TY - JOUR
AU - Buu-Sao, Doris
AB - Abstract This paper analyzes the transformations induced by Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) in the extractive sector, through an ethnographic study of villages neighboring an oil-drilling site in the Peruvian Amazon. It examines the materialization of a specific CSR device—the communal enterprise—which involves the majority of village members in the extractive industry as workers, owners, and managers of a subcontractor that provides services to the oil company. The paper highlights the importance of work and socialization to assess the transformative power of this original CSR device. After an opening section on how to study extractive governmentality “at work,” the paper presents a genealogy of the communal enterprise. It then examines how communal enterprises tend to transform indigenous inhabitants into workers and entrepreneurs and thereby impact the everyday organization of the entire community. By examining the ways residents adopt these social technologies, the paper shows how the partial normalization of individual bodies and collective organization induced by CSR technologies is an ambivalent mix resulting from a process of mutual appropriation between the industrial milieu and the villages. In doing so, it contributes to governmentality studies related to extractive capitalism, corporate strategies for disciplining dissent, and the social transformations they generate locally. Cet article analyse les transformations induites par la Responsabilité sociétale des entreprises (RSE) dans le secteur de l'extraction par le biais d'une étude ethnographique des villages voisins d'un site de forage pétrolier d'Amazonie péruvienne. Il examine la matérialisation d'un dispositif de RSE spécifique : une entreprise communautaire qui implique la majorité des villageois dans l'industrie de l'extraction en tant que travailleurs, propriétaires et gérants d'un sous-traitant fournissant des services à la compagnie pétrolière. Cet article souligne l'importance du travail et de la socialisation pour évaluer le pouvoir de transformation de ce dispositif de RSE original. Après une section introductive portant sur la façon d’étudier la gouvernementalité de l'extraction « au travail », cet article présente une généalogie de l'entreprise communautaire. Il examine ensuite la manière dont les entreprises communautaires tendent à transformer les habitants indigènes en travailleurs et en entrepreneurs et ainsi à impacter l'organisation quotidienne de l'ensemble de la communauté. Cet article montre en quoi la normalisation partielle des corps individuels et de l'organisation collective induite par les techniques de RSE est un mélange ambivalent résultant d'un processus d'appropriation mutuelle entre le milieu industriel et les villages en examinant la façon dont les habitants adoptent ces techniques sociales. Ce faisant, il contribue aux études de gouvernementalité liées au capitalisme de l'extraction, aux stratégies mises en œuvre par les entreprises pour discipliner la dissidence et aux transformations sociales qu'elles génèrent localement. En este artículo se analizan las transformaciones impulsadas por la responsabilidad social corporativa (RSC) en el sector de la extracción mediante un estudio etnográfico de las aldeas que se encuentran cerca de un sitio de extracción de petróleo en la Amazonía peruana. También se examina la materialización de un método específico de RSC, la empresa comunal, en la que la mayoría de los miembros de la aldea participan en la industria como trabajadores, propietarios y administradores de un subcontratista que presta servicios a la compañía petrolera. Además, se destaca la importancia del trabajo y la socialización para evaluar el poder de transformación de este método original de RSC. Después de la primera sección, donde se explica cómo estudiar la gobernabilidad extractiva ``en el trabajo'', en el artículo se presenta una genealogía de la empresa comunal. En esta se explora la forma en la que las empresas comunales suelen transformar a los habitantes autóctonos en trabajadores y emprendedores y, por lo tanto, modifican la organización establecida de toda la comunidad. Al analizar las formas en las que los residentes adoptan estas tecnologías sociales, en el artículo se muestra cómo la normalización parcial de los cuerpos individuales y de la organización colectiva producida por las tecnologías de RSC es una mezcla ambivalente que se produce como consecuencia de un proceso de apropiación mutua entre el entorno industrial y las aldeas. Este análisis contribuye a los estudios de gobernabilidad relacionados con el capitalismo extractivo, las estrategias corporativas para disciplinar la disidencia y las transformaciones sociales que generan a nivel local. In the Latin American context of democratization and economic liberalization, extractive companies have been facing a growing number of conflicts with local populations (Bebbington and Bury 2014). Peru is emblematic of this tendency. In the 1990s, it took the “extractivist turn” that accompanied economic liberalization and the boom of oil and mineral prices (Burchardt and Dietz 2014). Since then, dozens of conflicts broke out in the vicinity of mining and oil projects. “Indigenous movements” emerged as local populations, protesting against extraction on their territory, used an “ethnic identity” rhetoric as an effective means to gain visibility for their mobilization (Damonte 2008). Protesters grew increasingly adept at occupying industrial facilities, blocking production, and publicizing their protest. In June 2009, the international media covered protests where repression led to the death of thirty-three people, including twenty-three policemen, according to official data. Indigenous organizations had been mobilized for a year against decrees accused of facilitating the concession of Amazonian territories to private interests; the government eventually withdrew the contentious decrees.1 Indigenous protests have proven their ability to hamper extractive activities. In these circumstances, corporate social responsibility (CSR) has developed into a key defensive technique aiming to preclude protests. This paper deals with the strategic use of CSR in the case of oil extraction in the Peruvian Amazon. Along with an expanding field of research, it approaches CSR as a strategic engagement designed to protect industrial projects from major conflicts (Benson and Kirsch 2010). CSR leads to standardized development projects that work as “anti-politics machines” (Sydow 2016), promoting an allegedly neutral rhetoric of sustainable extractive industry (Kirsch 2010). These “corporate social technologies” materialize the companies’ “direct and planned efforts to shape social and cultural life” (Rogers 2012, 294). But how do such technologies actually shape communities’ conduct and organization? As Michael Cepek states, regarding the study of oil-related transformations among indigenous societies, only a fine-grained ethnography can assess “neoliberalism's production of ‘new possibilities of being’” (Cepek 2005, 82). In line with this ethnographic stance, I focus on one particular CSR device, the “communal enterprise” (empresa comunal), and analyze its implementation in an oil block located in the Peruvian Amazon. The communal enterprise is an organization that provides services for extractive companies. It is owned by the “farmer” (campesino) or “native” community2 and managed by members of the village. Communal enterprises hire local residents to work on the industrial site (maintaining facilities) or in the villages (doing construction work) for one-month periods. Unlike the elite-controlled subcontracting techniques of extractive companies analyzed elsewhere (Golub 2014; Muñoz and Burnham 2016), communal enterprises turn community members into collective subcontractors. Thus, the device introduces a major change: “indigenous” people become oil workers and entrepreneurs. Since the Industrial Revolution, workplaces have been penetrated by disciplining technologies that transform workers’ conduct and subjectivities (Thompson 1967). During the industrialization