Why do some communities resist mining projects ...

G Model EXIS 321 No. of Pages 17

The Extractive Industries and Society xxx (2017) xxx–xxx

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Review article

Why do some communities resist mining projects while others do not? Marta Condea,* , Philippe Le Billonb a b

ICTA, Universidad Autonoma de Barcelona, Bellatera, 08193, Barcelona, Spain Department of Geography and the Liu Institute for Global Issues, University of British Columbia, 1984 West Mall, Vancouver, BC V6T 1Z2, Canada

A R T I C L E I N F O

Article history: Received 7 January 2017 Received in revised form 28 April 2017 Accepted 28 April 2017 Available online xxx Keywords: Conflicts Communities Participation Mining Resistance

A B S T R A C T

The pace of mineral extraction has greatly accelerated since the mid-1950s, with a major mineral boom taking place in the past decade. Responding to growing demands for more material resources, mining projects have met with frequent resistance from local communities. Yet, not all communities oppose mining projects. Based on an extensive literature review, this paper identifies and discusses factors affecting the likelihood of resistance to mining projects by local communities. Case study evidence suggests that dependency towards mining companies, political marginalisation, and trust in institutions tend to reduce resistance likelihood. In contrast, large environmental impacts, lack of participation, extra-local alliances, and distrust towards state and extractive companies tend to increase resistance, while economic marginalisation, corporate social responsibility activities, remoteness and attachment to place have mixed effects. Systematic assessments of these factors could further confirm patterns of resistance, clarify the needs for local consent processes, and help inform the creation of ’no-go’ areas for mining projects to the mutual benefit of companies, communities, and government authorities otherwise affected by socio-environmental impacts and costly deadlocks. © 2017 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Contents 1. 2. 3.

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Is resistance to mining increasing? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Which factors make some groups resist against mining projects, whilst others do not? Mining project related factors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1. Geography, environmental impacts and livelihoods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1.1. Displacement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1.2. Remoteness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1.3. Project-driven participation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1.4. Community-related factors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2. Marginalisation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2.1. Mine dependency . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2.2. Place and territory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2.3. Alliances . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2.4. Distrust . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2.5. Community driven participation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2.6. Company-related factors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.3. 3.3.1. Corporate social responsibility (CSR) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Compensation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.3.2. Corporate driven participation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.3.3. State related factors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.4. 3.4.1. Pro-industry state policies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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* Corresponding author. E-mail addresses: [email protected] (M. Conde), [email protected] (P. Le Billon). http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.exis.2017.04.009 2214-790X/© 2017 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Please cite this article in press as: M. Conde, P. Le Billon, Why do some communities resist mining projects while others do not?, Extr. Ind. Soc. (2017), http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.exis.2017.04.009

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M. Conde, P. Le Billon / The Extractive Industries and Society xxx (2017) xxx–xxx

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3.4.2. Criminalisation of dissent . . . . . . . . . . . . Rent seeking behaviour and corruption . 3.4.3. Inadequate planning and implementation 3.4.4. State-driven participation . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.4.5. Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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1. Introduction The pace of mineral extraction has greatly accelerated over the past 60 years responding to the expanding metabolism of societies consuming more energy and primary commodities (Krausmann et al., 2009; Martinez Alier, 2003). The liberalization of mining laws and investment codes, financialisation of many commodity markets, and historically low domestic interest rates (Arboleda, 2015; Bridge, 2004; Basu et al., 2016) coupled with a decade of high commodity prices, deregulation, and technological innovations have allowed companies to advance the commodity frontier (Tsing, 2003; Watts, 2015), moving ever greater quantities of soil and water (Prior et al., 2012). To extract remaining resources, companies often go farther and deeper into more ecologically and sometimes socially vulnerable areas. On many occasions these areas are inhabited by communities, many of them indigenous, who suffer the burdens of displacement and pollution due to resource-dependent livelihoods, unequal power distribution, and social inequalities associated with ethnicities, castes, social classes and gender (Martinez Alier et al., 2014). The ensuing conflicts are encompassed by a communications revolution that is connecting and making more visible many of these fights (Della Porta and Tarrow, 2005; Castells, 2013; Kirsch, 2014). Resistance by communities is an important dimension of the political economy of mineral extraction (Franks et al., 2014; Gamu et al., 2015), and one particularly relevant in the shaping of commodity frontiers (Exner et al., 2015; Le Billon and Sommerville, 2016; Conde and Kallis, 2012). It has thus become crucial to understand why resistance to mining emerges. Not all communities resist, however, and if they resist they do not resist with the same objectives, narratives, and intensity. This paper analyses some factors that can explain why some groups resist whilst others do not. Our objective at this point is not to create a pre-emptive tool to predict whether a project will be conflictive or not, but to inform debates seeking to understand resistance to mining; why it emerges and grows in some

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communities, but not in others. As we examine below, some factors like distrust among local people towards a company or the state, and the lack of participation by local communities in decision-making processes can be drivers of resistance; whereas other factors such as perceived dependency towards mining companies and some forms of marginalisation hinder resistance. The concept of resistance can refer to different forms of opposition and mobilisation. Generally representing a counterhegemonic project or conduct (Rose, 2002), resistance includes two basic elements: opposition to existing power relations (Hollander and Einwohner, 2004), and action, whether it be “verbal, cognitive or physical”. Resistance can be visible and overt or invisible and covert, often then part of ‘everyday socioenvironmental resistance’ (Scott, 2008). Resistance can also be sporadic and anecdotal, or sustained over time and turned into social movements with organised collective actions backed by dense social networks (Tarrow, 1994). Resistance can be pursued for its stated goals, such as cancelling a mining project, or used by communities to increase their bargaining power in negotiations, such as blockading a mine construction site to increase compensation benefits (Anguelovski, 2011; Macintyre and Foale, 2004). The term ‘community’ is used here to describe groups of lay people with links to the surrounding area of mining projects, but does not imply that these groups are immutable, geographically-confined, homogenous and cohesive (on the risks of reductionist understandings of ’community’, see Agrawal and Gibson, 1999). This study combines an extensive literature review covering 224 studies mostly published in refereed journals and directly considering community-level forms of resistance around mining (see Bibliography). The search used Google Scholar and Web of Science, and relied on both keywords – including terms such as resistance, conflict, mining, communities – and cross-citations. This was complemented by a direct search in the most relevant journals. Most of the studies identified consist of individual case studies, and more rarely comparative studies including large-N statistical analyses of conflicts and resistance to mining. Although

Fig. 1. Cumulative number of new mining conflicts in the world (2000–2016). Source: EJ Atlas accessed 5 January 2017; Temper et al. (2015).




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Table 1 Factors and potential influence on resistance likelihood. Factors

Resistance likelihood Decrease

Project

Geography Socio-environmental impacts and livelihoods

Community

Participation Marginalisation

Mine Dependency Place and territory Alliances Trust

Company

State

Participation Size and capacity of company

CSR Compensation Participation Pro-industry policies Inadequate planning Corruption Repression and criminalization of protest Participation

Remoteness Community displacement Low-grade ore quality Open-pit Visibility of impacts Project-driven Economic Social Political ASM Labour and corporate support Prior-mining activities Culture, livelihood & anti-extractivism

Mixed

Increase

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Institutional trust Relational trust Community-driven Large Medium Junior

X X X X X X X X

Corporate-driven

X X X X X

State-driven

our search was global in scope, it covered only literature in English, and to a lesser extent in Spanish. Most of the case studies covered are within Latin America, reflecting both higher numbers of mining conflicts and scholarly coverage for that region. The vast majority of case studies covered conflicts occurring over the past two decades. While encompassing a wide sample of the scholarly literature, this paper thus does not claim to provide a comprehensive review of all cases, studies, or perspectives. Following a brief presentation of studies pointing at the rising number of conflicts during the recent commodity boom, we identify and discuss four main categories comprising 18 factors potentially influencing the likelihood and escalation of resistance. We then report on the likelihood of these factors to increase or decrease resistance, and outline an agenda for further research. 2. Is resistance to mining increasing? Interest and research on mining conflicts and community resistance have been increasing during the last decade (Bebbington, 2012b; Kirsch, 2014; Arsel et al., 2016; Engels and Dietz, 2017). This growing interest reflects in part the rising number and prominence of cases of mining-related conflicts, with conflicts being considered here as a proxy for open expressions of resistance. Although more research remains needed, this rise in conflict seems to combine both an increase in the number of mining projects between 2005 and 2012, and possibly in the frequency of opposition to mining by affected communities. By January 2017, the Environmental Justice Atlas (EJ Atlas) had identified a total of 423 conflicts relating to ’mineral ores and building materials extraction’, including 290 that had started after 1999 (for a description of EJ Atlas, see Temper et al., 2015). The temporal distribution of these 290 conflicts suggests an upward trend in the cumulative number of mining conflicts between 2002 and 2013 (see Fig. 1). The ICMM's (2015) latest report on mining

