a question of honour: property disputes and brokerage in burkina faso

International African Institute

A Question of Honour: Property Disputes and Brokerage in Burkina FasoAuthor(s): Christian LundSource: Africa: Journal of the International African Institute, Vol. 69, No. 4 (1999), pp. 575-594Published by: Cambridge University Press on behalf of the International African InstituteStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/1160876 .

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Africa 69 (4), 1999

A QUESTION OF HONOUR: PROPERTY DISPUTES AND BROKERAGE IN BURKINA

FASO

Christian Lund

Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour's at the stake. Shakespeare, Hamlet IV, 4

Les choses que l'honneur defend sont plus rigoureusement defendus, lorsque les lois ne concourent point a les proscrire; et celles qu'il exige sont plus fortement exigees, lorsque les lois ne les demandent pas. [Montesquieu, De 1'esprit des lois IV, ii]

When people are in conflict over land in the region of Dori in northern Burkina Faso, bribery of officials through certain 'brokers' is common. However, farmers often pay more in bribes and in greasing the palms of the powerful in the legal system than the piece of land is worth. 'It's a question of honour,' people say. Van Donge (1993) found a parallel situation in Mgeta in Tanzania, where people's litigation costs bore no relation to the value of the disputed land. Van Donge points to 'envy' as the force driving the conflicts. Unbridled by a predictable institutional order, envy leads these disputes into the irrational. It is my contention, however, that such seemingly irrational disputes can be rendered 'reasonable' if they are analysed in relation to the local meaning of honour and the politico-legal institutional configuration.

The notion of honour has several facets, according to Pitt-Rivers (1968: 503). It is both a sentiment and the manifestation of that sentiment in conduct, and it is also the evaluation and appreciation of the conduct by others. Honour is a matter of individuals' feelings, their behaviour and the treatment they receive. Stewart (1994) disagrees with Pitt-Rivers in the sense that he sees honour not as a sentiment but as a right to recognition within a particular society. It follows that respect or disrespect for someone's right to recognition is likely to provoke a reaction. By viewing honour as a right, Stewart brings valuable precision to the concept because, as a right, honour can be pledged and lost.1 Obviously, all societies have their own forms of honour as well as other codes. Or rather, different forms of claiming, showing or denying recognition. They vary from one period to another, from one place to another and from one class to another. Still, 'the notion of honour possesses a general structure which [can be] seen in the institutions

I don't think, however, that Stewart's critique of Pitt-Rivers makes their views incompatible in general. Pitt-Rivers's work (1966, 1968, 1977) can be read as if honour is a right and the sentiment a reaction to the social respect of that right.



PROPERTY DISPUTES IN BURKINA FASO

and customary evaluations which are particular to any given culture' (Pitt- Rivers, 1966: 21). Stewart (1994) draws a useful distinction between horizontal and vertical honour. The first signifies honour among equals, the second the special respect enjoyed by those who are superior. (See also Berger, 1983; Taylor, 1994: 37-44.) Both forms of honour prevail, as we shall see, in Dori.

The principles of honour can be detected anywhere, but it is clothed in conceptions which vary from one place to another.2 A community's relative remoteness from state or imperial control and protection seems to favour the development of a social code which can simultaneously ensure the integrity of the individual and the family vis-a-vis the rest of the community and a certain solidarity within the community against the rest of the world (see Gellner, 1974; Gluckman, 1955). Under such circumstances a certain form of honour seems to be important (Schneider and Schneider, 1976: 109). As Peristiany argues, 'Honour and shame are the constant preoccupation of individuals in small-scale exclusive societies where face-to-face personal, as opposed to anonymous, relations are of paramount importance and where the social personality of the actor is as significant as his office' (1966: 11).

In such situations, honour often becomes the object of jealous maintenance: if A. impugns B.'s honour, B.'s honour is ipso facto diminished or destroyed unless he responds with appropriate counter- measures. Thus, while the piece of land in question may be comparatively insignificant, to usurp it is to impugn the honour of the owner and hence his entire property. To let one field go is to invite incursions upon all the rest. Therefore, when property is safeguarded solely by the owner's honour, and not by the state, the cost of infringement must be set high, as a deterrent.3

2 In the anthropological and social science literature the concept of honour inevitably takes one to Sicily, Corsica or elsewhere in the Mediterranean (Pitt-Rivers, 1966; Bourdieu, 1966; Peristiany, 1966; Gellner, 1974; Campbell, 1977; Schneider, 1971; Schneider and Schneider, 1976; Arlacchi, 1979, 1983; Stewart, 1994). However, while honour (and similar features) may be central to the understanding of political and social relations in the Mediterranean world, that is less because it is an intrinsic and inherent attribute of 'the Mediterranean' than because of commonalities in the relationship between communities and their political environment- features that the Mediterranean countries share with other regions of the world. See Stewart (1994: 75-8) for a very coherent argument. 3 In his work on the Kabyle, Bourdieu notes, 'The patrimony of the lineage, symbolised by its name, is defined not simply by possession of the land and the house, goods which are precious and therefore vulnerable, but also by possession of the means of protecting them, i.e. men; this is so because land and women are never reduced to the status of simple instruments of production or reproduction, still less to the status of commodities or even "property". Attacks on the land, the house or the women are attacks on their master, on his nif, his very being, as defined by the group-his potency. Alienated land, unavenged rape or murder are different forms of the same offence, which always elicit the same response from the group's point of honour; just as a murder is "repaid", but at a higher rate, by striking if possible at the person closest to the murder or the most prominent member of his group, so a piece of ancestral land, even a not very fertile one, is "bought back" at any price in order to wipe out the standing insult to the group's honour. Just as, in the logic of challenge and riposte, the best land both technically and symbolically is that most closely tied to the patrimony, so the man through whom one can most cruelly strike at the group is its most representative member' (1977: 60-1). See also Bourdieu (1990: 98-101) and Schneider (1971: 2, 17-22).

