Abstract
The dismantling of the Tupac Amaru Neighborhood Organization in Jujuy, Argentina, a major provider of jobs and services, generated limited resistance even among people who had benefited from it. Exploration of the role of counterhegemonic challenges in this process through ethnographic fieldwork, interviews with activists and scholars, newspaper archives, and social movement materials shows that the organization purposefully increased the visibility of stigmatized segments of Jujuy society, defying official narratives about the province. This strategy allowed the organization to recruit members and raise its national profile but also engendered the unified opposition of local elites, which used their control of strategic assets to turn public opinion against activists, portraying them as violent, corrupt, and above all foreign.
El desmantelamiento de la Organización vecinal Túpac Amaru en Jujuy, Argentina, un importante proveedor de empleos y servicios, generó una resistencia limitada incluso entre las personas que se habían beneficiado de ella. Una exploración de trabajo de campo etnográfico en torno al papel que jugaron los desafíos contrahegemónicos en este proceso, así como entrevistas con activistas y académicos, y consulta de materiales hemerotécnicos y de movimientos sociales muestra que la organización aumentó deliberadamente la visibilidad de segmentos estigmatizados de la sociedad jujeña, desafiando las narrativas oficiales sobre la provincia. Esta estrategia permitió a la organización reclutar miembros y elevar su perfil nacional, pero también engendró la oposición unificada de las élites locales, que utilizaron su control de activos estratégicos para volver a la opinión pública en contra de los activistas, presentándolos como violentos, corruptos y, sobre todo, foráneos.
Grassroots organizations have traditionally been a central actor in Latin American popular politics. Since the 1980s, their role has become even more visible as countries in the region have experienced both unprecedented democratization and drastic neoliberal reforms. The struggle of community activists for the recognition of economic, social, and political rights remains crucial for inclusiveness in the region. This article explores the challenges faced by these movements through an analysis of the trajectory of the Organización Barrial Túpac Amaru (Tupac Amaru Neighborhood Organization—OBTA) in the province of Jujuy, Argentina. Founded in 1999, this organization rapidly grew into a major provider of jobs, services, and housing for marginalized populations. However, it also faced substantial opposition, which led to a wave of repression after the 2015 election of an adversarial governor. In a few months the authorities, using a combination of physical violence and judicial prosecution, managed to dismantle it. The offensive focused particularly on Milagro Sala, the organization’s main leader, who remains under arrest even though human rights advocates have questioned the charges against her.
The suppression of the OBTA is part of a broader context of repressive policies since the decline of the “pink tide” of progressive governments in the region. It also exemplifies the rapid weakening of the relation between the authorities and grassroots movements following right-wing electoral victories. However, what makes this particular case remarkable is how popular its suppression was at the local level. Even though the organization was among the top three employers in the province, there was limited resistance to its elimination. In part this was due to the threat of official persecution. However, abundant evidence also points to a substantial portion of the province’s residents’ supporting the actions of the new governor. While at the national level the detention of Sala and other organizers generated much opposition, in Jujuy political and economic elites managed to generate a strong consensus behind it.
The following pages seek to explain this outcome. What processes allowed the swift repression of one of Argentina’s largest social movement organizations? Why did a large proportion of residents support the elimination of a significant source of jobs and public services? I argue that a crucial part of the answer lies in the cultural conflict between the OBTA and traditional powerholders. More than just challenging the political and economic predominance of these actors, activists also engaged in a strategy of increasing the visibility of marginal segments of the province’s population. By loudly contesting hegemonic narratives about the nature of Jujuy society, the OBTA was able to mobilize thousands of members and become an important actor at the national level. Coupled with the efficient use of resources provided by a sympathetic federal administration, this allowed the organization to grow exponentially. However, this strategy also engendered the unified opposition of local elites. Their control over the district’s judiciary and media allowed for the implementation of an effective campaign of stigmatization, which relied on established prejudices to portray the OBTA as violent, corrupt, and above all foreign to Jujuy. Thus, when changing political fortunes after 2015 weakened the organization, its opponents were able to mobilize widespread support for its elimination.
The case of the OBTA holds key lessons for community activism in Latin America. Its trajectory illustrates the limits of tolerance in the region for movements that fundamentally challenge established norms and identities. This situation is particularly salient at the subnational level, where authoritarian practices frequently persist despite a country’s overall political liberalization. The incarceration of leaders and the elimination of grassroots initiatives that hired thousands of people is a sobering reminder that even well-resourced movements are vulnerable to repression. Given the importance of collective organizing for the future of democratic rule in the region, understanding the processes leading to the downfall of experiments like the OBTA is essential.
Hegemony and Contention
Throughout history, one of the biggest challenges for activists has been to convince oppressed groups that their subordination is not only wrong but also open to change (Klandermans, 2004; McAdam, 1982). Consciousness raising about the structural causes of inequalities in everyday life is essential for effective mobilization (Della Porta, 2017; Stanley and Goodwin, 2013). Given that the long-term sustainability of social stratification depends on its legitimacy among those who benefit less from it, a central factor in the success of grassroots movements is their capacity to question prevailing notions of how society should operate (Benford and Snow, 2000; Tarrow, 1994).
