Ethnology of Africa

Chris Lockhart Round River Conservation Studies Utah State University

The Life and Death of a Street Boy in East Africa Everyday Violence in the Time of AIDS

This article focuses on the life history of a single street boy in northwestern Tanzania, whom I name Juma. I suggest that Juma’s experiences and the life trajectory of him- self and of significant individuals around him (particularly his mother) were struc- tured by everyday violence. I describe everyday violence in terms of a conjuncture between macrostructural forces in East Africa (including a history of failed devel- opment schemes and the contemporary political economy of neoliberalism) and the lived experience of individuals as they negotiate local, contextual factors (including land-tenure practices, the power dynamics between immediate and extended kin, life on the streets, and constructions of gender and sexuality). I suggest that AIDS and its many impacts on Juma’s life course can only be understood in a broader context of everyday violence. From this basis, I draw several general conclusions regarding AIDS prevention and intervention strategies.

Keywords: [violence, AIDS, East Africa, street children]

If you knew that all your days life will always be like this with blood flowing daily and men dying in the forest, while others daily cry for mercy; if you knew even for one moment that this would go on for ever, then life would be meaningless unless bloodshed and death were a meaning.

—Ngũgı̃ Wa Thiong’o (Weep Not, Child 1964)

This article examines the experiences and circumstances surrounding the life of a single street child in Mwanza, Tanzania. In doing so, it draws parallels between this individual’s life course and wider social and economic patterns that shape the lives and experiences of street children generally. The study frames the conjuncture and interplay between macrostructural forces and the lived experience of street children in terms of everyday violence, it and situates their vulnerability to AIDS within a violence paradigm. It suggests that multiple forms of violence have come to define the life course of East Africa’s street children—and a growing number of children

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MEDICAL ANTHROPOLOGY QUARTERLY, Vol. 22, Issue 1, pp. 94–115, ISSN 0745- 5194, online ISSN 1548-1387. C© 2008 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/j.1548-1387.2008.00005.x

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generally—to such an extent that AIDS and its impact on their lives is only fully understood in these terms.

The implications of this study are associated in part with the growing number of street children and orphans throughout East Africa, and their particular vulnerability to AIDS. In a four-year period, between 1990 and 1994, in Nairobi alone the number of street children increased from 4,500 to 30,000 (Macaloo 1994). According to some estimates, there are approximately 4,500 street children in Tanzania’s capital city of Dar es Salaam (Mehra-Kerpelman 1999), and at least 20,000 throughout the country (Rakesh Rajani, personal communication). In 1998, the number of street children in Mwanza, Tanzania (the location of the present study) was estimated to be more than 600 (Lockhart 2002).

Since most children experience the loss of at least one parent prior to life on the streets (UNICEF 2003), the number of street children will almost certainly continue to rise. Sub-Saharan Africa is the only region in the world where the number of orphans is expected to grow, an increase directly related to the rising proportion of children orphaned as a result of having one or more parent die of AIDS (UNICEF 2004). In Tanzania alone, the estimated number of orphans is close to two million, almost half of whom have lost a parent to AIDS (UNAIDS–WHO 2004).

Children themselves become more vulnerable to AIDS once they live outside of a family setting, such as on the street (UNAIDS–UNCF–USAID 2004). Preliminary evidence among street children in Mwanza supports this association by pointing to high rates of sexually transmitted diseases (Rajani and Kudrati 1993, 1996).

While the statistics and epidemiological associations between AIDS and a grow- ing number of East Africa’s children are significant, they are an imperfect reflection of more fundamental and causative processes. As this article suggests, contemporary ethnographic approaches to violence and their spotlight on the relational dynamics between power, suffering, and illness provide a more adequate explanatory frame- work for such purposes. By presenting the life—and death—of a single street child, the study situates AIDS and its impact as both a form and consequence of everyday violence.

Ethnographic Approaches to Violence: Some Critical Issues

The fundamental feature of ethnographic approaches to violence involves a more comprehensive definition of the concept that moves beyond direct acts of physical force and the “ethnographically visible” (Farmer 2004) to include those processes that contribute to social oppression and assaults on human rights and dignity (Bour- gois 1998, 2003a, 2003b; Farmer 2003; Green 1999; Scheper-Hughes 1992; Walter et al. 2004). In these accounts, violence is generally defined as normative, system- atic (or indirect), and at least partly hegemonic in nature. Relatedly, and as Paul Farmer (2004) points out, violence is deeply rooted in history and memory or, to be more precise, the erasure of history. Nancy Scheper-Hughes and Philippe Bourgois (2004b) have proposed conceptualizing violence as operating on a continuum from the physical to the symbolic and structurally embedded.

As the concept of “violence” has expanded to include broader structural forces and their impacts on human health, a central issue has become the relationship be- tween violence and poverty. Farmer has been the strongest advocate of a materialist

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approach to violence, and his use of the term “structural violence” is widely as- sociated with the suffering and oppression that result from severe poverty. Farmer defines structural violence as that “exerted systematically—that is, indirectly—by everyone who belongs to a certain social order” (2004:318). His body of work draws extensively on the intersection between history, political economy, and biol- ogy to draw a direct connection between underdevelopment, poverty, racism, and the spread of AIDS (Farmer 1992, 1995, 2003).

While Scheper-Hughes retains a focus on the economically marginalized, her con- cept of “everyday violence” focuses on the individual and routinized experiences of violence (Scheper-Hughes 1992). Bourgois applies the concept of “structural vio- lence” similarly and, like Scheper-Hughes, links the embodied experience of violence to local constructions of gender, race, and individual morality (Bourgois 2003a). Both accounts demonstrate the significance of multiple forms of violence among the poor and disenfranchised while simultaneously avoiding a linear correlation between violence and poverty.

