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Community policing in post-war

MozambiqueHelene Maria Kyed

a

a Danish Institute for International Studies , Copenhagen,Denmark

Published online: 09 Dec 2009.

To cite this article: Helene Maria Kyed (2009) Community policing in post-war Mozambique,

Policing and Society: An International Journal of Research and Policy, 19:4, 354-371, DOI:

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Community policing in post-war Mozambique

Helene Maria Kyed*

Danish Institute for International Studies, Copenhagen, Denmark

(Received 15 August 2008; final version received 1 February 2009)

Central to the post-conflict democratic transition in Mozambique, there havebeen attempts to reform the national police in accordance with the rule of law andhuman rights. From 2000, failures to democratise the police during the 1990s ledto the introduction of community policing, which, it was promised, could

engender ‘a new culture of security’ of police

community partnerships, citizeninclusion and accountable state policing. This article explores how state-initiatedcommunity policing was implemented in a rural former war-zone. Based onethnographic fieldwork it asks what local versions of community policing meansfor everyday policing practices and where this is taking police citizen relations. Itshows that community policing was principally used by the local police to expandstate police outreach and reassert sovereign authority by outsourcing extra-legaltasks to young men. The result is reconfigured forms of physical and symbolicpolice violence, which reproduce significant elements of past paramilitary policingcultures.

Keywords: community policing; Mozambique; sovereignty; state; police violence;youth

Introduction

Mozambique has officially undergone a liberal-style democratic transition since the

end of the 16 years civil war in 1992. Central are attempts to democratise and

demilitarise the national police in accordance with the rule of law and human rights.

This has been no easy task. Transforming a partisan, ineffective, under-resourced

and violent police force, deeply embedded in colonial and post-colonial paramilitary

policing cultures, proved difficult in the 1990s (Baker 2002). From 2000 community

policing ( policiamento comunitario PolCom) became one of the official responses to

this impasse. The Ministry of Interior (MINT), supported by international donors,launched PolCom as a ‘philosophy of policing’ that through police community

partnerships could engender a ‘new culture of security’, adhering to liberal-

democratic values of active citizen inclusion in security provisions and citizen-

accountable state policing (MINT 2005a, p. 4).

Overall PolCom in Mozambique draws on the community policing philosophy

applied in the west since 1980s, and subsequently expanded globally (Brogden and

Nijhar 2005). The particular model introduced resembles the South African one from

mid-1990s (Buur 2005). It covers councils of community members who debate local

crime problems and solutions with the police, provide civic education and solve

*Email: [email protected]

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non-criminal conflicts. The councils should support the national police, not substitute

its functions. Along with PolCom, the Mozambican state has recognised around 4000

‘community authorities’ from the ranks of traditional leaders and village secretaries

to assist the state in law and order enforcement. They should be obligatory members

of the community policing councils (CPCs).1 Such initiatives, it is hoped, will help

solve numerous problems facing post-war security provisions: rising crime rates and

self-redress; police violence and corruption; citizen mistrust in the police; and low

police capacity (MINT 2005a). While there is still no law on community policing,

there has been a massive expansion of CPCs since 2001.

The question is how community policing has been translated into practice and

what it has implied for everyday policing on the margins of the state? To date there

are few studies, outside of MINT itself, which address this question empirically, and

the focus has only been on urban CPCs. This article addresses this knowledge gap by

drawing on fieldwork from 2005 in the rural former war-zones of Sussundenga

District. My aim is not to quantitatively measure PolCom’s effects on crime levels,

but explore how local police officers implemented the new PolCom concept,illustrate how this was played out in everyday policing practices and tentatively

suggest where this is taking police citizen relations.2

This article shows that the local police’s version of PolCom was primarily

concerned with expanding the state police’s outreach and tackling its problems of

contested authority. The way this was done was far removed from the official CPC

model and the ‘new culture of security’. Rather, the result was reconfigured forms of

police violence and control. Police officers used PolCom to outsource physically

rough tasks to young men, including use of force and tight control of the movements

of people and their goods. These extra-legal methods heavily drew on a mixture of

colonial, one-party state and wartime policing histories. Conversely, selectionof PolCom members relied on traditional leaders’ modes of organising policing

groups. This underscores how community policing is mediated by localised cultural

and historical repertoires (Pratten and Sen 2007, p. 19), as well as by particular

conditions facing state policing in post-conflict societies (Dixon 2007, p. 176).

However, concerns for enhanced state police control were not straightforward.

Outsourcing was intricate. Some PolCom members used their new position to insult

the elders, use excessive violence and extract illegal subsidies. At least partly, this was

ambiguously nurtured by local police officers themselves.

The article first outlines post-war police reform and what this aimed to change,

particularly in the rural former war-zones. It then addresses local manifestations of

PolCom in Sussundenga District, which is part of Manica Province in central

Mozambique and shares border with Zimbabwe to the west and Sofala province to

the east. The district was one of the areas affected most strongly by the civil war,

which began here as early as 1978, when Renamo troops began incursions from

Zimbabwe (then Rhodesia). During the 1980s, Frelimo-state control was confined to

urban and semi-urban areas surrounding the administrative capitals. The rest of the

territory consisted of zones of combat or were controlled by Renamo. The war had

devastating effects on the district, including massive destruction of infrastructure

and the local economy, and it led to the displacement of huge numbers of people. It

also meant that state administrative and police presence was either sparse or fully

absent in the rural hinterlands after the war and that the legitimacy of the state, andthe ruling party, Frelimo, was highly contested. This was reflected in continuing

Policing & Society 355



pockets of resistance to the state in the mid-1990s and in the huge electoral victory of

the opposition party Renamo in the first 1994 general elections. In the past two

elections (1999 and 2004), the district remained a Renamo stronghold.

Post-war police reform

The principles for post-war police reform were already laid down in the 1990

Constitution, which predated the 1992 General Peace Accord, ending the war

between Frelimo and Renamo. The constitution marked a shift from a one-party,

Marxist Leninist socialist state, to a multi-party democracy, including a plethora of

individual rights, separation of powers and a definition of the state as based on the

rule of law. New laws and programmes on internal security, launched during the mid-

1990s, also had to tackle the crisis of state police legitimacy, capacity and territorial

outreach caused by the war. Reform was heavily supported by international donors.