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However, in northern Burkina Faso state institutions are neither absent nor insignificant. Conflicts over land are arbitrated by various and sometimes competing state institutions. Administrative and judicial authorities inter- twine with party politicians and prominent figures within the chieftaincy. There is no unequivocal centralised regulation but rather an uneasy compromise between politico-legal institutions. Access to these institutions is conditional. Certain 'brokers' monopolise and manipulate access and largely control the legal outcome. This institutional configuration raises the question, on the one hand, of how people who do not enjoy the protection of the state but rely on their honour fare against adversaries whose disputes are dealt with by politico-legal institutions to which they have access through 'brokers'. On the other, it raises the question of how competition for access among farmers is overlaid by competition for jurisdictions among different politico-legal authorities (see Lund, 1998b).

I shall examine how access to land in northern Burkina Faso is disputed in a context of non-state and state regulation of the social order and within an institutional structure of 'brokers' and competing agencies. I begin by outlining the political history of the area, focusing upon the normative and legal framework of land tenure and the politico-legal institutions that deal with land tenure issues. This will show the scope there is for the outcome of disputes to be arbitrary, and the importance of the process of brokerage. I will then describe the forms of honour that are particularly relevant in the area, how they are structured vis-a-vis other social norms. The analysis of two diagnostic cases will demonstrate how the combination of honour as a significant codifier of social conduct and the structure and process of brokerage encourages the perpetuation of disputes, to the benefit of the brokers.

THE POLITICO-LEGAL SETTING

Situated some 260 km north-east of the national capital, Ouagadougou, Dori was the capital of the Liptako emirate and is now the chef lieu of Seno province. The region around Dori has been inhabited by a number of different populations but political control has been in the hands of the Fulbe since they waged a victorious jihad against the Gourmantche in the early nineteenth century (Delmond, 1953; Irwin, 1981; Kintz, 1985, 1986; Ouedraogo, 1997; Pillet-Swartz, 1993). The society of the region of Dori is segmentary and hierarchical. Society is divided into Fulbe, freemen, and Rimaibe, descendants of the slaves. A particular division of labour evolved between the two groups. The masters, the Fulbe, owned cattle and controlled the land. While the Fulbe tended the cattle, their slaves, the Rimaibe, cultivated the land. The Fulbe fall into a number of clans, each with its own political and occupational history.4 The Ferrobe, the descendants of the

4 Ferrobe (aristocrats), Torobe, Wakambe, Gaobe, Foutankobe, Sirgabe and others. Some explanation of terms seems necessary at this point. The term Fulani (English) or Peul (French) is sometimes used in the literature to denote the entire group of Fulfulde-speakers (Fulbe and Rimaibe alike) and sometimes merely to describe the Fulbe group. I employ the terms Fulbe and Rimaibe in order to allow for the socio-political differences within the Fulfulde-speaking society.

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warriors of the jihad, form the uncontested aristocracy of the Fulbe. The Amiirou (Emir) is always chosen from among them.

In his work on the historical development of the Liptako polity and politics, Irwin (1981) keenly emphasises the volatility of the political structure. The Amiirou was rarely, if ever, in a position to rule at will. From the moment of his accession an emir's reign was conditional on his skill at forging alliances with the leaders of the important villages around Dori, most of which were ruled by other Fulbe clans. Some of these alliances lasted longer than others, but they were all fundamentally circumstantial and temporary. The Amiirou exercised a number of functions. He controlled the immigration of larger groups to the area and settled disputes which exceeded the competence of the village chiefs, the jooro. A jooro is the chief of a wuro, which roughly translates as a village or village territory. He may be from any of the Fulbe groups. There are about 200 such political units in Liptako (province of Seno).> Historically the jooro authorised settlements in his territory and controlled the allocation of fields. He also had a judicial role as the recourse of first instance in a dispute. Finally, he represented the village to the outside world and collected taxes, which he passed on to the Amiirou.

This socio-political structure was modified in a number of respects during the colonial and post-colonial period, particularly during the last two decades of upheaval consequent upon the revolution and the reorganisation of government, administration and the law that have taken place since. In order to understand the current situation, the historical process of competition for political authority, and the way it has added layers of competing authorities and procedures rather than replacing one with another, must be outlined.

In 1891 the Liptako was the first region in what is now Burkina Faso to 'encounter the white man' (Pillet-Swartz, 1993: 2) and sign a treaty turning it into a French protectorate (Merlet, 1995: 221). Colonisation was a decisive blow to the social order. First, the Amiirou ceased to constitute an independent political authority and became a mere chief enrolled in the colonial administration. From 1963, upon the death of the present emir's father, the institution of the emirate was formally suspended by the independent government and never reinstated (Kintz, 1985: 101). Despite his formal demotion the Amiirou and the Ferrobe clan remained tremendously influential and enjoyed widespread popular authority.

Second, the Rimaibe became emancipated during the first decade of this century. The seasonal hamlets close to the fields occupied by the Rimaibe often became their permanent settlements, recognised in their own right. Despite the fact that social ranks were formally levelled, relationships of affection between former masters and slaves prevailed, and still do to a significant degree. Every Fulbe knows 'his Rimaibe' and every Rimaibe knows 'his Fulbe'. They often live quite close to one another. The Rimaibe generally pay tribute to 'their masters'-a basket of millet or suchlike-and

5 The province of Seno was divided into Seno and Yarga as a result of an administrative reform in 1966.

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the two families attend each other's marriages and other celebrations. In particular the aristocratic family, the Ferrobe, especially its elite, who had the financial means, maintained very distinct relations of patronage with 'its' Rimaibe. However, the emancipation of the Rimaibe left them free to migrate and sell their labour. Especially in the wake of the Second World War young men, and not a few older ones, made their way to Ghana and Cote d'Ivoire in search of work. On their return, many of them bought the land they had once cultivated from their former masters and became landowners, despite the inability of the law to accommodate such arrangements. The result is a layered and potentially confusing land tenure situation.