of Peru, in the early twentieth century, employment policy aimed to incorporate Andean industrial workers into national life through discipline and modernization (Drinot 2011a). Nearly a century later, the communal enterprise implemented in the Amazon furnishes an original case study of the discipline involved in “workerizing” indigenous peoples. To what extent do CSR devices shape people's conduct? The paper analyzes the normalizing power of corporate strategies “from below,” approaching CSR from the target population. Focusing on communal enterprises, the paper shows the heuristics of considering work and labor practices as key elements for understanding firm-community relations and their impact on residents. It intends to contribute to IPS debates on the production of global orders, highlighting the importance of situated contexts in which CSR devices are implemented and cause social change. By making an analytical shift from indigeneity to labor, the paper sheds new light on the ambivalent processes of disciplining, subversion, and protest in situations where transnational corporations meet local populations in the Global South. The paper opens with a section on how to study extractive governmentality “at work,” in the dual sense of observing devices through their practical materializations, and of assessing the importance of work practices for understanding normalizing processes in extractive situations. I then proceed in three steps. First, I present a brief genealogy of the communal enterprise, emphasizing the way it has adapted to a plurality of strategies. Then, I examine how some villagers translated the device into native communities—through a local elite who promotes its adaptation, and through inhabitants who get to work for the communal enterprise, giving rise to a hybrid organization. Finally, I analyze how, beyond the workplace, native appropriations of this CSR device translate into profound social and political transformations. Studying Extractive Governmentality at Work Extractive Governmentality, Labor, and Socialization Many scholars explore the ways resource extraction contributes to the production of political and social order. Going beyond the “resource curse,” a theoretical frame that links state failure to extractive economy, they argue that extractive enclaves generate fragmented orders in which state power mingles with corporate strategies (Ferguson 2005). They show how governable spaces emerge along with conflicts over extractive revenues (Watts 2004), how modes of energy production shape the structure of political authority (Mitchell 2013), and how state officials, transnational companies, and “civil society” co-produce state ideas and practices (Schubert 2018). Practices of corporate risk management and community engagements taken within CSR programs entangle in a way that contribute to indirect government in areas of limited statehood (Hönke 2011). Extractive industries then play an active part in contemporary governmentality: state power and private capital combine to produce specific forms of control over territories and populations, which are made useful and governable through resource extraction. Central to these analyses are Foucauldian theories of power. I suggest calling the contribution of resource extraction to the government of the population, “extractive governmentality.” In Foucault's view, “governmentality” refers to a set of elements (institutions, procedures, etc.) that allow the exercise of power on the population through specific forms of knowledge and techniques. Government goes beyond repression, institutional devices or public administration, and extends to the population as a whole and each of its components (Foucault 1991). Through a process of “normalization,” individual bodies are disciplined, and the population as a whole is regularized (Foucault 2003, 250–53). This approach is particularly relevant to grasp power relations at work around extractive projects, through the implementation of CSR programs, and not only through (public or private) repression (Coleman 2013). For example, CSR generates flows of goods toward local populations. The “politics of the gift” creates mutual–obligation relationships in which receivers are left in a position of indebtedness, producing bonds of patronage (Rajak 2011). Post-colonial contexts also foster a mix of coercion and cooptation strategies (Hönke 2018). Together, these mechanisms impel local communities to support oil projects, sometimes in opposition to environmentalist activists (Welker 2009; Billo 2015; Van Teijlingen 2016). To what extent does CSR actually shape individual bodies and collective organization, bringing them into conformity with norms that enforce the legitimacy of national political order? Few works track effective outcomes of extractive governmentality. The ones that do tend to focus on corporate practices that contain communities’ possibilities of protest. They show how mining companies discipline dissent through depoliticized invocations of human rights, through conflict resolution programs that promote docile forms of claim-making, or through clientele practices that support conservative networks at the expense of more critical actors (Welker 2009; Coleman 2013; Hönke 2018). Mining companies draw conceptual frontiers that produce new inequalities and exclusions not only between “legitimate” and “illegitimate” claims, but also between “legal stakeholders” and “illegal squatters” living in informal settlements that develop alongside mining activities (Rajak 2011). Those who are recognized as legitimate stakeholders access not only welfare services but also training programs that promote self-empowerment through micro-business activity. In the process, stakeholders are to be “converted” to entrepreneurial spirit through the CSR “evangelical project” (Rajak 2011). In line with these “bottom-up” perspectives on extractive governmentality, I focus on local translations of CSR programs. I intend to shed light on what Dinah Rajak calls “conversion” through CSR. This implies a flexible take on Foucault: if he helps to “pose problems” (Coleman 2013, 171) in original ways, his theory of power might not be enough to grasp transformations generated by technologies of power. To do so, I suggest paying more attention to work practices resulting from CSR. Access to labor and residents’ proletarianization have been at the heart of pioneer works in the anthropology of mining (Nash 1979). But since the twenty-first century mining boom, growing concerns regarding environmental issues and territorial dispossession have led researchers to undermine work practices (Smith 2013), even when CSR generates jobs for the surrounding population. Although segmented and precarious, labor is still crucial to understand the mining industry and its impact on surrounding communities (Rubbers 2019). Attention to labor broadens our understanding of the transformations caused by extractive industries, if we consider that work organization and practices shape norms, values, and collective identities. The paper approaches extractive labor in the light of the concept of socialization, in the sense of the ongoing process of a person's development and transformation which (1) is not limited to one's younger years and (2) takes place in a range of social contexts including family, school, work, leisure, and the neighborhood (Darmon 2006). In this view, work socialization is connected to previous or parallel processes of socialization that influence the way labor organization shapes people's behavior, in the workplace and beyond. Alongside this interactive process, new dispositions—that is, propensities to think and act in new ways—acquired through work experiences can translate to other social settings, such as the domestic sphere, because they adapt to other dispositions and situations (Pagis and Quijoux 2019). Therefore, socialization is an analytical tool that sheds light on the multiple and unpredictable ways extractive governmentality produces social change. An Ethnographic Approach of Extractive Governmentality Ethnographic investigation is a means to “challenge the conception