eranoal soldo de' Genovesi, non condussero a
Venezia più di quattro mila prigionieri, abbandonando ai soldati
vincitori tutto il bottino che trovarono nella città[354].
La sommissione di Chiozza salvava l'esistenza della repubblica, ma
non terminava la guerra: Maruffo aveva ricevuto rinforzi da ogni
banda, e comandava nell'Adriatico una flotta genovese di trentanove
galere, colla quale minacciava tutte le città marittime de' Veneziani.
Era esaurito il tesoro di san Marco, le sue rendite quasi tutte prese
dai nemici, i particolari avevano per difesa della patria fatti prodigiosi
sforzi, che non potevano più lungamente sostenere; si erano
sguarnite tutte le città suddite per fortificare la capitale; e Francesco
di Carrara ne aveva approfittato per istrignere cogli Ungari l'assedio
di Treviso, riducendo questa città a grandi estremità. Matteo Maruffo
conquistò successivamente Trieste il 26 giugno, Capo d'Istria il 1.º
luglio ed Arbo l'8 agosto. Finalmente i Veneziani perdettero nello
stesso tempo un uomo, che apprezzavano assai più che le migliori
città, l'ammiraglio Vittore Pisani, morto a Manfredonia, ov'erasi
recato a cercare vittovaglie. L'idolo de' marinaj e l'eroe del popolo
mai non erasi mostrato più grande che nella sventura, nè più
modesto ed umano che dopo la vittoria. La morte d'un solo uomo
non aveva mai cagionato in Venezia il più profondo dolore, sebbene
la repubblica conservasse ancora un altro sostegno, un grand'uomo
non meno caro al popolo, Carlo Zeno, che fu nominato successore
del Pisani[355].
Durante l'inverno gli alleati contro di Venezia ascoltarono
proposizioni di pace e si aprì un congresso a Cittadella. Il re
d'Ungheria, i Genovesi, Francesco di Carrara ed il patriarca d'Aquilea
esposero le loro domande: la repubblica di Venezia sembrava
apparecchiata ai più grandi sacrificj, onde accettò quasi tutte le
proposizioni de' suoi nemici; ma invece d'inspirar loro colla sua
moderazione più pacifiche disposizioni, non tardò ad avvedersi, che
ogni concessione faceva nascere una nuova domanda; onde il 20
aprile del 1381 ordinò ai suoi ambasciatori di ritirarsi, e
ricominciarono le ostilità[356].
76.
Disperando i Venezianidi salvare Treviso, che fino dal cominciamento
della guerra trovavasi assediata da Francesco da Carrara e dagli
Ungari, la cedettero gratuitamente il 2 maggio a Leopoldo duca
d'Austria, che fin allora aveva mostrato di fare causa comune coi loro
nemici, ma che in tale occasione si disgustò col Carrarese, cui
toglieva una conquista che questi da tanto tempo così avidamente
desiderava[357]. I Veneziani, abbandonando in tal modo l'ultimo
possedimento che avevano in terra ferma, si liberavano da ogni
inquietudine per gli affari del continente, onde dirigere tutte le forze
loro verso la guerra marittima. Carlo Zeno era uscito dalle lagune
con tredici galere, e sedici altre ne aveva trovate nei mari della
Grecia, che si posero sotto le sue insegne. D'altra parte Gaspare
Spinola comandava una flotta di trentuna galere genovesi. Ma i due
ammiragli, dividendo e riunendo di nuovo le loro forze, s'andavano
inseguendo alternativamente senza mai raggiugnersi; il genovese
minacciò le coste dell'Adriatico, il veneto quelle della Liguria; e la
maggior parte dell'estate si passò senza verun fatto
d'importanza[358].
E per tal modo la guerra trovavasi quasi ridotta a spedizioni di
corsari, ed a danneggiare ogni giorno i vascelli mercantili. L'ardente
odio che aveva messi l'un contro l'altro i due popoli maritimi, pareva
ormai esausto; ognuno sospirava la pace; ed il conte Amedeo di
Savoja, essendosi offerto mediatore, trovò tutte le potenze
belligeranti ugualmente disposte a negoziare. Spedirono i loro
ambasciatori a Torino, ed il trattato di pace venne sottoscritto l'8
agosto del 1381[359]. I Veneziani evacuarono Tenedo e ne
spianarono le fortificazioni; Francesco di Carrara fu dichiarato sciolto
da tutti gli obblighi che aveva in forza del trattato del 1372, e
ristabilito negli antichi suoi confini; il re d'Ungheria restò possessore
di tutta la Dalmazia e soltanto s'impegnò a non dar pratica ai corsari;
per ultimo vennero reciprocamente rilasciati senza taglia i prigionieri.