X

company-community conflicts identifies a smaller number of conflicts but relatively similar trend, with an increase in the number of reported incidents (from 10 to 90) between 2002 and 2012, and a small decrease (to 88) in 2013. Although not explicitly demonstrating an increase of conflicts over time, several other studies point to the prominence of miningrelated conflicts among socio-environmental conflicts, especially in Latin America in the late 2000s (CIEL, 2010; Defensoría Del Pueblo, 2012; Firpo et al., 2013; OCMAL, 2014; Perez Rincón, 2015). Reports from Global Witness (2014,2015), show an increase in the number of environment and land defenders killed across the world, with 150 out of 908 killings committed between 2002 and 2014 relating to extractive conflicts. Examining 59 mining-related conflicts involving physical injuries and casualties between 2005 and 2012, Bond and Kirsch (2015) point at the association of increased occurrences with commodity price spikes. Overall, resistance to mining projects seems to have increased over the past two decades, and especially during the second phase of the last mining boom (2009-2012), along with an increase in repression against communities. 3. Which factors make some groups resist against mining projects, whilst others do not? The contexts in which mining projects take place are major determinants not only in the push for resource extraction, but also in the formation of social resistance (Bebbington, 2012a; Le Billon and Sommerville, 2016). While seeking to avoid over-generalisations, we aim in this paper to identify some prominent factors explaining the emergence of resistance in some communities, and not in others. We specifically explore here the factors relating to mining projects, to communities, to government authorities, and to mining companies. As suggested in Table 1, these factors tend to be recognised in the literature as either decreasing, increasing or



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having mixed effect on the likelihood of resistance. We discuss below each of these factors, with the aim of nuancing their impact on resistance and to provide concrete examples. We also include a specific discussion of the role of community participation processes, contrasting the differences between processes driven by communities, companies or governments. 3.1. Mining project related factors The geographic and resource characteristics of mining projects determine their relative location, the type of mineral extraction and processing, and the associated impacts projects may cause. Resource and geographic factors also influence the relative attractiveness of the mineral deposits to the mining industry and thus insistence even in case of local resistance, as well as the importance of local resources to community livelihoods and thus resistance likelihood. Three major factors include the environmental impacts of the resource project, the overlap of community infrastructure and livelihood related places with mineral deposits, and the relative remoteness of projects. 3.1.1. Geography, environmental impacts and livelihoods The types of projects and magnitude of their impacts are partly determined by the location, concentration, and technique of extraction of the minerals. Each mined commodity has different traits that can determine the process of extraction, the reagents and techniques used, and in turn the impacts caused. For example, copper is obtained through flotation, smelting and refining processes whilst gold and uranium are lixiviated with cyanide and sulphuric acid (respectively). Whilst flotation is rather innocuous, smelting can release toxic pollutants to the atmosphere, and lixiviation risks contaminating underground water sources. Other minerals that do not require ore concentration still have noticeable impacts; coal mining entails soil removal and erosion, fly ash and mine subsidence whilst in sand mining, river degradation and biodiversity loss are widespread. Moreover, new commodity frontiers tend to have lower grades whilst some commodities like gold or uranium are found in very low concentration, having to use more water and reagents, thus creating more waste per unit produced (Prior et al., 2012). These impacts can affect the livelihoods and cultural traditions of local peasant communities, as well as their internal relations (Bury, 2002; Martinez Alier, 2003; Kirsch, 2001; Perreault, 2013; Urkidi, 2010). The combination of agricultural dependence and mining, that is linked to economic marginalisation (section 3.2.1), constitute a significant factor of resistance, as mining competes with limited agricultural livelihood opportunities. This is the case of mining projects located at mid-level altitudes in the Andes (Haslam and Tanimoune, 2016), where communities still remain highly dependent on agriculture and husbandry but water and arable land are already scarce, competing for resources with the mining industry (Silva-Macher and Farrell, 2014; Bebbington et al., 2008). Communities tend to oppose a mining project if they locally feel the impacts. The greater the proximity and visibility of hazards like dust or acid mine drainage, the more likely mobilisation is (Conde and Kallis, 2012). For the Yanacocha gold mine in Peru or the Ok Tedi mine in Papua New Guinea, mining conflicts emerged when the communities’ livelihoods were being threatened through water diversions and pollution (Bebbington et al., 2008; Bury, 2002; Kirsch, 2001). With uranium mining, the impacts of radioactivity are not felt and diseases take a long time to show explaining why resistance can take a long time to emerge or not emerge at all (Conde and Kallis, 2012). Özkaynak et al. (2015) analysis of 346 mining conflicts of the EJ Atlas database also shows that mobilisation starts due to an actual incident or when local communities feel the impacts.

The rise of large-scale open-cast mining since the 1960s, including for coal, has massively increased the impacts and visibility of extraction, including major disturbances to landscapes as well as severe damages to the underground and surface hydrogeology. Based on a statistical analysis of mining conflicts in several Latin American countries, Haslam and Tanimoune (2016) find conflict likelihood to be higher for open-pit mining than underground operations. Although ’In Situ Leaching’ – which injects reagents into underground deposits and pumps up the solution- avoids the creation of open-pits, it still entails risk groundwater contamination (Mudd, 2001). The magnitude and type of environmental impacts matter when the project is on-going because less ‘perceived’ or real disturbances and pollution means less likelihood of resistance. Also, in response to social demands, environmental safeguards can be implemented in certain processes (such as smelting), but can be more difficult to achieve in others (such as lixiviation) (Hilson, 2000). However, prior to the start of a project the technical processing details might not be a determining factor in the formation of a resistance movement. The characteristics of mineral ore bodies can also determine the size and experience of the mining company that exploits it; lowgrade deposits or complex mineral processing generally require complex and expensive techniques that only large mining companies might be able to deploy. This in turn relates to the experience in dealing with community-mining conflicts or negotiation; mid-tier or junior companies might not have the experience or resources to deal with potential resistance or negotiate with local communities (Dougherty, 2011; Bebbington, 2012b). Finding that mid-tier firms (as well as large firms) are more conflict-prone than junior firms, Haslam and Tanimoune (2016: 412) suggest that “mid-tier firms may operate mines with largescale impacts, while retaining the ad-hoc community management practices of small firms”. Overall, the relationship between geographical factors and resistance likelihood thus reflect a number of intervening factors, including the characteristics of firms and communities involved. 3.1.2. Displacement Mining project related impacts can include the displacement of a whole community to a new location, posing high risks for the livelihoods, health and social ties of its members. It also generates stress, insecurity and feelings of inequality both within the most directly affected community and others in the broader area, notably as a result of resettlement and uneven compensation (Ahmad and Lahiri-Dutt, 2006; Downing, 2002). The mining industry tend to follow the World Bank Group's social safeguards for involuntary resettlement, which emphasise that resettled communities should at least be as well off as before in terms of local production systems and income opportunities (Szablowski, 2007; Owen and Kemp, 2015). The implementation of the directive, however, has been riddled by conflicts. Not only is the adoption of the safeguards voluntary (Lange, 2011), but reliance on a generic framework ignoring specific contexts and relationship and a lack of community participation in the design and implementation of the plans often marginalize local people views and needs (Szablowski, 2007; Owen and Kemp, 2015). Rather than represent and assist affected communities, the state often delegates all responsibilities to the company, including for design and enforcement purposes, an attitude aggravated by an “internal capacity gap” in mining companies that have to deal with “complex issues relating to legacy, traditional forms of land ownership, multiple resettlements, and changed ownership” (Owen and Kemp, 2015: 486). 'Under-financing' is a key aspect in the failure of displacements (Downing, 2002). Downing (2002) highlights the




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goal should be rehabilitation and not compensation - in itself not enough to restore previous income and livelihood standards. In artisanal mining, miners can also be displaced to make way for large-scale mining causing them to resist plans to relocate them. Hilson et al. (2007) analysis of the government-led “Prestea Action Plan” in Ghana showed, similarly to the World Bank directive criticisms, that lack of information and communication channels with the community as well as lack of assurance of mining opportunities (livelihood) for the miners gave very little incentives for miners to relocate. As further discussed below, community distrust towards government and companies is also frequently related to the failure of resettlement schemes, with for example Szablowski (2007) pointing at the San Marcos community losing its trust towards the negotiators of the Antamina Mine in Peru when the mine re-appropriated lands previously designated for resettlement shortly after the first families started to relocate. Despite its major significance, there remains a dearth of publicly available research and debates about mining-related displacement, with most reports being produced by mining companies that keep them confidential (Owen and Kemp, 2015). There is also a lack of attention to its gender-specific effects – an exception are those documented for coal mining related displacement in India, with women losing their role (and status) as livelihood and food provider, causing health and mental stress problems, and increasing marginalisation and food insecurity (Ahmad and Lahiri-Dutt, 2006).