Initially reform went in the opposite direction of community policing. It focused

on ‘getting right’ formal state institutions through professionalising and demilitaris-ing the national police in accordance with the rule of law and human rights (Baker

2002). This implied major legal changes of the police (Polıcia de Republica de

Moc ¸ambique PRM): a shift from predominant emphasis on defence of national

unity (including repression of tribalism and regionalism) to protection of individual

rights and liberties; police impartiality; prohibition on torture; stricter regulations

for detention; and legal prosecution of law-offending police officers (Republica de

Mocambique 1992). Simultaneously, donors supported new human rights institu-

tions that could serve as check and balance mechanisms (Tollenaere 2006).3 Reform

also aimed to ensure that security provisions were handled alone by professionally

trained and state employed law-enforcers (Baker 2002). This implied abolishment of the popular vigilantes/militias that were established by the socialist regime and, in

the name of ‘popular power’, comprised citizens who assisted Frelimo’s party-state

structures in local crime control and, during the war, in defending state security

against Renamo (MINT 2005a). Emphasis on state police monopoly also meant that

reform overlooked those non-state actors such as traditional leaders or chiefs who,

outside state regulation, played a role in policing rural areas a role supported by

Portuguese colonialism, but officially banned by Frelimo at independence (1975).

Reform faced major challenges. The police was understaffed and under-resourced

after the war and had ceased to exist over large areas of the country. Where it did

exist, such as in Frelimo-state controlled urban centres, its operations had been

paramilitary and authoritarian (Wisler and Bonvin 2004). Police officers worked in

collaboration with the Frelimo military force, and largely adhered to an enemy

versus friends ethos, which legitimised acts of brutality against enemies of the state

and the use of torture to secure information that would preserve state security (Baker

2002, p. 108). The police was inherently politicised, serving the interest of Frelimo

rather than the wider public an aspect not nurtured by war alone, but also by

legislation until 1992. A law on flogging had also been routinely applied as a licence

to use corporal punishment in everyday policing.

After the war, the police also faced a crisis of sovereignty and legitimacy

particularly in Renamo controlled rural areas such as Sussundenga. Here a plurality

of non-state policing persons acted as informal sovereigns, making ‘decisions on life,death, punishments, rewards, taxation and territorial control’ (Hansen and

356 H.M. Kyed



Stepputat 2005, p. 31). They included: chiefs; Renamo soldiers now acting as local

administrators; remnants of the mujhibas, Renamo’s local police during the war; and

healers (wadzi-nyanga). Although these did not form an integrated system of

governance, they did share a history of collaboration and opposition to the Frelimo

state: during the war Renamo reinserted chiefs in governance and used healers, both

banned by Frelimo.4 The rural population also mistrusted the state police after the

war. It was associated with militarised state governance, such as forced removal of

people into government controlled areas since the war began in 1978 (Alexander

1997). In 1995 popular mistrust led to overt opposition by local residents and chiefs

to the reestablishment of state policing in Dombe in the southern part of

Sussundenga. Police officers were chased out three times before settling permanently,

after heavy political bargaining and interventions by the rapid reaction police

(Notıcias 1995a, 1995b, 1995c).

The challenges facing post-war police reform were largely reproduced throughout

the 1990s. Everyday state policing remained partisan and paramilitary. The media

and human rights organisations reported human rights violations, irregulardetentions, extrajudicial killings, infiltration in criminal activity and corruption

(Baker 2002, pp. 112 118). Politicisation of policing was exemplified by the police

employing excessively violent measures against Renamo demonstrators. Very few

officers were legally prosecuted (Baker 2002, pp. 113 115). Simultaneously, the police

proved incapable of handling the rising crime from the mid-1990s, which also

bolstered self-policing and ‘lynchings’ in poor urban areas (Seleti 2000, p. 356). In

rural areas reform was incapable of substituting non-state with state policing. For

example, in Sussundenga the police’s fear of creating antagonism in areas dominated

by Renamo and chiefs meant that police posts were only set up in 2001.5 Moreover,

the police remained understaffed with the ratio of police to citizens being 1:1089 in2003, which is considerably below the internationally accepted ratio of 1:350 (Dava

et al . 2007, p. 119).

One official response to failed police reform was a ‘return’ to citizen participation

in security provisions, referred to as Police Community partnerships. From 2000 this

took two forms: community policing and state recognition of community authorities

(i.e. traditional leaders and village secretaries), who were, amongst other tasks, to

assist the police. Here I focus on the former.

Community policing

the ‘new’ panacea for police reform

Community policing means the direct involvement of citizens in the security system andpolicing, giving them responsibility to take part in making the community a secure,ordered and harmonious place. Together with the police authorities, communities willfind solutions to the security situation that affects citizens [and] the police will obey [ . . .]the values of liberty, equality, respect for human dignity and guarantee the fundamentalrights and freedoms as established in the Constitution of the Republic of Mozambique.(MINT 2005a, p. 5)

The adoption of PolCom by MINT from 2000 was cast as responding to a ‘situation

of anarchism in society’, manifested by rising crime, self-redress, rights violations

and mistrust between police and citizens (MINT 2005a, p. 3). But the choice to do

so and the ideas informing it were strongly influenced by changes in internationaldonor support to police reform and developments in South Africa, both drawing on




experiences from the west.6 In 1997 1999, MINT representatives participated in

international conferences on community policing; and South African NGOs helped

develop the Mozambican model (MINT 2005b, p. 10). The German bilateral donor,

GTZ, gave financial and technical support to the first pilot projects (MINT 2005a,

p. 11).