First, the Ferrobe claim to be the legitimate controllers of land in the entire emirate of Liptako. They fought the jihad successfully, and, moreover, representatives of the French government had recognised the Ferrobe as the legitimate partners with whom to sign a treaty between states. Second, the different jooros argue along similar lines that the village territory is the domain of each jooro, to control and distribute as he wishes, and so that land is still the domain of the jooro's family. Once distributed to a Fulbe family, however, the land is no longer under his direct control. In general there has been a mutual understanding between the Amiirou and the jooros that the land of a wuro (village territory) was controlled by the jooro while the land which was not the domain of any wuro was controlled by the Amiirou. A number of villages in the vicinity of Dori were directly controlled by the Amiirou or his relatives residing in Dori. Third, the different Fulbe, the freemen, also controlled their individual fields, to the extent that they could sell land particularly to the Rimaibe, who then would own it. In some villages the Rimaibe own all or nearly all the land they cultivate. In others a tenancy system prevails by which Fulbe lend land to the same Rimaibe family for several generations. There is a general consensus that land which has been sold is gone for good, as unrecoverable 'as a goat sold in the market place'. On this point Liptako differs from most other parts of Burkina Faso (Stamm and Sawadogo, 1995: 26-8), as commercial transactions are quite normal and frequent. On the other hand, consensus may be lacking when it comes to whether a particular piece of land was actually sold. In particular, some members of the Ferrobe aristocracy seem able to cast doubt over past transactions and have a reputation for selling their land more than once. Consequently, whilst land is bought and sold quite freely, the state's guarantee of such transactions is aleatory.

The revolution of 1983 brought in its train two significant reforms. First, the institution of chieftaincy was abolished and replaced with another hierarchical system, that of revolutionary committees, comites pour la defence de la revolution (CDRs), extending from village level, through the province level to national level. In Dori the political climate was such that the Amiirou, Dicko Nassourou, left the country for Canada. In the villages the jooros were dethroned, but in many cases the leading figures in the village CDR were the grown-up sons of the chiefs and the new political power was in fact legitimised by their participation. Cutting through the revolutionary rhetoric of social transformation and the birth of a new nation, the reform led almost everywhere to the rejuvenation of the political

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structure. In certain villages, however, the revolution was seen as an opportunity to get rid not only of the jooro but of his entire clan, and new figures assumed the political leadership. In a number of cases even Rimaibe managed to capitalise on the occasion and become village leaders. At the level of legal institutions, the magistrate was largely marginalised as revolutionary committees at local and regional level imposed revolutionary justice with rhetorical bravado. In a sense the revolution was a period where 'traditional' and 'bourgeois' institutions alike had to keep a low profile and 'revolutionary' institutions enjoyed tremendous discretionary powers. With President Compaore' s accession to power the CDR structure was replaced by a system of village representation stripped of formal powers where a delegue' would represent the village to the outside world. The formal legal institutions began again to receive recognition from the state.

In tandem with the political reforms, a measure of land tenure reform, the Reorganisation agraire et fonciere (RAF), was adopted. The Act basically nationalised all land. While the state did not take over in day-to-day terms, tenancy arrangements were annulled and Fulbe landowners could no longer claim back land which they had lent to the Rimaibe. Whilst the RAF has been modified several times since 1984 to adapt it to rural conditions and to take account of private tenure (Lund, 1997; Faure, 1995), it was the overall political transformation rather than changes in the legal framework itself that altered the pattern of dispute resolution and occasioned the upsurge of older land claims by Fulbe nobility. With the advent of President Compaore in 1987 a degree of political pluralism was permitted, culminating in the adoption of a new constitution in 1991 and general and presidential elections in 1991-92. In a number of speeches in 1991 President Compaore encouraged reconciliation between the state and its former enemies, notably the chiefs. And Compaore probably owes much of his electoral success to his rehabilitation of the traditional power structure in the country (Loada 1996: 260). During the long absence of the Amiirou a cousin of his, Dicko Sanda, had become the man people saw as the Amiirou's stand-in, someone they could turn to in time of need. His influence grew as he won a seat in parliament for President Blaise Compaore's party, the Congres pour la democracie et progres (CDP) in 1992. The Amiirou returned from Canada and got elected mayor for the CDP in 1993. Rivalry between Dicko Sanda and Dicko Nassourou became obvious. In terms of land disputes the new political development had three major consequences.

First, as indicated above, the Fulbe who regarded themselves as still owning fields cultivated by Rimaibe began to claim them back. This obviously gave rise to conflicts where there was disagreement about the status of the transfer. Rimaibe would argue that the land belonged to them, at least since the revolution.

Second, the adoption of a constitution and the return to the 'rule of law' rehabilitated the judiciary. The formal hierarchy of dispute management forums was restructured anew. Disputes would be mediated first by the dle'gue, and if unsuccessful he would hand the case on to the local administrator, the prefect in Dori, and the tribunal dcpartemental de conciliation for renewed mediation. If still unresolved the case would then go before the high court, the Tribunal de grande instance, presided over by a

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judge,. for adjudication. Moreover the political swing and rehabilitation of the judiciary were considered, at least by the judges in Dori, as delegitimising the laws passed during the revolutionary period. In other words, instead of the RAF of 1984 and 1991 which either outlawed private property or would recognise it only following a quite unrealistically formalistic and cumbersome procedure, the Code Civil familiar from the days of French rule was applied by the judges. Briefly, the Code Civil recognises private property rights and thus, in principle, secures the title of the pre-revolution landowners, the Fulbe. On the other hand, the code recognises acquisition prescriptive, 'prescription': any landowner who fails to make his ownership known to the person farming the land loses the property once ten years have elapsed.6 This rule obviously allowed tremendous scope for interpretation, considering the realities of tenure. On the one hand, a system of tenancy had evolved in the course of time between the Fulbe and the Rimaibe alongside outright sales and purchases of land. Both tenure arrangements were based on understanding and verbal agreement. On the other, land ownership had been a 'political crime' in the latter half of the 1980s.

