Violence

Justice for All

In January, 2007, Mexican President Felipe Calderón ordered the Federal Army to the southwestern state of Guerrero. The order was part of his plan to rein in crime and corruption across the country.  Officially, the military was sent to wrest control of communities away from narco-traffickers and corrupt cops.   The plan has its skeptics, though, many of whom can be found in the La Montaña region of Guerrero.  Sosimo Mendoza, a schoolteacher and leader in his indigenous Tlapaneco community is wary of the army’s presence, and worries about how broad its mandate will be.

It is now three days after troops arrived in busy Acapulco. Sosimo drives his old pickup truck into the quieter, dustier urban center of San Luis Acatlán, in La Montaña, to meet with the other forty-one men and one woman who serve as advisors to the region’s Community Police.  Over twelve years, the Community Police has grown from a network of neighborhood watches – private citizens who would turn criminals over to the police – to what it is now: an extra-legal justice system with its own police force, judicial system, and network of jails.  The people present at this meeting with Sosimo represent the fifty-two indigenous communities that coordinate to sustain the Community Police.

The meeting to discuss the army’s arrival is held in the brushed dirt yard of the Community Police’s central office on a sunny Saturday afternoon. In the shade of the yard’s lone tree, plastic chairs face a worn wooden table. Propped up against the tree beside the table is a flipchart outlining the meeting's agenda.  There are administrative details to take care of, but the primary topic on people’s mind is Calderon’s new plan.  Like many others here, Sosimo is concerned that the army will use this opportunity to disarm the Community Police.  For him, their presence is a provocation.

The arrival of federal troops poses a familiar challenge for the Community Police: throughout its twelve years of existence the organization has experienced near-constant tension with the state. They know that despite the accommodations they have won from the municipal authorities they could be seen by outsiders as just another armed, impoverished indigenous group.   This in mind, they have come in from their distant pueblos and gathered in the Community Police headquarters to formulate the group's response.  As they weigh their options, the discussion turns once again to reasserting their legitimacy.

Calderón has sent the army to Guerrero because he says that crime is out of control.  For the people at this meeting, he is 15 years too late. One man at this assembly, taller than Sosimo, and more dour, asks rhetorically, "where was the Army when we needed them? Why are they coming now, after we have gotten crime under control?"   These are many of the same men who took part in the formation of the Community Police in 1995, when the problem of crime loomed large in their region.  The small towns of La Montaña were isolated back then.  The under-staffed municipal and state police forces patrolled only the bigger towns, leaving the remote pueblos unguarded from criminals.    With no state presence, crime was rampant.  Bandits would regularly coordinate roadblocks on the major arteries of the region, where highjackers could systematically rob lines of halted vehicles, forcing passengers to lay face down in the dust as they stole everything of value.   The process often involved physical and sexual assault.  Lawlessness had also crept into the indigenous villages, and the crimes were violent. Rape and murder were not uncommon in this now quiet corner of Guerrero.

One night in 1995 these communities experienced a particularly grotesque assault.  A young girl was gang-raped and later died from her wounds, while the perpetrators escaped punishment.  The people had had enough.  Leaders from the girl’s community contacted representatives from the surrounding villages, calling for a regional assembly to address the endemic violence.   Present at the meeting were the elected representatives of thirty-six local villages from around San Luis Acatlán.   Leaders from the church and local agricultural cooperatives were also in attendance.  In calling for action, these men may have been emboldened by the Zapatista rebellion that had taken place the year before, but their ideas were of a decidedly different tenor.   This was not a full-scale revolt, but a targeted response to a dire need:  their lives and welfare were at risk because the state was unable to provide the security it promised. 

Valentín Hernandez, a young lawyer who has spent the last 10 years advising the Community Police, explains the mood of these first meetings.  He says that at this moment the people of La Montaña took “one of the most important steps in imparting justice,” because, “there were a lot of people at the meeting – obviously the people had suffered rape, assault, theft, murder – so, they were in a mood for revenge.  More than justice.  Revenge.  The assemblies wanted to lynch offenders, hang them, mistreat them.” 

But over the course of several meetings this impulse was transformed by an emerging majority of participants who argued that crime in La Montaña was an endemic problem and required a systemic, sustainable response.  No one pueblo was capable of fighting the bandits on its own; a regional response was necessary so that delinquents who fled one town could not escape to another.   Regional organization of this sort, unprecedented in La Montaña, pushed the limits of the law. The Mexican Constitution permits individual indigenous communities to govern themselves through their own “usos y costumbres” (norms and traditions), but there is no such protection for regional organization.