The ‘philosophy’ behind adopting PolCom in Mozambique was that ‘public order,

security and peace should not alone be the function of police authorities’, but require

‘active citizen participation in and responsibility for local community security’

(MINT 2005b, p. 5). Concept papers on PolCom combine the liberal-democratic

language of rights and liberties with communitarian ideas of community solidarity

and unity (MINT 2005b, p. 6). Security is defined as preservation of the liberty and

fundamental rights of individual citizens, but envisioned as achieved through

collective efforts in ‘a spirit of solidarity’ (MINT 2005b, p. 5). PolCom is seen to

facilitate this by building community police partnerships, which, it is promised, fulfil

a threefold objective: reduce crime by involving citizens in identifying security

problems and solutions and by bringing the police closer to local communities;democratise policing by diminishing human rights violations and by fostering a

transparent and publicly accountable police service; and strengthen the internal

coherence of local communities and their trust in the police through collective

resolution of problems and law/rights education (GTZ 2002, MINT 2005a, 2005b).

PolCom, it is hoped, will not only create functional changes of policing, but a ‘new

culture of security’ that simultaneously transforms the police and citizens (MINT

2005a, p. 9).

The PolCom model adopted in Mozambique covers CPCs (Conselhos de

Policiamento Comunitario), whose members should be voluntary and selected by

populations of smaller administrative areas. Members should include communityleaders and representatives of different sectors in society: economic agents, religious

associations, NGOs, schools, private and public institutions and ‘other important

social actors’ (MINT 2005a, p. 10). The state recognised community authorities,

such as chiefs, should be compulsory CPC members, because these have knowledge

of community affairs and are seen as locally legitimate (MINT 2005a, p. 8). Thus

CPC members should not be seen as freely elected by community members, but as

legitimised on the basis of their position as important social actors in a given

community.7 Emphasis is placed on senior CPC members: elders are viewed as

most competent in settling problems and guarding community interests (MINT

2005b, p. 17).

The CPCs should not substitute the PRM at local level, but be forums to discuss

and gather information on security problems and solutions affecting the community

(MINT 2005b, p. 10). They can mediate minor conflicts, such as quarrels over land

plots, disagreements between neighbours and family disputes, as well as facilitate

patrols in public spaces, but cannot settle criminal cases. CPC members are

prohibited from carrying any instruments of force, and may only arrest people

caught in the act of committing a crime under the ordinary powers of ‘citizens’

arrest’ (Amnesty International 2008) i.e. demobilise persons caught in acts of crime

and take them directly to the police. The main function of CPCs is to debate and

disseminate knowledge on community crime problems, not to physically handle

them. This includes citizen-educative campaigns on laws and the constitution(MINT 2005a, p. 10). The latter, according to a key MINT official, not only helps

358 H.M. Kyed



prevent crime in the long-term, but also nurtures citizenship, by making ‘citizens

acknowledge the bad from the good’ (PolCom responsible, MINT October 2005).

CPCs also have the responsibility to forward information about criminals to the

police, as well as put pressure on the police to be more transparent and responsive to

community crime problems by recording unacceptable behaviour of police officers

(MINT 2005b, pp. 11

16). Thus the CPCs are envisioned as ‘mediators’ between

citizens and the police. This role, it is hoped, will, through increased collaboration,

simultaneously transform the police to service local communities and nurture law-

abiding citizens.

PolCom was implemented from late 2001 with a poor, crime-inflicted Maputo

suburb as pilot project. A year later another Maputo suburb and three municipal

towns in Manica Province were used to test CPCs. These were closely supervised by

MINT representatives, who held public information meetings on the PolCom

concept, as well as authorising the CPCs after their local approval. GTZ provided

financial and technical assistance for awareness raising meetings, exchange visits to

South Africa, Malawi and Germany, training of police officers in human rights andPolCom, formation of a MINT PolCom unit and materials to CPCs (bicycles,

mopeds, whistles, writing materials) and local police stations (office equipment,

transportation, communication) (GTZ 2002, MINT 2005b).

Apart from delays in implementation, due to bureaucracy within MINT, the pilot

projects were deemed successful at a GTZ-financed national seminar in late 2002

(MINT 2005b). Crime had diminished, active community participation was reported

and trust between the police and communities had increased (MINT 2005b, p. 15).

Subsequently, MINT decided, with renewed GTZ-funding, to expand CPCs to other

provinces. PolCom was also included in the 2003 2012 Strategic Plan for the Police

(MINT 2003). Despite pressures from MINT officials, PolCom’s legal basis isconfined to the Constitutional right of citizens to participate in civil defence

(Republica de Mocambique 1990, art. 61). The 1113 CPCs that had been formed by

late-2004 across the 10 provinces were thus pursued without any legislation, only

with guiding principles from concept papers and seminar notes provided to local

police commanders, who were now made responsible for implementation (MINT

2005b, p. 14). The massive expansion of CPCs in 2004 only covered urban and semi-

urban areas (MINT 2005b, p. 14).8 In rural areas state recognised traditional leaders

were the only official non-state collaborators of the police (Kyed 2007a). This

changed with the new Government’s five-year plan (2005 2010), which aims to

expand PolCom to the whole country. By early 2008 registered CPCs totalled 2710,

but legislation is still lacking.

Aside from MINT and GTZ’s assessments of pilot projects, there is to date only

one study of PolCom, conducted in 2006 by the Mozambican Police Academy

(ACIPOL) in selected urban and semi-urban areas.9 On the positive side, the

assessments conclude that CPCs are in general functioning and that most people felt

that police community partnerships could more effectively fight crime. Crime

statistics that did exist before and after the implementation of PolCom (i.e. Maputo)

also show a reduction of crime by an average of 54% (ACIPOL 2006, p. 16). On the

negative side, misconceptions of the PolCom concept are seen as a key reason for a

number of errors in implementation, which is worsened by inadequate resources for

training (MINT 2005b). For example, in some areas MINT records that PolCom wasunderstood as a re-activation of the old popular militias, exemplified by recruitment




of young men and the use of handcuffs, arms and violence (MINT 2005b, p. 16).