Third, the rehabilitation of chieftaincy did not just restore to aristocratic families their central position as mediators in land disputes alongside the formal legal structure. His seat in parliament gave Dicko Sanda many influential contacts in Ouagadougou. A local MP has a major influence on the judges and prefects in Dori. Appointments, promotions, transfers and demotions are decided by the Ministry of Justice and the Ministry of the Interior. Dicko Sanda would make sure he was well informed about any error of judgement on the part of a judge or a prefect such as accepting a bribe or arriving at a 'wrong' decision. He could easily tip the wink to the Ministry concerned, with consequences for the civil servant's career. The degree to which Dicko Sanda, MP, in reality influenced the decisions of judges and prefects is uncertain. What mattered was the popular understanding of relations between la justice, the capital and Dicko Sanda, shared by judges, prefects and CDS party cadres alike. Dicko Sanda was increasingly seen as the key figure to turn to by people involved in a dispute.

Few of those trying to make sure a court or administrative decision went in their favour would contact Dicko Sanda direct, however. Anybody from the region around Dori with a problem involving the authorities will contact a certain Souley first. Souley is a short but sturdy Rimaibe between 50 and 60 years of age. His family was the Rimaibe of Dicko Sanda's family, Souley's father had been 'valet' to Dicko Sanda's father and Souley was now Dicko Sanda's helper. Dicko Sanda operates as a patron in tandem with the broker, Souley. The extent of Dicko's influence derives from his contacts in a way, but the contacts are not passed on to the clients, Dicko pulls the levers

6 The most recent version of the RAF, that of 1996, explicitly denies the validity of prescription as a means of entitlement because the law recognises the state as the owner and will not oblige the state to make its property rights known in any way other than by the law. In practice, however, the judges operate by prescribing rights of use where a former holder of such a right will lose his future right of use if he does not make it known to the present user.

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himself. Most of the time, consciousness of his potential influence is sufficient to rein judges or prefects in-or at least lead clients to believe that Dicko Sanda could have the same effect on their opponent.

Souley's career as power broker started in the mid-1960s when he was working as a driver's assistant. Since 1970 he has been a driver himself at the prefecture in Dori. Through his job he got to know the various authorities, their personnel, their different administrative routines, how malleable they were, when and how. Faced with the jumble of institutions and regulations, not to mention the French language, of which only a minority have a smattering, most rural dwellers will seek help from Souley or a broker like him if they are unlucky enough to have to engage with the authorities of Dori. Thanks to his political dexterity and his association with Dicko Sanda, Souley has come to stand out as one of the 'best', and has for long been used as an interpreter at the prefecture, the gendarmerie and the court. It is through contact with him as intermediary that the way to deter adversaries takes financial form. In principle, the deterrent could have been simple force (and of course it is in some cases), but the socio-political structure invites people to establish deterrents in the form of conspicuous political connections which are often best kindled with money. Souley would say of himself, 'I'm just a simple man. I can't even read or write properly. My French is very poor. That's why people trust me-I know what to do in court.' Others would be less modest on his behalf. 'Souley is the man who works, who really works, at the court. He'll win your case for you.' At other times Souley would explain his role along these lines: 'People come to me not because I'm "Souley" but because I do politics,' referring to his participation in Dicko Sanda's political campaigns. People are constantly coming to his courtyard for assistance and advice. During a nineteen-day absence more than thirty people from all over Liptako came hoping to see him.

Souley is indeed able to influence particular cases, if not perhaps to the extent of his reputation, but significantly. First, often translating for both protagonists, he has ample opportunity to present the case in such a way as to affect the outcome. Second, he is often responsible for a crucial delay in the proceedings, advising one of the parties not to show up at the court hearing so that there will be a postponement until a new cultivation season has started and the case will have to wait till next year, or until Souley's favourite has had time to persuade the judge or the prefect. Since both sides will often have turned to Souley for help, the eventual loser will blame his opponent's ampler financial means rather than Souley's inability to swing the case his way. Under the Sankara regime (1983-87) corruption of government servants was allegedly non-existent. The political climate was such that it would be better for a public servant or CDR activist to admit political crimes, bribery being one of the leading ones, than take a bribe. The 'relaxation' of political surveillance and control under the Compaore regime has made this much less evident since 1987. The gendarmes, the rural police, have a reputation for harassment, capricious arrests and blackmailing people with groundless charges. In fact the belief is general that anyone, approached in the right way and with the right sum, may be bought. Prefects and judges alike confirm it as usually well founded, while being careful to exclude

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themselves. There is a local saying used in appreciation of a person's wealth in money or cattle: A jogi ko njaada Doori handen, 'You have the wherewithal to go and win your case in Dori today.' Stories are told about a certain judge who was incorruptible. He was nicknamed 'Monsieur la Loi', Mr Law, and was half ridiculed for 'not understanding the ways of the region'. His brief career in Seno was terminated by a transfer to the south of the country. In the local interpretation of things it was the result of repeated failure to comply with the 'instructions' of Dicko Sanda.

The reputation for corruption of the judges, prefects and gendarmes is moreover zealously fed by Souley and the other power brokers in Dori. When approached for help in bribing an official and turning a case in the supplicant's favour, Souley will express sympathy but let it be known that the case is a particularly difficult one. He will have no trouble outlining an interpretation according to the principles of the RAF or those of the Code Civil, whichever are less favourable to the villager. As he makes the difficulty of the position and the vital need for his services abundantly clear to the villager the state's interest in and capacity to enforce the law will be vividly depicted And since examples of other people's 'trouble' with the authorities are legion, it is not hard to convey the impression that people tend to find themselves in deeper water than they expected. The outcome of the dispute is represented as open but likely to be adverse unless a special effort is made, in terms of bribes. That is where the notion of honour becomes relevant.

