Introduction: The Place of Small-Scale Peasants in Large-Scale Land Deals

In October 2009 the Rwandan news media euphorically reported that the country’s government had sealed a major deal for the production of biodiesel. The signing of the US$250 million contract was witnessed by former British Prime Minister Tony Blair. In addition to the Rwandan government, two major private companies were involved: Eco-Fuel Global, a U.S.-based company charged with the technical aspects, and Eco Positive, a U.K.-based company entrusted with managing the financial side. Under the agreement, 12 million Jatropha Curcas trees would be planted on around ten thousand hectares (1/250th of Rwanda’s total surface area) of “marginal” land in the Eastern Province, where food crops cannot be sustained. It was estimated that within three to six years, the plantations would yield enough for the production of 20 million liters of biodiesel annually, covering roughly 13 percent of Rwanda’s current fuel consumption and providing sixty-five hundred jobs (Rwandan News Agency Reference Pottier2009; Hitimana 2009). The project fits neatly into the Sustainable Growth for Jobs and Exports project, the flagship program of the Economic Development and Poverty Reduction Strategy Paper, which aims at a “big push” public investment program that will “create strong incentives for the Private Sector to increase its investment rate in subsequent years” (GoR 2007:1).

Rwanda is not the only country where large-scale land acquisitions by major investment projects are taking place. In the first twelve months after the 2008 commodity boom, investors acquired more than 40 million hectares of land, over 75 percent of which was located in sub-Saharan Africa (World Bank 2010). Even before the commodity boom, interest in Africa’s natural resources was growing. Van Braun and Meinzen-Dick (2009) provide an extensive overview of deals since 2006 under which foreign governments, actors operating in the private sector, and agricultural investment funds have acquired access to thousands of hectares in developing countries. It should be noted here that investors are not necessarily interested in using this land for purely agricultural purposes. Zoomers (2010) and Merlet and Jamart (Reference Krishna2009), for example, mention the rise in (eco)tourism in developing countries; land use for the exploitation of mineral, energy, and forestry resources; the designation of protected areas and nature reserves; and land requirements for infrastructure projects and urban expansion. Nonetheless, most investors are attracted by the enormous potential of land for the production of food crops (specifically staple foods) and biofuels.

While the phenomenon of large-scale land deals is not new, the scale at which it is currently manifesting itself is unprecedented (see Cotula et al. Reference Cotula2009).^{Footnote 1} A paradoxical combination of two discourses has developed around this recent trend: accounts of growing land scarcity and increasing land conflicts coincide with a narrative in favor of attracting investors with a view to developing marginal, un(der)exploited, idle, and degraded landholdings (Borras & Franco Reference Borras and Franco2010). Thorough analyses of the costs and benefits of such capital injections through large-scale acquisitions are, however, still rare. Indeed, as noted in the recent World Bank report on the topic, “with little empirical data about the magnitude of this phenomenon, opinions about its implications are divided” (2010:ix).

The World Bank report (2010) analyzes the risks in great length, but overall it is rather optimistic about the potential contribution of large-scale actors in sub-Saharan African agriculture to the achieving of economic growth and poverty reduction. The report links most risks of failure to weak institutional capacity and a lack of transparency, and makes several recommendations for improvements in both areas. It further acknowledges the potential of large-scale investment in agriculture for improving access to technology, capital markets, infrastructures, and institutions that allow increased productivity and effectiveness in the utilization of these assets.

This discourse on the potential of large-scale private investments in African agriculture contrasts quite strongly, though, with the World Bank’s related discourse on the importance to Africa of smallholder farming. Indeed, the World Development Report titled “Agriculture for Development” puts forward the notion of a “Green Revolution” for sub-Saharan Africa, which it argues must differ fundamentally from the Asian Green Revolution because of “Africa’s unique agriculture and institutions.” Given that a large majority of the poor survive on subsistence agriculture, the report emphasizes the need to create “a productivity revolution in smallholder farming.” It further analyzes in depth the many challenges confronting smallholders and proposes institutional innovations to improve their competitiveness (World Bank Reference White2007).