that standardised techniques of governance yield standardised effects of domination and argue conversely that local agency in fact shapes the effects of corporate techniques” (Sydow 2016, 220). Ethnography among target populations helps to reveal how they appropriate, reject, or twist governmental programs (Li 2007). It is a way to highlight not only subalterns’ agency, but also their internal diversity: following Shery Ortner (1995), one should eschew the simplistic image of indigenous peoples unanimously “resisting” extractive activities since it ignores the cultural and political complexity of dominated groups. In many situations, “communities are far from homogeneous in their interpretations of, and responses to, industrial development” (Horowitz 2011, 1381). This emphasis on the agency and internal diversity of people facing the oil industry has been key to my ethnographic approach. I spent fifteen months doing fieldwork in Peru (2012–2014), including eight months living in villages neighboring the oldest oil block of the Amazonian region, called Andoas.3 Located very close to the Peru–Ecuador border, on the banks of the upper Pastaza River, the site is disconnected from the national roads network. Unless one receives exceptional authorization to travel aboard the planes of the company that transport workers in and out of the oil block, an average of one week travelling by planes, buses, and then boats is necessary to reach the upper Pastaza. The drilling site was the focus of a conflict between local company representatives, the state, and Amazonian inhabitants in 2008. Hundreds of villagers had occupied the company's airport when the police intervened. During the operation, an officer was killed by gunshot. Andoas is, then, emblematic of violent clashes that arise between extractive industry and local residents. But an ethnographic view reveals the heterogeneity of responses to the oil industry, in particular taking into account the internal diversity of residents. The seven Pastaza villages neighboring the oil block, commonly called “native communities” although not all of them own the official title, are home to indigenous families. They were founded between 1970 and the 1980s as the oil industry took hold. A majority of villages are categorized as Quechua—a group with a history of socio-cultural adaptation (Uzendoski and Whitten 2014). Many residents call themselves mestizos and have migrated from other parts of Peru to make a living as merchants, industrial workers, or prostitutes. Going back to the events of 2008, people were mainly asking for jobs on the drilling site, higher salaries, and, for some of them, financial support to create a communal enterprise. Beyond protest, the roots of the mobilization should be understood through the study of residents’ conditions of existence and yearnings. It is tempting to focus on indigenous mobilizations, and easier to access fieldwork through leaders who, following a “strategical essentialism,” often build a simplified image of their constituency for the sake of the movement (Wolford 2010, 8). Indeed, I began my fieldwork observing the daily life of activists. Quechua spokespersons allowed me to go with them, to observe protests and stay in the villages, thinking that I could be useful to them by circulating information on their cause; they also asked me to write a history of their movement and distribute it to the village authorities, which I did. However, to avoid the pitfalls mentioned above, I shifted my focus to the ordinary relations between the industrial milieu and the villages surrounding the oil-drilling site. Staying months with families who earn a living from cultivating, fishing, and working on the oil site, I observed residents’ activities in the workplace, in the village, and—for some of them—at home. The data used here include observations, semi-structured interviews, and an “ethnographic questionnaire” (Soutrenon 2005) which I personally conducted in 150 houses in Andoas, the biggest village of the upper Pastaza, and Capahuari, a much smaller and mainly Quechua-speaking village. Asking questions on geographic mobility, education, work, or political participation, I used the survey to produce data on residents and to establish contact with people distant from indigenous leaders.4 This approach revealed the influence of communal enterprises on residents’ daily life and aspirations. Communal Enterprise, A Normalizing Apparatus? Modernizing Rural Society through Integration into the Market Very little has been written about communal enterprise and its genealogy.5 The few sources available reveal the profound ambivalence of this peculiar device. Its institutional origins go back to the early 1970s and the “Velasquista” regime that followed the 1968 military coup led by General Velasco. The military government aimed to radically transform Peruvian society by reforming modes of production. In 1969, the military undertook one of the most ambitious agrarian reforms on the continent. The promotion of cooperatives was a key element of these reforms and allowed Peruvian farmers (campesinos) to collectively own and cultivate lands. Self-managed organizations were not limited to the rural sector: the military created several institutions in factories and other enterprises that would increase workers’ participation in management and their share of benefits. The military were more nationalist than leftist and their sources of inspiration were quite contradictory. However, they all shared a common goal: to defend national unity against the communist threat through social reforms that would forestall revolutionary movements (Lowenthal 1975). The communal enterprise was instituted in this context. In 1979, the military convened an assembly to reform the Constitution and return power to civilian hands. They sought to institutionalize the less subversive reforms passed under their regime; the communal enterprise was one of these. In contrast to more progressive proposals designed to “protect society from the exploitation of labor by capital, of man by man, of man by the state,” communal enterprises were inaccurately defined as businesses that developed following the social pattern of indigenous communities.6 It was only in the 1990s, under the presidency of Alberto Fujimori (1990–2000), that the legal definition of communal enterprises became more accurate. Fujimori initiated a liberal shift, privatizing public services and liberalizing economic sectors; oil and mining industries were at the forefront of this trend. From then on, the communal enterprise was seen as a tool to modernize rural areas by drawing them into the market economy, while facilitating land concessions to extractive companies (Robles Mendoza 2004). A 1993 decree specified the communal enterprise's definition and functions. Legal “formalization” and “efficient entrepreneurial management” were considered founding principles of organization. Depoliticizing Development, Preventing Conflict, Transforming Subjectivities? Thus, the rationale for the communal enterprise veered from an ideal of emancipatory self-management in the early 1970s to a project of management underpinned by the market economy and ideology. From the 1990s, communal enterprises were mainly formed close to extractive activities (Helfgott 2013). Their members were residents of rural communities who provided services to mining corporations as part of CSR programs. By promoting communal enterprises, mining and oil companies thus clarified the functions of communal enterprises, determining their tasks and labor organization (which were never specified by Peruvian law). This was the case in the Andoas oil block. In 2007, Pluspetrol, the Argentinean firm that operated the oil field, began promoting communal enterprises (a total novelty at the time in the region), following a first mobilization of residents living in the banks of the Corrientes river, close to the Pastaza.7 People always ask for jobs. … So, we wondered: “what should we do? We have subcontractors who hire staff in Iquitos [Amazonian city] to do basic things! Cleaning, pruning, cutting the grass that always grows