THE NOTION OF HONOUR IN LIPTAKO

As de Bruijn and van Dijk (1995: 199) state, Fulbe identity is a favourite subject of their ethnographers. In the literature on the Fulbe their socio- cultural identity is often referred to as pulaaku, 'the way to behave as Fulbe'. In other words, pulaaku denotes the moral virtues the Fulani perceive as distinctive of their group. In her classic ethnographic study of the Fulbe of West Africa, Marguerite Dupire (1970: 189) describes pulaaku as common to all Fulbe throughout West Africa. The features most often mentioned are an attachment to cattle, a highly developed sense of respect for members of the same group and for strangers, and a reserved character. While such characteristics may well be found in most Fulbe societies this classic anthropological approach seems to homogenise and essentialise certain aspects at the expense of recognising the diversity within Fulbe culture. Bierschenk (1995) points out that while 'staying clear of politics' is considered the 'Fulbe way' by the local Fulbe in parts of Benin, 'being in control of politics' is considered an important quality of Fulbe cultural identity in northern Nigeria (see also VerEecke, 1993). What is regarded as the essence of pulaaku probably varies a good deal. In his attempt to pinpoint the personal qualities of the Fulbe, Riesman hits the nail on the head:

A key personal quality in the Fulani [Fulbe] sense of who they are is a strong sense of honor and shame. Not only do the Fulani believe they have this quality to a greater degree than their neighbors have, but the neighboring peoples themselves willingly concede the point. A corollary of this sensitivity to honor and shame is

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an attitude of superiority and haughtiness toward almost anybody who is not Fulani. This is not at all a kind of group pride. Instead, it is pride in oneself and in one's relatives. A Fulani has no feeling for the Fulani as an ethnic group, but he has pride in himself because he can uphold the standard he was given by being born a Fulani. [Riesman, 1984: 180]

What signifies pulaaku, the Fulbe way, may in particular be the clear consciousness of being Fulbe. A range of values may then be branded in a local Fulbe context as integral to pulaaku, i.e. perceived (locally) as essential to being Fulbe, despite the fact that they are local virtues.7 The notion of honour as it was explained to me in Liptako should thus be seen not as essential features and value of the Fulbe but as a virtue ascribed to 'the way Fulbe behave' by the local community-a virtue that may vary as between different regions of the Fulani-speaking community throughout West Africa. It is striking, nonetheless, how certain essential features of honour as described in quite different contexts bear a great similarity to what we find in this part of Burkina Faso.

It is necessary at this point to interject a general comment. Honour and shame are often spoken of in the same breath as if they were exact opposites. That is not so, although they are closely related. While we see honour as a right to recognition, shame can be regarded as an emotion, and a right and an emotion are hardly antitheses. On the other hand, as Riesman points out, in northern Burkina Faso 'shame, let us remember, is essentially a revelation of a weakness' . . . 'if these feelings [shame] did not arise in the hearts of men, they could defend neither their honor nor their interests, they would not have the courage to act' (1998; 165). A challenge to someone's honour will involve the risk of shame, but shame may also arise from the breach of certain codes of conduct.8 Hence shame will be associated with a broader range of social and behavioral phenomena than honour as such, but honour and the jealous protection of it plays an important part in Fulbe socio- political life, and that is the focus of this article.9

'Your honour must be maintained all the time,' the Alkadi, the Muslim judge of Dori, kept telling me. 'Nowadays, everybody has to show that no one can do you over and that you'll stand up to anyone.' The Alkadi liked to explain this as a change, compared with the past. Before the revolution, before independence, before the emancipation of the Rimaibe, in short before 'moder times', he would argue, people's places in society were recognised, but now, when all are equal, everyone has to prove himself. Irwin's research into the history of Liptako (1981) indicates that the Alkadi's regret and nostalgia at least partly represent the universal lamentation of the older generation that 'things aren't what they used to be'. Irwin argues that

7 This interpretation will also explain why many of the features-valour, courage, respect, restraint, piety, etc.-ascribed to pulaaku are those with which many different peoples like to flatter themselves.

8 For two very funny and sophisticated analyses of adultery and how to breach the rules in the right way see Kintz (1990) and Riesman (1971).

9 See Stewart (1994: 111-29); Riesman (1998: 116-41, 163, 184, 196); VerEecke (1993: 148).

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relations between freemen seemed to have been at stake thrdughout history. Esteem and standing in society were partly a result of various achievements. The quality of a man is measured first of all by his courage. An honourable man will respond to an attack, whereas compliance is seen as cowardly and shameful. As I was told on numerous occasions, if you let your adversary get away with insulting you by failing to respond as he grabs your land or steals one of your animals, nobody will fear or respect you, and next time they will take everything. Conversely, a man who stands up for himself instead of hiding behind someone else is regarded with awe. In some cases, the Alkadi and older people agreed, people go looking for adversaries in order to prove themselves.

Generosity, splendour and lavishness equally bring a man honour. Offering gifts and helping friends or followers is also considered honourable, and furthers a man's social standing. There is, as Riesman (1990: 328) observes, 'a grudging admiration in people's voices' when stories are told about somebody who gave musicians and praise singers a lot of money. Likewise, stories are told of young men who courted beautiful maidens and competed for attention and recognition by spending money on gifts. A would-be suitor might thus boldly state, 'I'll pay 20,000 francs for her basket of kola nuts. Anyone who can't muster that amount, leave!' What matters is to spend money as if money didn't matter, as if it was merely a base and mundane artefact.