These accounts also begin to shed light on the complicated and contradictory relationship between violence and power. The need to focus on this complexity and the “‘micro logics of power’” is significant because various forms of violence are best understood in terms of different forms of domination and oppression. When this complexity is not drawn out, Scheper-Hughes and Bourgois (2004a) warn that violence becomes a “black box” where macrostructural forces are unknowingly transformed into local manifestations of suffering. A growing body of work focuses on these issues in terms of the multiple and mundane aspects of violence and their significance to social structures and cultural processes in general, often drawing on examples that are notably symbolic and cultural in nature and far removed from the shantytown setting (see, e.g., Das et al. 2000; Kleinman et al. 1997).

Questions of power also relate to the degree of agency attributed to individuals at the local level. In fact, it is difficult to find individual acts of agency in ethnographic accounts of violence. Farmer (1992, 2003) is particularly notable in this regard, leaving little if any room for individual agency and choice and suggesting that structural violence is part of an overwhelmingly dominant and hegemonic force when it comes to the world’s poor and disenfranchised. Applying this perspective to AIDS research, he has been a strong and consistent critic of those who tend to overemphasize individual agency by focusing on health education, individual behavior change, and cultural belief systems. Farmer believes that such approaches tend to “romanticize” the capacity of those who are most vulnerable to the disease by seemingly ignoring or downplaying the more fundamental correlation between AIDS, social inequality, and severe poverty. Subsequently, they tend to feed public health strategies that implicitly blame the victims of structural violence and those groups who, by association, tend to be most vulnerable to infectious diseases like AIDS.

Situating the Present Study

The present study contributes to ethnographic approaches to violence and, as in the above-mentioned body of work, conceptualizes violence as operating on a con- tinuum from the physical to the symbolic and structural. Like Farmer, it situates

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violence and AIDS in a materialist framework, particularly by linking it to the im- pacts of neoliberalism and widespread privatization policies in East Africa. It avoids the economic reductionism associated with the term structural violence by focusing on various forms of violence at the local level, particularly how they arise as the result of an interaction between political and economic processes and the lived ex- perience of individuals as they negotiate local contexts (e.g., household and familial relationships, life on the streets) and symbolic capital (e.g., gender, sexuality, social legitimacy, risk, the politics of space). Scheper-Hughes’s term everyday violence is used here because it more effectively frames this local complexity while remaining attentive to the political economy of severe poverty.

Because this study focuses on the case of a single child, it also draws from the literature on childhood and violence, particularly the importance that body of work attributes to a life history approach (Korbin 2003). While much of that work has tended to define childhood, violence, and the relationship between them in terms of individual pathologies, specific settings, and linear life stages, the fundamental focus on violence over the life course remains an important contribution. By moving beyond the ethnographic present, a life history approach can shed light on the links between the lived trajectories and chronologies of children (and those around them) and what James Quesada (1998) calls the “chronic” and “lingering” forms (and consequences) of violence. In this way, it frames the complex, shifting nature of the conjuncture between macrostructural processes and local manifestations of violence and suffering within which AIDS and its impact must be situated, including short- and long-term vulnerability to the disease. A life history approach can also be used to distinguish between those times or critical events when the subjugating force of violence is overwhelming and when opportunities for agency, action, or intervention are taken (or the potential for positive returns may be greatest). In this manner, we are challenged to broaden our mandate when it comes to the alleviation of the violence and suffering that are the root causes of AIDS, while being encouraged to target more accurately specific AIDS prevention and intervention efforts in the process.

Methods

This study is based primarily on data collected in Mwanza over a 13-month period between December 1997 and January 1999. Data were also collected during two month-long follow-up visits in 2003 and 2006.

During the initial 13-month stay, I lived and worked on Bugando Hill, one of Tanzania’s oldest shantytown neighborhoods that sits directly adjacent to Mwanza’s central district. Each week between Wednesday evening and Monday morning, I lived and slept directly on the streets of Mwanza in the company of the city’s street children. This population numbered more than 600 at the time, an estimated 95 percent of whom were boys (Lockhart 2002).1 I formed strong friendships with many of the children, one of whom is the focus of this study. I have named this individual Juma (a pseudonym).

I interviewed Juma numerous times, all of which were conducted in Kiswahili, audiotaped, and transcribed into English. I also accompanied Juma on the streets each week, where it was possible to document hundreds of hours of observation and

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informal discussion. While the range of topics discussed were wide ranging, the most significant with respect to this study involved Juma’s recollection and knowledge of the following: (1) experience of life in a rural village, (2) circumstances surrounding the breakup of the rural household and the subsequent migration to Mwanza, (3) the attraction of and gradual introduction to Mwanza’s street scene, (4) survival strategies while on the street, (5) dangers and risks associated with life on the streets, and (6) sexual decision making and perceptions of AIDS.

Data collection also involved interviews and informal discussions with a number of key individuals. Included among these are: (1) people from Juma’s rural village (including extended kin); (2) members of his immediate family; (3) legal authori- ties, NGO workers, and social services personnel who interacted with Mwanza’s street children as part of their official duties; and (4) local businessmen, community members, and other, more informal groups who, for one reason or another, had an interest in street children.

Mwanza and Sukumaland

Mwanza is located on the shores of Lake Victoria in the northwest corner of Tanzania. It is the second-largest city in the country with an approximate pop- ulation of 411,900 (Mwanza Municipal Council 1997). With an annual growth rate around 11 percent (8 percent of which is through migration), it has been one of the fastest-growing cities in sub-Saharan Africa since the 1990s (Lugalla 1995).

From a historical standpoint, it is ironic that Mwanza has become a city of such size and importance. For over a century, colonial and independent authorities have been preoccupied with the region’s rural areas, an area generally known as Suku- maland. There are a number of reasons for this: the Sukuma people are the largest tribal group in Tanzania and have historically identified themselves as agricultural- ists, the region has more rural inhabitants than any other administrative area in the country, and conditions are ideal for growing cotton (Madulu 1998). A political morality espousing the virtues of rural life underpinned efforts by the German and British colonial governments to transform the region into a vast cash-cropping zone based solely on the production and export of cotton (Iliffe 1979). When Tanzania became independent in 1961, rural ideology became the bedrock of Julius Nyerere’s policy of Ujamaa, a socialist-inspired program that attempted to absorb the Sukuma into a national network of village production units, communal work patterns, and pan-African cultural values (Hyden 1980).