Slowly, the proposal for the regional Community Police emerged.  Each of the community representatives returned to his hometown and called a general assembly at which the townspeople would vote to support or reject the proposal.   After the initiative was ratified, which it was in all 36 communities, each town elected between six and twelve volunteer police officers to patrol the communities and major roads, arrest delinquents and turn them over to state officials.  The agricultural cooperatives, which were powerful in the region and had had too many loads of coffee stolen on their way to market, supported the new force with a truck and walkie-talkies.  Even the local municipal government of San Luis Acatlán was willing to endorse this new initiative, providing 20 rifles and arranging for the local army battalion to give Community Police officers basic training. 

The Community Police's impact on crime was immediate, and as a result the first years were its most violent.  Several officers were killed in battles waged between the informal police and the criminals they were trying to either arrest or expel.  Still, the resolve of the communities remained strong, and the local state officials were happy to have the help.  Shortly after the assault of a teacher and his wife in an unaffiliated village, the Municipal President encouraged the town to join the Community Police.   It was their best hope for protection. The town heeded his advice, and many others followed suit.  By 2001 the Community Police had grown to 60 communities, spilling over the borders of San Luis Acatlán into three of the surrounding municipalities.

An hour into the meeting, the moderator has completed the day’s administrative duties: he’s welcomed the crowd, taken attendance, and set the agenda.  He has also led a discussion to determine the scope of decisions that can be made at this meeting, given that the assembled representatives are not quite a quorum. While all topics will be discussed, a consensus is reached that the most important decisions won't be made until the next regional assembly when more are expected.  The moderator sits down, and an advisor to the Community Police stands to introduce the topic of the army’s recent arrival. Everyone will talk at the meeting.  Inclusion and consensus of meeting participants are cultural tenets in the region’s indigenous communities.

In this way, this meeting mirrors the general assemblies that are regularly held in the towns to discuss local matters.  Once a year at these meetings community members elect their town officials, including the local officers and the community Comisario, or town leader.  General assemblies and the role of Comisario pre-date the Community Police, even the Mexican state.  For these communities, being elected into an official office is seen neither as an honor nor as a burden. A Community Police Officer expressed this sentiment, saying, "Here we're accustomed to take on an official role every three years. Today it's my turn; tomorrow it's somebody else's. There is no discussion of 'why me?’”  

Traditionally, the Comisario has been responsible for maintaining the peace of his community, organizing communal work projects such as opening up roads in the rainy season, and planning town holidays.   In the first years of the Community Police, the Comisario was given the role of settling small disputes and handing over offenders of more serious crimes to the Mexican judicial system.  These new responsibilities were seen as a logical extension of the Comisario's traditional duties. 

Nevertheless, ultimate authority in the community remains with the general assemblies.  Unfortunately, the general assemblies do not, in general, represent all members in the community.  In particular, women’s voices are largely absent from community decision-making. Men constitute a substantial majority at general assemblies. When women do attend assemblies, the male majority often silences their voices.   Because women are rarely elected Comisario, the Community Police leadership is almost exclusively male.

Aware of women's absence from the decision-making bodies of the organization, the Community Police leadership established a Women's Committee in 1999 with hopes of incorporating women into their decision-making.  The Committee would also take on an advocacy role, working directly with female prisoners and victims.  However, the Committee's role in the leadership of the organization was never fully realized; before long the women found themselves limited to the role of advocate.  Adding to the gender disparities, women on the Committee are often confined by gender roles of the wider culture.  A member of the Committee explains, the leadership “uses its female members more as cooks than as members, calling on them only in specific cases [involving women]."

Currently, the sole voice of women in the Community Police is Blanca Nieve Callejas.  Blanca is a young, strong-minded single mother who brags that her daughter wants to grow up to be a lawyer to fight injustice like her mom. A survivor of domestic violence herself, Blanca estimates that 75% of women in La Montaña have experienced domestic violence, making it the greatest threat to security that women face.

As head of the Women’s Committee, Blanca Nieve is waging a one-woman fight to enhance women’s participation in the Community Police.  To make the organization more responsive to women’s needs, Blanca suggests that each community elect a woman to participate in the Community Police leadership.   In the end, though, it will take more than one voice to advance such a substantial reform.

A community member informs the group that San Luis Acatlán’s Municipal President has specifically clarified that the army is here not only to fight crime, but also to disband armed groups. Another reports rumors that President Calderon has a list of 300 individuals who are considered security threats or threats to state authority.  The leaders of the community police wonder if they are on the list. This would not be the first time they have been targeted.