So is there an inherent contradiction in the World Bank’s view on the agricultural future of Africa? Not necessarily. In fact, critics of the World Development Report point out that the report “does not support smallholder farming per se, but commercially-oriented, entrepreneurial smallholder farming,” which applies to just a minority of African farmers (Akram-Lodhi Reference Akram-Lodhi2008). Moreover, the report concedes that “not all smallholders will be able to farm their way out of poverty” (World Bank Reference White2007:234); it is implicitly assumed that (only) those who are capable of acting as small-scale rural entrepreneurs have a sustainable future in the agricultural sector.^{Footnote 2}

In short, the dominant view on a “new agriculture” for sub-Saharan Africa focuses on the adoption of commercially oriented production, either through the involvement of large-scale investors or by a transformation of (a particular group of) innovative smallholders into agricultural entrepreneurs, or, better still, through a combination of both.

The World Bank’s view is shared by many agents in the development business. What it fails to do, however, is to move beyond conceiving land purely as a commodity, a commercial tool for achieving maximum productivity. Land is after all also a social, cultural, and political space with great relevance not only to the economic but also to the social, psychological, and emotional well-being of smallholder farmers (see, e.g., Merlet Reference Klopp2007). Denial of access to land, therefore, does not only represent a loss in terms of economic opportunities; it also translates into a loss of social ties, identity, physical security, and social and emotional belonging.^{Footnote 3}

The maximal productivity view is often substantiated by the argument that worldwide demand for food has increased sharply. However, the challenge for agricultural production systems in the foreseeable future is not only about producing enough food to feed the world (i.e., the aspects of production and productivity); it is preeminently about ensuring that the purchasing power of different population groups is sufficiently strong to guarantee access to that food (i.e., the aspects of equity and distribution). Furthermore, it is about making sure that the agency of more vulnerable population groups is enhanced through securing and enlarging the livelihood strategies available to them (i.e., the aspects of agency and power relations).

Indeed, policy documents rarely distinguish adequately between divergent subgroups within rural populations. Most analyses merely differentiate rather crudely between the “poor” and the “non-poor.” However, Krishna (2009:948) rightly claims that “‘the poor’ does not constitute a valid category for analysis or action: it is no more than an article of speech.” Subgroups of poor have different identities, different material interests, different degrees of agency, and different priorities with respect to land and natural resources (Vermeulen & Cotula Reference Van Braun and Meinzen-Dick2010). Hence they have different needs in terms of policy design. Policy documents reflecting on the opportunities and risks associated with large-scale land deals, on the one hand, and on institutional innovations that will supposedly transform (some) smallholders into rural entrepreneurs, on the other, rarely take adequate account of this diversity of rural actors.

A thorough assessment of the “new agriculture” should not be limited to an estimation of the effects in terms of productivity, job creation, and—at best—overall income distribution. A much more detailed analysis is required that also reflects on opportunities and threats to the socioeconomic circumstances and livelihoods, the agency, and the cultural identities of different local interest groups. Such an analysis should, moreover, consider the dimensions of time (short-, medium-, and long-term) and space (local, regional, national, and supranational contexts). This type of approach can provide policymakers with insight into the diversity of interests involved so that they can weigh them against one another and against the overarching objective of poverty reduction. In this way, the debate over the organization of agricultural production reaches a much broader level, with due consideration given to the likely impact on local livelihoods.

This article studies the effect of large-scale foreign and local elite-led land grabbing on the livelihood of local populations. It discusses two Rwandan case studies and identifies broader processes of agrarian and social change taking place in Rwanda’s rural context. It also discusses different approaches to reversing the impacts of the prevailing agrarian model with a view to benefiting local livelihoods.

Large-Scale Land Acquisitions and Local Livelihoods in Rural Rwanda

All too often land is conceptualized purely as an exchangeable commodity. In reality, however, land use involves social relations that are embedded within the wider political economy and are shaped by the relative bargaining power of various interest groups within society (Merlet Reference Klopp2007). The diverse groups of rural actors in the African countryside see land as a social, cultural, and political space with great relevance not only to their economic livelihoods, but also to their social identities. Large-scale actors (be they foreign or local) striving to acquire control over large areas of land insert additional competition into an already tight market. Moreover, thanks to their connections in the national (and sometimes international) political arena, they often find themselves in a privileged position to advance their own interests.