While the many schemes to retain, manipulate, and expand the rural workforce in Sukumaland absorbed the Sukuma into the cash economy, they were simultane- ously limited by a host of local historical and ecological factors (Greble 1971). These problems were compounded by Nyerere’s Ujamaa program and the government’s inability to manage widespread apathy if not outright hostility toward its policies in Sukumaland, which undermined support for the program, fed corruption, and resulted in disappointingly low levels of output (Hyden 1980). By the time Nyerere stepped down from office in 1985, the national economy was approaching near collapse, while in Sukumaland a long history of forced expansion and failed devel- opment schemes led to chronic problems involving land fragmentation and tenure

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in rural areas that, in turn, fed a massive influx of migrants to Mwanza (Lugalla 1995).

Against this backdrop, Tanzania became one of a succession of African countries in the mid 1980s to accept development loans from the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Bank (Havnevik 1993). As part of these loans, the government was compelled to adopt a series of structural adjustment policies, a stringent set of neoliberal conditions defined by producer price reforms, removal of subsidies, liberalization of internal and external trade, new foreign exchange regimes usually including severe devaluations, the introduction of cost sharing for state-supplied services, privatization, placing curbs on consumption patterns, and political reform and accountability.

Meanwhile, the first AIDS case was discovered in Tanzania in 1983; the nation now has one of the world’s worst epidemics with an adult (aged 15–49) HIV preva- lence rate of 8.8 percent (UNAIDS–WHO 2004). Epidemiological studies conducted throughout the 1990s have demonstrated high prevalence rates for both Mwanza and Sukumaland (Borgdorff et al. 1995; Todd et al. 1997). More recently, HIV sen- tinel surveillance of antenatal clinics in Mwanza between 2001 and 2003 showed that 15–19 percent of pregnant women were HIV+ (UNAIDS–WHO 2004).

Juma’s story unfolds against this historical backdrop of political and economic disappointment in Sukumaland. The liberalization of Tanzania’s economy, the adoption of structural adjustment policies, and the onset of AIDS are the most recent chapters.

Results

“The Shamba Just Rotted Away Beneath My Feet”: The Political Economy of Rural–Urban Migration in Contemporary Sukumaland

Juma spent the first six years of his life on his family’s rural shamba—or farm—in Shinyanga District, one of two administrative districts that make up Sukumaland. In 1996 (when Juma was four), the shamba included approximately two hectares of land that Juma’s father inherited from his father in accordance with the customary patrilineal land-tenure practices of the Sukuma. Like most smallholder farmers in the region, Juma’s father cultivated cotton and devoted a smaller patch of land to subsistence foods, including maize and sweet potatoes. At this point in time, there was not enough money or land to keep livestock. Household members included Juma’s parents, grandparents, and two younger sisters. Juma also had two older brothers, both of whom worked for a large diamond mine in a neighboring district. They had not returned home for almost two years.

With only two hectares of land and no livestock, Juma’s household was part of the lower income bracket. Moreover, there were strong indications that the shamba was coming under increasing stress. The cotton harvest had yielded steadily decreasing returns over the previous five years, a situation that locals attributed to deteriorating soil quality and the inability of farmers—including Juma’s father—to pay for fertilizer or keep portions of land fallow to recover from constant use. In fact, Juma’s father had sold three hectares of his land in 1993 to make ends meet and to pay off the balance of a loan he owed to a private cotton trader. The trader charged

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a very high interest rate on the loan, which he provided under the condition that Juma’s father sell his crop to him at a substantially lower price than market value. According to neighbors, this transaction with the trader—who by all accounts had a somewhat shady and manipulative reputation—had left Juma’s father in greater debt than before.

In September 1996, Juma’s uncle, aunt, and their three young children came to live with them, which caused an already vulnerable household to come under even greater stress. The circumstances surrounding their move—the Bulyanhulu Gold Mine incident—are noteworthy for the particularly egregious nature of what occurred there in the name of powerful corporate and state-sponsored interests. While the Bulyanhulu Gold Mine has a controversial and complex history, it is worth providing a brief summary of these events.

In 1994, and in large part because of SAP-induced changes to Tanzania’s min- ing policy, a Canadian gold corporation purchased the Bulyanhulu Gold Mine in the Bulyanhulu area of Shinyanga District. Almost immediately, the corporation began legal proceedings to evict the residents who lived and worked in the area. Despite a ruling by the High Court of Tanzania against the Canadian company, the government of Tanzania, under intense international pressure, ordered paramilitary security forces to move against the communities and commence the evictions in Au- gust 1996. According to some estimates, upward of 200,000 people were forcibly removed from their homes and communities (Lawyers Environmental Action Team [LEAT] 2003). The incident has since drawn international attention from dozens of legal, environmental, human rights, and social justice groups throughout the world who have highlighted a long list of legal violations and human rights abuses, including the murder of more than 50 individuals. Today, the mine has become one of the world’s largest, richest, and most modern gold mines, in part because of financing provided by a consortium of commercial banks from around the world and insurance guarantees totaling over $345 million from the World Bank and the Canadian government (LEAT 2003).

Juma’s uncle lived in one of eight Bulyanhulu communities that were razed to the ground as part of the forced removals. Having no where else to go, he turned to Juma’s father, who was obligated to help his only brother and his family. As a result, household membership almost doubled in size, increasing from seven members to 12. It was obvious that the shamba could not support this increase, and in December 1996 Juma’s father and uncle were forced to leave the shamba to seek off-farm employment. Both men found work in the same diamond mine as Juma’s two older brothers.

Over the next year, Juma’s father returned home once to help with the harvest. While it was apparent that he was physically very ill during this visit, he returned to the diamond mine to resume work after only two weeks. In February 1998, Juma’s uncle returned from the diamond mine with the news that his father had passed away.