back, some trees … Why don't we create an enterprise with the community, so that it feels it is our equal and gets involved in the management process?” [The communal enterprise] is a legal body that doesn't pay much tax, whose members can only be inhabitants from the community. … That has helped us to more effectively manage relations with the local population and the demand for work.8 The promotion of communal enterprises was based on economic rationality: tasking communal enterprises with workforce management lowers costs—both the cost of transporting workers from urban cities and welfare costs. However, more generally, the aim was to “effectively manage relations with the local population,” to ensure peaceful cohabitation with the neighboring villages: this social technology was expected to reduce the potential for popular protest. With the creation of a communal enterprise, Pluspetrol's staff instituted a partnership with the community, which became the company's “equal,” masking existing asymmetries and power relationships. “Under this new rhetoric, ‘donor’ and ‘recipient’ have been recategorized as ‘partners,’ ‘investors,’ and, crucially, ‘social entrepreneurs,’” writes Rajak, analyzing a similar situation in South Africa where a mining company promoted “empowerment through enterprise” among local communities (Rajak 2011, 182–83). According to Rajak, promoting micro-entrepreneurship equates to a program of radical transformation. “As an evangelical project,” she writes, “‘empowerment through enterprise’ claims to spread market discipline as the source of social mobility” (Rajak 2011, 185). In this view, communal enterprise becomes a tool to pacify the relationship with the local population by converting the community to market principles and integrating it into the extractive process. Yet to see if and how these strategies become effective, one must examine the way governmental techniques materialize. How did indigenous people come to accept the proposal to create and manage a communal enterprise? Translating the Apparatus into the Amazonian Landscape Pioneers and Managers’ Promotion of an Entrepreneurial Rationale There were people who didn't dare, who opposed the creation of a communal enterprise … All those people who were criticizing us, who would make fun of us … sometimes they are the first to ask for work.9 The promotion of communal enterprises by Pluspetrol is not enough for them to be created. At least two-thirds of a native community have to decide to create a communal enterprise and contribute to its starting capital (even with symbolic amounts). Then they elect managers in charge of administrative procedures and negotiations, with Pluspetrol starting the activity. Yet, according to Calixto, few people initially wanted to set up an enterprise. Managing this form of capitalist organization was in no way an obvious choice for Pastaza's residents. Local history is punctuated by repeated encounters between native families and merchants, or actors seeking to exploit natural resources and the native workforce, as was the case during the rubber boom. But access to industrial work and enterprises management was a turning point in the history of the relationship between Amazonian indigenous peoples and the national market economy: henceforth, villagers become active players in the capitalist game. I call the early promoters of communal enterprise in the Pastaza, “pioneers.” Through informal conversations and interviews, I gathered information on the backgrounds of nine men involved in the creation of a communal enterprise, aged between thirty and fifty in 2015. Data reveal three specific features. First, they are all men. Second, they have a higher level of education than their peers. All of them finished high school and several have started technical courses or university studies, while less than a quarter of villagers have completed secondary education.10 Third, they have more experience of urban environments, having lived or travelled in Peruvian towns, while the majority of villagers have never left the province. Thanks to their relatively uncommon experiences of geographic mobility, pioneers have learnt to adapt to diverse social environments. Several left their family homes very young and have what Bernard Lahire calls “dissonant cultural profiles,” owing to “the family losing the monopoly on child socialisation” (Lahire 2004, 419). However, the dissonance should not be overstated. It is a question of a “small-scale mobility” (Lahire 2004) rather than radical social ascension. The major change is subjective: all of them express the feeling of being different. Kevin Vasquez is one of them. He moved to Lima when he was eleven to live in a mission. After returning to Andoas, he started working for subcontractors in the oil installations as soon as he could. I don't know why, but inside the company, when they saw me coming to work with people from the community, there was a difference! I was friendlier to them, I liked playing football, I went to say “hello”… … Even with the engineers, I made friends … They told me, “Hey, but you're not from here! … Why aren't you like the others?” When you've been out for years, you come back with a different level of maturity.11 In Kevin's discourse, adaptation and open-mindedness are distinctive qualities, which he relates to his urban experience. This reflexive attitude suggests a critical view that many pioneers openly express when they speak about their social circle and its practices. Consider Peter Dahua's words: My father died when I was eleven. But there was a culture that seemed to me … Given that I had lived in the city, I had another idea. I wanted to understand how to improve living conditions … I've always worried because I saw my uncles, my family, all of them … Culture is one thing. You can drink, eat. But excess seemed bad to me. How come? I'm talking about drunkenness. They call it drinking masato, but I have never liked that—drunks [borrachos]. My father too, I saw him, he was a drunk … That's why I decided to study.12 Masato is a typical drink made of manioc fermented with saliva. It can have a high alcohol content, especially when prepared for collective agricultural work called minga; participants often end their day quite drunk. This custom is deeply linked to practices of solidarity and reciprocity (Gow 1991). But Peter focuses on the excess of masato, which he relates to the character of the drunk. Open criticism of masato from a Quechua-speaking person is very uncommon; it might result from Peter's commitment to the local evangelical church. However, his statement does not express a total rejection of his social background; like the other pioneers, he is eager to transform it. Pioneers’ intermediary position spurred them to promote the communal enterprise in their village. In five of the seven upstream Pastaza villages, they convinced their peers to contribute to the starting capital. The general assembly of each communal enterprise then elected managers (gerentes)—who always happen to be pioneers. Managers declare the creation of a communal enterprise to the Peruvian administration. Through negotiations with the Pluspetrol office of community relations regarding not only contracts, but also loans of tools or money to start the activity, they sign the first service contracts, which generally consist of grass-cutting tasks realized by teams of a dozen of workers. Over time, each communal enterprise agrees more contracts with Pluspetrol, consisting in increasingly diversified missions (detailed in next section). They employ a growing number of workers, through a turning system supposed to enable each member to work at least one month per year. Communal enterprises introduce a substantial change: formal organization of labor. At its center are the managers, who supervise the workforce, production process, and stocks of material. They have authority over their peers while remaining community members. All the managers claim that they have been elected by the community. “They observe who you've become, how you've grown up in the community,” says Kevin.13 He also explains that he has been elected