Tension between state authorities and the Community Police first arose in 1998.  Over the course of three years of arresting criminals and turning them over to state officials, the Community Police had grown frustrated watching offenders get quickly released back into their communities after paying a fine or bribing officials.  In a system in which arresting officers are often offenders' neighbors, the risk of retribution from the released offender against the man who arrested him was high.  For the communities of la Montaña it had become apparent that the problem went beyond policing: the state's entire system of justice did not adequately meet their security needs.

In 1998, the communities decided to start an independent judicial and penal system. They set up a six-person committee, nominated annually from among the Comisarios, to hear cases, render judgments, and enforce sentences - the Regional Coordinating Body of Indigenous Authorities  (Cordinadora Regional de Autoridades Indigenas).   All communities that agreed to participate in the Community Police were now subject to these judges' jurisdiction and any victim of crime within and among these communities could turn to them for justice.  Here the judges enforced laws based on their communities' usos y costumbres, not formal legal statutes.  No lawyers were allowed, both because the ability to hire a good lawyer is just another way that the wealthy can buy freedom, and because lawyers' adversarial style struck community members as inconsistent with the restorative system they were trying to build.   Punishment was not to be punitive, but rather constructive - in the words of the Community Police, it is "reeducation."

Knowing that direct confrontation with the state justice system ought to be avoided, the Community Police established a policy to prohibit "double jeopardy.” If you are the victim of a crime you may choose to whom you take your grievance - to the municipal or community authorities.  But once a complainant has elected one system, it stays in that system..  This means that if a community member reports her claim to the municipal police and she is dissatisfied with the results she does not have the right to then appeal to the Community Police, or vice versa.

While the state was willing to accept and even encourage the communities' policing efforts, the establishment of parallel courts was viewed as a more direct threat to its authority.  The Community Police had also renamed its judicial branch to signify the broader coverage of the organization.  Now, as the "Regional Coordinator of Community Authorities," (Cordinadora Regional de Autoridades Comunitarias, CRAC), the organization was aggressively asserting what it saw as its right to mete out justice not just for indigenous victims and offenders, but for all criminals in their territory. This was intended to counteract the view held by the mestizo urban elite.  In Sosimo’s words, "they felt untouchable: ‘the indigenous can do what they want so long as it does not affect the mestizos.  Hang yourselves if you want, but don't include us.’”  But if there were people outside the reach of law, these indigenous peoples felt the system wouldn't work.

Rising tensions came to a head when, in 2001, state authorities arrested several members of the Community Police for deprivation of liberty of its inmates. This action was paired with an ultimatum: disarm yourselves or the Mexican army will disarm you.   Community Police leaders returned to their communities and put the decision to a vote, where they found overwhelming support for their cause and a desire to keep the system intact. The CRAC rejected the choice offered by the state and organized a march to the Municipal Palace in San Luis Acatlán. Five thousand community members showed up in support.  The state, now realizing the political risk of forcibly shutting down the Community Police, backed off. The two systems have co-existed ever since.

Today, each Community Police officer in San Luis carries with him an identification card issued by the municipal authorities.  The card provides umbrella coverage under the San Luis Municipal Police Force's gun license, theoretically protecting the officers from having their gun revoked by state authorities.   In return, the municipality is able to keep a list of all Community Police officers on file.   Technically, the identification cards should not be necessary: the .22 caliber guns carried by Community Police officers are within the limits permitted for private citizens.  Regardless, the Community Police is happy to have this sign of recognition.   Though they have found a relatively steady equilibrium working in parallel with the municipal governments, there is very little that protects the Community Police from the whims of the state or federal authorities.

"What if the army tries to disarm us again?" one man asks. He is standing up to speak, but still he is barely taller than the men sitting in front of him.  He is older than most of the others.  He elaborates his idea in a soft voice, and much of what he says cannot be heard over the squawking of roosters that scurry around the yard.
 
In the meandering flow of the meeting, the next man to speak goes on a tangent ranging far from the matter at hand, only to find his way back minutes later, and at last respond to the question asked.  "Then we'll organize another march," he suggests.  The meeting continues like this, with the moderator calling on people to contribute, and each one taking the opportunity to speak at length.  No one is interrupted.