Juma’s mother believed that she should inherit the family shamba, but his uncle contested her claim, which led to a significant rift in the household. His uncle’s argument proved to be the stronger one, however, because it was reinforced by the traditional patrilineal inheritance practices of the Sukuma. Juma’s grandparents also pressured his mother to follow the traditional custom of widow inheritance

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and marry his uncle. She flatly refused to do this, and the rift within the household grew significantly. In the midst of their dispute, Juma’s uncle made it known that his brother had died of AIDS and accused Juma’s mother of infecting him with the virus. According to Juma’s mother, there were also accusations of witchcraft against her within the community:

People are just foolish and believe what they want to believe. They were talking behind my back, accusing me of being a witch, pointing at me, and spreading all kinds of gossip. But all of this was just a plan by my brother-in-law and his wife to kick me off the shamba because they knew there was not enough land to support all of us. Even if I agreed to marry [my brother-in-law] he would not have taken me as his second wife because it was not possible to support us, and [his first wife] would not have allowed it anyway. It was good for him to say I was a witch and that I gave my husband AIDS. I lost everything in this way . . . the shamba just rotted away beneath my feet. [Juma’s mother, November 1998]

After two weeks of accusations, arguments, and increasingly violent altercations, Juma’s mother began to seriously fear for her safety. During the first week of March 1998, she woke Juma and his two sisters late one night, and together they fled the shamba. She had made the decision that they were going to begin a new life in Mwanza.

Sex, Survival, and the Process of Becoming a “Nyenga Dog”

Juma’s mother had only one contact in Mwanza: a male cousin with whom she had a relatively close relationship. While he was making preparations to move to Dar es Salaam when Juma, his mother, and his two sisters arrived in town, the cousin managed to secure a small room for them to rent in a neighborhood about one mile from Mwanza’s downtown center. He also paid their rent for the first two months, which gave Juma’s mother some time to find work and settle in. The only work she could find, however, was as a street vendor selling fish in the downtown center. The work demanded most of her time and required that she be gone from early morning until late evening each day. Unfortunately, she did not make enough money to meet the daily costs of living, including rent (which was almost doubled by the landlord after the initial two months), food, and school fees for Juma (his two sisters never attended school after the move to Mwanza). As a result, she pulled Juma out of primary school for half of each week to help his sisters with domestic work and household chores, while she engaged in part-time sex work to generate extra income:

I accepted the offers of several men—but I kept it at a business level and made sure it was a fair exchange. I kept several boyfriends who gave me almost as much money as I made with my small business. But most were like all men and not reliable. Sometimes they were nice to me and sometimes they beat me and gave me nothing. I tried to find three stable boyfriends, but

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this was not easy because most men are not reliable. [Juma’s mother, November 1998]

As apparent in the above quote, Juma’s mother attempted to maintain a stable exchange-based relationship with a minimum number of “boyfriends,” a practice she continually defined in terms of a core set of pragmatic, businesslike ideals. In fact, she often contrasted these relationships with those of “professional prostitutes,” a distinction that was common among many widows on Bugando Hill (see, e.g., Lockhart 2005).

In June 1998, Juma’s mother moved the household to Bugando Hill to be closer to Mwanza’s downtown center and eliminate travel costs. She had befriended a Sukuma woman from Shinyanga District who was also a widow and willing to share the rent on her two-room mud hut where she currently lived with her two children. The move precipitated Juma’s complete withdrawal from primary school, and he began to spend his days running errands for his mother and helping with household chores. Over the next several years, he became familiar with Mwanza’s downtown center and befriended several street boys of his age:

They [two street boys] were the only boys I knew who were my age. I didn’t know other children because I didn’t go to school and I was always working. But I would be [downtown] and see these boys, and we would go swimming or play soccer. Mama didn’t like them and told me to stay away from them, but I didn’t always do this because they were my only friends and they were fun to be with. [Juma, June 2006]

Juma’s relationships with street boys during this time were relatively ephemeral and based in large part on entertainment and recreation.

By the end of 2002, the health of Juma’s mother began to deteriorate noticeably, and she could no longer leave home or work. One of Juma’s sisters had died of malaria the year before, and he was forced to seek work while his remaining sister took care of their mother. Juma turned to his street boy friends to earn money:

Mama was very sick and suffering greatly. She told me that I must find work and try to earn money for us. I began to wash cars with my friends because I knew they earned money in this way. I did other little jobs too. There was nothing else for me to do because there is no work in Mwanza. I also wanted to be with my friends because things were hard at home and [my mother’s housemate] only wanted my money for rent and chased me off if I had nothing. [Juma, June 2003]

Over the next year, Juma spent all of his days and roughly half of his nights living and working on the streets of Mwanza.

As a part-time street boy whose survival was now dependent on living and working on the streets, Juma quickly discovered that his relationships with other street boys were of a much different character from before:

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Many boys in my age group washed cars during the day. Older boys didn’t do that. But they [older boys] took our money. If we didn’t give them our money they would beat us. Sometimes other boys would try to steal our business . . . then we would get the older boys to teach them a lesson, or we would gang up on them. Only some of us were able to wash cars [in that area]. We didn’t give our business away to just anybody who came along. [Juma, June 2006]

As Juma grew increasingly dependent on the streets for his survival, he was simultaneously initiated into the world of Mwanza’s street boys, which was based on a hierarchical and well-disciplined network of power relations. Power and access to scarce resources were distributed among the street boys in terms of several key factors, including age, territory, time on the streets, and toughness.