The two Rwandan case studies discussed in this article both concern large-scale land deals, but the respective circumstances are very different. The first case relates to a foreign business group that acquired a concession for the exploitation of three thousand hectares of land; in this sense, it ties in with the ways in which large-scale land acquisitions are commonly framed in the media. However, land grabbing may also take place at a local scale, as in the second case study, in which local elites have made use of national policy priorities to gain control over a vast area of land.

Data on both cases were collected as part of a larger research project on rural policies and local livelihoods (for methodological details, see Ansoms Reference Ansoms2010). In one of the settings, individual in-depth interviews were conducted in 2004. In 2006 and 2007 the author conducted around fifteen focus group interviews in both settings involving a variety of socioeconomic groups. In the course of the interviews, the respondents shared their views on the impact of rural policies on local living conditions. One of the issues discussed was the authorities’ approach to the redevelopment of nearby swampland in the two locations.

Around 10 percent of Rwandan territory consists of swampland. Originally, such land was used mainly for hunting, fishing, and cattle grazing, but with the pressure of population growth it has increasingly been turned into farmland for food crops. Inclusion or exclusion used to be based upon the inherent capacity of a household to undertake the heavy preparatory work necessary to make savage swampland arable. The practical side of such spontaneous “invasions” was often regulated by the commune (the old name for the administrative unit known since 2001 as a “district”) (Jeffremovas Reference Hitimana2002). However, by the mid-1970s, in the face of mounting ecological pressures, the Habyarimana administration had set its mind on developing the marshlands, all of which were designated as state property. Although in many cases individual peasants continued to cultivate their plots, land tenure on marshland was uncertain, as the commune could suddenly take away such rights and transfer them to cooperatives or development projects, or to functionaries for their personal use (Jeffremovas Reference Hitimana2002). Hence, current land-use practices in Rwanda are inscribed in a long tradition of (marsh)land acquisition by the authorities in the name of agricultural development and reclamation, even though in practice such policies often worked to the personal benefit of those in power (either directly or through the reinforcement of their relationship networks).

After the war and 1994 genocide, the “haphazard use” of marshlands and wetlands came to be deemed undesirable by the Rwandan authorities. The government worked out a swampland “valorization” approach, inspired by the objective of maximizing agricultural output through efficient and productive land use. However, the approach adopted for the swamplands was fundamentally different from that applied in the hills, where the authorities strive to register all land through individual property titles. Article 29 of the land law states that “swampland belongs to the state. It shall not definitively be allocated to individuals and no person can use the reason that he or she has spent a long time with it to justify the definitive takeover of the land” (GoR 2005).

As no property rights on swamp plots can be granted to private individuals, the government assumes the role of principal swampland developer. This approach may take two forms. In some locations the government makes swampland available in concession to private investors, the circumstances of the first case study. In other instances the national government mandates local authorities to allocate marshland plots to farmer groups that use collective cultivation systems. The second case study involved local elite actors who used this policy to gain control over access to marshland plots. Their role as “coordinators” or “managers” of the marshland then resulted, de facto, in their appropriation of land rights.