because he is Quechua, the majority ethnic group among the inhabitants. According to formal statuses, managers are to be appointed by the board of directors, which is elected by the assembly. But the theoretical legalism of the entrepreneurial framework cannot erase kinship and friendship: managers should be respected by their peers and representative of their community. At the same time, managers are expected to have special skills. Once in a management position, they have to master specific organizational techniques that tend to distinguish them from their peers. I have received training from Pluspetrol. It was about industrial security. They told us: “You will go and sell bread to your community. The basket full of bread must be empty when you bring it back! You can't come back saying “here's what's left” or “I haven't sold anything.” What does this example mean? They will see you with responsibilities and they will tell you, “Nooo, you're my cousin, you're my neighbor!” How will I react to that? You must convince the people that this is a business, that you have to wear your gloves—before people didn't use gloves—that you have to wear your [security] lenses, your helmet, your boots. And they have to understand why.14 Rather than dealing with norms and procedures, this security training is primarily about establishing frontiers between social spheres so that rules can be enforced. It institutes the communal enterprise as a separate space from the village, in which formal norms of security override ordinary ties of friendship and kinship. The entrepreneur has an ambivalent role, between what Mark Granovetter calls “coupling”—the fact that an economic activity requires trust and, therefore, a certain level of embeddedness—and decoupling, that is, dissociation from the group so as to preserve specific norms of action (Granovetter 1995). However, in the course of time, pioneer managers tend to stand out from their original background: this process enables order enforcement within the communal enterprise. The managers’ relative distinction is apparent in their physical appearance, as they have an “office job” (oficina) rather than doing “field” (campo) work. They wear cleaner uniforms, a name tag, and fancier leather boots; they carry notebooks, walkie-talkies, and cell phones. This statutory distinction is the result of a hierarchical organization in which management tasks differ from the execution of work, whereas traditional modes of production in the villages are based on redistribution and horizontality. Communal enterprises’ organization grows increasingly formalized, reproducing Pluspetrol's organization chart. For example, security managers call themselves the “enterprise's EHS,” which stands for Environment, Health and Security (in English). One manager also explained to me that one of them is the “community relations manager”: “He is the one responsible for coordinating with the communities. He goes there frequently, looking for projects.”15 This “institutional isomorphism” (DiMaggio and Powell 1983) clearly expresses pioneers and managers’ will to follow a corporate model of organization. Such intent to differentiate spaces, tasks, and functions reminds us of Foucault's analysis of formalization. Docile bodies are produced through discipline technologies that include space fractioning, differentiation between functions and hierarchization (Foucault 1995 [1975]). To what extent do the rules resulting from ambitions of formalization contribute to discipline workers? It is time to turn to work practices to observe the socialization process through which the communal enterprise actually shapes conducts. A Hybrid Order in the Work Environment Andoas and Capahuari are the first communities that adopted the communal enterprise organization. In 2014, between 74 and 100 percent of families surveyed in these villages had received income related to industrial activity, mainly through communal enterprises. This sudden collective experience of industrial labor recalls Bourdieu and Sayad's analysis of Algerian farmers’ “discovery of labor” in the colonial context (Bourdieu and Sayad 1964). However, the situation does not reach the level of violence endured by the colonized farmers of Algeria. On the banks of the Pastaza river, villagers are workers, managers, and owners of the communal enterprise, but they also maintain traditional rural activities in their own village. This peculiar context is illustrative of the multiple ways an economic institution shapes workers’ conduct, at the crossroad of the workplace and the village. Within communal enterprises, tasks are carried out by teams of a dozen workers, a nurse, a foreman, and sometimes an engineer from the city. There are two main categories of works: construction for the village (concrete pathways, school renovation, etc.) financed by Pluspetrol or by the communal enterprises’ profits and maintenance tasks on the oil facilities (pruning, reforestation, road maintenance, etc.). Over time, the second category comes to represent the majority of work available. Infrastructure maintenance might seem secondary, yet it is crucial. Industrial equipment is under constant threat from the natural environment. Heat, damp, and storms corrode pipelines and cause roads to collapse, while vegetation grows back endlessly and invades oil facilities. Countering these natural processes implies a major change in the relation to the environment. Villagers are used to roaming these spaces to hunt, fish, and gather, activities that do not entail a major transformation of nature. This does not mean that “wild” nature imposed itself on inhabitants and mechanically shaped their practices. Philippe Descola has analyzed Achuar tribes’ specific “mode of socialisation of nature,” which involves creating a relationship of continuity between domestic and natural Amazonian spaces (Descola 1996). In contrast, infrastructure maintenance implies a break in the relationship between humans and nature; industry has to win the fight against an invasive natural environment. Such a change should not be overstated. It is not a radical “conversion” to an opposing mental pattern. Still, activities designed to master natural forces have transforming effects, to the extent that these activities are frequently repeated and involve specific norms of action—repetition and norm inculcation being key features of socialization (Lahire 2002, 450–52). Not only do communal enterprise workers carry out new tasks, different from those of rural daily life—being paid for hours and days of work instills a specific relation to time. Through communal enterprises, Pastaza inhabitants work for twenty-eight day periods during which they have to follow a schedule including mealtimes—workers receive three meals a day—start times, break times, and the time the workday ends. Such precise rhythms break with village life that adapts to the natural rhythms of farming, hunting, and fishing. This transition from the “natural time” of task-orientation to a clock-time that rules employees’ work is integral to the development of industrial capitalism (Thompson 1967). Its importation into rural life is sometimes experienced as a shock, as Carmen Salazar (2006) has observed in the case of Andean farmers struggling to adapt to fixed hours inside the mine. Felipe Dahua, an inhabitant of Capahuari, told me about the troubles many have with the workday schedule: “there are a lot who give up—the ones who aren't used to it. But for us who work all the time, it's nothing anymore.” Becoming a worker entails not only learning new tasks and carrying them out repeatedly, but also conforming to clock discipline. The communal enterprise institutes another major change: hierarchy and mandatory norms. As discussed above, one of the managers’ tasks is to ensure workers respect security norms that break with ordinary practices, particularly the use of security equipment. For managers, security is a decisive factor in getting new contracts. “If Pluspetrol qualifies you as an enterprise that respects security, whose employees work conscientiously, when you bid for a job, you win!”16 Security norms are