In most cases, boys who were recent and untested arrivals to Mwanza’s streets were easily noticed by other street boys, often within a matter of days. In Juma’s case, however, his preexisting friendships with several street boys facilitated his entry onto the streets and, together with his part-time status, made him less conspicuous. Subsequently, he managed to delay for almost three weeks the more violent ways in which status and power were displayed and maintained among street boys. Once he began spending his nights on the streets, however, he was quickly noticed by a wider segment of Mwanza’s street boy population and, like all newcomers, was “initiated” into street life through a sexual practice involving anal penetration known in colloquial terms as “kunyenga”:

A group of five or six older boys told me they wanted to show me a secret place among the rocks above town. . . . I didn’t want to go because I was scared. But I had no choice because I knew they would beat me if I didn’t go. When we got there, they raped [in Swahili “nyengaed”] me. It hurt badly and I was bleeding everywhere. They told me to stop crying and be tough because I was going to have to act like man if I wanted to be a “nyenga dog.” They said, “We are by ourselves” [in Swahili “Sisi kwa sis”]. Then they started barking and acting crazy and throwing rocks at me and told me to run [to my friends]. I was really scared. . . . I thought that maybe that was it for me and that I would die right there. [Juma, June 2006]

As traumatic as this event was for Juma, he often spoke of it in terms of how naı̈ve to the reality of street life he believed himself to be at this time, and as a means of contrasting how “weak” and “soft” he was to his eventual status as “one of the tougher guys on the street.” In fact, kunyenga became a routinized part of his life on the streets, as it was for all street boys, because it was the most overt and widespread means of displaying and maintaining the power hierarchy that defined their social networks (for a more detailed description of kunyenga, see Lockhart 2002).

In January 2004, Juma’s mother was admitted to the AIDS ward of Bugando Hospital where, according to hospital records, she died of the disease three weeks later. Juma immediately tried to locate his sister and bring her to a local street children’s shelter, but he learned from his mother’s housemate that a male friend

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had taken her to Dodoma (in central Tanzania) to employ her as his domestic servant.

The death of Juma’s mother precipitated his status as a full-time street boy and, at the age of 12, he became entirely dependent on the streets for his survival. His only option was to turn to Mwanza’s network of street boys for support and acceptance and, in so doing, to embrace fully the mores and behaviors of life on the street.

As a central component of that life, kunyenga became a regular practice for Juma, and he participated in kunyenga activities with other street boys approximately two to three times each week. As was the case with most street boys, Juma rarely spoke of kunyenga as a sexual practice. Instead, he defined it in terms of toughness and as a display of power and authority over other street boys. In fact, kunyenga was inseparable from the need to develop and constantly maintain an image as a tough kid, which was an essential means of acquiring respect among the other boys. Juma continually referenced this relationship among kunyenga, respect, and identity when discussing his membership in a local gang, who referred to themselves as the “Nyenga Dogs”:

I do everything with those guys [Juma’s gang consisting of 15–20 other boys] because if I didn’t I would be alone out here and easier prey for other guys, especially the older ones. I don’t think I’d survive for very long. But we are the “Nyenga Dogs,” you know? That’s what we’re called because everybody knows us as a group of guys who don’t take shit from anybody. For me, the problems always come about when I’m caught out on my own, or if a group of older, stronger boys make a point to teach us a lesson for one reason or another. Then we’re all fucked. [Juma, May 2006]

As a member of the Nyenga Dogs, Juma found a way to survive on the streets of Mwanza over the next several years while gradually gaining respect among street boys as a tough kid.

The Spatial Grounding of Life on the Streets

Space was an important structuring feature of Juma’s survival on the streets as a Nyenga Dog. His gang was strongly identified with several blocks adjacent to the downtown center (which was itself a neutral territory where all street boys roamed). As Juma discussed on numerous occasions, his personal vulnerability increased dramatically whenever he ventured from the specific territory associated with the Nyenga Dogs:

If I go to [another neighborhood] where I’m not known, whoever owns that place will want to hurt me. They don’t know me and maybe they don’t know I’m a Nyenga Dog. They only see me as a piece of shit who’s all alone. It doesn’t have to be other [street boys] either—people who live there, guards, police, whoever . . . I’m just a piece of shit to them. But here it’s different. [Juma, May 2006]

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Throughout Mwanza, certain groups or gangs of street boys were associated with specific neighborhoods. Association with a specific territory was critical for survival, as it afforded individual boys like Juma a much higher degree of physical and emotional protection. It also strengthened their social networks, which were themselves important pathways for the flow of material goods and information critical for day-to-day survival. As gangs defined and policed their territory, much of the violence experienced by Juma and other street boys—including kunyenga activities—was tied to the control of that space. Subsequently, the nexus defined by kunyenga, survival, and the search for respect was grounded in the politics of space and the struggle over specific territories between different gangs of street boys.

The spatial grounding of Juma’s life as a Nyenga Dog was reinforced further by certain external factors. Specifically, as a result of ongoing retrenchments and extensive cutbacks in government services, Mwanza’s social services adopted a somewhat unofficial policy of containing the city’s street boys to the downtown center and surrounding neighborhoods. Boys who were caught outside of these areas were subject to arrest or fell victim to one of the city’s infamous “roundups.” A containment approach to the “street boy problem” was also practiced by armed groups of private militia composed of local citizens who patrolled Mwanza’s streets at night. These groups, known as sungu sungu, arose in the early 1980s in response to an increase in crime across the country coupled with a growing disillusionment with the police force. These factors, coupled with the fact that the survival strategies of street boys depended on being in close proximity to Mwanza’s downtown center, made it difficult for individual street boys like Juma to break free from the social behaviors and street culture that garnered respect and ensured survival. For Juma, as with most street boys, life on the streets was both spatially circumscribed and socially all-encompassing.

The Death of Another Street Boy

Late one night in August 2006, Juma was caught sleeping on the rooftop of a downtown shop by a group of sungu sungu. He had many prior encounters with the sungu sungu, most of which resulted in violent beatings and possibly several days in jail. This time proved to be no different: the particular group of individuals who caught Juma were notorious for their harsh treatment of Mwanza’s street boys. They beat Juma severely, dumped him upside down in the open sewers that line the city’s streets, stole what few possessions he had, and turned him over to the local police. The latter, who did not have the time, staff, or facilities to deal with street boys, immediately sent Juma to Butimba Prison on the outskirts of the city. Street boys were often sent to this facility, which is Tanzania’s second-largest prison, where they shared cells with violent adult offenders for days at a time before being released back onto the streets. Accounts of physical and sexual abuse being inflicted on the boys by adult prisoners were commonplace. In this instance, Juma was placed in a cell with two men who beat and raped him repeatedly over a period of three days before he was released.