Engagement in counterhegemonic struggles offers substantial opportunities for the mobilization of relegated groups. The positive resignification of stigmatized labels and the development of new valued identities can be effective tools for recruiting new activists and strengthening the resolve of current participants (Klandermans, 2004; Poletta and Jasper, 2001). Collective action can also become appealing to disenfranchised individuals because of its agency-affirming nature and its capacity to turn negative emotions like shame and apathy into positive ones like pride and enthusiasm (Gould, 2009; Wood, 2003). Finally, the use of prefigurative politics—the enactment of alternative social subjectivities through innovative forms of grassroots development—can not only be personally liberating for participants but also encourage them to contribute to emancipatory collective projects (Dinerstein, 2015; Yates, 2021; Zibechi, 2012).
However, the success of activists in undermining established norms may generate a backlash that erases any gains, at least temporarily (Della Porta, 2020; Mansbridge and Shames, 2008). Elites threatened by challenges from below frequently mobilize resources to support their own moral authority. Furthermore, the global expansion of neoliberal policies in recent decades has intensified this dynamic. The regressive redistribution of wealth generated by what David Harvey (2005) calls “accumulation by dispossession” raises the stakes involved in the justification of material privilege. The effectiveness of this reaction depends on two conditions. First, the degree of cohesion among dominant groups affects their capacity to quell dissent (Calhoun, 1994; Tarrow, 1994). Powerful actors are more likely to succeed in undermining a social movement if they see it as a common threat to their standing. Second, elite control of specific institutions is crucial to their ability to resist cultural change. In particular, dominance over the media and the punitive arm of the state allows influential groups in society to impose their viewpoints and silence those of rivals. A concentrated mass communication landscape deprives activists of channels for articulating their opinions in the public sphere, reaching potentially receptive audiences and disputing accusations (Della Porta and Diani, 2006; Gamson, 2004). Similarly, influence over the courts and security forces enables defenders of the status quo not only to physically repress protesters but also to use criminal charges to justify the suppression of contestatory narratives (Doran, 2017; Gilmore, 2019).
In sum, challenging established norms and hierarchies offers activists both opportunities and risks. Increasing the visibility of marginal segments of society, valorizing stigmatized categories, and prefiguring a more inclusive society can appeal to different constituencies, attracting sympathizers, strengthening the commitment of participants, and generating support from allies. However, these initiatives can also trigger the retaliation of powerful adversaries. When these rivals are unified and control the mechanisms to influence public opinion, they are in a favorable position to mobilize support for a violent reaction. This is the scenario that unfolded in Jujuy.
Methods
Researching contentious processes whose direct consequences are still unfolding requires using as many sources of information as possible. The recentness of events and the high stakes involved in different interpretations of them add layers of complexity to the intrinsic limitations of different forms of data. Consequently, for this paper I use four types of evidence: participant observation, interviews with local activists and scholars, newspaper archives, and materials produced by the OBTA. Evidence of the first two types was collected during three periods of fieldwork in Jujuy’s capital, San Salvador, and nearby towns (September-October 2014, May-June 2017, and June-July 2019). During 2014 I conducted participant observation and 20 in-depth interviews with members of the OBTA and two other organizations: the Corriente Clasista y Combativa (Classist and Combative Current—CCC) and the Movimiento Tupaj Katari (Tupaj Katari Movement). In 2017 and 2019, I recontacted 8 respondents. During each stage of fieldwork I also interviewed scholars specialized in the province’s history, culture, and politics. The third type of evidence was the articles in past editions of El Pregón, one of Jujuy’s largest newspapers. With the help of a team of assistants, I examined each available edition between 2013 and 2019 and identified all articles mentioning social mobilization or protests. 1 I complemented this work with ad-hoc searches for coverage of specific events in five additional publications, one from Jujuy (El Tribuno) and four from Buenos Aires (Página/12, Clarín, La Nación, and Perfil). Finally, I analyzed a collection of magazines, pamphlets, and DVDs created over the years by activists to publicize their work. The material covers the period 2007–2014 and offers key evidence about how the OBTA presented itself in public at its apex.