implemented through a specific chain of command. Security supervisors are in charge of training for workers and foremen, and of monitoring the stocks of security equipment. Foremen remind workers of security norms in a daily speech before operations begin. However, as my observation of one of these speeches showed, normalization is an ambivalent process. Under a tent standing alongside a half-collapsed road, the foreman Walter Chino sits behind a little table that served as an office. The workers, the nurse and I are sitting on logs arranged in a “U” facing him. As we are waiting for latecomers, Walter jokes about how not to get in trouble when one misses work, while the attendance sheet is being passed around. “All right, we're going to talk about this topic here,” announces Walter once everybody had arrived, waving a form he holds in his hand. “First, good morning to everybody. The speech topic is security acronyms. There are five. Who can give me one?” Nobody answers. “Well, “STOP,” who knows what that means? “STOP,” what does it mean? Somebody …?” asks Walter, without losing his composure. Some workers whisper “STOP,” somewhat curious. The others remain silent. “Come on, what do you say? S-T-O-P… “S for security …” tries one. “S for security, T for work [trabajo] …” suggests another. “Um, security at work …” says a third worker. “That stuff is written right here!” exclaims somebody pointing at the STOP acronym sewn on the right arm of his uniform, causing bursts of laughter. “And nobody knows …” sighs Walter. “Yes I do, but sometimes, there are so many acronyms …” answers the third worker cheerfully. Walter's ceremonial greeting contrasts with the informal interactions that took place before the speech, as well as with the casualness apparent in the workers’ answers. After about ten minutes, when Walter finishes reading the instructions written on his sheet and explaining the day's tasks, a worker asks: “Is there masato for …?” “Where is the masato?” asks Walter. “I've brought some,” answers a worker. “Has anybody brought more?” queries Walter. “Just me. There is enough for three helmets.” I use a security helmet as a bowl, which I fill with the manioc beer and hand to the workers, mimicking the Pastaza women's way of serving masato. The men drink until the bucket is empty. The foreman then hides the bucket behind a bush: “you never know, [Pluspetrol] engineers might come to inspect us,” he tells me. A few days later, the security supervisor confirms to me that masato at work is forbidden, though he acknowledges that it happens anyway.17 In European factories, alcohol consumption symbolizes a transgression that reasserts the existence of the group of workers, distinct from, and antagonistic to, their hierarchy (Pialoux 1992). However, here, the foreman openly takes part in the transgression: the formalism of security speeches does not prevent those who state the rule from bypassing it. This example helps us to better understand the specificity of communal enterprise. In Andean mines investigated by Carmen Salazar, as in Pastaza oil compounds, security rules clash with traditional practices of Quechua farmers working as miners. The managers’ “fight against the consumption of alcoholic beverages” (Salazar 2006, 90) symbolizes the antagonism between managers and miners, stemming from a background in which alcohol consumption intertwines with traditional solidarities and mythologies. As in June Nash's (1979) ethnography of Bolivian mines, such a sociological opposition between workers, on the one hand, and supervisors and engineers, on the other, is the basis of social organization of work. But in Amazonian communal enterprises, formal hierarchies go together with informal social proximities, which complicates the way rule is enforced. As elsewhere, proletarianization is an ambivalent process through which “workers appropriate the enterprise and are appropriated by it, appropriate their work tool and are appropriated by it” (Bourdieu 1984, 253). This “mutual appropriation” supports the formal recognition of rules—although they might have been slightly subverted—and hierarchy by workers. The formalized ways of thinking and doing that are instilled through communal enterprise can then diffuse throughout the villages as a whole: not only do the managers discipline subaltern workers, but the formalized order also contributes to normalize communal order, from collective organization to individual subjectivities. Beyond Work, Normalizing the Community “Urbanization”: Space Distribution and Social Roles in the Village “We're going to fix [arreglar] this lane, so it will go straight instead of zigzagging,” Mauricio tells me one day. The president of Capahuari communal enterprise shows me the dirt lane that goes from beside his house to the nearest road of the oil drilling site: “I want to bring the machines to urbanize the village.”18 The road was built the following year. Pastaza native communities tend to adopt a square-pattern similar to the colonial missions and cities, where the rectilinearity of the streets was a technique of discipline while the centrality of the plaza de armas materialized social hierarchies (Durston 1994). When inhabitants have Pluspetrol finance construction projects for the community through the communal enterprise, they actively contribute to this “urbanization.” Through the successive obras carried out by the enterprise, concrete pathways spread in the villages following a square-patterned organization. These “expectations of modernity,” stimulated by extractive industry and associated with urbanization, (Ferguson 1999) echo what Karolien Van Teijlingen (2016) has observed in the Ecuadorian Amazon: in communities neighboring the mega-mining project of El Mirador, indigenous authorities design urbanization plans to attract development projects financed by state revenues coming from the mining industry. On both sides of the Peru–Ecuador frontier, residents tend to adopt governmental discourses of progress that support the extractive economy. Expectations of urbanity combine with industrial material culture that runs from the oil site to communal and family organization. Workers are prone to use industrial objects for rural activities, such as uniforms and security equipment which they wear when raising crops, fishing or hunting in the forest. Artifacts—manufactured objects made by human labor—shape people's practices and identities: “the human subject cannot be considered outside the material world within which and through which it is constructed” (Miller 1997, 86). One of the most striking effects of the appropriation of industrial artifacts is the privatization of domestic space. Downstream from the Pastaza river, houses generally have only one or two walls, letting the air circulate across the structure. In those open houses, daily exchanges of food, stories, and favors strengthen the ties between extended family members. Upstream, near the oil compound, people tend to enclose their house with fences and barbed wire. Flattened chemical containers serve as walls, combined with sheet metal donated through CSR programs. Industrial membranes used on the oil block complete this enclosure process. Inside the houses, other pieces of plastic or metal sheets divide the domestic space into several spaces, between the kitchen and parents’ and children's bedrooms (Figure 1). I passed by the house this morning; Lola had cooked fish broth. While I was eating, Lola tried to convince her eldest son and her husband, a Quechua-speaking manager of a communal enterprise, to go with her to harvest some of the plantains they grow in their field (chacra). Both declined: they were too busy managing the team of workers. Once they were gone, Lola let some tears run down her cheeks while she told me how abandoned she felt.19 Lola's testimony, which echoes situations I have witnessed in other families and villages, suggests that women are the first to experience the consequences of this “partitioning process” (Foucault 1995 [1975], 143). Economic monetarization and family dependency on the wage earned by men depreciate the importance of traditional activities, particularly