being, but rather through attempts to control the forms of ’development’ to take place. In the paradigmatic case of Lihir, a small island in Papua New Guinea, the Lihirians rejected state control and managed their own negotiations with the mining company to achieve economic transformation through mining. Criticisms to their actions range from women's disempowerment (Scheyvens and Lagisa, 1998) to an apparent weak environmental and mainly economic motive (Macintyre and Foale, 2004). These are challenged by other anthropologists pointing instead to the “complex longings, dreams, and choices” of these dependent communities (Coumans, 2004; see also Kirsch, 2007). This bypassing of the government can also be found in other Melanesian cases such as Porgera and Ok Tedi cases, where development revenues are controlled by the mining companies with support of local communities (Filer, 1996), and more generally with indigenous groups directly engaging with companies through impact benefit agreements (see, O’Faircheallaigh, 2013; Peterson St-Laurent and Le Billon, 2015). Muradian et al. (2003) also point to what they term ‘remoteness dynamics’ whereby prospecting mining firms favour the location of a project in a remote area due to the lesser likelihood of facing opposition. Remoteness thus also needs to be considered in relation to the development opportunities and promises brought by mineral extraction projects, which may appear ’too good’ and ’too rare’ for communities to reject.

3.1.3. Remoteness Another geographical dimension of potential resistance to mining projects is the relative isolation of mining areas (Muradian et al., 2004). When no population is currently present, occasionally as a result of previous processes of dispossession or settlement of nomadic populations, only ‘culture of wilderness environmentalists’ might want to oppose its development for conservation purposes (Guha and Martinez Alier, 1997; Conde and Kallis, 2012). Yet, if these isolated areas are populated, the communities might experience a lack of government presence and services making them develop their own governance structures. This can result in the defence of what local communities consider as their ’territory’, as well as in more direct negotiations with the mining companies. Some authors argue that resistance is more likely to emerge in remote areas precisely because of lack of effective state presence. Ballard and Banks (2003) argue that when the state's capacity to deliver services is limited, communities have less regard to “the authority and claims of the state” (see also Scott, 2014). De Echave et al. (2009: 83) and Bebbington et al. (2008) interpret in part the protests to protect Mount Quilish in Cajamarca, Peru partly as a consequence of the lack of institutionalised means and actors to channel and represent the demands of the population. As suggested by findings from Haslam and Tanimoune (2016), remoteness in terms of low population density may increase the likelihood of mining conflict if there is a lack of alternative to agricultural livelihoods potentially at risk from mining. Remote areas are also more frequently inhabited by indigenous communities for whom culture, traditions and livelihoods tend to be intimately linked to their land, which they often seek to defend through motives and approaches based on distinct worldviews. Moreover, relations between remote communities and the state, as well as a sense of ’citizenship’ (both on the part of indigenous communities and the state vis à vis these communities), are frequently embedded in historical relations of marginalisation, racism and various forms of violence including outright genocide (Martinez Alier, 2003; Ballard and Banks, 2003; Muradian et al., 2003; Fox, 2015). But remoteness is not always or simply associated to the ’defense’ of the land in a supposed ’pristine’ or ’traditional’ state of

3.1.4. Project-driven participation While our attention to community participation is mostly focused on decision-making processes over a mining project, the characteristics of the project deposit and possible modes of mineral extraction can contribute to influencing the direct participation of local community members into mining activities, and in turn levels of resistance (Hilson and Yakovleva, 2007). The widespread occurrence of large scale mining within or around Artisanal and small Scale Mining (ASM) targeting alluvial deposits of high value minerals and metals demonstrate the need of practical community participation. Mediated through artisanal miners’ notions of property, legitimacy, livelihood, and development, they react to the dispossession by large-scale mining projects prohibiting or competing with ASM activities, especially if ASM preceded large-scale mining; with such resistance being notably deployed specifically to protect or (re)gain community entitlements over mineral deposits (Geenen, 2014) such as the mining settlers in Chinapintza, Ecuador, claiming to have been ’invaded’ by a Canadian concession holder (Sánchez-Vázquez et al., 2016). In contrast, lease sharing arrangements with artisanal miners and direct employment in large-scale project – especially where no community mining existed before – tend to reduce resistance (Aubynn, 2009); although communities are often divided on these issues as not all members – and surrounding communities – benefit from those opportunities. 3.2. Community-related factors Communities can respond in multiple forms to a proposed project in their lands. Whilst communities that are politically marginalised and dependent on external help (or previous mining projects) might be more willing to accept a new project, those with strong cultural and spiritual place-based livelihood ties to land will more likely react against a mining project threatening this equilibrium, build opposition alliances, and initiate alternative decision-making processes. However, communities and community-level resistance, or lack thereof, are rarely homogenous. Internal divisions and conflicts between community members are



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common, notably between members relying more heavily on their land and resources (e.g. women), compared to those who might want to benefit from the mine through jobs or associated development projects (Bebbington et al., 2008; Horowitz, 2002, 2012). 3.2.1. Marginalisation Marginalisation is often conceived as a process that entails different forms of exclusion; through economic marginalisation people can be excluded from the main economic benefits of the global economy (Cox, 1987) or through processes of dispossession of resources and land leading to livelihood loss and poverty, making them dependent and narrowly adaptable (Robbins, 2004; Nayak and Berkes, 2010). Haslam and Tanimoune (2016) have shown that household poverty correlates with increased conflict risk when communities are neglected in terms of public services. This again is related to the above-mentioned factor whereby a lack of alternatives to agricultural livelihoods at risk from mineral exploitation will exacerbate the likelihood of conflict. However economically marginalised communities that no longer rely on the land might welcome a new mining project. This was the case of the Spitzkoppe community in Namibia, who had been displaced to semi-deserted land during apartheid and had not developed any cultural ties or livelihoods that could be threaten by the new mining project (Conde and Kallis, 2012). Marginalisation is widespread in the artisanal and small-scale mining (ASM) sector, in part due to frequent biases against ASM activities and communities, inadequate governmental policies, and weak governance structures (Carson et al., 2005; Hilson and McQuilken, 2015; Tschakert and Singha, 2007). As we saw before, local ASM communities react when they see their livelihoods threaten by large-scale mining operations (Carstens and Hilson, 2009; Verbrugge, 2016). Political or social exclusion is another form of marginalisation whereby people are excluded from decision making mechanisms (Ballard and Banks, 2003) and the mainstreams of societal interests and power (Robbins, 2004), not having the time and resources to participate in the formation of discourses or the capacity to make their voices heard (Bebbington, 2007; Blaikie and Brookfield, 1987). With deep historical roots (Howitt, 1989; Urkidi, 2011; Fisher, 2007) these marginalised groups are generally discriminated on the basis of ethnicity or group identity, gender or age (Ballard and Banks, 2003). A marginalised community might not understand the implications of a mining project opening near them (Conde and Kallis, 2012) and may be more eager to trust the company's promise of jobs and development (Horowitz, 2010). Similarly, the concept of low ‘self-efficacy’ shows a lack of belief in one's capability “to effect change in their lives” contributing to the “cession of trust to institutions of authority like technology, expertise, the state and the divine” (Dougherty and Olsen, 2014: 8). In their survey and interview based research carried out in Guatemala, Dougherty and Olsen (2014) show how low levels of (self-efficacy) correlate with mining support (and vice versa). Moreover, internal power hierarchies can create divisions when community chiefs or Union directors stop the flow of information to the more disenfranchised community members, particularly women, undermining the emergence of cohesive resistance (Conde and Kallis, 2012). As such politically marginalised communities may be less likely, at least initially, to resist a new mining project. Whereas social and political marginalisation seem to induce less resistance than economic marginalisation, these three dimensions are often closely related, with social marginality narrowing social capital to intra-community solidarities and political marginality reducing influence over government and the provision of public services, which in turn can increase or