National policymakers also rigidly impose a uniform technical solution (i.e., monocropping) upon all local settings, as they consider this method to be more productive than the traditional system of combining different food crops. The authorities have also introduced specific regulations that enforce the cultivation of particular crop types (“high-value” market-oriented crops such as rice, sugar cane, and maize). In a sense, the current cultivation practices in the marshlands are a pilot experience with agrarian commercialization policies that the Rwandan authorities wish to implement in the hills. However, historical evidence is apparently ignored, specifically, similar experiments with obligatory crop cultivation that were undertaken in the colonial era (Newbury Reference Musahara, Huggins, Huggins and Clover1988) and under the Habyarimana administration (Newbury & Newbury Reference Michelon2000; Pottier Reference Peters1989, Reference Newbury1992). As Pottier (Reference Newbury1992) points out, agronomists and vulgarisateurs had promoted monocropping (and combined cropping of beans and maize or soya and maize) as the only appropriate cultivation method in 1986 (the year of agricultural intensification), in a “top-down” approach with negative consequences. Newbury and Newbury (Reference Michelon2000) similarly criticize such state-induced practices, which have tended to give precedence to technical considerations over climatic conditions and to land suitability over local knowledge and the capabilities of the peasants concerned, often with counterproductive impacts on local livelihoods. Moreover, the rigidity with which the policy is implemented now is not new either: a top-down, state-centered governance approach appears to be a structural feature of elite‒peasant relationships in Rwanda (Desrosiers & Thomson Reference Desrosiers and Thomson2011).

Hence it is questionable whether the development outcomes of the current large-scale “productivity-enhancing” land deals are sufficient to support the claim that they contribute to pro-poor development. In order to assess this properly, due account must be taken not only of how these projects affect productivity, but even more important, how they affect the livelihood strategies and social mobility of local populations as well as opportunities for local empowerment.

Land Acquisition by a Foreign Private Actor

In 1997 Kabuye Sugar Works (KSW) became the first company to be privatized in postconflict Rwanda. It was acquired for U.S.$1.5 million by the Madhvani Group, a conglomerate with Indian roots that has been conducting business in Uganda for more than fifty years. It is currently the largest private-sector business group operating in Uganda and is involved mainly in sugar production. At the time of sale, the Madhvani business group was granted a fifty-year land lease on approximately 3,150 hectares (of the 24,698 ha of Nyabarongo swampland), much of which had to be expropriated by the Rwandan authorities. By 2008 Madhvani had invested about U.S.$13 million in KSW. It is active in various locations within a 45-kilometer radius from Kigali. At the time of the research (2007), the sugar cane plant employed five thousand to six thousand manual laborers to work the approximately three thousand hectares that KSW holds in concession. However, quite a large part of this land was prone to flooding, so that only around 1,750 hectares were cultivated. In addition, KSW processed the sugarcane of some twelve hundred to fifteen hundred smallholder farmers spread across a territory of twenty-two hundred hectares (interview with Mr. Rao, General Manager of the Kabuye Sugar Works, June 2007). Overall, the Kabuye Sugar Works privatization is regarded as a success by the Rwandan government:

My own field research, however, conducted in an umudugudu (village; plural, imidugudu) located next to the marshland and close to the main road connecting Kigali and Gitarama (see Ansoms Reference Ansoms, Marysse, Reyntjens and Vandeginste2009), suggested quite a different conclusion.^{Footnote 4}

Gaining access to swampland plots in the Nyabarongo valley—as in many other places in Rwanda—used to depend on families’ physical ability to prepare the land for cultivation. With time, however, the exploitation density in the swamplands increased.^{Footnote 5} Some peasants owned larger plots than others, while those without property cultivated land under a metayage system, whereby peasants cultivate land for a proprietor and share the produce (in the case of Rwanda, up to a third of the harvest). Some peasants grew food crops, while others cultivated cash crops. Still other plots were used for clay extraction for brick baking. Many informants described the Nyabarongo swampland as an important safety net that provided protection against the risk of harvest failure in the hills.

It is important to note that the status of swampland—including in the Nyabarongo valley—is different from that of hillside land. As mentioned above, whereas peasants’ informal land rights on hillside plots had generally been well respected by the public authorities, marshland plots were considered as state property under the Habyarimana administration (Jeffremovas Reference Hitimana2002). Hence, land-use rights for swampland plots depended on a combination of formal and informal claims that were sometimes contradictory. In the case study setting, for example, Kabuye Sugar Works (which at that point was a public company) had acquired user rights on several hundred acres that they did not always cultivate (e.g., shortly after the 1994 war), and peasants continued to exploit these plots during these periods.