In talking to people one of the reasons for dishonour which kept coming up was animal theft. If the theft was discovered, that is. Or rather, if the attempt was unsuccessful, for someone who had stolen an animal to be made to hand it back would be a severe humiliation and the shame would be acutely felt. If, on the other hand, he were able to hold on to the animal despite facing some sort of formal trial the man would earn a formidable reputation, while the dishonour and shame would fall on the head of the unlucky owner. The latter would be seen as unable to fend for himself, and as lacking the influence to make the authorities enforce his rights. In this respect the local notions of honour are in tune with Peristiany's general observations. What is particular with honour is that whoever is measured by its standards and not found wanting may, without any loss of integrity, break other social rules that are considered minor by comparison. In some instances it is thus possible to steal other people's property yet retain one's own honour (Peristiany, 1966: 10). Other codes of conduct may thus be temporarily set aside. While honour has a socialising effect it also opens the possibility of acting against the norms under certain circumstances, since it establishes a hierarchy of 'good conduct'. Doing the 'wrong thing' may at times be the 'right thing' to do. As Peristiany argues, it may even be wrong to do the 'right thing' all the time. 'The man who never endangers the property, limb or honour of his fellows may neither be considered as having honour of his own nor gain honour through his passive acquiescence to social regulations' (1966: 10). Or, as Pitt-Rivers eloquently puts it, 'honour does something which the philosophers say they cannot do: derive an ought from an is; whatever is becomes right, de facto is made de jure, the victor is crowned with laurels, the war profiteer is knighted, the tyrant becomes the monarch, the bully a chief' (Pitt-Rivers, 1966: 38).

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Obviously these virtues of honour do not stand alone in Liptako. Tolerance, reverence, moderation, restraint and sagacity are considered Muslim virtues, and older people in particular are measured by such standards. However, it is clear that in the heat of a confrontation tolerance is often taken for complacency, reverence for submission, moderation for admission of fault, restraint for lack of ambition and sagacity for cowardice. Consequently, the risk of losing face when displaying these virtues is immanent. Conversely, a person who asserts his boldness with gusto is often depicted as haughty, vainglorious and presumptuous by his adversaries. Moreover the virtue of standing up for oneself seems to be somewhat compromised by the importance attached to the capacity for mobilising support. Any confrontation is thus open to opposite interpretations. The person who stands up alone to confront an aggressor may be seen as brave or as friendless and hence pathetic. If he has the backing of influential people he can be seen either as feeble in running to them for protection or as admirable owing to his ability to enlist their support. Honour, in short, is something achieved, an evaluation of conduct where success matters as much as-or more than-moral principle. In this sense honour validates the realities of power and sanctifies the social order.

TWO CASES

I now move to two different cases of land struggle in Dori to see how they are patterned by a notion of honour and an institutional structure with a judiciary which is accessible through brokers and to some degree controlled by the broker's patron. In the first case two litigants are locked in a protracted battle with little chance of a settlement because the institutions which could bring it about either profit from the chronic insecurity of property rights or lack the requisite political force. In the second, a former jooro runs into trouble when his status and property rights are put in doubt as a consequence of national political changes. It is worth emphasising that both disputes took place in a context of long-term competition over political authority and jurisdiction.

Case 1. Much ado about very little Saada and Hamidou were neighbours in the village of Wuro Bodki. Their fields were separated by a 10 m wide patch of uncultivated land. Saada and his family had been on the land for generations, while Hamidou had bought his in the mid-1970s. In 1980 Saada extended his field a little into the uncultivated land, provoking Hamidou to do the same and thereby bring his field up against Saada's. Saada protested that the uncultivated patch had been an old fallow field of his family's and that the field Hamidou had bought did not include any of the uncultivated strip. Hamidou claimed that his acquisition included half the fallow between the two fields. The dispute was brought before the jooro of Wuro Bodki. The jooro made Hamidou give ground a little, so that more than half the land went to Saada but Hamidou was still given a bit of it.

The story reached Souley's ears in Dori, and he went to see Saada. He told him that the word was that he had let his land go and that people were

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ridiculing him in Dori and round about for being scared of Hamidou, a mere upstart. Souley offered his services, and by the end of the day Saada had decided to take Hamidou before the prefect in order to get his land back and salvage his reputation. The following day, on the way to the prefecture to get Hamidou summonsed, Saada gave Souley 8,000 francs intended for the prefect. At the prefecture Souley preceded Saada into the prefect's office but soon came out for Saada, waiting in the hallway. Hamidou was summonsed, and with his uncle also went to consult Souley. When the case came up the prefect declared himself unable to decide in the matter and wanted to see the spot himself. Travel costs, including fuel for the prefecture's vehicle, were set at 20,000 francs, split between the litigants. At the hearing in Wuro Bodki both sides produced witnesses but the prefect decided to stick to the jooro's decision until the following year when the case would be heard again. The following year Saada let Hamidou know that he meant to win and went to Dori to sell a prime bull. With Souley as broker, he confidently awaited the visit of the prefect. Hamidou may also have tried to encourage the prefect to see things his way, but the strip of land was awarded to Saada.

With the revolution in 1983 Hamidou and his family preferred to lie low and await a change in the situation. In 1989, with Sankara dead and revolutionary rigour waning in the administration, Souley came to see him. He told Hamidou that on second thoughts justice had not been done and the time was ripe for rectifying it. The revolution was over and the prefect had been replaced several times. The new one would not be swayed by the old decisions (of which no written trace was left). As it happened, Hamidou's younger brother in Cote d'Ivoire had sent him some money. Hamidou's cousins and the person who had sold him the field chipped in, but only in 1993 were they ready. Hamidou had Saada summonsed, and this time was successful in his enterprise.

No sooner had Hamidou got the land back than Saada lodged an appeal. This time Saada went through one of Souley's 'colleagues' and competitors, Ali. Ali was affiliated not like Souley with Dicko Sanda but with the newly returned Amiirou and recently elected mayor, Dicko Nassourou. The case came up at the Palais de la justice in Dori later the same year. As it now involved not just two contenders but two adversaries allied with competing factions of the aristocratic family, the judge moved the hearing to the Court of Appeal in the capital, Ouagadougou. Both Saada and Hamidou had to engage proper lawyers, with Souley and Ali again facilitating the contacts. In 1997 the case had already been referred back to the Tribunal de grande instance in Dori and was now again awaiting a decision in Ouagadougou. Both parties claim to have spent more than 100,000 francs for a small strip of land to which neither yet has firm title.