horticulture, which—in the Amazon—is traditionally a female task (Gow 1991). This is a frequently observed process in communities neighboring extractive activities, in particular due to the influence of CSR programs that confine women to their role of mother (Grieco 2016). As a result, women's activities tend to come down to laundering, cooking, and childcare. Those tasks remain inside private domestic spaces—especially as men tend to construct wells at the end of the garden that prevent women from gathering by the riverbanks to wash clothes and dishes collectively. The growing distinction between public and private spaces creates new gender divisions and hierarchies, with men being in charge of productive activities associated with monetary incomes, while women carry on reproductive tasks—a symbolic frontier at the heart of capitalist societies (Narotzky 2018). All families are not equally affected by these changes. A minority of men prefer not to work, and many carry on with cultivating, fishing, and hunting when they are not working for the communal enterprise. Urbanization, privatization of domestic space, and gendered hierarchization are incomplete tendencies rather than radical transformations. Nevertheless, they affect the majority of families, even in small Quechua-speaking communities such as Capahuari, all the more so as they combine with changes in the communal order overall. This can be seen during collective work sessions for the village (e.g., grass-cutting, construction of a community hall, etc.). Whereas these community tasks are traditionally organized following a principle of horizontality, it has become common to name a “foreman” in charge of the villagers-workers’ management. Women form cooking teams in charge of the meals, leaving male participants with the responsibility of works such as clearing the ground with a machete—in downstream villages, men and women carry out this task side by side. Communal authorities, who sometimes are managers at the same time, try to impose the same discipline as that expected in the workplace. A former elected representative recalls: “I implemented a rule . . . [Collective] work starts at eight on the dot. After ten minutes’ leeway, we don't accept you and you pay a fine. If you don't turn up twice in a row, we put you in the community cell [calabozo]. And the community has progressed, it has improved thanks to this respect for order.20” The informant is also foreman of the communal enterprise and he relates his experience of ordering the community to the one of disciplining the workers. There might be a gap between the rule and the practice, since I have never heard of somebody actually being put in the community cell for missing communal work. But neither have I heard about people systematically transgressing the rule. The higher the formal pressure on residents, the more legitimate the hierarchized communal order. Nationalizing Local Society from Below? Enclosure, partitioning, and hierarchization of social spaces and roles: these are three elements of normalization associated with the diffusion of a managerial rationality among the communities. However, communal enterprise also contributes to connecting Amazonian villages to the Peruvian national order. First, according to the statutes of communal enterprises, one-third of the benefits are to be donated to the community through the provision of goods or services. Along with construction works, this redistribution often translates into little jobs for vulnerable people, such as elder men who pick up the garbage in exchange for a symbolic salary, or laundry jobs for single mothers. Some communal enterprises also pay teachers to make up for the lack of public investment in primary education in Amazonian villages, or give the community's president a symbolic gratification to support him in his function. As an enterprise, we manage employment, but as an enterprise, it is important too to care about health and education. … The teachers you see here, they are paid by us, the enterprise. … It is important to support education, isn't it? And now, we also pay a nurse. … If there is an emergency, he helps with medicine, with first aid. … It is important to support the community.21 If CSR techniques can be considered as a way for national states to indirectly govern their territories (Billo 2015), then communal enterprises might contribute to this governmental “discharge” (Hönke 2011), appropriating CSR principles and substituting the social functions of the state. More directly, Amazonian managers contribute to communities’ nationalization in that they bring bureaucratic order into the community. Wage management implies fulfilling fiscal obligations such as bookkeeping, paying taxes, and social security contributions—although in upstream Pastaza there is no effective access to public services such as hospitals. Managers and communal authorities are prone to highlight their contribution to national growth and progress. An example of this can be found during a celebration of the Day of the Flag in Andoas, in 2014. Different groups of villagers took part in a march organized for the glory of the nation. They goose-stepped on a concrete lane (constructed by the communal enterprise), following a method of marching learnt at school or during their military duty. One communal authority, who was also president of the communal enterprise, commentated the event talking into a microphone. He paid a particularly cheerful tribute to the last parade group, constituted of shirtless men wearing blue jeans, body paints, and wooden lances: And now comes the supreme guard of Andoas! It is constituted by young former soldiers from our Peruvian army. Young specialists of security, watchmen of our frontiers. … The community is grateful for their efforts and sacrifice. They also belong to communal enterprises as workers. They are the workforce that move our communities further, for the growth of this part of the country!22 In Pastaza communities, formal work has long been associated with the Peruvian army: until 1997, all men had to do their military service to obtain their electoral cards—the only official proof of identity. Although it is not compulsory anymore, the majority of men who work for communal enterprises have done their two-year military duty. As soldiers, but also as workers, they are celebrated for their contribution to national order, ensuring Peruvian frontiers and supporting economic development. Pastaza Quechua and mestizo inhabitants tend to adopt the communal enterprise as a way to fulfill the mythology of progress and national order they have been acculturated to—as other border residents who have experimented and taken part in national border conflicts (Van Teijlingen 2016). Processes of “urbanization” and “nationalization” do not affect all the residents of the Pastaza banks equally. Downstream, many communities are not even considered as “stakeholders” by Pluspetrol, being located beyond the official “influence area” of the company (a situation reminiscent of South African mining distinguishing between “legal” stakeholders and “illegal” squatters living in informal settlements (Rajak 2011)). There, instead of communal enterprises, an indigenous organization has developed and leads protests against industrial contamination, blaming the oil firm and the Peruvian state. However, within upstream communities considered as stakeholders by Pluspetrol, many families join the mobilizations that have occurred each year since 2012. As Peruvian citizens contributing to national growth and border enforcement, they claim their right to benefit from what deeply affects their environment: they demand compensation and jobs within teams in charge of remediation. Dissent is not impelled but channeled, or at least influenced, by transformations induced by CSR devices and in particular communal enterprises. Conclusion and Discussion Peter Larsen, studying oil exploitation in another area of the Peruvian Amazon, refers to the testimony of an indigenous man who worked for an oil firm in the late 1950s. “Community engagement was then limited to the hiring of manual laborers,” he