A lot of what is said is repeated several times over as each man who is given the floor takes time to concur or disagree with each of those who went before him.  Still, there is a thrust to the meeting; the discussion does move forward. When the next speaker picks up the thread of the conversation, he says he isn’t sure that a march is their best strategy: "I don't think we would get the same turn-out as we did before," There is general agreement on this point – the people of their communities are less invested now in the Community Police than they were in 2001.

Families here have no shortage of immediate problems, and these days they are less motivated to dedicate their energy to maintaining the Community Police. This is the paradox of this organization. The Community Police has been tremendously successful; even state officials recognize this.  There are no good crime data for the region, but the number that is batted around is 95%, as in a 95% drop in crime in La Montaña since 1995.   While the security situation has deteriorated in almost every other part of Guerrero, La Montaña has become an oasis of peace.  Without a serious threat of crime, the commitment of the communities has waned.

Why were they so successful?  In the eyes of the indigenous communities, the municipal police had failed because there were no consequences to committing crimes in the region.  Many suspected that the police were corrupt.  With this knowledge, they constructed a system built specifically to prevent corruption and ensure accountability, a formula that has led to their success.  Abel Barrera, Director of Tlachinollan, argues, “In the state courts, power is concentrated in a single judge,” meaning that one only has to bribe a single person, and detecting this corruption can be difficult.  

By contrast, in the Community Police power is concentrated in the general assemblies of the participating communities.  Even the judicial arm is made up of a six-person panel, ensuring that no one person is so powerful that his corruption would alter outcomes.  Further insulating the system from corruption is the rapid turnover on the judging panel. Because Comisarios serve only one year, not only will their community spirit not be eroded, but even if they are inclined to act corruptly, the short term does not provide enough time to develop a moneymaking network. 

The frequent transfer of authority creates significant administrative problems for the Community Police, however.  Just as a leader has figured out how the system works and what could be improved, his time as Comisario is already coming to a close.  But this is a trade-off that the people are willing to make to ensure that no one person can abuse his power.  The ultimate authority of the Community Police is in the hands of each community's general assembly.  All decisions made by the organization are subject to their approval.

A visit to the Community Police’s prison showed that three former Comisarios, men elected by their communities to honorably represent them for a year.  But the three skimmed money from a community development grant they had solicited, and their community caught wind.   Complaints were made.  The Community Police carried out an investigation and found the men guilty. The three former Comisarios are a symbol of the Community Police's determination to stamp out corruption.  Sosimo, himself a former Comisario, knows that he is as accountable as anyone, saying, "We are all subject to the law." 

A cellmate of these Comisarios was turned in by his father for being an abusive drug-addict, and another is serving a one-month term for chopping at the town bell with his machete.   In all, there are currently forty men in the Community Police system.  The longest-serving inmate was found guilty of murder and has been incarcerated for two years.  

Jail-time, though, is not spent exclusively in jail.  Prisoners spend their days working in the communities on public projects and are in cells only at night and on weekends.  The work is central to the Community Police's commitment to “reeducation.”  In the words of Valentín Hernandez, "when the community arrests someone through the Community Police, and sends him to work, we are giving him a second opportunity … a second education."  The work also has a restorative quality.  Again, Valentín explains: "We will put the detainees to work so that they can mend the harm that they did to the community.  And, on the other side, give them an opportunity to be reevaluate their errors so that at some point they can return to their community."

In this way and others, the Community Police's judicial system is based on the same principles as contemporary restorative justice initiatives.   There is an emphasis on the victim's participation in all hearings, and a desire to broker agreements that will restore the damaged bonds of the community.  Typically, the members of the CRAC, the victim, the offender, and family members of both are present at trials.  While they are not opposed to imposing prison sentences, the committee of judges is more inclined to find a solution that is better tailored to the specific circumstances: if one person has stolen another's cow, then he must pay to replace the livestock, if one teenager impregnates another, he may be asked to marry the girl and provide a family for the child.   The CRAC is, above all, aware of the interdependence of community members.  Though a murderer may deserve to spend his life in prison, that lifetime of work does not help the victim's wife take care of her now father-less children, not to mention the murderer's children who will suffer now, too.  This is why the CRAC gives high priority to the wishes of the victim's family, which often include some jail time followed by release conditioned on monthly payments to the victim's family.