perpetuate economic marginalisation, notably as a result of poorer education and reduced income opportunities. Economic marginalisation can also be linked to increasing dependency from a mining project once it has started. 3.2.2. Mine dependency Communities already immersed in a mining project might want to keep the links with the company due to their dependency for jobs, water, energy, revenue or the company's Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) programs. This is generally the case for those mining towns purposely created to house mine workers, where mining companies often seek to maintain or recreate feelings of belonging and a paternalistic culture among the resident communities despite mechanisation processes greatly reducing the number of people employed by the mine (Scott and Bennett, 2015). The mining town of Arandis in Namibia, is one such case where after 30 years of production decline the town welcomed a uranium rush after a peak in price in 2007 (Conde and Kallis, 2012). Jenkins and Obara (2006) warn against the dependency CSR programs create on local communities especially after the mine closes. This is however not a new topic, in economic geography and labour studies, the concept of resource-dependent communities dates back to the 1930s with Innis’ seminal work that was notably revived in the 1990s (see Randall and Ironside, 1996). This literature explores the economic and social resilience of these communities, pointing to factors such as the degree of resource dependency, their spatial isolation and their labour-market characteristics. The dependency of local communities on the ASM sector is also extensively explored. In their analysis of a 3-year campaign of small-scale mine closures in China, Andrews-Speed et al. (2005) show that most coal mining-dependent towns were abandoned by their inhabitants in search of work elsewhere or investment was searched to carry on exploitation. Fisher (2007) in Tanzania, and Hilson and Yakovleva (2007) in Ghana highlight the role of marginalisation and the difficulty to find alternative livelihoods for communities dependent on small-scale mining. The risk of dependency in small-scale mining is aggravated for women who move from farming to mining in search of a stable income but have only access to menial and hazardous jobs with little income revenue (Yakovleva, 2007). Even if the project has not started, many communities would still welcome the development opportunities promised by the mining company, even at the price of the associated dependency. McNeish (2012), for example, points to the evolving colonial nature and “militant pragmatism” driving communities’ leadership to seek dialogue and negotiated settlements with the mining company. This is further exemplified in Horowitz's (2012) analysis of a mining conflict in New Caledonia where the local indigenous group Rhé é bù Nù ù negotiated a deal with the mining company leaving the environmentalist groups and regional government aside. Ali and Grewal (2006) also show how the local community near the Koniambo project in New Caledonia ultimately agreed to an “ownership scheme” that should allow for much of the profits to stay in the territory. In contrast, indigenous territorialities, attachment to land and material or symbolic economy relying on local resources can originate political claims pushing communities to engage in resistance (Escobar, 1995; Martinez Alier, 2003; Liffman, 1998; Rumsey and Weiner, 2004).

3.2.3. Place and territory Mining projects occur in places. These places are not simply ’material locations’ but relational spaces embedded with cultural meanings and emotional significance derived from historical and everyday relations between local people and the land, making




landscapes “special and worth defending”, often through a territorialisation of identities and aspirations (Robertson, 2010: 7; see also Cater and Keeling, 2013; Avci and Fernández-Salvador, 2016). Following Escobar (2001) we take place in an empirical sense, where culture, nature and economy continually interact in an ever-evolving place-making process with ontological, epistemic, and experiential dimensions (see also Cresswell, 2014 and Martin and Pierce, 2013). Generally occurring at the scale of ’lived experience’ of resident communities, ’place-making’ processes can also involve larger spatial scales through extended kinship relations, ethnicities, or even value systems (Harner, 2001; Robertson, 2010). In Australia, aboriginal communities were displaced from their (patrilineal links to) land, developing instead a “shared identity based on descent and connection to an ancestral state” where dense social networks have become a new ‘relational ontology’ for these communities; this shared identity based on historical connection to their ancestral states can be strongly activated in the context of mining, either as a strategy to claim benefits or as a defense of the territory (Peterson, 2015: 495). Despite the importance of place epistemology in land-use conflicts; modernity, globalisation and political decisions have been changing long-standing values and practices of many communities (Bebbington et al., 2008; Peterson, 2015). This has highlighted the need for a deeper engagement with ontological values. What the mining company sees as a resource deposit can be seen by others as a mountain, an ‘apu’ or a living being (De la Cadena, 2015). These culturally foundational “figured worlds” are continually practiced and reworked through everyday life and the enactment of place (Clammer et al., 2004: 6). Mining projects are complex processes of transformation. Whereas mining produces and leaves behind a distinctive landscape often seen as a symbol of economic decline and environmental degradation, the process of place transformation often goes beyond a simple process of environmental disruption and social dislocation. Here the concept of ruination and its understanding of mining landscapes as “processes of becoming, not fixed things”, can help grasp a broader sense of destruction, displacement, and reclamation associated with mining activities and ’mined’ places (Stoler, 2008: 212; Gordillo, 2014). As Wheeler (2014: 22) observes, mining vestiges can “become incorporated into local people's experiences of the everyday landscape and, as such, play an important role in understandings of place and temporality”. In this line, mining communities can develop memories, associations and emotional attachments with places ‘ruined’ by mining. Through the exploration of Rankin Inlet in remote Canada, Cater and Keeling (2013) have found that even though the community is still suffering from grave environmental impacts after 30 years after the mine closed, a subset of the community would welcome new mining development. Harner (2001) analyses the formation of this coherent ‘identity’ through the case of Cananea in Mexico where a labour union gained control of American-owned mines and achieved “hegemonic equilibrium” between “means” (copper production) and “meanings” (workers’ experiences). When the neoliberal wave of privatisation occurred, many Cananea community members resisted these changes through roadblocks, outside demonstrations and strikes. We have also seen how communities have opposed mining projects and articulated the defense of ’their place’ in several ways: as a project, as a strategy, and as an alternative to the dominant extractive development model. Challenging Harner (2001), Larsen (2004: 947) argues that place identities can “materialise either through hegemony or as a component of resistance”. Her analysis of the rejection of outside investments in a resource-dependent area of Northern British Columbia, Canada, shows how their “experience of powerlessness” created a “structure of feeling” (quoting Williams, 1977: 132) through which they positioned

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themselves as “regional stewards” in opposition to outside forces. Li (2000) also describes the process through which place-based identities are formed by contrasting two locations in Central Sulawesi, Indonesia. She argues indigenous-placed identities are not “invented, adopted or imposed” but rather are drawn “upon historically sedimented practices, landscapes, and repertoires of meaning” emerging “through particular patterns of engagement and struggle” (Li, 2000: 151). Similarly, and using the case of the Baguazo in Peru, Acuña (2015) points at the importance of understanding conflicts from a historical perspective and decolonising interpretations in order to better grasp indigenous political ontologies. The cultural and emotional significance of place is also exemplified by the Dongria Kondh in Orissa, India, who oppose a bauxite mine in the Niyamgiri Hills because the mountain range not only provides them with life and livelihoods but is also sacred and worshipped as the “upholders of the Earth and the Universe” (Temper and Martinez Alier, 2013: 85). Comparing the role of territorial dynamics in local responses to mining development through two projects in Ecuador, Avci and Fernández-Salvador (2016) suggest that a key determinant of social resistance is the ability of some community members to bring about a territory-based identity enabling mobilisation. Also comparing two mining projects, but in Turkey, Özen and Özen (2017: 256) find that resistance occurred only in the case where communities were able to draw on pre-established place-based historical narratives of resistance to foreign invaders and environmental narratives of critical water supply; thus arguing that in a context where “local meaning systems are dislocated by the arrival of [mining companies]”, the availability and popular appeal of discourses related to a sense of place are critical for local anti-mining resistance. The importance of territorial cohesion is also stressed by Penman (2016), who finds in Mexico that larger and already consolidated peasant communities (ejidos) were able to deploy more effective means, counter pro-mining narratives, and gain greater compensation from mining companies than smaller and more fragmented communities. In the case of Guatemala, Wayland and Kuniholm, (2016) show that racial identity and the exacerbating effects of a civil war targeting indigenous communities has led to greater group cohesion and community-level mobilisation against resource extraction. A broader argument is also made about the value of enrolling cultural idioms as part of the register of resistance, especially as a bridge between younger activists in search of a connection with older community members, as suggest by Erb (2016) in the case of conflict over mining in eastern Indonesia. According to Escobar (2001) we are being witness to the clash of two place-making processes; that produced by capital and global forces, and the cultural construction of place through subaltern strategies of localisation by communities and social movements. Several authors explore these resistance-place-making processes; from livelihood oriented projects with export oriented production or eco-tourism, as in Intag, Ecuador (Bebbington et al., 2008), to the recovery of farming traditions and communal land management of the Diaguita in Chile (Urkidi, 2010). Also emphasising alternative local governance structures, Parajuli (1996) proposes the term ‘ecological ethnicities’ where groups claiming regional autonomy are identifying themselves with a distinct ecological region and a rich ethnic history. Kirsch (2001) carries out an interesting analysis of the transformation of place for the Yonggom of Papua New Guinea. Reflecting the significance of the disruptions associated with minerelated pollution, remembrance of things past are no longer linked to surroundings – where things happened – but rather to the temporality of mining operations and impacts. As such, memories linked to place-based attachment have, in that case, given way to chronological narratives related to industrial activities (e.g. when



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the mine opened or a certain area was polluted). This does not mean the Yonggom lost their attachment to place. They embarked on a process to “recover the concreteness of space [or place] that capitalism makes disappear” (Dissanayake and Wilson, 1996: 3 cited by Kirsch, 2001: 262). They strategically rescaled the movement by forging alliances with activists operating at different scales allowing the production and defence of locality (Escobar, 2001). Urkidi (2011: 575) through her analysis of the Marlin mine struggle in Guatemala, points the link between place-based and glocal strategies: “the community is not just the place of cultural attachment and revival, but it symbolizes a wide sector of the Guatemalan population that has been oppressed by historical injustices and racism. The defence of community is therefore also the defence of a ‘broader community’, making horizontal and vertical alliances feasible”.