According to other street boys, Juma was in severe pain and attempted to get admitted to Mwanza’s Bugando Hospital but was unable to do so because he could not pay the (equivalent of US $5.00) admittance fee. He also feared being arrested

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and beaten by the hospital’s security guards, which had happened to him on at least two other occasions. On his last night alive (two days following his release from Butimba Prison), several of Juma’s friends brought him once again to the gates of Bugando Hospital. However, they were chased off by a group of sungu sungu and forced to abandon him because he was in too much pain to move.

According to officials, Juma’s body was found the following day on the banks of the Mirongo River about a quarter-mile from where he was last seen by his friends. No attempt has been made to piece together what happened on that night and, as has been the case with the deaths of many street boys, the official response to Juma’s death was a mixture of ignorance, indifference, and expression of futility. When questioned, one member of the sungu sungu who was reportedly present that night shrugged and said, “He was found on the Mirongo River, right? Well, they don’t call it a river of shit for nothing.” While it was confirmed that Juma died of severe hemorrhaging, the exact details surrounding the final hours of his life remain a mystery.

AIDS, Risk, and the Impossible Horizon

Juma was aware of HIV/AIDS and had heard of the disease on many occasions. While many of the city’s street boys had one or more parents die of the disease, they rarely spoke of HIV/AIDS in this context. Most references to HIV/AIDS by street boys centered on the immorality or sexual promiscuity of women and how they were to blame for spreading the virus to the general population. They frequently pointed to Mwanza’s hardcore group of professional prostitutes in this respect, most of whom were well known and easily identified. On no occasion did Juma or any other street boy speak of their own vulnerability to HIV/AIDS as a result of kunyenga activities, which they viewed as a risk-free “practice” or “pretend” sexual activity, or as an assertion of power and authority within their intensely hierarchical network of relations. In most cases, kunyenga was thought of as a form of physical aggression and lacked sexual connotations or references.

Juma reflected the general sentiment among Mwanza’s street boys that HIV/AIDS was a comparatively inconsequential problem in the context of day-to-day survival on the streets. He regularly denied the risk of HIV/AIDS in this manner, often expressing complete incredulity and shocked amazement whenever it was brought up as a potential threat:

AIDS? Are you serious? AIDS is like a cloud on the horizon. But the pain in my stomach is here, now. It’s in me. Don’t talk to me about distant clouds, my friend. When you live like shit and die like flies, you can’t be bothered by things like that. [Juma, June 2006]

As was the case with most of Mwanza’s street boys, HIV/AIDS was contextually remote in the culture of pragmatism and immediacy that necessitated their survival. Direct and overt acts of violence were defining features of their day-to-day lives, and the experiences and risks associated with such acts influenced their behaviors to a great extent.

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“Some People Are Eaten and Some People Are Eaters”

Juma had many things to say about the events of his life and his experiences on the streets. In July 2006, just three weeks before his death, we sat together on the rocks overlooking Lake Victoria—as we had done on many occasions—and I listened to Juma as he reflected on his past and expressed his thoughts and hopes for the future:

Juma: I know that for myself, I would like to become a doctor some day. Every day I see the suffering of people. Every day. Every day of my life. And I am one of them. I suffer too. [I am] always going around hungry and . . . [have] nothing. And this is all I see. Shit. As a doctor I could help people with their suffering. Do you know this? This would be the number one thing for me. This would be the number one most important thing. To become a doctor. I can’t do this [gesturing toward the streets] for the rest of my life. Truly, it will kill me. No, this is all practice to become self-reliant. This life on the streets is like a teacher, it is like school, eh? Do you know that it is teaching me the number one thing: to become my own person. To be tough. I am much different from how I was when you last saw me. I am a tough nyenga boy! [Laughs]. I am much stronger and self-reliant than I was before. I think that I can handle any situation. Before I was just a kid, a scared little shit. Now? Now, I’m becoming a man. A man! [Yells out over the lake while beating his chest].

CL: “So, a doctor . . .

J: Yes. Truly. Do you know that I can do this? This is what I need to do . . . is to receive an education. But this is difficult for somebody like me. No money for books, for tuition, for a school uniform, nothing. It is expensive. This is the only thing holding me back. This fucking money. . . . But you know this [street children’s organization] can offer me an education for free . . . well, you have to work and stay with them. You know. When the time is right, I will enter that place. Then I will become a doctor [starts dancing around the rocks]. But you know I can enter that place any time I want. I know that guy who works there . . . [mentions the name of an outreach worker]. I will do that just as soon as the time is right. But I like my freedom now, so I’m not ready to enter just yet. Soon, soon, soon, soon, soon. Like maybe in one year. My education on the streets is not yet over [laughs]. I’m telling you the truth.

[Break in the conversation as we go swimming. Afterward, as we dry off, we hear American rock music begin playing from the Capri Point neighborhood, where most of the white population lives, and where DeBeers, the South African diamond corporation, has constructed an extensive network of elaborate mansions. Juma stares in the direction of the music for a moment and begins an exaggerated dance.]

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J: This is how the white people dance. [laughs] You know what? I think some people are eaten and some people are eaters.

CL: What do you mean?

J: You see the eaters . . . you know all this bad luck that follows me around? Always suffering. All this shit, you know?

CL: Where do you think this shit comes from, Juma? Or who or what is to blame?

J: Somebody is always eating and some are always suffering. I think these guys who came to see my mother—these guys who drive around in their cars and wear their fancy suits. Like these traveling businessmen. These guys are to blame. They’re going about with their big bellies, preying on schoolgirls and others who can’t protect themselves and spreading AIDS. Truly. They gave my mother AIDS. But I don’t know where they come from and how they came to be. And these people don’t just drop from the sky.

You always ask me these questions, but I can’t give you the whole story. What can you tell me? We’re brothers now. What can you tell me?