Along with anti-corruption and restorative justice, certainty of punishment is a central tenet of the Community Police. As with any justice system, though, trade-offs are made between a zeal to punish the guilty and a desire to protect the innocent.  The Community Police make an effort to conduct full investigations of every crime in order to avoid wrongful imprisonment, but it is worrying that they deny having made any mistakes. A to a high-ranking official asserted, “We’ve never incarcerated someone unjustly.”   This bold confidence is even more disconcerting considering that the Community Police judicial process has  no formal means of appeal; once a case has been adjudicated it is rarely revisited.  A local human rights organization, Tlachinollan, works closely with the Community Police to advocate for the rights of these indigenous communities both to state officials on behalf of the organization and to Community Police officials on behalf of victims who think they have been poorly treated.   In the end, though, the CRAC, Regional Assembly, and communities have the last word, meaning that, in a system that prohibits lawyers but encourages familial participation, outsiders and orphans are at a distinct disadvantage in the Community Police's judicial process.

More problems result from the Community Police's limited financial resources.  Though all six Comisarios are supposed to be present for the CRAC's investigations and trials, seldom are they all available.   Because the position of Comisario is unpaid, many claim that they cannot afford to be present at the central office.  They have their families and land to tend to and the trip to the central office itself can be expensive.  Even if the Community Police wanted to compensate its workers, it doesn't have the money for it.  The right-leaning municipal government may tolerate its existence, but the deliberate cutting off of municipal funding has had serious consequences.   At one low point last year, the Community Police was called about an escaping criminal, but the officers were unable to track him down because they could not afford to put gas in their truck.

The sun has moved across the sky, marking four hours of uninterrupted discussion.  The attendees gradually reposition their chairs to follow the limited shade and keep within earshot of one another.  By the end of the meeting, five points of action are outlined on the flipchart to address the army's arrival: 1) Inform community members; 2) Work with other organizations to strengthen local and regional support; 3) Write a letter to the Municipal President asking him to request the withdrawal of the army; 4) Stay alert and stay in constant contact - formally denounce any human rights abuses; and 5) Write a letter to the Secretary of Defense saying the federal government can’t use narco-trafficking as a pretext for shutting down the Community Police. 

These five steps provide a window into the Community Police's perception of their own legitimacy.  Steps one and two illustrate that, as one community argues, "the Community Police’s legitimacy is from the people.”  Steps three, four, and five draw on another important source of legitimacy: domestic and international rights and the Mexican government's responsibility to protect those rights.

In fact, much of the day’s discussion revolves around rights granted to the Community Police by the state and national constitutions and international accords.  While the Community Police formed in response to an immediate need with no thought to rights ratified in any United Nations charter, the organization has learned to employ rights language to justify its continued existence to an external audience.

The list of laws and covenants the Community Police uses to defend itself is extensive. Article 115 of the Mexican Constitution and Article 61 of the Municipal Organic Law of the State of Guerrero grant indigenous communities collective rights, including the right to provide public security. On an international level, the International Labor Organization's Convention No. 169 gives legal protection to indigenous communities that govern themselves.  Meanwhile, Article 1 of the UN International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights states that all peoples have the right to self-determination and that in no case may a people’s means of subsistence be taken from them.  The Community Police draw further support comes from the UN’s 1969 International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination, and the 1997 OAS Declaration of the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.
 
Most of the Community Police leadership can refer to these treaties by name thanks to efforts of the human rights organization Tlachinollan, which has worked with the Community Police for over a decade.  While the legal framework they call upon is not the sole source, or possibly even a principal source, of their legitimacy, it is an important medium for reaching formal authorities.  When the Community Police write Mexico's Secretary of Defense, they will ask for respect. From the Municipal President they ask for full faith and credit as a co-existing body.  It is likely that the Community Police’s letters to the Municipal President and the Secretary of Defense, rather than describing the need for security in the poor communities of La Montaña, will draw upon the Mexican Constitution, the Guerrero Constitution, and various international accords in making its case for legitimacy.

The call for formal denouncement of human rights abuses by the military – another of the decisions taken during the meeting – further illustrates that the Community Police relies on using international human rights standards for protection.   The human rights story, though, is not as clear as the leaders of the CRAC might argue. These arguments may be effective in providing the Community Police with some legal cover, but until women fully participate in the organization at all levels and it incorporates an appeals system, the organization’s ability to claim legitimacy through human rights standards may be incomplete.  This fact highlights the complexities of the Community Police’s claims of legitimacy.

The sun has chased these forty-two men and one woman at the meeting to the far end of the courtyard.  Most traveled to the meeting on public transportation, which is to say that they rode in the back of a pickup, and soon the last pickups will be leaving San Luis and heading back to the other communities. The meeting is adjourned with an agreement to touch base one month from now.  The front yard of the Community Police headquarters clears out two or three at a time, and by the end only the three Comisarios and two officers on duty are left, along with a woman who lives in San Luis and was hired to cook meals and work in the office.  The six clear the yard of its benches and walk over to the open-air kitchen, where hot tortillas and beans will soon be served up for dinner.