Così finì questa accanita guerra, dopo avere tolti ai Veneziani tutti i
possedimenti continentali ed una ragguardevolissima parte delle loro
ricchezze, e dopo di avere fatta perdere ai Genovesi la più bella
flotta ed il fiore de' marinaj[360].
77.
CAPITOLO LII.
Rivoluzioni diGenova, di Napoli, del regno d'Ungheria.
— Conquiste dei Veneziani in Oriente. — Potenza di
Giovanni Galeazzo Visconti. — Ruina delle case della
Scala e di Carrara.
1382 = 1388.
I Genovesi mai non avevano spiegata tutta la loro potenza e tutti i
mezzi della loro repubblica come nella guerra di Chiozza. Avevano
essi sparso il terrore delle loro armi nell'impero greco e nel regno di
Cipro, avevano diretti i consigli del re d'Ungheria, del patriarca di
Aquilea e del signore di Padova, facendo in modo che tutte le
operazioni degli alleati mirassero costantemente al comun bene della
lega. Avevano fatta tremare per la sua esistenza medesima la
repubblica di Venezia, loro rivale, avevano superati i ripari datile dalla
natura e con lei diviso il dominio delle lagune; e quando per
soverchia temerità ebbero perduta la più bella flotta e la più
bell'armata, che mai avessero spedite contro ai loro nemici, eransi
ancora trovati in istato di farsi temere dai Veneziani nel golfo
medesimo che da questi prende il nome, e di dettar loro le condizioni
di una pace gloriosa per Genova, e vantaggiosa a tutti i suoi alleati.
Dopo tanti gloriosi avvenimenti, dovevasi credere che questa
repubblica acquisterebbe sull'intera Italia un'influenza cui non aveva
per lo innanzi aspirato, e si assicurerebbe in pace quella preminenza
sopra la sua rivale, che gli avevano ottenuta in guerra le sue armi.
Questi pronostici non si avverarono altrimenti. Venezia ricuperò in
pochi anni colla sua prudenza, col suo coraggio, colla sua attività,
78.
tutte le provinceche aveva perdute, ed un'opinione ancora più
grande della sua potenza; le sue disfatte a Chiozza parvero essere
state il segnale d'una nuova carriera di prosperi avvenimenti; Genova
per lo contrario più non si rialzò dalle perdite che le stesse sue
vittorie avevano cagionato alle finanze ed alla popolazione. Un
periodo di disastri e di ruine comincia per i Genovesi alla guerra di
Chiozza, e non termina che dopo molti anni di servitù sotto stranieri
padroni. È tanto vero che importa meno ad un popolo il vincere che
il non abusare delle sue forze; e che si può camminare verso la ruina
e la schiavitù per una strada coperta d'archi trionfali.
Le guerre civili terminarono di esaurire un popolo che di già languiva
oppresso da' suoi proprj sforzi. Ad ogni modo è cosa naturale, che
uomini, i di cui talenti tutti e tutta l'energia ebbero uno
sviluppamento ne' campi o sui vascelli d'una repubblica, non
sappiano poi rientrare in riposo e nella nullità, nè piegarsi sotto
l'ubbidienza civile, dopo avere comandato essi medesimi. Si può
frequentemente presagire ad un popolo, che sparse lo spavento
presso tutti i suoi vicini, che i suoi generali medesimi lo faranno un
giorno tremare, e lo puniranno delle sue vittorie.
Circa la metà del secolo, Simone Boccanegra il primo doge di
Genova, avea allontanate dal governo le antiche famiglie nobili; e
d'allora in poi i cittadini che facevansi chiamare uomini del popolo
erano succeduti ai gentiluomini non solo negli impieghi, ma ancora
nella pubblica opinione. Rari talenti, grandi ricchezze, o molto
coraggio, ne avevano illustrati alcuni; e la moltitudine ubbidiva con
confidenza ad una nuova aristocrazia che di già s'innalzava sulle
ruine dell'antica.
Distinguevasi tra gl'idoli del popolo Lionardo di Montalto,
giureconsulto ed amico di Simone Boccanegra. Quando nel 1363
morì questo doge, Lionardo di Montalto ereditò l'influenza che il
Boccanegra aveva esercitata, e rimase capo de' Ghibellini[361]. A
molta moderazione aggiungeva grandissimo coraggio, e sebbene alla
testa d'una fazione, altro scopo non si proponeva che il
mantenimento dell'ordine e della libertà. Ma nella lotta contro meno
79.
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