3.2.4. Alliances The capacity of communities to self-organise and build alliances with extra-local actors play an important role in acquiring knowledge, mobilising resources for action, and enabling resistance at a diversity of scales (Keck and Sikkink, 1998; Urkidi, 2010; Swyngedouw, 1997). As noted by Paredes (2016: 1), the ‘glocalisation’ of mining conflict involved “on one hand, the globalization of communities’ mobilisation against mining, and on the other, the localization and fragmentation of these protests domestically.” The network analysis carried out with the mining conflicts of the EJ Atlas database confirms the importance of inter and intra-scale alliances for a successful strategy resistance and the important role played by national and international NGOs (Özkaynak et al., 2015). Networks and alliances can form at a very early stage of a mining project, as in the opposition to the Esquel project in Argentina, which saw the initial diffusion of information between local and extra-local actors (such as experts) catalyze the reaction of communities even before the project has started (Walter and Martinez-Alier, 2010; Conde and Kallis, 2012). Alliances can also ’jump scale’ and help socially and politically marginalized local communities to find international supporters. Through these networks, information is exchanged and discourses are forged, transformed and merged, shifting between different scales. We now find local activists groups in the Pascua Lama conflict speaking about climate change, glacier protection and wider demands of participation and democracy, whilst global activists defend the livelihoods of local communities (Urkidi, 2010). Similarly, the excellent analysis of Haarstad and Fløysand (2007) of the Tambogrande conflict in Peru, showed how local identity was re-scaled and merged with national identity through the defence of lemons to cook ‘ceviche’ (a traditional dish) and democratic and participatory discourses were used at the international scale. Another example in the opposition to oil extraction and coal mining is the slogan “leave the oil in the soil, leave the coal in the hole” that is being used both at local and national scales in Ecuador, Nigeria, South Africa as well as through platforms like the Climate Action Network (Bond, 2008; Martinez Alier et al., 2014). Alliances can help to generate an awareness about the position of communities within the broader commodity chain and political economy, allowing them to frame their plights in terms of global demands for environmental justice, climate or democratic rights. Such alliances and the narratives associating individual mining projects with global consumption and pollution trends, support the hypothesis of an emerging anti-capitalist and non-Eurocentric struggle articulated with local place-based demands (Conde, 2016). Yet, it is not only information and narratives that are exchanged through these alliances; the diffusion of strategies has been crucial for the development of several resistance movements. According

to Özen and Özen's (2011) analysis in Turkey, both resistance movements and the mining companies crucially learned from the previous conflict what not to do. The excellent analysis carried out by Walter and Urkidi (2015) of the spread of referendum (or consultas) to reject mining projects in Latin America points to some crucial actors and nodes in the creation of these alliances; a priest arriving in Guatemala who had experienced the Tambogrande consulta in Peru, regional networks like the Red Muqui in Peru, documentaries like the one on Sipakapa in Guatemala or access to the internet. In Argentina, Svampa and Antonelli (2009) link the increasing resistance against mining projects with two “effects” of two mining conflicts: the environmental impacts of Alumbrera Mine causing the “Alumbrera effect” (i.e. greater environmental awareness) and the successful local and regional territorial networks of mobilisation and exchange in the Esquel case that have been now replicated all over the country through the “Esquel effect” (i.e. more effective mobilisation techniques). Alliances can also have a decisive role in strengthening the communities negotiating position; in Tintaya's mine conflict five Espinar communities signed an agreement with BHP after a threeyear Mesa de Diálogo (dialogue table) negotiation. Despite the renewed escalation of the conflict after 2011, Barton (2005) and De Echave (2005) point to the importance of transnational advocacy coalitions that empowered, trained and organised local communities. As such both the practices and goals of resistance can shift over time, with practices involving for example more ’scientific’ evidence or legal arguments, and the goals shifting from negotiated conciliation to outright rejection. In this regard, government authorities and mining companies seeking to promote extractive projects are often keen to see ’strategic alliances’ involve or being led by the ’right kind’ of organisations and individuals, for example those who will seek to advance ’constructive’ and ’factbased’ negotiations, rather than those taking more ’ideologicallydriven’ positions (McDonald and Young, 2012; Moroz et al., 2014). This desire to influence the configuration of alliances around communities, in turn, often translates into selective processes of inclusion/exclusion, such as invitations to conferences and dialogue processes, access to funding, legal status, and coverage by corporate and official media (Richards, 2013). As Kirsch (2014: 3) argues, “[g]iven the efficacy of corporate social technologies in co-opting and adapting the strategies and discourses of their critics, social movements and NGOs must continually develop new approaches to these problems”, but also, as Özen and Özen (2017) suggest, find pre-existing narratives that will resonate with and mobilise local communities against mining. While much attention is often given to national or international alliances, it is important to note that local level alliances can also be decisive. In order to catalyse resistance and overcome political marginalization, every-day and informal networks play a crucial role. These can be promoted by churches, NGOs, and student organisations, what Bebbington (2007) defines as ‘social movement organisations’. As Holden and Jacobson (2009) and Bebbington et al. (2008) show, the church has been an important ally for resistance movements in Latin America, having had a decisive role in Guatemala and Peru. 3.2.5. Distrust Distrust has emerged as one of the main factors that generate opposition. There is frequent distrust towards the mining company, but also towards the state as guarantor of environmental standards and appropriate revenue distribution, with local elites ’capturing’ opportunities and instrumenting conflicts for their own benefits, as well as external expertise and hard to understand science-based findings (Bebbington and Bury, 2009; Le Billon, 2014; Conde, 2014). Although we focus here on the distrust felt by the communities, distrust is a relational, multi-faceted and trans-




sectorial factor also involving the state and extractive industry, including perceptions and actions of prior governments and companies. Walter and Martinez-Alier (2010), studying the Esquel conflict in Argentina, show how a talk on cyanide use by the future supplier of cyanide to the mine, motivated university experts in chemistry to get involved and cast doubts about the quality and reliability of the information presented. This was combined with mistrust towards the government's Mining department due to the way the information regarding the project was disseminated. In the Tambogrande conflict in Peru, Muradian et al. (2003) point that despite adopting similar technical language, the experts hired by the companies and those working with civil society had different value systems which in turn cast ’expert findings’ in different lights, thus contributing to diverging views and distrust. A study by the Centre for National Resource Governance in Zimbabwe of mining-related conflicts points out that community distrust and antagonism towards companies and government authorities are frequently the result of “a crisis of expectation emanating from the promises given by government when introducing a mining project to a community”(CNRG, 2015: 28). In the same vein Horowitz (2010: 625) specifically identifies trust as an important factor in her studies of Kanak villagers’ response to a new nickel mine in New Caledonia. She argues that trust was not determined by the scientific validity of the information provided by the company but by the affiliation of each villager to either the company or the protest group that “stemmed from expectations of long-term social relationships and economic benefits for themselves and for their community, as well as feelings of empowerment”. Dougherty and Olsen (2014) research in Guatemala observes two main ’trust’ narratives, with opposite effects. On one hand, what they term ’institutional trust’ – in authority, faraway institutions, expertise – positively correlates with mining support, and in part reflects low levels of self-efficacy and marginalisation within the community (see Section 3.3.2). On the other hand, ‘relational trust’ – “exercised when individuals feel strongly bound to friends, family, and neighbors with whom they share backgrounds, experiences, and life-stations” – positively correlates with views opposing mining (Dougherty and Olsen, 2014, 3). The mining industry is also realising that in order to develop lasting relations with local communities they have to build and maintain the trust of communities (Barton, 2005; Commdev, 2008; Horowitz, 2010; ICMM, 2009; Labda, 2011; Zandvliet and Anderson, 2009). Moffat and Zhang's (2014: 68) analysis of two online surveys carried out with communities in an Australian mining region show that “when community members reported feeling heard, listened to, and that the company would act on their concerns, their trust in the company was enhanced.” They also note that, in these cases, trust of a company by a local community seems to reflect the quality of contact, rather than the quantity; and that trust towards a company and acceptance of a mining project are seriously undermined when impacts are worse than what the community expected – often a reflection of the miscommunication or misrepresentation of risks by companies and government authorities (Hilson, 2002). 3.2.6. Community driven participation Many local communities aspire to determine what happens on their land, wanting to receive visibility and recognition of their rights, they react to a lack of participation or representation in decision-processes over resource extraction projects, and more generally about a lack of rights to effectively decide their own ’development path’. Participation can be viewed from three perspectives: community driven participation, corporate driven participation (Section 3.3.3), and state driven participation (Section 3.4.5).