In 1997, however, the contradiction between formal and informal interests became much more blatant, as the massive land claim by the Madhvani Business Group, supported by the national authorities, clashed with the locally perceived legitimacy of informal, historically embedded land rights. Virtually all local peasants in the wide vicinity of the umudugudu on which my research was concentrated lost their user rights to swampland plots in the Nyabarongo valley. No compensation whatsoever was offered for dispossessed land, as it was, officially at least, state property anyway.^{Footnote 6}

The peasants perceived their user rights on swampland plots as legitimate, despite the lack of either formal or informal property titles. They were not (immediately) prepared to give up these rights and displayed open resistance.^{Footnote 7} Those who did not relinquish “their” land voluntarily faced strong intimidation by the police and by local defense forces. Interviewees mentioned peasants being imprisoned or driven from the swampland at gunpoint. Only a small group of peasants was able to maintain their user rights on marshland plot(s): those who were already producing sugarcane and those cultivating bananas at the periphery of the swampland. These were mostly better-off peasants who did not use the marshland plots to complement their subsistence production in the hills.

At the time of research in 2007, a considerable part of the swampland near the umudugudu was not maintained and cultivated, and as a result it was overgrown with papyrus. Making this swampland arable required drainage and subsequent irrigation, and it was a matter of debate whether this was a task for the public authorities or for Kabuye Sugar Works—and thus the Madhvani Group. The manager of the Sugar Works felt that it was up to the Rwandan government to provide the necessary infrastructure. Informants from the rural setting pointed out that sugarcane “does not work” in that location and that local peasants had knowledge about marshland reclamation techniques that Madhvani lacked. They added that Madhvani cultivated only in the easily accessible areas, while local peasants were used to working in more challenging circumstances.

Local peasants had hoped that the district authorities might be able to mediate between themselves and Madhvani in order to secure access for them to the unused parts of the marshland. However, these attempts failed. One respondent who was part of a village committee focus group felt that Madhvani might have been scared that the peasants would occupy a larger part of the marshland if they were able to acquire access to some of the flooded areas. A member of a focus group with poor female villagers mentioned that they were in any case unable to turn to the local authorities since the latter had chased them from the land in the first place. Peasants perceived the local authorities as operating in compliance with national policy and in total disregard of local living conditions.

Interestingly, very few focus group members in my research setting worked as wage laborers for the company. There were various reasons, according to the focus group participants. First and foremost, the peasants generally lacked the time to be able to work for a third party for whole days. Even those with insufficient landholdings preferred to combine temporary or occasional employment with cultivation activities on their own plots. Second, at RWF 400 (2007 prices) for a seven-hour day, pay was low.^{Footnote 8} Despite high inflation, wages had remained unchanged since 2001. An additional problem was that workers were paid at the end of the month, while the main incentive to work for a third party was immediate cash payment. Furthermore, no wages were paid for periods of sickness or when work was impossible due to flooding of the swamps, which is a frequent occurrence during the rainy season. Finally, most respondents were unaware of the job application procedures at Kabuye Sugar Works.

Overall, the local peasant community seemed almost unanimous in their assessment of the privatization of Kabuye Sugar Works as highly problematic to their own livelihoods. However, in assessing the overall gains versus losses from the privatization, due account should be taken of the larger picture. A crucial question in this respect is whether the privatization and the large-scale transfer of land from small-scale peasants to the business group has paid off in terms of overall productivity and employment creation. What has been the net effect on local livelihoods from a more general viewpoint?

To make this assessment, three scenarios regarding the allocation of swampland plots were considered: (1) the situation at the time of the research; (2) a hypothetical situation in which the three thousand hectares of swampland held in concession by Kabuye Sugar Works would be cultivated instead by small-scale peasants growing sugarcane; and (3) a hypothetical situation in which the three thousand hectares of swampland would be cultivated instead by small-scale peasants growing a variety of crops.

The conclusion was that the productivity of individual small-scale sugarcane farming would have been similar to that attained by KSW. Moreover, one may assume that individual peasants would not have left fallow more than one thousand hectares of swampland (only 1,750 ha of the 3,000 held by KSW were cultivated at the time of interview of the manager in 2007). Therefore, overall sugarcane production could have been considerably higher if the land held in concession by KSW had remained in the hands of individual peasants.