The case shows how a minor dispute could be settled, revived twice and virtually perpetuated by the broker, Souley. While the protagonists believed that each decisive stroke against the other would be the last, it never was. As the dispute ran on, more and more people became involved and more and more money and honour became at stake. Soon the importance of the confrontation lay less in its intrinsic character than in the challenge it represented to the adversaries' prestige. Unless one of the two is completely ruined, the case may go on being periodically revived indefinitely.

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Moreover, it illustrates the public nature of the events. Believing his reputation to be at stake, Saada was obliged to reclaim his honour in public. Neither Saada nor Hamidou would be content with 'merely' grabbing the land and holding it by force. Despite the state's impotence to enforce the law generally, its capacity to enforce a decision punctually endows it with sufficient symbolic importance to be the 'place' where a litigant can and may defeat his opponent. It is worth noting, however, that, while access to the state is conditioned by a broker, the effectiveness of a decision seems to be conditioned by the indirect support of the broker's patron. When the patronage became too ambiguous with the participation of both Dicko Sanda and Dicko Nassourou the judge was 'paralysed' and fielded the case to Ouagadougou. This leads to the final point. The dispute was initially about access but soon became a dispute over authority and was absorbed into a broader political competition where the actions of the litigants became enmeshed in the mobilisation of power on a different scale. It became symbolic of the broader competition and the actions of the original litigants were far less decisive.

Case 2. To be jooro or not to be jooro Paate was the jooro of Wuro Toggere and in 1977 he had allowed a group of Bellah, the former captives of the Tuareg, to settle in the village for a while. The Bellah left in 1979 and the land was uncultivated until 1995, when Paate cut a piece out in order to sell it. He offered it to his neighbour, Alassane, who was eager to buy but could muster only a fraction of the cash, and the land was therefore sold to another farmer, Mahamadou, for 130,000 francs. When the rainy season of 1995 started, Mahamadou was confronted by the sight of Alassane's family planting crops in what he thought was his new field. He called on Paate for help, who tried to get Alassane to leave the field alone.

Instead Alassane summoned Paate to the prefecture, accusing him of selling the land twice. Paate produced three witnesses to testify that he had sold the land to Mahamadou. Alassane did not deny this but claimed the land had been sold to him first, and that he had paid the first instalment. Paate told the prefect that Alassane had indeed offered to buy the land but being unable to pay in full lost out to Mahamadou. Alassane had offered a first instalment of 20,000 francs, but Paate had been in such an urgent need of cash that he had had to reject an offer of payment over time. The prefect dismissed Alassane's complaint.

Alassane then contacted Souley for help. Souley asked him for 55,000 francs to 'get the land back'. Alassane raised the money with great difficulty in about ten months and paid. The bribe was no secret. Alassane made a point of telling people about the forthcoming escalation of the dispute. Souley arranged an audience with Dicko Sanda for Alassane, Paate and their followers, at which each side made its case. After hearing them both Dicko Sanda told Paate that since the revolution the jooros no longer existed, so Paate had no right to allocate uncultivated land to anyone, let alone sell it. The field therefore rightfully belonged to Alassane, who had begun to cultivate it. The fact that he had also tried to pay Paate for it was apparently entirely irrelevant. Before declaring the decision final, however, Dicko

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wanted a week to consider his verdict. Paate was quick to respond to the

delay and contacted Souley to seek a private audience with Dicko to plead his case. Paate did not omit to let Alassane know that he had been received

by Dicko Sanda and before the week was over Alassane too had sought and obtained audience. The amounts spent this time were not communicated to me in terms other than 'substantial'.

On the day of the settlement of the affair Dicko Sanda ruled mainly in accordance with his earlier hints. Alassane had cultivated the land, and ownership before the revolution and the RAF was obsolete. But since Alassane had initially been able to sow only two-thirds of the field, the remaining third reverted to Paate. Dicko made it clear that he had explained the 'true circumstances' to the prefect who gave his assent to the decision. The contending parties were sent to the prefecture, where the decision was confirmed. However, Dicko Sanda revealed a streak of magnanimity. As the most prominent member of the Ferrobe clan he claimed to own 'all uncultivated land in Liptako' and was willing to compensate Paate (and subsequently Mahamoudou) for the loss by assigning to him some land on the outskirts of the village. As he later told me, 'I couldn't humiliate him. After all, he is ajooro.' Paate was somewhat dubious about the offer, and, as far as I know, never did accept it.

This incident is revealing in several aspects. First, it illustrates the basic point that the repertoire of rules to be invoked is sufficiently broad to justify quite opposite outcomes. After an initial hearing at the prefecture where Paate's property rights were fully acknowledged, the tables were turned and through a broker Alassane took the dispute to a de facto higher level of authority where the decision was reversed. The curious thing is that Paate as well as Alassane understood Dicko Sanda to be superior to the prefect, which, of course, in formal terms he was not. And while the prefect himself may not have shared their understanding, he obviously saw no reason to intervene and reassert his earlier decision. He simply endorsed the new one based upon the 'true circumstances'. What ensued was a kind of bribery competition between Paate and Alassane, won by the latter, since Paate's initial financial problems precluded effective retaliation.