Jujuy and Jujeñidad
Located in the Northwest of Argentina, Jujuy is among the country’s smallest provinces in both territory and population (2.7 percent and 1.7 percent of the nation’s total, respectively). It is also one of the poorest, contributing less than 1 percent to Argentina’s gross domestic product. Its small size and economic relegation, combined with its distance from Buenos Aires and its location along two international borders, generate a complex relation with the country as a whole (Caggiano, 2005; Gaona, 2017; Karasik, 2006). On the one hand, the province’s natural beauty and central role in the nation’s struggle for independence place it firmly within the country’s self-image. On the other, its cultural and spatial proximity to Bolivia, coupled with the persistence of xenophobic prejudices, lead to frequent questioning of its place within the national imagined community. 2
These dynamics have intensified in the past four decades as Argentina entered a period of drastic neoliberal reforms (Lagos and Gutierrez, 2006; Teruel, 2006). The most visible outcomes for Jujuy have been an increase in structural unemployment, the deepening of existing inequalities, and an acceleration of urban growth (Alcoba, 2016; Bergesio, Golovanevsky, and Marcoleri, 2009; Kindgard, 2009; Lello, 2015). The mechanization of large-scale agricultural industry, the closing of mines, and the privatization of state-owned enterprises eliminated thousands of jobs. These losses were only partially compensated for by an expansion of urban service sector occupations, driven largely by an enlargement of the state bureaucracy (Golovanevsky, 2013; Kindgard, 2009). The combination of increasing unemployment, rapid urbanization, and expansion of public sector jobs generated two factors that remain influential to this day. First, state employees’ unions became more prominent. Second, the province became more dependent on financial support from the federal government. The chronic insolvency of the provincial government caused a period of sustained unrest between the mid-1980s and the late 1990s as eight administrations succeeded each other.
Despite this instability, however, the province’s political system proved to be very resilient. For all their success in forcing the resignation of several governors, protesters were never able to lead a new governing coalition. Beyond the succession of heads of state, the basic political structure in the province remained stable, structured around the local branches of two national parties: the predominant Partido Justicialista (Justicialist Party—PJ) and the Unión Cívica Radical (Radical Civic Union—UCR). Despite substantial party realignments at the national level, since the return of democracy in 1983 no coalition other than the PJ or the UCR has reached more than third place in elections. This is associated with the cohesion of the province’s dominant classes, which despite electoral differences remained united in other respects. A tradition of deal making between party leaders (facilitated by common spheres of socialization) has allowed elites to manage strategic assets such as patronage resources, positions in the public administration, and appointments to the judiciary. In addition, the growing inequality since the 1970s, coupled with effective lobbying, has entrenched the predominance of powerful economic actors. In other words, a relatively small portion of Jujuy’s society remains in firm control over local politics and the economy. This predominance is reflected in a strong commitment to a particular narrative about the province’s history and culture. Through its control of the media and government, local elites have for decades invested in a hegemonic discourse centered around what some scholars (Burgos and García Vargas, 2008; Gaona, 2014; Gaona and Ficoseco, 2012) call jujeñidad, a set of established ideas about what it means to be “authentically” from Jujuy. The result is an intersectional hierarchy that denies opportunities to some groups while guaranteeing privileges to others.
Three components of jujeñidad are particularly salient for the purposes of this paper. First, as in other parts of Argentina (Grimson and Karasik, 2017; Margulis, 1999), Jujuy society shows a marked racialization of class (Gaona and Ficoseco, 2012). Racial labels such as negro (black) or cabecita negra (little black head) are frequently used as insults denoting class affiliation. People with certain physical attributes associated with “European” or “Middle Eastern” ancestry (lighter skin and eyes, tall and slender build, straight hair) are seen as belonging to the middle or upper classes, while individuals with features perceived to emerge from indigenous or black ancestry (darker skin and eyes, short and stocky build, curly hair) are considered poor and undereducated. 3
The intertwining of class and race is connected to Argentina’s foundational myth of being a nation populated by the descendants of transatlantic immigrants. However, in the case of Jujuy this narrative clashes with the province’s bordering with Bolivia, a country that widespread prejudice portrays as backward (Caggiano, 2005). From the perspective of jujeñidad, Bolivia is a foreign entity whose proximity undermines the province’s claim to being part of a white, civilized Argentina (Gaona, 2014; 2017; García Vargas, Gaona, and López, 2016; Grimson and Karasik, 2017). The result is a xenophobia expressed in the symbolic denial of nationality to Argentines born to foreign parents and the everyday use of the term “Bolivian” as an insult (Caggiano, 2005; Karasik, 2006).
A second aspect of hegemonic narratives about Jujuy relates to indigeneity. Despite being one of the provinces with the highest proportion of residents claiming native ancestry (INDEC, 2010), indigenous groups in Jujuy suffer from experiences of exclusion similar to those elsewhere in Argentina (Karasik, 2006; Ríos, 2013). Symbols from native culture are frequently used in the province’s official imagery (particularly in areas such as the promotion of tourism), but the actual lives and demands of native communities are made invisible in public discourse by temporal and spatial displacement. Indigenous people are frequently referred to as belonging both to the past and to the least populated areas of the province. The result is that jujeñidad celebrates an abstract “noble savage” full of submissive virtues but unconnected to present conflicts.