writes, comparing this to contemporary CSR which involves allocating large amounts of money for development projects and compensation arrangements (Larsen 2017, 55). Yet, while “limited” in terms of investment, hiring manual laborers has profound transformative effects, in particular in the case of the communal enterprise. This device is intended to protect oil extraction from protests by diffusing an entrepreneurial model to rural societies. But for the project to materialize, it needs intermediaries to take hold of the device and adapt it to local conditions. Some young men are eager to introduce the communal enterprise to their village. Positioned at the intersection of the company and the community, they help produce hybrid rules and ways of doing things that are inspired by both corporate models and rural daily life. These mutual influences expose not only the circle of managers and workers, but also the whole community to entrepreneurial rationality. From the workplace to the village, the communal enterprise supports a normalizing process that combines disciplinary and regulatory technologies, transforming both individual bodies and collective organization (Foucault 2003). While workers conform to industrial order in an ambivalent way, inhabitants tend to follow a national model of modernity. From domestic space and gender relations to village “urbanization,” these transformations rely on a hybrid process of socialization and mutual appropriation, rather than on a radical conversion. This analysis leads us to some broader concluding remarks regarding extractive industries, environmental conflicts, and protest policing. According to Paulo Drinot (2011b, 182), “[2006–2011 President] Garcia's capitalist revolution operates primarily through sovereign power rather than governmentality”; it “is being enacted against the Peruvian population” (Drinot 2011b, 191). Referring to Foucault's theories of power, he argues that in Peru, the judicial and repression-oriented sovereign mode of power tends to prevail, in particular toward the indigenous population. In my view, Drinot's focus on the President's decisions and discourses on native Amazonians opposed to natural resource extraction results in a restrictive analysis of state power in relation to extractive industry. While Alan Garcia had the police fire on indigenous protesters in 2009, on the Bagua road near the Andoas oil block, indigenous villagers (some of whom had formerly taken part in protests) were being socialized to market principles. A more fine-grained approach reveals that Garcia also enacted his capitalist revolution “with the Peruvian population,” including indigenous people living on the fringes of the state. A growing number of scholars study protest policing through “soft” techniques, beyond repression and coercion, such as the allegedly neutral rhetoric of sustainable mining (Kirsch 2010), participatory mechanisms focused on technical issues (Li 2015), the invocation of depoliticized human rights (Coleman 2013), or the clientele politics of CSR technologies (Rajak 2011; Hönke 2018). The case of communal enterprises in Peru contributes to this literature by highlighting the complexity of encounters between indigenous peoples and extractive firms. Villagers neither passively absorb the rationale of an external capitalist organization nor mechanically reject it. As William Fisher (2000) shows, relations between industry and indigenous societies cannot be reduced to a simplistic and all too often binary scheme of interpretation that hesitates between economic rationalism and romantism. In Pastaza villages, inhabitants adopt and adapt the communal enterprise to their social organization, which allows it to produce transformative effects. Beyond this specific case, the paper contributes to deepen the analysis of global corporate strategies and situated practices of disciplining dissent (Coleman and Tucker 2011), connecting them to contexts of socialization and their outcomes in terms of behaviors, organization, and identities. At the crossroad of Foucauldian theories of power, the anthropology of extraction, and the sociology of work, it produces a view “from below” on global order, highlighting the unpredictable ways societies meet with transnational corporate strategies. Techniques of disciplining dissent depend on the capacity of the governed to appropriate, twist, or reject them. Indeed, pacifying technologies such as the communal enterprise do not guarantee local populations’ consent or passivity. The many mobilizations that still occur in Pastaza villages to denounce industrial contamination, in which indigenous entrepreneurs and workers sometimes play a key part, are proof of this. As such, the analysis of CSR technologies “from below” reminds us that the effects of governmental strategies are often deeply ambivalent and contingent on the agency of the governed. Figure 1. Open in new tabDownload slide Houses downstream (Soplin: S) and upstream (Capahuari: C; Andoas: A)—© D. Buu-Sao. Figure 1. Open in new tabDownload slide Houses downstream (Soplin: S) and upstream (Capahuari: C; Andoas: A)—© D. Buu-Sao. Funder Information This article has been written with the financial support of the Fondation de Treilles, through its Young Researchers Price. Footnotes 1 Neil Hughes (2010) provides a fairly detailed account of the event. 2 The native community is an institution created in 1974 as part of agrarian reform. It allows indigenous families to gain title to the ground they live on. The subsoil, considered property of the nation, is transferable to private companies through the regime of concessions. 3 Andoas was an old catholic mission named after an indigenous group formerly living in the region. I spent the other half of the fieldwork observing indigenous leaders in meetings with allies and state officers, and conducting interviews with a diversity of actors. 4 For more details on how I used the questionnaire and triangulated it with other data, see Buu-Sao 2019. 5 Some anthropologists study communal enterprises in specific places, generally around Andean mining projects, without tracing its national history, for example, Helfgott (2013). 6 Comisión principal de Constitución de la Asamblea constituyente, Diario de los debates, t. V, “27a sesión. Lunes, 19 de marzo de 1979”: 19–20. www4.congreso.gob.pe/dgp/constitucion/1979/const1979nivel2-a-i.htm. 7 They not only demanded environmental protection but also claimed socioeconomic rights such as health services. 8 Interview with Claudia Gomez, Pluspetrol General Manager of Community Relationships, Lima, 2012. All names of interviewees are pseudonyms. 9 Interview with Calixto Dahua, Quechua inhabitant of Capahuari, communal enterprise manager, Capahuari, 2014. 10 In addition to interviews and observations, I carried out surveys with one hundred households in Andoas (2013, one-third of the population) and fifty-eight in Capahuari (2014, the entire population). 11 Interview with Kevin Vasquez, founder and manager of a communal enterprise, Andoas, 2013. 12 Interview with Peter Dahua, founder and former manager of a communal enterprise, Andoas, 2013. 13 Interview with Kevin Vazquez, manager of a communal enterprise, Andoas, 2013. 14 Interview with Kevin Vazquez, cited. 15 Interview with James Diaz, founder and manager of a communal enterprise, Andoas, 2013. 16 Interview with Virgilio Zúñiga, security supervisor, cited. 17 Fieldnotes, Capahuari, 2014. 18 Fieldnotes, Capahuari, 2014. 19 Fieldnotes, Andoas, 2013. 20 Interview with Leoncio Dahua, security supervisor of the communal enterprise and former village authority, Capahuari, 2014. 21 Interview with Calixto Dahua, president of the communal enterprise, Capahuari, 2014. 22 Fieldnotes, 2014, Andoas. 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TI - Extractive Governmentality at Work: Native Appropriations of Oil Labor in the Amazon
JF - International Political Sociology
DO - 10.1093/ips/olaa019
DA - 2021-03-13
UR - https://www.deepdyve.com/lp/oxford-university-press/extractive-governmentality-at-work-native-appropriations-of-oil-labor-5jgmB5aO4A
SP - 63
EP - 82
VL - 15
IS - 1
DP - DeepDyve
ER -