An interesting point is the public character of this competition. While bribes are obviously illegal, they are not kept secret and are not associated with shame. Rather, they are flaunted in order to discourage the adversary from responding. To get his money's worth, Alassane had not only to pay Souley but to make the fact known to Paate. Paate, on the other hand, had to respond by also requesting an audience with Dicko Sanda. Although he could not mount effective retaliation, he needed to demonstrate that he could not be messed about easily or at a low cost, so he obliged Alassane to see Dicko Sanda once more. Dicko used his position in a very adept way. While disregarding customary land rights in the dispute between Paate and Alassane, he asserted his own customary land rights in order to compensate Paate for his loss. He thereby also recognised the latter's status or honour as jooro. Though this was far less than Paate wanted, it was what he was able to negotiate with Dicko Sanda and not outright defeat. Thus, while unable to maintain his honour horizontally, among his fellow villagers, with some help from his patron he managed to assert it vertically to some degree. The money

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spent on securing the land greatly exceeded its value, but while this part of the operation failed it did result in the amelioration of Paate's position in other respects, namely as ajooro and a member of the nobility. There is little sense in trying to assess the partial re-establishment of vertical honour in monetary terms, but it shows that certain practices have different outcomes in different domains, and the results are often ambiguous. The true loser was Mahamadou, who had paid 130,000 francs for a good piece of land and ended up with only a third of it and the unfulfilled promise of a poor field on the outskirts of the village.

CONCLUSION

The processes of dispute resolution in Liptako harbour an interesting contradiction, as they are patterned on notions of honour and dealt with by politico-legal institutions simultaneously, Honour is a personal attribute, and conflicts involving honour are basically private in the sense that the antagonists must try to settle the affair on their own and not call upon justice, the legal system or the state. 'The courts,' as Pitt-Rivers (1968: 509) puts it, 'are ill designed to fulfil the requirements of the man of honour, in that, first of all, they oblige him to place his jeopardized honour in the hands of others and thus prevent him from redressing it for himself-the only way in which this can be done.' On the other hand, in most societies it is regarded as one of the constitutive functions of the state formally to dispense justice, mitigate social conflict and promulgate the law as a means of regulating disputes. 'This is evidently the case in Burkina Faso as witness the RAFs of the 1980s and 1990s. In particular, since the time of the revolution the state has asserted itself as the ultimate institutional mediator of social conflicts, whatever its actual capacity to fulfil the role' (Otayek, 1989, 1996).

In trying to understand how the incommensurable concepts of honour and state actually co-pattern disputes, the key seems to lie in the politico-legal institutions and the legal norms they propagate. The court and the prefecture refer to 'the law' when intervening, but 'the law' is so broad that quite contradictory rulings rest on equal legality. And this is widely known. It means that the law does not in itself offer any protection; law has to be activated at a particular conjuncture and, given the circumstances, it is a question of competition. When your case comes before one of the politico- legal institutions, you do not simply await the state's decision. You and your opponent have every opportunity to influence the outcome. Under these circumstances, the fact that a case goes to court means not that you 'place your jeopardized honour in the hands of others' but that you have a demanding role to play. The actions the role entails make it easy to frame the process in terms of honour. The conspicuous flaunting of resources fits well with local norms of bravado but at the same time helps to perpetuate the dispute. The state is perceived not as an impartial umpire ruling by its laws but as an arena for private competition over official sanction of property rights-an arena in which to fight for the momentary enforcement of the law by the state to the detriment of your adversary. The fact that the competition takes place in a landscape of long-term political competition between various elites over authority makes the outcome of each dispute all the more

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volatile and subject to reversal with the turn of political fortunes. This, in turn, magnifies the need for the individual to appear as little like easy prey as possible. Under such conditions the weapon with which opponents are fought or deterred is money and political allegiance to the influential patrons of Don. At first glance it may seem out of proportion to the piece of land in question. The inability of the state to enforce a predictable law generally allows honour to be a significant codifier of social conduct, whilst the state's power to impose a decision punctually endows its politico-legal institutions with a particularly privileged status as arenas for the public vindication of claims.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to take this opportunity to thank everyone who contributed in one way or another to the writing of this article. In particular Parker Shipton (Boston University), Judith Carney (University of California at Los Angeles) and Simon Batterbury (Brunel University) offered generous comments. Needless to say, I am solely responsible for errors and mistakes.

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ABSTRACT

When conflicts over land arise in the region of Dori, in northern Burkina Faso, bribery of officials through 'brokers' is common. However, farmers often pay more in bribes than the land at issue is worth. 'It's a question of honour' people say. Disputes are arbitrated by competing state institutions. 'Brokers' monopolise and manipulate access to the institutions and largely control the legal outcome. People do not expect protection from the state but rely on their honour in countering adversaries. When the only defence of property is the owner's honour, and not the state, the price of infringement must be set high as a deterrent. The land in question may not be important, but any usurpation of it is an attack on the honour and hence on the whole property of the aggrieved party. To let one field go is to invite invasion of the rest. Competition for access to land between farmers is matched and

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594 PROPERTY DISPUTES IN BURKINA FASO

complicated at a higher level by competition for jurisdiction between the various political and legal authorities.

RESUME

Dans les litiges portant sur des terres dans la r6gion de Dori, dans le Nord du Burkina Faso, les actes de corruption de fonctionnaires par l'intermediaire de "courtiers" sont courants. Or, les pots-de-vin verses par les fermiers sont souvent plus 1leves que la valeur des terres en litige. "C'est une question d'honneur", affirment les int6resses. L'arbitrage des conflits met en concurrence les institutions etatiques. Les "courtiers" monopolisent et manipulent l'acces aux institutions et ont un r6le determinant sur l'issue juridique. Les citoyens n'attendent pas de l'etat qu'il les protege, mais comptent sur leur honneur pour contrer leurs adversaires. Lorsque la seule protection d'un bien est l'honneur du propri6taire, et non l'etat, le prix fix6 pour la violation doit etre elev6e des fins de dissuasion. Quand bien meme les terres en litige ne seraient pas importantes, leur usurpation serait une atteinte a l'honneur et par consequent a la totalite des biens de la partie lesee. Accepter de c6der un champ serait une invitation a envahir le reste. A la concurrence que se livrent les fermiers pour l'acces aux terres correspond la lutte de competence que se livrent les diverses autorit6s politiques et juridiques et qui complique la situation a un plus haut niveau.



a question of honour: property disputes and brokerage in burkina faso

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