Finally, a third element of official discourses about Jujuy is associated with traditional ideas regarding gender and sexuality. This involves the promotion of specific forms of masculinity and femininity and the censoring of alternative identities and sexualities. Some gender performances are seen as more authentic to the province than others, and perceived threats to the man/woman binary are met with substantial opposition. In particular, public events like the National Students’ Festival in September, in which schools build complex floats and teenagers compete for the title of “queen of students,” present a certain female body (white, heterosexual, and docile) as the ideal representative of Jujuy’s women (Belli and Slavutsky, 1994; Gaona and Ficoseco, 2012; Tabbush and Gaona, 2017).
Therefore the hegemonic self-image of Jujuy tints much of the province’s population with a degree of foreignness. This dynamic is particularly visible in San Salvador, where segregation imposes strong sociospatial barriers (Bergesio, Golovanevsky, and Marcoleri, 2009; Gaona and Ficoseco, 2012; García Vargas, 2006). In particular, the downtown area, where most historic landmarks and tourist attractions are located, has historically been hostile territory for people perceived as nonwhite, indigenous, or gender-nonconforming.
In sum, the power of elites in Jujuy lies not only in their political unity and economic predominance. It also depends on the exclusivity of their claim over the definition of what it means to be truly jujeño. The questioning of this cultural hegemony by the OBTA explains much of the virulent opposition it generated.
The Tupac Amaru
Argentina has a long history of collective action in popular neighborhoods. Since the return of democracy in 1983, community organizations have continued this tradition, managing social assistance, demanding the recognition of new rights, and holding authorities accountable. The Tupac Amaru Neighborhood Organization became one of the most visible examples of these groups. Founded in 1999 by Milagro Sala as the grassroots branch of one of Jujuy’s main public employee unions, its first years coincided with Argentina’s 2001–2002 economic collapse, during which the group ran a network of soup kitchens that sustained thousands of indigent families.
The organization’s leap into prominence started in 2003, as a new federal administration devoted vast resources to the Program of Habitational Emergency, in charge of providing infrastructure improvements to poor neighborhoods. Between that year and 2015, the OBTA entered an alliance with the federal government through which it received millions of dollars in funding for housing projects (Battezzati, 2014; Gómez, 2017; Manzano, 2015). While the direct support of presidents Néstor Kirchner (2003–2007) and Cristina Fernández de Kirchner (2007–2015) allowed the organization to become autonomous from the lower levels of government controlled by Jujuy’s traditional parties, this support also entailed important dilemmas. As McAdam (1982) points out, funding from powerful allies carries with it the risk of limiting the independence of activists, who cannot afford to pursue courses of action that may antagonize their backers. This has been a frequent challenge for grassroots organizations in the region in recent years (Ellner, 2011; Rossi, 2017; Zibechi, 2014). However, the OBTA was able to use federal funds in a remarkably efficient way, building thousands of houses for low-income residents. To reduce costs, activists created factories that produced many of the materials they needed (such as cinder blocks, metalwork, and textiles). Productivity led to surpluses, which allowed the organization to offer neglected social services. In all, the OBTA employed over 4,000 people through a system of cooperatives, which made it one of the three largest employers in the province.
As the organization accumulated power and Milagro Sala’s profile increased, relationships with the provincial government (controlled by the PJ) and the administration of the city of San Salvador (run by the UCR) worsened. The reactions of different segments of the PJ to the OBTA alternated between uneasy cooperation and open hostility. In contrast, the UCR, under the leadership of the federal senator Gerardo Morales, was more unified in its opposition. After an incident in 2009 when protesters threw eggs at Morales (Sala to this day denies her involvement) the conflict became much more open. Adversaries began to accuse the group of increasingly serious crimes and promoted conspiracy theories linking its leaders to terrorist cells and drug cartels.
By 2013 the OBTA had reached its peak. It commanded a network of allied organizations that mobilized 70,000 members (approximately 10 percent of the province’s population). Seeking to consolidate its gains, it formed a political party, which participated in that year’s election for the first time and obtained a handful of seats in the province’s legislature. However, beneath this veneer of success there were signs of weakness. Although it had achieved a presence in more than half of the country’s provinces, the organization’s strength remained concentrated in Jujuy. In addition, for all their efficiency, its projects remained heavily dependent on federal funding (Manzano, 2015; Tabbush and Gaona, 2017). Furthermore, the OBTA’s performance at the ballot box in 2013 was below expectations, a distant third. The votes received by the organization’s candidates were fewer than its members, demonstrating not only the group’s difficulties in appealing to a broader electorate but also its limited internal support. As the 2015 elections neared, tensions increased further. Activists achieved a precarious alliance with the provincial government (based on their support for the same presidential candidate) that was rocked from the beginning by intense conflict. Opponents in both the PJ and the UCR became emboldened by the increasingly evident political isolation of the OBTA.