A few days before the meeting, Sosimo sits in his living room, holding a copy of the Community Police bylaws in one hand, the state constitution in the other.   When asked how the Community Police would respond if the state were to improve its justice system and provide proper security, Sosimo Mendoza says, "We would leave our arms ... and would shift focus to something else."   But there was a slight smile on his face that seems to betray Sosimo’s skepticism about this counter-factual.  It's almost inconceivable that the state could provide a justice system that reflects these communities' values.  For them, the Community Police is the right body for this task.

There are those who agree with Max Weber that the state has a monopoly on the legitimate use of force.  If this is true, then the only reasonable option for the people of La Montaña is to press their case within the political system, petitioning leaders to overhaul the state justice system until it responds to their needs.  By this reasoning, the course these communities chose is illegitimate because they have people usurped powers reserved exclusively for the state. 

But a growing body of evidence that suggests that Weber's thesis is outdated.  The Community Police of La Montaña is just one example of a trend towards non-state justice systems in poor countries.  Researchers have documented cases from Rangpur, India to Kenya to Colombia of marginalized communities policing themselves when the state does not adequately perform this function.   Informal justice initiatives span a broad spectrum. They can be community watch organizations that dabble in vigilante justice, or formalized, state-sanctioned conflict mediation groups that enforce traditional rather than state law.   As a field of inquiry, informal policing is relatively new, and the breadth of examples has outpaced the available frameworks for understanding these organizations and how they fit into the modern political landscape.  There is tention about just how to judge the legitimacy non-state justice systems.   

Informal policing has clear benefits – above all that it provides protection for the poor in an otherwise insecure world.  It can also be more cost-effective than state-led policing, its resolution of conflicts can be more appropriate for traditional communities, and it has the potential to reduce the pressure on already over-taxed criminal justice systems.  Informal policing is, at heart, a democratic endeavor: it is citizens participating in public structures for the social good.  All this while the leadership of many young democracies struggles to provide a justice system that responds to the needs of their citizens.

Still, there are worries about informal policing, particularly with regard to maintaining human rights standards.  If these police forces are only accountable to their own communities, where traditional power structures may be unbalanced, then marginalized individuals and groups within the community loose their ability to leverage outside support to ensure that their rights are protected.  They become objects of a system in which they are not participants.  Human rights groups can petition a government to change its practices, calling on international norms, but it is unclear how they exert any authority over a group like the Community Police.  The result is that marginalized community members can suffer the brunt of a system to which they do not ascribe, with no avenue for appeal.

An important variable in the calculus of accountability, therefore, is the extent to which a system’s rules and procedures are formalized.  Among the informal police systems, few are as regimented as the Community Police.  Over twelve years, the organization has developed operating procedures codified in writing that set standards for the behavior of officers and Comisarios. 

The Community Police is unique in other ways.  Within the literature there is no other example of a community-built system that reaches all the way from community patrol through sentencing and on to punishment through incarceration. Nor are other groups that have been documented as determined to take on all cases within their territory, including rape and murder. And with the possible exception of Ronda forces in Peru, there is no other example where the institutionalization of a non-state justice system is so enmeshed with the community culture. 

The wide variety of informal justice systems makes it difficult to establish criteria for evaluating that individual systems that are appropriate for all cases.  For many scholars, that’s the rub: if you accept that at least some non-state actors can use force legitimately, then the new challenge is to define what characteristics a group must have to gain legitimacy.  A lot rides on this judgment; your conclusion about the legitimacy of the Community Police will determine how you think the Mexican Government, NGOs, and the world community should respond to its existence.  At first glance it is easy to disregard this organization as just another armed peasant group.  The Zapatistas, in their quest for autonomy, have polarized the discussion, but there are important differences between them and La Montaña's organized poor, which merits them individual consideration.

The official line of the San Luis Acatlán municipal authorities is clear: the Community Police are "outside of the law."   The chief adviser to the Municipal President says, "We want the Community Police to have a legal way out, by taking away the illegal aspects of their organization. ... They can arrest, they can detain, but they can’t judge."   This deal is a nonstarter for the communities

The Community Police does not want to be co-opted by the state, and it staunchly defends its right to exist.   If you accept that the legitimate use of force goes beyond a simple state monopoly, then the Community Police is a good candidate for recognition as a legitimate organization.  It is a force that, in the face of serious shortcomings of the state, is embraced by community members, is highly participatory, has cut crime, has formalized its structure, and recognizes international human rights standards.