MINT nonetheless sees these as ‘false’ PolCom units that were spontaneously

formed by citizens, particularly by male teenagers, based on rumours about CPCs in

other areas and without having received training from police officers (MINT 2005b,

p. 17). The ACIPOL study concludes that lack of legislation is the main reason for

challenges facing PolCom. This includes unclear lines of accountability (some see

CPCs as accountable to the police, rather than the communities), CPC members

being accused of criminal activity and conflicts over jurisdictions between local

police officers and CPC’s (ACIPOL 2006, p. 12). Consultations made by

FOMICRES add that CPC members were becoming disillusioned due to lack of

knowledge, capacity and state police assistance to tackle criminals (FOMICRES

2008, p. 15). Finally, the voluntarism of PolCom membership had created discontent

about lack of state remuneration, and in some areas to creative ways of economically

sustaining the CPCs i.e. fixed monthly community fees, contributions from

businesses and/or illegal fining of community residents (MINT 2005b, p. 14,

ACIPOL 2006, pp. 14

15).Some of these urban-based experiences resemble local versions of PolCom in

Sussundenga, but there are also significant differences and additional insights about

the formation and everyday practices of PolCom. As addressed next, it was less local

residents and more local state police officers who creatively translated PolCom into

practices that diverged from the official model.

Local versions of community policing

the case of Sussundenga

‘Policiamento comunitario’? Well I don’t really know what it means, no one told us that.

But I think that ‘comunitaria’ means like . . .

I think it is ‘militaria’ because they have towork for the police and receive their orders. (Male resident, Mushambonha, September2005)

The comunitarios [local word for the new community policing persons] work for thepolice to help control the zones . . . to patrol and arrest people who are thieves and beatup people, because the police cannot be in all of the territory [ . . .] They are with thepolice, because the police give them instructions. And sometimes they work for the chief,who chose them together with the police. (Female resident, Matica, August 2005)

These local citizen’s perceptions of PolCom reflect how the local PRM in

Sussundenga’s hinterlands formed and gave tasks to PolCom units from late-2004,

and indicate how far removed this was from the official model. The local word for

PolCom members, comunitarios, does give the impression of persons that serve,

represent and are legitimised by ‘the community’. However, the concept of

community can be invested with multiple meanings (Delanty 2003), and in rural

Mozambique it carries specific historical trajectories. Community is associated with

the party-state ordered and forced removal of people into community villages during

the 1980s and the more recent recognition of ‘community authorities’ based on

selection by powerful elders and Frelimo party-state representatives. In the latter case

‘the community’, legitimising a given community authority, was not enacted as the

whole population within a designated area, but constituted by a small exclusive group

of people from the (mainly elderly male) ranks of chiefly lineages and their assistants

(Buur and Kyed 2007). Similarly, implementation of PolCom at sub-district levels didnot begin with the police informing a designated population about PolCom and by

360 H.M. Kyed



asking them to elect CPC members. Rather, the police called chiefs and village

secretaries to a meeting where they were ordered to each chose eight ‘clever,

trustworthy and physically strong persons’ (Chief of police, Dombe, August 2005).

While chiefs saw PolCom as a ‘state order’, the selection of comunitarios followed

historically embedded modes of appointing their own police (known as ma-policia do

mambo or ma-auxiliares; akin to native police) who for a long time have assisted the

chiefs’ courts in notifying and taking contenders to the court and healers (Kyed

2007a).10 These police persons are chosen by, and are commonly close relatives of,

chiefs and their councillors, which supports the lineage-based system of authority.

Similarly, when selecting PolCom members chiefs used the advice of their council of

elders, the madoda (literally male elders). While choosing already existing police

assistants, the majority also chose men who were seen as having useful experiences

for state policing tasks. For example, in Gudza chieftaincy four PolCom members

were already working as police for the chief, while the rest were former Renamo

mujhibas or had served the Frelimo-state military. Other chieftaincies also had

members with military experience. This pattern reflects how chiefs understood thepolice’s new PolCom concept and state policing more generally. If not as an explicit

reactivation of the socialist era’s popular militias or of the colonial auxiliares (native

police), then chiefs at least saw PolCom as the mobilisation of young men capable of

performing physical policing tasks (arrests, patrols, and so forth) for the state

police.11 Simultaneously, the chosen members, who were 20 35 years old, matched

local age categories of youth, who perform the physical work of community security,

and are distinguished from the category of madoda, who have maturity to provide

counselling and settle problems. The latter matches MINT’s definition of CPC

membership, but in Sussundenga these actors were those authorising PolCom

members, not the members themselves.Consequently, the formation of PolCom groups drew on a mixture of local

systems of chiefly police assistants and chiefs’ ideas about state police requirements

and past colonial and post-colonial engagements with non-state actors. The

divergence from MINT’s model that this created, it should be recalled, was

supported by the local PRM itself. Many chiefs and rural residents also understood

PolCom as not only a PRM, but also a Frelimo-state project. This was reflected in

resistance towards joining PolCom in areas most strongly influenced by Renamo.

For example in Bunga, Renamo’s provincial headquarters during the war, all but two

of the chosen comunitarios refused to ‘work for the Frelimo police’ (PolCom

member, Bunga, August 2005). The local police officer intervened and obligated six

new persons to be members, including two Renamo supporters, while trying to

convince people that ‘PolCom is not a Frelimo police’ (Police officer, Bunga,

September 2005). In two other places the PRM also intervened because PolCom

candidates refused recruitment, due to ‘fear of working with the police’ (PolCom

member, Gudza, September 2005). While the PRM’s interventions question the

voluntarism of PolCom membership, the fear and politically based resistance reflect

the paramilitary history and the ‘politics of policing’ in Sussundenga’s hinterlands,

where the state police is associated with, often violently, serving Frelimo interests

against Renamo.

Local police officers did try to convince people that the PRM is impartial today,

and accepted Renamo members as comunitarios, but they also reproduced aspects of the past.12 During the formation process this was reflected in how the police




instructed the new members. In a tone of command and order, all the new groups

were told at a meeting with the District Commander that they should now work for

the PRM, and that:

You community police are like soldiers that control the people. Like in the chieftaincy,

the chief has persons who are his eyes, who observe the zone. If something bad happensthe chief sends the community police to take action and then inform the police. So youhave to work with the state, not only with the chief.