Eventually, the victory of a right-wing coalition in the 2015 national and provincial elections meant the beginning of an assault on the organization. Gerardo Morales was elected governor by a landslide on a platform that openly clashed with that of the OBTA. With the support of the newly inaugurated president Mauricio Macri (who cut federal funding to the OBTA), Morales refused to meet with activists, who responded by camping out in San Salvador’s central square. After a few weeks of standoffs and ultimatums, the governor’s offensive escalated in three ways. First, he revoked the OBTA’s legal personhood by decree, effectively outlawing its activities. Second, a local court ordered the detention of Sala and other activists. Finally, the government incentivized particular leaders within the organization’s network to separate themselves from it. The result was the collapse of the protest.
In subsequent months, the province’s new administration rapidly dismantled the OBTA. Most of the organization’s employees were laid off (a few received alternative welfare support or were transferred to cooperatives controlled by opponents). The government took over most of the group’s assets, leading to the abandonment of many services. The neighborhoods built by activists fell into disarray. Dozens of high- and mid-level organizers were indicted or arrested. Most of the legislators elected under the organization’s banner left for other coalitions. To this day, Milagro Sala and several other leaders remain incarcerated. Human rights groups, as well as international bodies like the Organization of American States and the United Nations, have questioned the proceedings against her, but the courts have refused to comply with their demands (AI, 2017; OAS, 2017; UN, 2016).
The repressive wave that took place in Jujuy resonates with similar events in other parts of the country. As did his ally Morales, President Macri followed a more confrontive strategy with regard to social mobilization (CELS, 2017; Varesi, 2018). The links between community organizations and public officials developed during the Kirchner administrations were cut significantly. The policing of protests took a more aggressive turn, leading to a rise in state violence, including the death of two indigenous rights activists in the provinces of Neuquén and Chubut. Key grassroots leaders such as Luis D’Elía, head of one of the largest unemployed workers’ organizations (also known as piqueteros), were incarcerated following corruption charges. Worsening economic conditions (especially after 2017), coupled with the extensive role played by community networks in the distribution of social assistance, limited the capacity of the federal government to pursue demobilizing strategies. However, the relative official tolerance of collective action that marked the years 2003–2015 was replaced by a more belligerent attitude.
In addition, recent events in Jujuy and Argentina are also part of a regional context in which entrenched socioeconomic elites, emboldened by the weakening of progressive governments and the rising fortunes of right-wing political forces, have promoted the implementation of regressive agendas (Cannon, 2016; Luna and Rovira Kaltwasser, 2014). In particular, the ebbing of the pink tide has been accompanied by an intense backlash against the predominance that many grassroots organizations achieved during the years of left-leaning administrations (Ellner, 2020; Ferrero, Natalucci, and Tatagiba, 2019). Many of the features of the repression of the OBTA (such as judicial and bureaucratic harassment of groups, pretrial detention of leaders, violent management of demonstrations, and media stigmatization of activists) have been consistently present in other countries of Latin America (AI, 2020; CIDH, 2020; Fortes, 2019).
Regardless of its role in a particular national and regional context, the collapse of the OBTA is still remarkable for its efficacy. In less than a year, a new governor disarticulated not only one of the main political actors in Jujuy but also one of the province’s biggest employers. The repression is also unprecedented in that since the return of democracy no other leader in the province has been targeted as relentlessly as Milagro Sala, even though turmoil in the 1980s and 1990s was far more pronounced than in the 2000s and 2010s. Unrest caused the resignation of governors in 1990, 1993, 1994, and 1998, but there was never a consistent effort to outlaw the organizations that led the protests or indefinitely incarcerate their leaders. Moreover, this repression was also noteworthy for the limited resistance it generated. Despite the fact that it involved the end of thousands of jobs and the closing of facilities serving a large portion of the population, there is substantial evidence pointing to widespread local support for the dismantling of the organization and the imprisonment of leaders. The continued electoral success of Morales (who won reelection in 2019 despite a poor performance by his national allies) relied to a great extent on his pledge to keep Sala behind bars. Protests demanding the liberation of activists were numerous in other parts of Argentina but very minor in Jujuy. Opinion polls taken after Sala was detained show a large majority of the province’s residents supporting her incarceration (e.g., Perfil, August 4, 2017; El Tribuno, August 4, 2017).
In sum, the collapse of the OBTA serves as a cautionary tale about the ease with which a new government undermined one of the best-organized social movements in the country. It also constitutes an important empirical puzzle: how did the local political establishment manage to mobilize so much support for its elimination? The following pages suggest an answer.
Counterhegemonic Challenges and Backlash
The rise and fall of the OBTA are linked to the strengths and weaknesses of a strategy of increasing the visibility of elements of Jujuy’s society antithetical to the self-image promoted by local elites. The empowerment of racial, indigenous, and gender minorities provided opportunities for the group to raise its profile and made participation deeply appealing for individuals used to long-term subordination—what Elisabeth Wood (2003) calls “pleasure in agency.” However, the same strategy made the organization vulnerable to a campaign that sought to portray its members (and in particular, its leadership) as violent, corrupt, and above all foreign. Over the years, the potential for a strong backlash accumulated as an elite-promoted common sense about the organization solidified across large sectors of Jujuy society. When the OBTA’s most ardent adversaries won the 2015 elections, their offensive faced few obstacles.