It is groups like this that challenge authorities to come up with more nuanced responses to non-state justice systems. In Zimbabwe, punishments meted out by local non-state councils are endorsed so long as they are not “repugnant to natural justice, or morality” or “contrary to the provisions of any [statutory] enactment.”   In Peru, leaders are debating a constitutional amendment that will mean greater regulation of non-state justice systems.  

In Guerrero, Mexico, the local Municipal Security Chief says cryptically of the Community Police, “Our relationship is one of total respect and coordination, even though they are outside of the law.”   This tight-wire act is tough to sustain, but until the Mexican government finds a way to effectively address the needs of La Montaña, it will be forced to live with this gap between its words and its actions.

In the meantime, the Community Police will remain focused on the tie that binds the two systems together.  “We have the same enemy,” Sosimo says, “which is crime.”    And while the government sorts out its position, Sosimo is sure that the Community Police will continue as it has: “This is what our fathers and grandfathers taught us - to impart justice."

From January 8-24, 2007, Ann Gurucharri and Tony Saudek traveled to the La Montaña region of Guerrero, Mexico, along with Nik Steinberg, to conduct field research on the Community Police.  The trip was generously sponsored by the Mexico Program at Harvard University’s Kennedy School of Government, in collaboration with the Escuela de Graduados en Administración Pública (EGAP) of the Tecnológico de Monterrey.  Over the two weeks the three of us traveled to several of the communities involved in the project, and interviewed over 30 people associated with the Community Police, including Community Police officials and police officers; community members; prisoners; state and local governmental authorities; and local human rights workers.

First and foremost, we would like to thank the generous people of La Montaña, and particularly the representatives of the Community Police, who offered unfettered access to all parts of their operation.  They not only shared their time and experience, but also inspired us with their deep commitment to public service. Likewise, our work would not have been possible without the input, insights, logistical support and care of Tlachinollan.  Thank you.

Finally, we would like to thank our research partner Nik Steinberg, and our advisor, Professor Chris Stone, both of whom helped us deepen our understanding of the Community Police and without whom this project would not have been possible.