A one-day training of the PolCom members by police sub-commanders (chefe de

posto policial ) underpinned divergence from the CPC model. Rather than being

trained in awareness of the law, human rights and how to hold the police accountable

and transparent, the comunitarios were trained as a local police force:

We were shown how to study people’s behaviour . . . whether they would do somethingbad . . . and to collect information by hanging around and listening. And then we weretold how we should behave ourselves in front of criminals or drunks . . . not to be

aggressive and approach them calmly. The chief of police also showed us how to arrestpeople and how to tie their hands. Then we were shown how to do a search, like look fordrugs and weapons, by putting the person up against a wall. We were also shown how tochambockear [beat with a baton or cane] misbehaving persons [showing that beating isonly allowed below the knees]. (PolCom member, Gudza, September 2005)

These instructions unsurprisingly underpinned the common understanding of

comunitarios as ‘members of the [state] police’. While 87% of my interviewees held

that PolCom members were employed by the PRM, and the rest that they were under

chiefs’ command, no one expressed the view that they were authorised by and served

the ‘community’ or the wider population. This was supported by the actions of chiefs

of police. It was only after the training-sessions that they travelled to the chieftaincies

to present the comunitarios and explain their functions to the public. In some cases,

the participants were asked to (dis)approve the members by clapping hands or

expressing dissatisfaction. However, as asserted by one participant: ‘we did not say

anything against that, because the comunitarios were chosen by the chief and the

government agreed’ (Male resident, Gudza, September 2005). Another indicated that

ordinary people had no authority to interfere with state decisions: ‘I don’t have any

opinion. Who decides is the state and we cannot go against the ideas of the state’

(Male resident, Matica, August 2005). Others felt completely excluded, as asserted

by a businessman in Dombe: ‘I heard somewhere that the comunitarios should be

elected by the people, but this did not happen. I discovered them when they started

to patrol and said they were the police’ (Male resident, Dombe, July 2005).Nonetheless, chiefs of police held that ‘community legitimacy’ was ensured with the

public meetings in the chieftaincies. The District Commander was more explicit on

the divergence from MINT’s model. He explained that in the hinterlands the first

PolCom groups were so-called nucleos de policiamento comunitario (PolCom units),

not CPCs, because councils ‘will take time to form and need long-term planning’

(District Commander, Sussundenga, July 2005). The result, nevertheless, was a

massive recruitment of youth, amounting for example in Dombe to 18 units (144

members) within an estimated population of 46,000 (and with eight PRM officers in

2005).

The formation of PolCom groups in Sussundenga certainly represented localisedversions of MINT’s model, but this went beyond planning constraints and selection

362 H.M. Kyed



procedures. Rather than community-based discussion forums, PolCom was appro-

priated by the sub-district level police to reassert the ground that the state police had

lost during the war. This was particularly apparent in everyday policing.

Everyday practices of community policing

year one

In 2005 the police post in the Dombe administrative post had changed markedly. The

previous year three PRM officers inhabited the post and 2 3 times a week a chief or a

village secretary came by with cases. Now the police post staff had expanded. Four

young men sat outside the PRM building, awaiting orders from the officer on duty.

Two wore batons in their string belts, but otherwise they were dressed in second-

hand T-shirts and jeans, common among the Dombe youth. They were the

comunitarios. Those with batons were from Dombe administrative capital nucleo.

The others were on duty from one of the chieftaincies. This reflected the general

organisation of PolCom. The police had ordered each chief to provide two PolCom

members for 24-hour weekly shifts at the police post together with members residingclose to the police post. At the three police posts at locality level, equipped with one

PRM officer, a similar arrangement was made with surrounding chiefs. The idea was

that comunitarios should share work between assisting the PRM directly and serving

the chiefs in forwarding crimes to the police and helping the chiefs’ courts. When on

shifts at the police post, the comunitarios were given batons and handcuffs. This

differed from the work for chiefs, but according to the chief of police it was due to

unavailable instruments. A deliberate difference was that PolCom members, when

working for the police, were strictly prohibited from receiving payments from

contenders, otherwise a common practice for chiefs’ police assistants. The

comunitarios only received food from the PRM when on duty. This was despitethe heavy workload they were given.

On my first morning back, after a year of absence, at the police post in 2005 the

comunitarios were quickly ordered to take action. It was soon clear that they were

used as the extended arm of the PRM. A middle-aged man, with an injured arm,

came to inform the PRM that he had received murder threats from the person who

had injured him, but who had been released a few days earlier. The accused was

presumably armed with a machete. The chief of police established that ‘this is a very

serious crime’ and that the accused be arrested immediately. Rather than sending a

uniformed officer, he called two comunitarios, gave them handcuffs and checked that

each had a baton. He then stopped a passing-by truck and sent the comunitarios with

it together with the injured man, to show the way to the accused some 25 km away.

Late at night the comunitarios returned on foot with a successful arrest.

When cases appeared outside the immediate vicinity of the police posts, the

comunitarios were sent out to perform arrests. Given the PRM’s lack of vehicles, and

that distances are long, this considerably eased the work of police officers.

Oftentimes lifts were unavailable, and the comunitarios had to walk. Arrests covered

crimes ranging from domestic violence, rape, knife stabbings, fights, drugs, arson and

theft, to minor disputes.13 Sometimes the comunitarios brought a document from the

PRM to show the accused or the local chief, if the latter’s assistance was needed to

locate the accused. However, the comunitarios were not obliged to inform chiefs when

on duty at the police post. Here they were under the PRM’s command, just like thenucleos in Dombe were. This differed from arrests performed when working for




chiefs. For example, in a theft case where the chief, not the PRM, was informed first,

the chief sent a comunitario to arrest the accused with cords, bring him to the chief’s

home and then, after verifying the theft, sent the comunitario to the PRM with the

thief.

The comunitarios did not always use handcuffs or tie persons with cords. They

were only authorised to do so if persons refused to be voluntarily escorted. Similarly,

the use of batons was only allowed if the accused was aggressive. For instance, a man

who had been in a fight and refused to be handcuffed was ‘beaten a little bit so he

could calm down’ (PolCom member, Dombe, August 2005). The PRM authorised

this practice, but also imposed limits: a maximum of five strokes below the knees

(Police officer, Dombe, September 2005).