“Milagro Filled Downtown with Black People”
A central element in the OBTA’s strategy was the constant challenge to the exclusion of people of color from particular locations. The organization used public events, infrastructure projects, and everyday activities to show its presence in notorious ways (Gaona and Ficoseco, 2012; García Vargas, Gaona, and López, 2016), causing an influx of marginalized individuals into privileged areas. First, it frequently mobilized in the central area of San Salvador. Sometimes this entailed protests, but on other occasions the group organized big festivals for events such as Three Kings’ Day each January and Children’s Day each August. Activists also set up large parades and expositions showcasing their work. In addition, the group was at the forefront of marches commemorating the victims of the 1976–1983 dictatorship (and calling for the prosecution of prominent businesspeople who had collaborated with the military). Second, the OBTA constructed dozens of large projects throughout the province, creating landmarks for anyone to see. Many of these were purposefully located in areas traditionally unwelcoming to people of color. For example, the organization did not place its headquarters in the peripheral area of San Salvador, where most its members lived. Instead, its main offices were located downtown, in a new building better maintained than most public offices. Finally, the organization implemented a strict code of personal appearance, requiring its members to wear uniforms while at work. Given that thousands of people were on the group’s payroll, this increased its visibility in the everyday life of Jujuy. In particular, the central location of the headquarters created an influx of residents of poor communities into the sidewalks, stores, and restaurants of the city’s downtown. In sum, the OBTA made a conscious effort to break long-established rules concerning the spatiality of racial boundaries. Using celebrations, buildings, and everyday activities, it made a powerful and recurrent statement about the access of marginalized groups to historically segregated spaces.
“The Indians from the Tupac”
In Jujuy as in the rest of Argentina, the official vindication of native history and culture rarely translates into concrete policies that improve the quality of life of actual communities (Grimson and Karasik, 2017). The OBTA accumulated political capital from this situation. By claiming native heritage in nonsanitized ways, activists undermined the temporal and spatial displacement of indigenous peoples in the province’s public discourse. First, Milagro Sala and other activists proudly labeled themselves “Indians.” This took the figure of the indigenous out of an abstract position, personifying it in present-day, flesh-and-blood individuals who accumulated power and demanded restorative justice (Ríos, 2013). In other words, they pushed the OBTA beyond the limits of what Charles Hale and Rosamel Millamán (2006) call the indio permitido—an idealized indigenous character seen as deserving of some rights and recognition but not political autonomy and agency. Second, the organization’s symbols sought to expand the constrained space granted to indigeneity by jujeñidad. Beyond the obvious fact that the organization’s name and logo honor one of the largest rebellions in Latin America’s history, the work of activists throughout the province undermined hegemonic narratives associating indigenous groups with rural life (Gaona, 2018). The widespread use of symbols of native resistance in San Salvador (from murals calling to action to the construction of a complete replica of the millennia-old temple of Kalasasaya) emphasized the fact that most indigenous people in Jujuy live (like the majority of the province’s residents) in cities.
In short, the actions of the OBTA removed the figure of the native from a comfortable position for powerholders in the province that allowed them to pay homage to an abstract (and displaced) figure while continuing the political exclusion and economic exploitation of actual communities. This work was not free of conflicts and contradictions, since not all indigenous organizations were allied with Milagro Sala, but it was effective enough to generate a strong backlash from traditional elites.
“It was full of lesbians, and all working like guys”
One of the most noticeable characteristics of the OBTA was the predominance of women and LGBT people in positions of leadership. Moreover, female leaders exercised their authority in nonsubmissive, outspoken ways that clashed with traditional expectations of public femininity. This undermining of conventional gender norms was not limited to the organization’s leadership. Female rank-and-file members engaged in occupations that used to be confined to men, becoming, for instance, workers and managers in construction cooperatives (Gaona, 2018; Gómez, 2017). The employment of women in traditionally masculine activities provided financial autonomy to thousands. Coupled with a zero-tolerance policy for domestic violence and the provision of free child-care centers, this caused the group to operate as a refuge for countless victims of abuse (Tabbush and Caminotti, 2015).
The organization also played a substantial role in the local LGBT community (Tabbush and Gaona, 2017). Participation in the group was one of the few ways in which gender minorities could get housing and work in a province where homophobia is still widespread. For many low-income LGBT families, this was the key to stability, home ownership, and parenthood, goals that had been almost impossible until then. In addition, the OBTA created a gender diversity office that pursued outreach efforts involving safe spaces and sexual health. The office had regular shows on the organization’s radio station and featured prominently in press releases. This promotion helped raise the profile of Jujuy among national LGBT activists. The organization also funded and organized large pride festivals, helping turn small events into massive downtown celebrations.