Discussion

Everyday Violence and AIDS over the Life Course

Juma died of an overt and extremely brutal act of violence. That act, however, resulted as much from the long-term and cumulative effects of everyday violence as it did from the hands of the individuals who perpetrated it. AIDS was a major factor in Juma’s life, but, like the circumstances surrounding his death, its impacts are best understood against a larger backdrop of violence and suffering.

Violence manifested itself over the course of Juma’s life through an increasing number of events and circumstances characterized by social and economic insecurity; the lack of choice; and mental, emotional, and physical vulnerability. While such events and circumstances can and must be linked to macrostructural and political– economic processes, Juma experienced them through a lens of local meanings and social relationships. Additionally, some of the more important forms of everyday violence—in terms of their impact on the course of Juma’s life—were exacted more directly on members of his immediate household (and his mother in particular). AIDS and its impact on Juma’s life—and the lives of a growing number of East Africa’s children—are best understood when situated in a violence framework that critically examines the links between broader structural factors in East Africa and such things as local and household power dynamics, affiliations between immediate and extended kin, and constructions of gender and sexuality.

As with so many children in East Africa, Juma’s story begins by being born into a rural household that was already under considerable economic stress. The economic security of his household was steadily undermined throughout his early

Everyday Violence in the Time of AIDS 109

childhood for a number of reasons: (1) a shrinking and increasingly unproductive land base as large-scale farmers and private interests competed for space in the region, (2) insufficient land to maintain sufficiently long fallow periods from a sustainability perspective, (3) a steady decrease in prices for cotton on the global market, (4) an increase in the costs of agricultural inputs like labor and fertilizer, (5) a growing debt and dependency on a private cotton trader, and (6) a general loss of support over the years because of a shift in state services to support large-scale capitalist enterprises. In addition, the household experienced the negative impacts of a liberalizing and largely unrestricted mining industry via an unsustainable increase in household membership and the subsequent breakup of the family unit under considerable duress.

The factors characterizing the disintegration of Juma’s rural household (and, ultimately, the death of his father) are important because they can be directly related to Tanzania’s neoliberal turn and implementation of SAPs since the 1980s. In fact, there is growing evidence that these policies have combined with decades of failed colonial and postcolonial rural development schemes in Sukumaland to create a political economy that effectively undermines the security of small-scale farmers and farming households (Havnevik and Harsmar 1999; Madulu 1998).

AIDS becomes relevant in this context, since there is considerable evidence from sub-Saharan Africa associating higher prevalence rates and increased risk with sit- uations where household security is undermined (UNAIDS–UNCF–USAID 2004). In Sukumaland, the regional boom of the mining industry that characterizes a large part of its cash economy is particularly noteworthy, since the social dynamics that define migrant labor enclaves generally and mining centers specifically serve as es- pecially effective diffusion points for sexually transmitted diseases, including AIDS (World Economic Forum 2002). Violence manifested as household insecurity and forced migrations—and its relationship to the spread of AIDS—are thus linked to the unique political economy of the region.

Following the death of Juma’s father, the structural forces and impacts of Tanzania’s neoliberal development policies conjoined with traditional land-tenure practices and gender meanings to disempower Juma’s mother and undermine her position within the shamba. Her experience is not unique; among the sources of inse- curity during the liberalization period has been the increased incidence of “land grab- bing” by in-laws and the inability of women to acquire their own land (Havnevik and Harsmar 1999). Despite the passage of legislation in Tanzania designed to al- low women to inherit, hold, and dispose of property, there is a strong social bias against female ownership of land, which has been exacerbated by the scarcity of fertile land, the costs involved in acquiring it, and the huge extent of land alienation by the state. Under these circumstances, there is evidence of a growing number of overtly violent encounters and discriminatory practices between widows and in-laws (Lockhart 2005). Like Juma’s mother, such conflicts often lead to forced migration under difficult and traumatic circumstances and an exodus of landless women and their children to the city.

In this context, AIDS emerged as a potent and particularly stigmatizing accusa- tion against Juma’s mother. This incident reflects a growing phenomenon in East Africa in which previously married women2 are being blamed for the spread of AIDS (Ntozi 1997; Lockhart 2005). Such accusations have strong historical precedents

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and are deeply rooted in cultural meanings that legitimate a woman’s identity in terms of marriage and motherhood, while denouncing the unmarried and previously married woman as a potentially malevolent and destructive force (Ntozi 1997). The steady increase in rates of divorce, separation, and widowhood in the contemporary social environment are of special concern because Tanzania’s current political econ- omy seemingly has little role for them. Under these circumstances, and as was the case with Juma’s mother, the concurrent spread of AIDS has become an easy and effective weapon to use against women to discredit them and undermine their civil rights. In this respect, conflicts over inheritance and property rights in rural areas are one of the most pronounced examples of how AIDS as accusation interacts with gender and violence.

In Mwanza, everyday violence continued to be a defining feature of Juma’s household, specifically in terms of the situation of his mother and the ways in which failed economic liberalization programs played out along gender lines. As is the case with almost every urban center in Tanzania, Mwanza’s infrastructural investment has not been able to keep pace with the rapid influx of rural migrants, resulting in the slow emergence of a skilled labor force, rising unemployment and crime rates, shortages of goods and services, and the substantial growth of shantytown settlements (Lugalla 1995). Throughout Tanzania, the formal cash economy of its cities has remained a place almost entirely dominated by men, and women have largely been excluded from the development process (Tripp 1997). Like so many women, Juma’s mother turned to the informal economy, working as a petty trader and local food distributor. However, she did not earn enough money to survive and was compelled to combine activities and diversify her survival strategies while removing Juma from school to help with domestic duties and to earn extra income.