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For authors seeking to follow communities’ perspectives, participation entails not a dialogue with the mine, but communities’ right to decide over their own practices such as communitarian access to land, organic agriculture production or democratic decision making processes (Escobar, 2001; Martinez Alier, 2003; Helwege, 2015). In the study of the Guatemalan Marlin mine conflict, Urkidi (2011) shows how communities linked local demands against water depletion and contamination with the defence of their Mayan traditions and culture claiming “legal participation rights and the democratisation of decision-making processes”. This cultural defence was not connected to a specific place but to the historical grievances suffered by their communities and culture. Much of the view on community driven participation is informed by the Environmental Justice (EJ) paradigm where participation is directly linked with recognition and can impede justice as much as “distributive inequities” do (Fraser, 1998: 26). Linking with the political marginalisation factor, Schlosberg (2007: 28) states that “it is not just that political and cultural institutions create conditions that hamper equity and recognition, but that both distributive inequity and misrecognition hamper real participation in political and cultural institutions”. In their study of two gold mining conflicts in Latin America, Urkidi and Walter (2011) observe that demands of participation and recognition from local communities appear even before distributional demands. This has not always been the case; in the emergence of the environmental justice discourse in the US, communities primarily demanded an end to the social and economic policies that subjected excluded and poor communities to environmental hazards. However, Bullard (1990: 101) also notes that “exclusionary and restrictive practices that limit participation of African Americans and other people of colour in decision-making boards, commissions, regulatory bodies, and management staff are all forms of environmental racism.” In EJ literature, participation is linked to access to fair and equitable institutional processes managed by the State; it ties together the understanding of unjust distribution patterns with the recognition of rights and needs of local communities (Cole and Foster, 2001; Schlosberg, 2007). Demands stem from the exclusion and marginalisation from official decision-making processes, with activists also pointing more broadly to forces such as class, caste, ethnicity and gender as preventing individuals from fully participating in decisions that affect their lives (Urkidi and Walter, 2011). The emergence of consultas or referendums as a strategy to reject mining projects in Latin America in the 2000s responded in part to “concerns related to the defence of livelihood, cultural recognition, territorial control, participation and self-determination” (Walter and Urkidi, 2015: 11) and increasing repression and criminalisation of affected communities by government authorities (Laplante and Nolin, 2014; Walter and Urkidi, 2015). The first consulta that took place in 2002 in Tambogrande, Peru, emerged as the Peruvian government issued measures to limit public participation rights and negotiation attempts where failing (Haarstad and Fløysand, 2007; Bebbington, 2012a). Since then more than 74 consultas have been carried in six different countries with communities rejecting extractive projects (Duthie, 2012; Walter and Urkidi, 2015). According to Walter and Urkidi (2015), these consultas entail the construction of a new scale of regulation, whereby local communities defend the local as the legitimate scale of decision-making on whether a project is to go forward or not. As such, the proliferation of consultas can be seen as a ’grass-roots’ democratic process of implementing Free Prior and Informed Consent (McGee, 2009; see also Section3.4.5).



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3.3. Company-related factors Companies have a major influence with regard to community resistance as they initiate and manage projects and related activities, often working within a hybrid governance system involving host country regulations and their own corporate guidelines. While companies generally use corporate social responsibility programs and compensation schemes to prevent or reduce resistance by communities, these programs can backfire when poorly designed and implemented. Corporate driven community participation can also fail to address the communities’ motivations and incentives for resistance; especially if companies mostly see such participation as an ‘education’ exercise for communities, or as a way to ‘negotiate’ a rapid implementation of the project. 3.3.1. Corporate social responsibility (CSR) In order to build trust and in response to the increasing number of community conflicts, and their potentially high costs (Franks et al., 2014), companies have been developing a set of policies and strategies that can be collectively encapsulated under the corporate social responsibility (CSR) umbrella. These programs range from the use of cleaner technologies, improved communication strategies (both with communities through for example improved grievance mechanisms, and externally with the publication of regular corporate CSR information), as well as better distribution of benefits to local communities through development projects (O’Faircheallaigh and Ali, 2008; Himley, 2013; Jenkins, 2004; Yakovleva, 2005). The myriad of publications on how to improve community-company relations recommend meaningful community participation (Barton, 2005; Commdev, 2008; Horowitz, 2010; Labda, 2011; Moffat and Zhang, 2014; Zandvliet and Anderson, 2009), capacity building (Bamat et al., 2011; Boelens et al., 2010; De Echave et al., 2009; O’Faircheallaigh, 2013; Schilling-Vacaflor, 2012; Vieyra et al., 2014) and third party involvement for conflict resolution (Bamat et al., 2011; Padilla et al., 2008). Rogge (1996) shows how a legal educational program for communities in Ecuador's Oriente oil-rich region increased their confidence and awareness of their rights. Also widely recommended is the use of social community mapping allowing for the identification of all stakeholders, environmental services and other cultural and religious activities (Herbertson et al., 2009; ICMM, 2013; O’Faircheallaigh and Corbett, 2005). Criticisms to CSR initiatives however abound; they range from their voluntary and non-enforceable nature (Fulmer et al., 2008), the lack of representation of all members of the community leading to internal community conflicts (Jenkins and Yakovleva, 2006; Newell, 2005) and the opacity of the agreements achieved (Sosa and Keenan, 2001). Several studies of CSR programs for mining projects in Guatemala (Dougherty and Olsen, 2014), Ecuador (Warnaars, 2012), Ghana (Hilson and Yakovleva, 2007) and Kenya (Abuya, 2016) suggest that programs are in many occasions not well designed, increase rather than alleviate the communities’ hardship, and can trigger conflicts when CSR projects are delayed or not implemented. Gilberthorpe and Banks (2012) show how CSR weaknesses stem from the companies’ emphasis on meeting global ‘performance standards’ instead of aligning their programs to the needs of each social context advocating for the need to have greater community engagement. Indeed one of the major criticisms of CSR is the lack of meaningful community participation (Bebbington et al., 2008; Emel et al., 2012; Ruwhiu et al., 2016, see Section 3.6.1 too). As shown in the Tintaya mine in Peru (Anguelovski, 2011) or the Lihir mine in Papua New Guinea, protests and mobilisations occur each time the community has a demand or wants to enter in dialogue with the mine. Mining companies can manage these conflictive situations