In sum, just as the OBTA sought to empower marginalized racial and indigenous groups, it did the same with women and gender minorities. This strategy attracted the attention of sympathizers throughout the country and reinforced the commitment of many activists. However, it also set the stage for a significant cultural backlash, which eventually was weaponized by powerful adversaries.
“The Worst thing that could have happened to us as a Province”
The OBTA provided housing and welfare services to thousands of marginalized families. However, the work of members was frequently met with fierce opposition. Interviews with activists are full of references to instances of discrimination. Alfonsina was harassed by an old lady in front of the governor’s palace: “We were in the square and a woman came and told us, ‘I wish a bomb would fall and kill all of you, I am sick of seeing all of you, f—ing blacks.’ I saw her and was surprised because she was an elderly woman, and she screamed” (interview, San Salvador, September 29, 2014). Jeremías, a dance instructor, was elated after his team of elementary school students, representing one of the organization’s cultural centers, won first place in a traditional gaucho competition. However, his happiness soured when a friend criticized his work: “A guy here stopped me and said, ‘Jeremías, I’m very angry at you.’ ‘Why?’ ‘How could you take those Indians, those bums, to a gaucho festival?’ He was lucky I did not punch him, because no one insults my kids” (interview, San Salvador, October 1, 2014)
The openness with which bystanders and acquaintances publicly disparaged members belies claims that residents of the province were afraid of speaking against the OBTA while it was active. It also points to a question that is crucial to understanding the organization’s collapse: the widespread unpopularity of activists’ efforts even among sectors of society that benefited from them. Why was it so reviled? I argue that the answer lies in the very strategy that allowed it to grow. By enthusiastically promoting a counterhegemonic view of Jujuy society, the OBTA mobilized support but also generated opportunities for adversaries to frame its work as antithetical to the province’s history and traditions. These opponents used their command of strategic local assets to establish a cohesive message about the organization, gradually cementing a common sense portraying it as corrupt, violent, and foreign. This message was conveyed through three local institutions: the media, the judiciary, and the political parties.
First, Jujuy has a heavily concentrated system of mass communications in which the main journalistic channels have traditionally expressed the views of the dominant classes (Alzina, 2012; Burgos and García Vargas, 2008; Gaona, 2014; García Vargas, Arrueta, and Brunet, 2010 García Vargas, Gaona, and López, 2016). As the OBTA grew, local news coverage became overwhelmingly negative. The same applied to many of the largest national publications, which published scathing profiles of the group and its leader (e.g., Clarín, December 25, 2009). Second, the role of the judiciary in undermining the organization long preceded Milagro Sala’s incarceration. In fact, for years political adversaries had pressed various charges against the OBTA. Many of them were eventually dismissed for lack of evidence, but their existence helped paint activists as constant lawbreakers who got away with it only because of their power (e.g., El Pregón, March 18, 2013, and September 2, 2013). Finally, the traditional political parties were united in their negative views of the organization. While some factions of the PJ reluctantly cooperated with activists, others were consistently opposed, eventually creating a coalition that obtained almost 60 percent of the vote in 2015. Political parties also allowed the news media to carry stories that professional standards made impossible to publish otherwise. Journalistic claims to neutrality and fact checking prevented the publication of the most egregious accusations against the OBTA. Politicians filled this spot by taking advantage of generous coverage and by running full-page ads in newspapers (e.g., El Pregón, October 22, 2013, November 15, 2013, and July 30, 2015).
The joint efforts of the media, judiciary, and political parties capitalized on established prejudices in Jujuy’s society to promote a three-way negative image of the OBTA. First, the group and its leaders were described as violent. Reports of activists amassing guns or training for guerrilla warfare were abundant while the organization was operating (Manzano, 2015). These rumors were disproven when the incarceration of leaders and the closing of cooperatives caused no significant turmoil, but the image of activists as violent relied less on hard evidence than on prejudices associating the residents of certain neighborhoods with lawlessness. Opponents also used gendered and racial undertones to link the organization with a number of high-profile crimes, portraying Milagro Sala as a fearsome leader who used intimidation and threats to deal with both outsiders and members (e.g., El Pregón, September 17, 2013; May 18, 2014; June 2, 2015; June 6, 2015).
Second, the OBTA was described as corrupt. 4 The extreme informality of Jujuy’s economy (Martinez and Medina, 2008), coupled with the direct funding from federal agencies, contributed to an atmosphere of limited oversight. Local authorities refused to control projects, and the organization paid salaries and expenses in cash. Activists claimed that the large number of buildings constructed undermined the allegations of widespread embezzlement (e.g., Pachakuti, June 2013). However, the overall deficit in documentation lent credence to critics (e.g., El Pregón, April 3, 2013, and September 19, 2014). Opponents also used any instance of conspicuous consumption by activists, as well as the organization’s use of rewards such as end-of-year raffles, to damage the OBTA’s reputation. While these activities are not necessarily illegal, denunciation of them resonated with racialized notions of class, in which even relatively minor displays of affluence by people of color are seen as suspicious because they break the association between wealth and whiteness (e.g., La Nación, June 19, 2011).