At the police post, the comunitarios were also in charge of raising the national

flag, bringing people in the cell to the interrogation room, cleaning the premises of

the building and cooking food for officers. While these tasks were hardly

controversial areas of easing the daily work of PRM officers, comunitarios also

performed more intricate, extra-legal duties. On several occasions, PolCom memberswere ordered to chambockear persons under interrogation within the police post,

because, as one member recalled, ‘the chief of police said that I should beat him so

that he could speak up and tell where he hid the stolen goods’ (PolCom member,

Dombe, August 2005). There were also situations where PRM officers ordered

comunitarios to apply corporal punishment. In a case where a young man had raped

a girl, the comunitario was ordered by a police officer to punish the rapist with 15

strokes on the back. The comunitarios claim ‘they beat until the police say it is

enough’ (PolCom member, Mushambonha, September 2005). The strict supervision

by police officers was also confirmed by a case I witnessed in Bunga.

While post-war police legislation strictly prohibits torture and corporal punish-ment, they were regularly used by local PRM officers prior to PolCom (Kyed 2007a).

This suggests that the PRM used PolCom as a way of outsourcing to non-state

actors, not simply the physical hard work of policing, but also those measures that

were now illegal for PRM officers. PolCom members did the ‘dirty work’ of the

police, but the extra-legal practices were, it should be noted, delegated to them and

regulated by the PRM. Much the same applied to patrols.

While patrols are not illegal, the ones the PRM ordered the comunitarios to

enforce covered the so-called lei fora da hora, which can be likened to an extra-legal

curfew imposed between midnight and four o’clock in the morning. Anyone caught

walking outdoors at night, around the marketplace, the smaller shops or the

neighbourhoods were inspected for ID and tax receipts and, except with family

emergencies (death, illness or birth), were arrested by the comunitarios and brought

to the police post. Here they spent the night, and in the morning did ‘public’ work

for the police, such as cook food or sweep the courtyard, while being watched over by

a comunitario. When arrestees were suspected of crimes or made complaints they

were ‘educated’ with a chamboco. Although the lei (law) fora da hora is not statutory

law (it is actually unconstitutional because it restricts freedom of movement), it was

enforced as if it were and led to numerous arrests. For example, one night in Dombe

four people were arrested (two without tax receipts for bicycles, one without ID and

one drunk). Three spent the night in the cell and one was released because of a family

emergency. ‘The punishment’, according to a comunitario, ‘is a way to educate thepeople, so they know the law . . . that it is illegal to walk out at night and not to have

364 H.M. Kyed



papers’ (PolCom member, Gudza, September 2005). Besides these practices the

comunitarios also secured peace around bars at night and at times inspected passing

vehicles for stolen or smuggled goods (such as sugar from Zimbabwe). In Bunga the

police officer also made PolCom members check receipts for goods when people

passed by or when awaiting transportation. If they had no receipts, the goods were

seized in the officer’s house.

While the latter functions are beyond the official mandate of PolCom, the

enforcement of the lei fora da hora is overtly extra-legal, comparably to the outsourcing

of physical violence. Nonetheless, police officers always spoke of the practices they

authorised as ‘law and order’ enforcement. This indicates how the local police’s rules

for PolCom continuously bordered on an intricate line between the legal and the illegal.

The question is why this was the case. I suggest two partly interrelated answers.

First, the strong resemblance between patrolling practices and the 1970 1980s

party-state social control measures, suggest that local versions of PolCom were

informed by historically embedded policing cultures and past central-state directives.

Second, police officers’ statements indicate that outsourcing of extra-legal tasks wereshaped by what the police perceived as effective measures for installing ‘law and

order’ in the former war-zones. This was not simply a state police capacity problem.

State police authority was also at stake. Police officers repeatedly explained that

PolCom not only helped reduce crime, but enabled the PRM to (re)assert control of

crime and (dis)order. PolCom can be seen as part of a process where the local PRM

attempts to assert the sovereign authority to regulate order-making activities and

authorise the use of force, principally by outsourcing tasks. This process began a

couple of years earlier with the recognition of chiefs. It was characterised by

measures to bring those non-state actors who competed with state sovereignty under

state regulation. For example chiefs, who were accustomed to settle crimes during thewar, are now strictly prohibited from doing so, and treated as criminals if they

authorise the use of force (Kyed 2007a). Similarly, the police’s strict regulation of the

comunitarios’ use of force illustrates how state police authority is at stake. The

physical act is outsourced, not the monopoly to authorise the use of force.

Conversely, the extra-legal patrol arrests and punishments served, police officers

explained, to ‘show the people that the police are now effective’ and ‘to make people

again respect the police and the law’ (Chief of police, Dombe, August 2005). As

discussed elsewhere, these statements are informed by local police officers’

conceptualisation of former Renamo controlled societies as ‘zones of confusion’,

i.e. areas where people have lost their sense of what is good and bad because of long-

term exposure to wartime governance. They therefore require special policing

measures (Kyed 2007a, 2007b). If this conceptualisation was used by the police to

legitimise police violence, it also seemed to underpin the illegality of PolCom

practices instigated by the PRM. However, as addressed next, local citizens were not

as ignorant as the police held, and outsourcing of violence to comunitarios was

litigious.

Reducing crime, enhancing fear and police violence

the citizen perspective

Rural citizens generally shared the PRM’s view that PolCom helped the police to better

control the zones, reduce incidences of crime and diminish troublemakers around bars,marketplaces and transport hubs. But enhanced control implied trade-offs. People




increasingly feared to move freely in the semi-urban villages. They also held that police

violence had increased.