through grievance mechanisms that should be accessible to all, culturally appropriate and accountable (ICMM, 2009). However in practice, according to Kemp et al. (2011) review of 12 companies’ grievance mechanisms, there had been negligible attempts to alter power imbalances between companies and communities, and only partial attempts to facilitate dialogue. Lack of effective responses to complaints is also due to the lack of leverage and communication between the community-relations staff and other departments (legal, operations, environment) (Kemp and Owen, 2013). The context in which CSR programs are developed; with poorly designed and implemented CSR activities potentially increasing frustrations and distrust, can constitute a source of further resistance, especially when they follow confrontational events during which a company had lost its legitimacy (Warnaars, 2012). With the ever-increasing exchange of information across networks and alliances, communities are frequently questioning the merits of the extractive ‘development’ model, their lack of participation, and the CSR and compensation schemes brought by the mining companies. 3.3.2. Compensation Conflicts over compensation due to land or resource losses are common claims behind contestation to mining. Arellano-Yanguas (2011) analysis of Peru's mining conflicts shows that most originate due to “people's sense of grievance regarding previous land transfer agreements”. Communities demand the “fulfilment of promises” by the mining company, as well as a greater share of the profits as compensation for local resources and livelihood loss (Barrantes, 2005). This is the case too of the Yonggom in Papua New Guinea, who in the court case against BHP were being made to choose between ‘development’ and the ‘environment’. Given their dependency on the mine after years of exploitation and pollution, they were demanding compensation for environmental damages as well the economic benefits of keeping the mine open (Kirsch, 2007). In New Caledonia, inadequate compensation was also one of the main motives for resistance to mining according to Ali and Grewal (2006). In many occasions, however, communities do not want to be compensated. Linking with the initial factor of environmental impacts, Avcı et al. (2010) analysis of opposition to the Mount Ida mine in Turkey show that 81% of them rejected the compensation schemes offered due to concerns about environmental risks and lack of trust in state institutions and technology. Moreover, compensation largely depends on the accounting of the economic benefits a piece of land can generate. This economic valuation generally disregards the variety of valuation languages communities can posses. For the Dongria Konhd, the Nyamgiri hills Vedanta wants to mine are sacred; the resting place of the god Niyam Rajah. The incommensurability of values is further aggravated by the fact that “poor sell cheap so that the ‘lost’ opportunity cost is greater for foreign tourists who can ‘bid higher’ for forest services, in the process reproducing unequal access to public goods” (Temper and Martinez-Alier, 2013: 82). 3.3.3. Corporate driven participation Mining companies view participation as part of the processes through which the community engages in negotiations with them. Beyond regulatory requirement for community participation, or at least ’consultation’, corporate-driven participation is also motivated to obtain a ’social license to operate’ from the community (Owen and Kemp, 2013). In both cases, this is about reducing the risks associated with inserting a corporate project into a particular place through the enrolment of the ’community’ as a legal entity to be consulted or as a social entity to be convinced. Literature on industry recommendations suggest transparent dialogues as well as early stage and genuine involvement of local communities in




decision making processes so they can decide which development programs they want to pursue – for example through company sponsored cattle or agriculture projects (Banks, 2013; CaballeroAnthony, 2013; SUNPFII, 2008; Sawyer and Gomez, 2008). Criticisms related to a lack of genuine community participation abound; Baker and McLelland (2003) expose the poor integration of First Nation people in the decision-making process of the environmental assessments carried out in all three cases analysed. Similarly, O’Faircheallaigh and Corbett's (2005) analysis of 45 negotiated agreements with indigenous communities in Australia finds that in most cases their contribution is non-existent and only in a quarter of the agreements the industry is required to address the proposals of the Aboriginal landowners. One of the main reasons for this poor participation is the lack of bargaining power communities have prior to the start of the negotiations, notably in relation to the various levels of control over land and the different powers that these legally provide for communities to negotiate, as seen in Australia and Canada (O’Faircheallaigh, 2008). On a similar vein, Szablowski (2002) exposes the unequal power relations in the World Bank's participatory involuntary resettlement policy with expert-led consultations and minimal input from local communities. 3.4. State related factors States have a critical role with regard to community resistance, but this role is often articulated around the relative absence of the state as a representative of affected communities and as environmental steward, and its selective presence as the ’sovereign’ authority over resources and public enforcer of corporate entitlements. As discussed below, the extractivist development models and pro-industry policies promoted can go in hand with the criminalisation of dissent, corrupt behaviours, and inadequate planning and implementation. State-driven community participation that is not based on Free Prior and Informed Consent principles can increase community distrust and give further ground for resistance. 3.4.1. Pro-industry state policies The role of the state in the formation of resistance has traditionally been linked to its role as custodian (and de facto owner) of subterranean resources, as attractor of investment for resource extraction through policies of economic liberalization, as well as a decision-maker, facilitator, and enforcer of regulatory processes (Bridge, 2004; Campbell, 2009). Yet, the state has generally sided with the industry, and often played a role in increasing resistance. The multiple dimensions and variegated effects of the state and political apparatus on resistance – from the relations between resistance and electoral cycles, the fairness and integrity of the bureaucracy and judiciary, or in response to the intensity of state repression – deserve close attention (Martin and Pierce, 2013). Extractivist logics and policies often derive from the legacies of predatory colonial political economies and growth-driven developmental models (Engels and Dietz, 2017). Renewed and transformed through the neoliberalisation of many economies in the early 1990s, extractivism drastically accelerated with the rise of Asian-led demand and commodity prices at the turn of the new millennium. Even left wing and indigenous-based governments seeking alternative developmental models have found it hard to achieve resource nationalism (Kohl and Farthing, 2012), let alone escape extractivism, giving way to ’neo-extractivist’ approaches selectively entrenching mining activities (Burchardt and Dietz, 2014; Villalba-Eguiluz and Etxano, 2017). Extractivist rationales, in turn, have often dispossessed local communities of their livelihoods, including at times small-scale mining, and increased the

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likelihood of resistance (Arsel et al., 2016; Vélez-Torres, 2014). Studies on Peru, for example, suggest a link between poststructural adjustment extractive policies, community resistance and social conflicts. Taking place within the context of greater but contentious and highly fragmented democratisation that followed the end of the civil war and fall of the Fujimori regime in the late 1990s, the interaction of political and fiscal decentralisation schemes with an extractive investment boom resulted in conflicts between central authorities, local political competitors, and communities (Arce, 2014; Arellano-Yanguas, 2010, 2011). 3.4.2. Criminalisation of dissent Both progressive and conservative governments have not only generally demonstrated a pro-industry bias, but have also shown a growing intolerance to social resistance against extractive projects through increasing use of repressive measures, the criminalisation of protest and the prosecution of leaders in resistance movements (Bebbington and Bebbington, 2011; Martinez Alier et al., 2014). The Latin American Observatory of mining conflicts (OCMAL, 2011) analyzes two regional processes of criminalization occurring in Andean countries (Chile, Brazil, Argentina, and Bolivia) and central-American (Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador) targeting not only local leaders and authorities but also technical assessors and external organizations. Focusing on the case of Honduras, Middeldorp et al. (2016) demonstrate that the closing of progressive legal reforms at the national level following a coup in 2009 has relocated opposition to mining down at the community level, with brutal consequences for community activists facing a hardening of repression. Andreucci and Radhuber (2015) show in their analysis of Evo Morales’ government in Bolivia how the government co-opted and demobilised the main peasants’ union confederation and two of the largest indigenous organisations, favouring instead mining cooperatives that support an extractivist model. This type of responses and the tense (but real) alliance between the state and the mining companies cause in many occasions rent seeking behaviours and corruption. 3.4.3. Rent seeking behaviour and corruption The effect of the state towards greater resistance is exacerbated when bureaucrats and politicians have vested interests in extractive projects, either directly through equity shares or indirectly through electoral funding and bribing (CNRG, 2015). More generally, resource wealth can motivate, entrench and reward corrupt practices, notably because of the large scale of revenues involved, the long-term impacts of contractual arrangements, and the discretionary power of government officials. In turn, corrupt practices undermine revenue collection through embezzlement and the awarding of unfair contracts biased towards corporate interests, as well as facilitating illegal exploitation and tax evasion (Kolstad and Soreide, 2009; Le Billon, 2011). Corrupt earnings can insulate ruling elites from the demands of society, while government tolerance for corrupt practices can undermine their legitimacy, thereby reducing accountability and trust (Cheng and Zaum, 2013; Le Billon, 2014). From this perspective, corruption undermines government capacity and effectiveness, resulting in the suboptimal delivery of public goods and the erosion of ’institutional trust’. Finally, corruption can exacerbate socio-economic inequalities, environmental impacts, and political tensions; a major concern in countries where legacies of civil war and authoritarianism deepen a vicious circle of public distrust, resistance, and repression (Le Billon et al., 2016). 3.4.4. Inadequate planning and implementation Several authors contend that resource rents and corruption in extractive economies are not linked with persistent poverty or low economic growth, arguing instead these problems are related to