Tuckman, Jo. “Drug Violence Raises Fears in Mexico.” International Herald Tribune. February 8, 2007.  Accessed on May 9, 2007 at: <http://www.iht.com/articles/2007/02/08/news/web.0208.globedrugs.php>
  CRAC Advisory Committee Meeting.  Personal Notes. 20 January 2007.
  ibid.
  Chief Security Officer, San Luís Acatlán.  Personal Interview. 15 January 2007. Recorder 2, Folder C, Track 14, 1:20:30
  San Luis Taxi Driver. Personal Interview.  21 January 2007.
  Tlachinollan Human Rights Center of the Montaña. Against the Silence and Abandonment: 10th Annual Report June 2003-2004. p. 114
  Sósimo Mendoza.  Personal Interview. 12 January 2007.  Recorder 2, Folder C, Track 9, minute 5:00
  Rojas, Rosa.  “Reducen hasta 95% la delinquencia en seis municipios de Guerrero.“ La Jornada. 27 September 2005.  Accessed on May 19, 2007 at: <http://www.sipaz.org/gro_scivil/just_comun/reduce_s.htm>
  SIPAZ.  “SIPAZ Report” Vol XI no. 1, January 2006.  Accessed on May 20, 2007 at: <http://www.sipaz.org/informes/vol11no1/vol11no1e.htm>
  Valentín Hernandez Chalpa.  Personal Interview.  13 January 2007.  Recorder 1, Folder S, Track 6.5, minute 42:00.
  Sósimo Mendoza, op. cit. Track 8, minute 7:50
  Abel Barrera.  Personal Interview.  11 January 2007. Recorder 1, Folder A, Track 2, minute 12:00.
  Sósimo Mendoza, op. cit. Track 8, minute 9:00
  Johnson, Jennifer L. “What’s globalization got to do with it? Political action and peasant producers in Guerrero, Mexico” Canadian Jnl of Latin American & Caribbean Studies, v26(52) September, 2001.
  Tlachinollan, op. cit. p. 118
  Serefina Navarete Lopez.  Personal Interview. 21 January 21 2007.
  Tlachinollan, op cit. 112
  Canabal Cristiani, Biatriz. Los Caminos de la Montaña: Formas de reproducción social en la montaña de Guerrero. Mexico: Universidad Autónomo Metropolitana. 2001. p. 126.
  Miguel Hernandez. Community Police Officer in Horcacita. Personal Interview. 14 January 2007: Recorder 2, Folder C, Track 11, minute: 9:00.
  Roberto Gamboa. Tlachinollan.  Personal Interview. 10 January 2007. Interview Tape 1, side B, minute 20:90.
  ibid.
  Blanca Nieve Calleja Hernandez. Representative of the Women’s Committee of the CRAC. Personal Interview.  15 January 2007. Recorder 1, Folder S, Track 6.7, minute 45:00.
  Tlachinollan, op. cit. p. 120
  Blanca Nieve Calleja, op. cit. Track 6.7, minute 12:30.
  ibid. Track 6.7, minute 34:00.
  ibid.
  ibid. Track 6.7, minute 45:00.
  CRAC, op. cit.
  Valentín Hernandez, op. cit. Track 6.5, minute 40:30.
  Sósimo Mendoza, op. cit. Track 8, minute 12:20.
  ibid. Track 8, minute 15:00.
  Abel Barrera. Director, Tlachinollan. Personal Interview. Recorder 1, Folder A, Track 2, minute 33:30.
  Sosimo Mendoza, op. cit. Track8, minute 16:30.
  Sosimo Mendoza, op cit. Track 8, minute 14:03.
  Abel Barrera, op cit. Track 2, minute 103:30.
  Abad Flores Herrera. Comisario and CRAC Representative. Personal Interview. 13 January 2007. Recorder 1, Folder S, Track 6.5, minute 38:00.
  Alberto Salgado Gómez. Secretary General San Luís Acatlán. Personal Interview. 15 January 2007. Recorder 2, Folder C, Track 14, minute 53:15.
  Community Police Officers from Miahuichan. Personal Interview. 21 January 2007.
  CRAC, op cit.
  Rosa Rojas, op cit.
  Abel Barrera, op. cit. Track 1, minute 34:00.
  Prisoners in Horcacita, including Luis Cortez Holiberra. 14 January 2007. 
  Sosimo, op cit. Track 8, minute 18:00.
  Prisoners in Horcacita, op. cit.
  Valentín Hernadez, op. cit. Track 6.5, minute 45:30
  Valentín Hernadez, op. cit Track 6.5, minute 46:00
  Sullivan, Dennis and Tifft, Larry.  Handbook of Restorative Justice. New York: Routledge. 2006.
  Abel Barrera, op. cit. Track 1, minute 43:30
  Florentino García García. Tresurer of the Judicial Branch of the Community Police and Secretary of the Executive Committee.  Personal Interview. 21 January 2007.
  ibid.
  Roberto Gamboa. Tlachinollan. Personal Interview. 10 January 2007. Interview Tape 1, side A, minute 11:00.
  Valentín Hernadez, op. cit. Track 6.5, minute 1:30
  Valentín Hernadez: op. cit. Track 6.5, minute 2:30
  Florentino García García, op. cit.
  CRAC, op. cit.
  ibid.
  Abel Barrera, op. cit.; Sosimo Mendoza, op. cit.; and Tlachinollan, op. cit. p.109, 112, 117, 119.
  CRAC, op. cit.
  ibid.
  Sosimo Mendoza, op. cit. Track 9, minute 3:55
  Johnson, op. cit.; Julio Faundez “Non-State Justice Systems in Latin America – Case Studies: Perú and Colombia.” January 2003. For the Department of International Development (DFID)(UK).
  ibid.
  Stevens, Joanna. Access to justice in sub-Saharan Africa. United Kingdom: Penal Reform International. 2000. p. 126.
  Hugo Frühling, “Police Reform and the Process of Democratization,” Crime and Violence in Latin America.  ed. Frühling, Hugo, and Tulchin, Joseph S. Washington DC: Woodrow Wilson Press Center. 2003. p. 21.
  Faundez, op. cit. p. 60
  ibid. p. 21.
  Alberto Salgado, op. cit. Track 14, minute 11:00
  ibid. Track 14, minute 1:23:00
  Stevens, op. cit. p. 52.
  Faundez, op. cit. p 61.
  Security Chief, op. cit. Track 14, minute 1:06:00
  Sosimo Mendoza, op. cit. Track 9, minute 1:00
  Sosimo Mendoza, op. cit. Track 8, minute 22:00