Ultimately, Juma’s mother was forced to engage in “survival sex,” or a series of sexually and economically dependent relationships with men. As a practice rooted in social and economic impoverishment, engendered power disparities, and the lack of choice, survival sex is both a form and consequence of everyday violence. The ways in which survival sex obscures the line between sexual practices and meanings and various forms of symbolic, sexual, and physical abuse give it a particularly hegemonic quality. As in the case of Juma’s mother, the practice must also be situated against a temporal background and the long and progressively limiting set of circumstances that bring an individual to that point.

For Juma’s mother, survival sex as a form and consequence of everyday violence ultimately led to her death from AIDS. Her case illustrates how violence contributes in both a long- and short-term manner to women’s sexual and economic dependency on men, which is a growing phenomenon among women throughout sub-Saharan Africa (Wojcicki 2002). As such, it is an important framework for situating behav- ioral and group risk for AIDS, as well as for understanding how individuals might conceptualize their personal risk for the disease.

Like his mother, Juma also became the victim (and perpetrator) of everyday violence as represented by his engagement in kunyenga activities, or a form of survival sex unique to street boys. Following his mother’s prolonged illness and eventual death from AIDS, he was forced into a world where the imperative of day- to-day survival was established by a hierarchical network of relations among street boys. In this world, power and respect were determined by acts of sex and violence

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on a daily basis and reinforced by a distinctly masculine ideology of toughness. As with many street boys, Juma’s life on the streets was all-encompassing and related to a spatial disciplining via the internal dynamics among gangs of street boys, as well as the “containment policies” of a crumbling and overwhelmed social service sector combined with the often brutal acts of the private militia groups known as sungu sungu. To use a term from Bourgois (1996), such containment policies led to an “inner-city apartheid” in which multiple forms of violence were made meaningful and could circulate unchecked.

In terms of AIDS, the meanings and practices that made up kunyenga activities among street boys blurred the lines between sex and overt acts of violence, in addition to increasing Juma’s personal risk. At the same time, everyday violence and the ways Juma experienced it on the streets created a culture of pragmatism and immediacy that shaped risk and pushed AIDS to the horizon of consideration.

Future Directions

Situating AIDS in a violence framework that highlights individual life histories and trajectories focuses attention on those factors that force individuals down paths that steadily (or abruptly) increase their vulnerability to the disease. While it continues to highlight the ways, for example, that poverty and gender construct specific practices like survival sex, it also traces the precipitant life events and circumstances that led an individual to that point in the first place. It follows the ways in which violence and AIDS weave in and out of the life course and can contribute to a downward spiral and vulnerability over time. In East Africa, as Juma’s case illustrates, it draws attention to sweeping and largely unregulated privatization and structural adjust- ment policies and how they conjoin with local conditions to affect the sustainability of small-scale farming households, land-tenure and property inheritance practices, migration patterns, the security of female-headed households, and the capacity of health and social services.

While such an approach demands large-scale policy changes at the highest levels, it can also inform specific changes to (or simply enforcement of) regional and local regulations, policy measures, and economic initiatives that could have a significant positive impact on the life trajectories of individuals like Juma and his mother. For example, identifying ways to enforce Tanzania’s land-tenure laws and protect the inheritance rights of widows in rural areas could have a significant impact on the lives of women and dependent children in a manner that does more to reduce their vulnerability to AIDS than any number of public health and education strategies could possibly do. In urban areas, there is growing evidence of collective efforts among women to eliminate and overcome the dependencies and constraints that surround survival sex, and that supporting their small business ventures and informal economic activities (such as neighborhood-based lending societies and cooperatives) is key (Lockhart 2005). With respect to street children, programs that combine economic and educational initiatives (as the one Juma himself viewed as a means of achieving his dreams of becoming a doctor) have proven especially effective in Tanzania (Rajani and Kudrati 1993, 1996). These programs provide children with opportunities to demonstrate knowledge while combating the widespread fatalism and resignation associated with life on the streets. They also situate AIDS and sex

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education initiatives within a more comprehensive framework that focuses on the whole life experience of the child. Practices such as kunyenga are best approached and discussed with children in this manner.

Again, the effectiveness of such measures are greatly strengthened by (and in some cases dependent on) broader changes to development policies at the national and international levels. Otherwise, they are at risk of devolving into a set of strategies that continually target the consequences and “ripple effects” of violence rather than their root causes. Delineating the limitations and potential of agency given various scenarios and under different circumstances is a critical issue in this regard.

Addendum

On a return trip I took to Mwanza shortly after Juma’s death, a group of his friends approached me and showed me a book of drawings that Juma had made. The book was comprised of 32 pictures illustrating the story of his life up to that point and the future he saw for himself. The latter entailed a very deliberate and well-thought-out series of steps that included seeking help from the local street children’s organization, reconnecting with his sister, completing school and entering the University of Dar es Salaam, becoming a doctor, raising a family, and, ultimately, working with orphans and street children. While we had discussed his future on many occasions, I had never realized or appreciated the comprehensiveness and purposefulness of the life he saw for himself.

Juma’s friends asked me to make copies of his book and deliver them to each member of the sungu sungu group suspected to be present on the night of his death. With the help of some key individuals, I dutifully complied. In turn, I asked Juma’s friends if I could also send copies to a variety of development officials. While they did not fully understand my reasons for doing this, they gave me permission to do so. Finally, and because Juma was a close friend of mine, they gave me a copy as a gift, which I accepted as such, and for reasons of my own that are not always easy to articulate or embrace.

Notes

Acknowledgments. This work would not have been possible without the unbounded sup- port and compassion of Gay Becker, who served as my Ph.D. advisor throughout the initial phases of my research in Tanzania. I hope it does some small justice to her memory and to her immeasurable capacity as both teacher and friend.

1. It was generally believed that the lack of street girls had to do with the unique dangers they faced on the street. Related to this belief was the practice of taking young girls who were alone and utilizing them as live-in servants—or “house girls”—before they reached the street. In some cases, girls were taken directly off of the street for such purposes. This phenomenon effectively reproduced the male-oriented ideology of violence, toughness, and aggression that permeated Mwanza’s street culture and garnered respect among the street boys.

2. The term previously married women refers to women who are divorced, widowed, or separated.

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