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political and policy decisions in the extractive sector (Lay et al., 2008; Robinson et al., 2006). Whilst Norway has been successful in using revenues for social democratic benefits other countries like Bolivia, with a weak administrative capacity, has limited ability to invest in ways that will promote diversified development (Kohl and Farthing, 2012). In Peru the investigation carried out by The Ombudsman to explain the increased number of extractive conflicts in the country also highlighted the poor performance of the state. They pointed at the weak environmental regulations (e.g. low environmental standards) and enforcement, as well as poor participation mechanisms (e.g. with the reduction of the time frame to present allegations to the EIAs) (Defensoría del Pueblo de Perú, 2007). At the local level, Arellano-Yanguas’ (2011) analysis of the distribution of the ‘canon minero’ (mining revenues) exposed the lack of capacity of local governments for the inefficient allocation of resources that generated frustrations and local conflicts. The resistance of Artisanal and Small-scale miners, associated with a risk of livelihood loss and displacement, is generally related to governments’ planning failures. Many workers were pushed into the informal gold mining sector as a result of loss of jobs and increasing poverty associated in part with the Structural Adjustment Plans of the 1990s (Hilson and Potter, 2005). In sub-Saharan Africa and parts of Latin America, rigid and often inadequate ASM policies, often combined with corruption and lack of enforcement, have discouraged many artisanal and small-scale miners from pursuing legalisation and formalisation, thereby aggravating inequalities and insecurity for miners (Fisher, 2007; Teschner, 2012; Hilson and McQuilken, 2015; Vélez-Torres, 2014). 3.4.5. State-driven participation The state has a major role to play in community participation, notably through ensuring that communities are adequately informed and consulted, and that their perspectives and decisions are duly taken into account by companies. In practice, the regulations and institutions guaranteeing the effective participation of communities are frequently inadequate and below the standard of Free Prior and Informed Consent (FPIC). FPIC was initially thought to be only a duty of the state because it derived from the ratification of the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and the International Labour Organisation Convention 169 calling for states to ensure consent from indigenous communities. FPIC has arisen globally as one of the most important models to ensure community involvement in

Marginalization

decision-making processes of extractive projects, yet communities claim this is often ignored or misapplied. There is no definition of what FPIC means or what the process must entail, as well as no clarity on what constitutes “consent”, not necessarily implying the binding power of community decision-making (Owen and Kemp, 2014: 92; Goodland, 2004; Jahncke Benavente and Meza, 2010; Rodriguez Garavito et al., 2010). In fact, the ‘consulta previa’ usually promoted by governments does not entail the need to gain consent from affected communities (Rodriguez Garavito et al., 2010). Procedurally, the application of FPIC in the Philippines presented problems ranging from insufficient information and education on the FPIC process itself, to recognition of false leaders, bribery and coercion (Oxfam America, 2013). Drawing from experience in mining projects in Peru, Schilling-Vacaflor and Flemmer (2013) point to the importance of the impartiality of the institution in charge of the design and implementation of the consultation process, and the need to reduce power asymmetries through the improvement of negotiation capacities. In this regard, there is a tension between the promotion of these principles through their adoption by industry as a form of corporate social responsibility, and the need to ensure that they remain enshrined in law and enforced by the state (Rodhouse and Vanclay, 2016). For example, the ICMM and international financial institutions are pressuring the industry to implement a watered-down version known as “free, prior and informed consultation” leading to “broad community support” (WB, 2005, emphasis added). This has been heavily criticised by organisations like the World Resources Institute (WRI, 2007), arguing that these initiatives may preempt legal adoption of FPIC, and that consultations failing to resolve a community's reason for opposition or achieve consent will provide little assurance against potentially costly and disruptive conflicts. Moreover, such watered-down participation processes will negate the most important demands of these communities: to have a say in the development path they want to follow. 4. Conclusions Whilst some of the factors identified are hinders or drivers of resistance, some of the factors can be both, depending on context and how they are played out by actors in a mining conflict (see Fig. 2). Dependency towards extractive companies and our reading of political marginalization stand as hinders of resistance. The dependency of workers and mining towns whose livelihoods

Marginalization

Criminalization

Fig. 2. Simplified classification of factors as hinders or drivers of resistance.




depend on the mining company to subsist point not only to less likelihood of resistance but also even union action to keep the company afloat even when the corporations have no more interest in keeping it open. The term marginalization can be elusive. Poor communities economically marginalized can resist a project if they lack alternatives to livelihoods that could be threatened by the project – or welcome it if they have no alternative livelihood. Political and social marginalization – which is closer to a sense of isolation from the mainstream of society – is less examined in the literature but still prevalent in many of the communities facing a new mining project; meaning they lack an understanding of what the project will entail as well as the capacity to engage or participate in the formation of discourses of resistance. Although both types of marginalizations tend to be linked together, the likelihood of conflict will depend on how each variable outplays in the communities affected (e.g. the degree of historical political and social marginalization vs. the degree of livelihood dependence and alternatives). The geography of the project, including the characteristics of the deposits and commodity type, define in part the type of mining and impacts caused to the environment and to communities and can have a mixed effect on resistance. Mining in the unpopulated desert of Namibia, for example, is likely to cause less resistance than mining in the headwaters of several river basins in the populated area of Cajamarca, Peru. This extreme example highlights the importance of population density and the geohydrological structure of a region. Communities in remote regions can act more independently from the state, choosing either to negotiate directly with the mining company to accrue most of the benefits at local level (like the Lihirians in Papua New Guinea) or to reject a mining project (like the Intag community in Ecuador) due to the strong attachment to land and livelihood dependence indigenous and local communities can have in these regions. The resource type and extraction process can also determine if the impacts are felt by the community, which in turn can react to denounce them and resist the mining project. Place is also in this blurry area; whereas some communities’ place-making processes can lead to emotional and cultural attachment to mining landscapes favouring present and future mining developments, other communities enact place through everyday cultural and livelihood practices and/or through a process of defense of place and resistance to a mining project. These place-making processes can also be localised at different scales through cross-scalar alliances. Whilst external organisations can have a crucial role as brokers of community-company agreements, alliances and networks can also allow communities to share and co-produce new knowledge, strategies and narratives that combine local placed-demands with demands of rights, including indigenous rights, territorial rights, human rights, ancestral rights, rights to live in a clean environment. Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) programs can also have this opposite effect. If started early with good communication channels with the community they can forestall resistance. However, when poorly designed or implemented, resistance can emerge or increase at later stages of the project, especially when communication channels fail, communities are not obtaining what they thought they negotiated for (e.g. ’education’ rather than simply a school building without teacher) or the impacts of the project start to be felt or are greater than expected. Moreover, the spread of CSR critiques might also increase the likelihood of resistance as communities are becoming more aware of the faults of this corporate strategy, as well as the socio-environmental impacts mining can entail. Socio-environmental impacts are clear drivers of resistance; many projects are being resisted before they start because communities have learnt – through networks and alliances – of

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the impacts they cause to their livelihoods. Once the project has started however, resistance is likely to start if impacts are felt, causing distrust in the company's capacity to operate without impacting their livelihoods. There is not only frequent distrust in the companies’ remedial actions and the scientific knowledge manufactured to justify their extractive activities, but also in the CSR programs and ‘development projects’ they promote. Given the close ties between the state and the mining companies – and increasing repression and criminalisation of resistance – there is also distrust in the state as a guarantor of environmental protection and adequate management and distribution of revenues. Economic marginalisation coupled with lack of alternative livelihoods if these are affected by a mining project further exacerbates the likelihood of conflict. There is also a lack of effective channels for community participation on important decisions regarding their own development path. Falling under the environmental justice paradigm, communities want to have a say in their own future and use their own local decision making mechanisms. This, however, contrasts with the cursory and inconsequential participatory processes still frequently used by mining companies and governments. Resistance, from this perspective, closely relate to the crucial right of communities to decide, either through their own decision mechanism such as consultas or through a more formalised FPIC process, if an extractive project is to go forward or not. Better understanding community-level resistance to mining could benefit from additional research. First, more studies are needed on the internal perspectives of government authorities and mining companies on resistance, and the specific roles played by various actors within government and corporations (see Welker, 2014). This, in turn requires greater access to often confidential information and ’embedded’ research within government agencies, risk consultancies, and mining companies. Second, the increasing criminalization of dissent by the state and the repression of resistance by mining companies deserve more attention as they influence heavily on the evolution of resistance movements. Third, there remains a limited knowledge of the micro-politics and psychological dimensions of conflict escalation, which could draw on literature and methodological approaches from anthropology, sociology, psychology and political sciences. Using similar methodologies, there could be more research on the transformative process of communities engaged in resistance that aim to achieve alternatives to current extractivist-based development models. Forth, more comparative work is needed, which could combine a more systematized review of existing cases, a medium-N comparative case studies approach based on the relative importance of well-defined factors and processes, and a large-N statistical analysis operationalizing a sufficient number of variables. This analysis of resistance likelihood factors is not intended to find a path of least resistance but to aid in a better understanding of the complex and intertwined reasons why communities resist, and the roles played by communities, companies, states and project characteristics in this resistance. Clarifying the concept of ‘consent’ in FPIC and company-led processes, and understanding the political marginalization of some communities or the will to participate in decision-making processes regarding their own future, could help ensure fair and efficient local consent processes or their appropriateness. Identifying strong attachments to place and reliance on the land could help inform the creation of ’no-go’ areas for mining projects, to the mutual benefit of companies, communities, and government authorities likely to be negatively affected by socio-environmental impacts and costly deadlocks.



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