Referring to the nocturnal patrols, a woman in Dombe with personal experience

(arrested for being outdoors at 21:00 hours!) asserted: ‘It helps, yes. I am now afraid

to go out at night, because I fear the comunitarios will arrest me again. So also the

thieves or bandits will be afraid. This helps because then there can be no theft’

(Female resident, Dombe, September 2005). A man from Matica supported the

effectiveness of lei fora da hora ‘because it is at night that the troublemakers

circulate’, but admitted that ‘people in general now stay indoors at night’ (Male

resident, Matica, August 2005). Others were explicitly critical. Drawing comparison

with the war years when he lived in a Frelimo-state area, a man in Dombe asserted:

I don’t understand how this can be a law [lei fora da hora], because during the war it waslike that, but now the war has ended and the people are free. And if you go to fetchwater, and you are delayed, or you are having a drink at the bar, and it closes after darkand you need to go home then what do you do? You can be caught . . . told that you are

outside the law. And then you have to sleep at the police post? (Male resident, Dombe,August 2005)

The shopkeepers in Bunga were furious about the new PolCom practices. During the

day people from the rural hinterlands feared to do their shopping, because many did

not have IDs and tax receipts. Moreover, after dark there were problems. Usually

shops close around 22:00 hours, but now there was no business after 19:00 hours,

because that was when the patrols began. This perspective reflects how enforcing the

lei fora da hora was often expanded to earlier hours. More importantly, it severely

violated rural citizens’ right to freedom of movement. The wider implication is a

restriction of citizenship. In areas close to police posts only persons holding the right

documents (ID, tax papers and receipts for goods) were treated as citizens, and could

avoid police punishments. These persons were a minority. Due to the war and

massive floods in 2000, few poor rural dwellers have ID cards, and acquiring them is

very costly and bureaucratically cumbersome. If MINT’s PolCom model was

intended as an aspect of nurturing law-abiding citizens through modalities of

inclusion and collaboration with the state police, then this had acquired a rather

different expression in Sussundenga.

Another repercussion of local versions of PolCom was, according to rural

citizens, that police violence had increased, also in spatial terms. It was now applied

beyond the buildings and courtyards of the PRM. Importantly, people complained

that the comunitarios beat-up persons before being heard by the police or the chiefs’courts. This was seen as illegitimate. Corporal punishment of persons proven guilty

of severe crimes, youth breaking marriage rules, repeated witchcraft inflictions or

insults of elders is locally legitimate, but prior to trial it is not. Disapproval of

PolCom violence applied to incidences authorised by the PRM such as during arrests

and interrogations. However, people were particularly dissatisfied with those PolCom

groups that had begun to excessively use their ‘license’ to physical force, and that

seemed uncontrollable for, at least, the District Commander and sub-commanders.

In Matica locality one of the PolCom groups was criticised, because ‘the first

thing the comunitarios do when they arrive is to beat the accused person or if they see

some people fighting. They don’t even bother to ask what has happened’ (Maleresident, Boupua, August 2005). One man recalled:

366 H.M. Kyed



The comunitarios came to my house. They had a document saying that I should go tothe police, because I was accused of the fight. I didn’t struggle with them, but beforeI could say anything, I got beaten three or four times. And then I was tied up. At thepolice I tried to complain, but it didn’t help. After the hearing I was chambockeadofifteen times by a comunitario and then I had to run twenty times around the police post.(Male resident, Matica, July 2005)

Several people complained to the local police officer about this PolCom group, but

he seemed to have little control of the group or simply authorised their excessive use

of force. It was only when a man, who after being severely injured by a comunitario,

complained to the District police, that the District Commander dismissed two

members of the group. They were not put on trial.

In Dombe things also got out of hand with one of the first PolCom units. Not

only did its members ‘beat people without them resisting arrest’, according to the

police, they were also accused of insulting the elders and failing to pay the chiefs due

respect. One elder recalled: ‘they just come and say ‘‘we are the police’’. With those

instruments they think they can do anything . . .

that they now have power. This isnot good for the community and it is not good for the government’ (Male resident,

Dombe, September 2005). Insulting elders, particularly by youth, is a severe norm

violation in the chieftaincies, comparable with crime, and punishable in the chiefs’

courts with fines or even corporal punishment. Elders play a central role as family

heads and as living custodians of societal well-being in the lineage-based system.

Failing to respect elders is disrespect of the ancestral spirits that guard the land and

the living. Other comunitarios were aware of this, and said they always informed the

elders and chiefs about their policing tasks. Furthermore, the chief of police in

Dombe firmly condemned such insults. However, it was not on this ground that the

PolCom unit was dismissed. Rather, it was because the District Commander was toldby two prisoners that the comunitarios forced them to pay excessive sums of money

when being arrested. This was confirmed at a public meeting in Dombe, held by the

Commander. The comunitarios were asked to repay everyone and punished with

days in the cell, before being dismissed. While payment to the comunitarios by

persons being arrested could be inspired by the chiefs’ policing system, the amounts

extracted were 200 400% higher than usual. During patrols, the comunitarios also

threatened to take people to the police or beat them if they did not pay. This ability,

people thought, was because they had authority from the state police and carried

their instruments. The chief of police was, according to the Commander, ‘strictly told

off for not being able to control the comunitarios’.

These cases highlight the problems of outsourcing. It shows the ease with which

PolCom can run out of control of police officers. Their sovereign authority to define

the ‘legitimate’ use of force can easily be relinquished. The distinction between

criminals and law-enforcers easily becomes unclear. Paradoxically, acts of reducing

crime produce new forms of symbolic and physical violence that are locally

illegitimate and/or outright criminal. As Abrahams asserts about vigilante groups,

PolCom in Sussundenga also ‘exists in an awkward borderland between the law and

illegality’ and ‘is capable of slipping and sliding in one direction or the other’

(Abrahams 1996, pp. 43 44). In Sussundenga, however, this does not appear external

to state regulation, as is the case for the vigilante groups Abrahams writes about. The

illegitimacy and illegality of PolCom practices is, at least partly, nurtured by the localstate police’s own extra-legal measures of outsourcing tasks to community policing




persons. This may also explain why the errant PolCom units were never taken to

court, but punished outside codified law.