In addition to productivity, there is the issue of employment creation. As mentioned, KSW provided jobs to between five thousand and six thousand wage laborers, each earning RWF 400 per day. Any estimation of how much the three thousand hectares of swampland could have generated if they had they been allocated to independent small-scale peasant households instead of KSW would be highly speculative. However, based on productivity rates and earnings of the twelve hundred to fifteen hundred independent peasants who were producing sugarcane at that time, and assuming a linear relationship between land size and overall output in swampland plots, one may assume that the three thousand hectares of swampland could have provided five thousand to six thousand households with an income that would have been double to triple the amount earned at that time by the wage laborers.^{Footnote 9}

Under the third scenario, individual small-scale peasants would have continued to cultivate a variety of crops rather than just sugarcane. Ansoms (Reference Ansoms, Marysse, Reyntjens and Vandeginste2009) shows that the productivity rate (monetary value per ha) of “unconstrained” crop production is comparable to that of peasants engaged in sugarcane production. This is not necessarily an argument against the latter. Regional crop specialization could have been beneficial to local peasants if their bargaining capacity with the buyer were improved through the establishment of collective action structures. However, crop diversity (including sugarcane) as such does not stand in the way of setting up such structures. Moreover, free choice of crops would have offered the considerable advantage of allowing poorer peasants—those lacking the means to invest in sugarcane production—to complement their hillside production with swampland yields. Swampland cultivation had always functioned as an important risk-coping mechanism against famine. In addition, farmers could have adapted their crop choice according to climatic conditions and market fluctuations. Flexibility would have allowed for risk-diversifying cultivation patterns that could have played an important role in ensuring food security.

The large-scale land deal between the Rwandan government and Madhvani Business Group was thus far from optimal in terms of securing local livelihoods. As the Government of Rwanda Privatisation Secretariat (2002:6) conceded, “the privatization of Kabuye Sugar Office and its purchase by KSW in 1997 has been cited explicitly as an example of an operation which, instead of benefitting . . . the population, has made people poorer in taking their fields.” As a result of the deal, thousands of peasant families lost access to their swampland plots. For those cultivating cash crops or extracting clay for brick baking, this meant a loss of their income-generating capacity. Growers of subsistence crops on swampland plots and peasants for whom marshland plots provided a safety net against hardship lost an important risk-coping mechanism. Interestingly, the allocation of three thousand hectares of land to the private investor was not optimal either in terms of output and productivity maximization. In short, the macroeconomic benefits of the large-scale land deal as well as its benefits to the poor are both highly questionable.

Land Acquisition by Local Elites

The term “land grab” usually refers to “large-scale, cross-border land deals or transactions that are carried out by transnational corporations or initiated by foreign governments” (Zoomers 2010:429). Zoomers (2010) proposes other, less traditional, examples (e.g., large-scale infrastructure works, urban extensions, etc.) whereby land is transferred to “long-distance actors.” She calls this the “foreignization” of space. Interestingly, though, land grabs also occur at the local level, with well-connected locally embedded actors as protagonists. Such mechanisms are of course not new, but today elite networks make use of the opportunities provided by the new discourse on agriculture as a motor for development to secure their control over space.

The second case study discussed here provides an illustration of such a process (see Ansoms & Murison Reference Ansoms, Murison, Reyntjens, Vandeginste and Verpoorten2012 for details). The setting was a relatively flat and fertile area in central Rwanda (Southern Province), traditionally an important local center of commerce. Before the 1990‒94 war, substantial parts of the marshland were left unexploited, but some were developed and cultivated by whoever was willing and able to do so. Under the metayage system, peasants worked the land and the authorities collected taxes at harvest time. The marshland was referred to locally as “Saudi Arabia,” in reference to its natural richness and its importance to local people’s livelihoods.