Finally, in addition to accusations of violence and corruption, the organization was portrayed as being foreign to Jujuy. Different narratives contributed to this outcome. Through constant references to the links between the group’s leadership and networks beyond the province, opponents framed it as serving the interests of outside groups. In some cases, this depiction entailed implausible conspiracy theories. On other occasions, even well-documented connections with respected outsiders (such as journalists and artists) were described as misguided intrusions by people who were not familiar with the province’s situation. The organization’s opponents were also able to capitalize on the long-standing resentment toward Buenos Aires prevalent in Jujuy (as in other Argentine provinces). The OBTA’s dependence on federal funding helped frame the group’s achievements as the imposition of a centralized government rather than the result of grassroots efforts (e.g., El Pregón, April 23, 2013; March 25, 2014).
In sum, concerted efforts by adversaries in the media, courts, and political parties explained the organization’s growth as the result of nefarious outside influences. In this effort, a key advantage was the capacity to portray activists as fundamentally opposed to what local residents were supposed to be. Powerful rivals used the OBTA’s adamant rejection of traditional norms to their advantage, depicting it as not only violent and corrupt but also intrinsically foreign to Jujuy. Their effectiveness helped them mobilize support for repression.
Conclusion
The collapse of the OBTA is a complex process with multiple causes. To a great extent, the intensity of persecution reflects the economic and political conflicts between the organization and local elites. Concerning the former, the cooperative-based provision of housing affected special interests in real estate and public works. With regard to the latter, the organization’s participation in elections entailed a challenge to the two-party system prevalent in the province.
However, these clashes are not enough to explain the local popularity of the organization’s downfall. A key component of this puzzle is the cultural confrontation between hegemonic notions of jujeñidad and the strategy of increasing the visibility of the marginal followed by activists. The contestation of long-standing narratives about the nature of Jujuy’s society helped the organization grow but also made it vulnerable to a campaign that portrayed its members as violent, corrupt, and foreign.
The trajectory of the OBTA is important because it highlights the limits of tolerance toward dissent and community organizing in Latin America. In recent decades, social movements throughout the region have achieved remarkable success in changing attitudes and legislation, especially at the federal level. For instance, LGBT and feminist activists in Argentina have obtained important victories such as the recognition of same-sex marriage in 2010, a new gender identity law in 2012, and the legalization of abortion in 2020 (Burton, 2021; Hollar, 2018; Schulenberg, 2012). However, counterhegemonic challenges to elite-dominated cultural landscapes may elicit more violent reactions at the subnational level, where authoritarian practices may be more persistent (Behrend, 2011; Giraudy, 2015). The fate of the OBTA is a reminder that organizational resources do not guarantee protection against backlash, particularly when powerful adversaries are both united and in control of strategic assets.
Moreover, the weakening of the pink tide has generated additional challenges for social movements in the region, since right-wing governments have frequently implemented harassment campaigns against the grassroots groups associated with previous progressive administrations. Therefore, the suppression of experiences like the OBTA should not be interpreted just as a short-term, localized settling of political scores. The criminalization of collective action in Jujuy also reflects a continentwide attempt to consolidate a hegemonic discourse framing community empowerment and redistributive state interventions as inherently problematic and corrupt. If social repression becomes an effective method for creating a regressive common sense among the Latin American public, no grassroots organization in the region, regardless of its ideology or tactics, will be safe from persecution.
Footnotes
Notes
Marcos Emilio Pérez is an assistant professor of sociology at Washington and Lee University. His research focuses on grassroots activism in Argentina and the United States. He thanks the activists interviewed (whose names have been replaced with pseudonyms for this article) for their time. The School of Humanities and Social Sciences at the National University of Jujuy and Jorge Kulemeyer in particular provided logistical support for his fieldwork. Matias Weibel at El Pregón helped with many questions about accessing the newspaper’s archive. Noelia Herrera, Johana Castillo Segovia, Harron Tanner, Catherine Peek, Inti Pérez, Amparo Cáceres, and Joaquín Álvarez served as research assistants processing archival data. Virginia Manzano (University of Buenos Aires) was a great source of ideas and suggestions. Two reviewers provided insightful feedback on an earlier version of this article. The following Jujuy-based scholars spent substantial time sharing their research: Liliana Bergesio, Ramón Burgos, Alejandra García Vargas, Maria Elena Marcoleri, Laura Golovanevsky, Lucio Malizia, Rosario Dassen, and Raul Acosta. The field research leading to this paper was supported by a Doctoral Dissertation Research Improvement Grant from the National Science Foundation (Award ID: 1406244). Some of the preliminary findings were presented at the 2019 Congress of the Latin American Studies Association in Boston, the 2019 Conference of the Society for Latin American Studies in Leicester, the 2018 Congress of the Latin American Studies Association in Barcelona, and the School of Philosophy and Letters of the University of Buenos Aires. The author thanks all the participants for their comments.