Conclusion

There is something insufferably attractive about the margin of law where the statere-creates the very terror it is meant to combat. (Taussig 2005, p. 14)

This article argues for a cautious view of community policing as a much celebrated

security sector reform solution for tackling paramilitary policing cultures, violent

crime and societal disorder in post-conflict societies. PolCom in Mozambique has

reduced crime, in statistical or perceived terms, but the price is reconfigured forms of

symbolic and physical violence. Effects on crime seem to depend on how criminality

is defined and its perpetrators and victims are labelled (Abrahams 2007). In

Sussundenga’s hinterlands the victims are ordinary citizens, moving around without

the right papers, and the perpetrators are frequently official law-enforcers or ratherthose young men they now authorise to do the physical work. One could argue, as

government officials in Mozambique, that the ‘errors’ of local versions of PolCom

are due to ignorance of the ‘real’ meanings of concepts and lack of legal instruments

for proper regulation. It is a problem of implementation. PolCom fails when the state

police lose control of PolCom groups. It fails when it becomes too absorbed by

unruly (usually young male) forces in society. While these explanations are not

dismissed in this article, they fail to capture essential aspects. The Sussundenga case

points to the need to pay attention to the central role played by the local state police

in perpetuating, or even (re)expanding police violence and restrictions on citizenship.

This is partly nurtured by historically embedded paramilitary policing cultures,

including former popular or citizen policing. But it is also conditioned by the specific

challenges facing the state police in former war-inflicted areas, and zones that used to

be controlled by old enemies (i.e. Renamo and chiefs). Like Dixon (2007) shows for

South Africa, implementation of community policing policies is shaped by individual

initiatives and local political and socio-economic conditions.

In Sussundenga, the state police faced a crisis of state sovereignty, matched by

the de-monopolisation of coercive force, a pluralism of non-state policing actors and

lack of capacity to expand their outreach. Along with state recognition of chiefs,

community policing was appropriated to deal with this crisis. MINT’s CPC model

fared uneasily with the local state police’s challenges. The capacity problem was

handled by outsourcing tasks to PolCom members, and attempts to assert the

monopoly of coercive force was done through control and regulation of non-state

actors. Paradoxically, recuperating state police authority and control of crime relied,

largely, on illegal measures when compared with post-war police legislation.

Consequently, the state police, now in a partly outsourced form, remained largely

paramilitary, rather than a service enhancing human rights, the rule of law and

community participation. The question is where this is taking state police citizen

relations in the future. The Sussundenga case suggests a certain reproduction of the

socialist surveillance state, exemplified by more patrols, random arrests, public

punishments, extra-legal prosecutions of Renamo members and overall tightened

police control of people. Conversely, the incidences of uncontrollable comunitariosand the growing dissatisfaction amongst rural residents may lay the ground for

368 H.M. Kyed



future conflicts. Recent events in the provincial capital, where organised local citizens

in the name of ‘people’s power’ lynched several criminals, stormed the police station

and stoned a number of officers, suggest one potential critical result of the limited

impact of post-conflict police reform.

The question is how and to what extent it is possible in the future to ensure

improved convergence between the intentions behind community policing policies

and their implementation in local arenas? In Mozambique, improved training of

local police officers and the public in general on MINT’s intentions behind PolCom

could potentially have reduced the large scope for creative translation of policy into

practice. As discussed in this article, it was only in the few pilot project cases that

training was provided directly by MINT experts. In other areas implementation was

based on sporadic information from the District Commander, and then left in the

hands of local police officers who had a great deal of discretionary power. The fact

that there is no existing law, lack of independent organs and inadequate resources to

regulate and monitor the conduct of PolCom members and of state police

engagements with them also reduces the probability of adherence to policyintentions. That said, improved training, resources and legal-organisational proce-

dures for PolCom, while certainly important, cannot be expected to do away with

processes of local mediation. As argued by Moore (1978/2000), the implementation

of law is always matched by acts of manipulation, unmaking and remaking of rules

as law meets social reality and is mediated by historically positioned actors (Moore

1978/2000, p. 1). The challenge to police reform in post-conflict Mozambique goes

beyond ‘getting right’ community policing. To realise the constitutional commit-

ments to human rights and publicly accountable state officials, there is a need to

address much more profound and historically embedded cultures of policing and

state

citizen relations.

Notes

1. On the recognition of community authorities see Buur and Kyed (2007) and on the role of traditional leaders in policing see Kyed (2007a, 2007b, 2007c).

2. Conclusions about the longer-term impacts of PolCom in Sussundenga are tentative,because it only had a lifetime of one year when I ended fieldwork in late-2005.

3. On security sector reform at large, see Lala (2003) and on the justice sector see Kyed(2007a).

4. On rural governance in Renamo controlled areas during the war see Alexander (1997) andKyed (2007a).

5. On reasons for the failure to democratise policing in the 1990s, see Lala (2003) and Wislerand Bonvin (2004).

6. On the global export of Anglo-American models of community policing to developingcountries, see Brogden and Nijhar (2005)

7. There are no gendered or other kinds of identity-based criteria for CPC membership.8. By June 2005 CPCs were distributed as follows: Maputo city (34), Maputo province (45),

Gaza (63), Inhambane (56), Sofala (68), Manica (57), Tete (62), Niassa (183), Zambezia(59), Nampula (43) and Cabo Delgado (483).

9. The ‘Mozambican Force for Crime Investigation and Social Reinsertion’ (FOMICRES),an NGO formed to assist the reintegration of ex-combatants, but which now engages withcommunity security, also made a minor assessment of PolCom in urban-based suburbs of eight provinces in 2007 (FOMICRES 2008).

10. In the semi-urban areas of locality and administrative posts, where village secretaries arerecognised as community authorities, it was PRM officers and secretaries who selected thecomunitarios.




11. There was only one female PolCom member, a 38-year-old, tall and very strong, unmarriedwoman, who was chosen by the PRM in Dombe administrative capital.

12. See Kyed (2007b) on the continued politics of policing in Sussundenga, including randomarrests of Renamo members and public meetings where the PRM discursively producesRenamo as the criminal ‘Other’ of the good citizen.

13. I did not encounter any arrests by PolCom members of homicide suspects, which wassupported by the Chief of Police’s statement that such cases were confined to PRMofficers.

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Policia Comunitacion Mozambiue