During the war and genocide, the marshland turned into a wilderness. It provided a hiding place, first for the genocide victims and subsequently for those persecuted by the Rwandan Patriotic Front (which later became the Rwandan Patriotic Party which continues to dominate political and military life in the country). In 1997 the RPF decided to develop the unexploited part of the marshland in order to boost food production and, perhaps more important, to clear the hiding places of its opponents. Eugène (pseudonym), a member of the military group in charge of the undertaking, launched a food-for-work project with the aid of the World Food Program (WFP). The project employed local peasants to develop the marshland and prepare it for cultivation. At a certain point (the research participants were not clear about when exactly), the WFP terminated its funding. Eugène tried to continue the project for a while, but around 1999, after severe rainfall and flooding, he decided to leave the marshland. The flooding had caused the marshland to become overgrown with papyrus again, so it needed to be redeveloped in order for agricultural activity to recommence. Local peasants returned and started cultivating plots of land according to their physical and financial capabilities.

Around 2002, however, another entrepreneur named Alphonse (pseudonym) was given permission by the district authorities to launch a new project in the marshlands reoccupied by the local population. He also received backing from an NGO that provided him with maize seeds and manure. Alphonse imposed himself as the marshland manager and insisted that peasants working on “his” land would cultivate maize. The locals interviewed in a village committee focus group in 2007 described him as an agricultural entrepreneur who was very familiar with marshland cultivation. Respondents recalled how Alphonse, in an effort to enhance his social status, boasted of his (real or fictitious) high-level political connections. Alphonse apparently claimed that the maize produced on “his” part of the marshland was destined for the “President’s grenier” in Nyanza. Whether or not this was true, he clearly did have connections at the district level.

Next to plots that had always been cultivated by individual local peasants, Alphonse also claimed plots that were previously “owned” by Eugène. When Eugène returned in 2003, this led to a profound conflict between the two protagonists. Proving his case on the basis of old maps, Eugène took the matter to the district authorities and successfully reclaimed “his” marshland plot (approximately 120 ha), which several research participants implicitly attributed to his military connections. He quickly reestablished himself as the manager of “his” section of marshland, that is, the part he had previously managed under the WFP.

The two “entrepreneurs” took different approaches to organizing agricultural production. Alphonse chose to allow people to cultivate the marshland plots they had previously occupied, but forced them to grow maize. He provided them with seeds, manure, and fertilizers. At harvest time, however, the peasants were obliged to sell their maize to Alphonse at below-market price. This system was severely criticized as exploitative by nearly all of the informants in the 2006 research. An often-cited anecdote was that Alphonse deployed local defense forces to stop peasants from “smuggling” maize out of the marshland and selling it “illicitly” on the market.

Subsequently, as the Rwandan government began to promote collective cultivation systems for marshland development, Alphonse grouped people into “phantom” associations that existed in name only (focus group with village committee, June 2007). Although many farmers retained their user rights on marshland plots, a significant proportion of local peasants (approximately 30%) lost access, either because they refused to cultivate maize, or because they were unable to adhere to the imposed rhythm of cultivation and harvesting, or as a result of having been excluded from a particular association.

In 2006 the odds turned against Alphonse; members of a 2007 focus group said “he was chased from the marshland by the district authorities.”^{Footnote 10} After his departure people continued to cultivate the plots they considered their own and that they had occupied before and during Alphonse’s time, but now they were free again to cultivate whichever crop they saw fit. In October 2006, however, the district authorities entrusted the management of the marshland to a cooperative.

Interestingly, the local perception of the merits and shortcomings of Alphonse’s system changed quite substantially over time, with a widening gap appearing between the opinions of different socioeconomic groups. During the 2007 research, the better-off peasants (i.e., those who were able to secure access to a marshland plot under the new cooperative system) generally portrayed Alphonse as having “exploited” the population and tended to emphasize the many “injustices” under the previous system. However, the poorer categories of peasants in 2007—in stark contrast to their responses in the 2004 and 2006 interviews—referred to Alphonse as a “benefactor,” “a wise man” who had “taken care of them.” One respondent in a focus group with poor farmers who had previously been better-off mentioned how, in a period of scarcity, Alphonse had imported beans and sold them on credit to the local peasants. Others in the same focus group recalled how Alphonse had provided credit for educational or medical expenditures. In the words of one respondent, they had “wept” when Alphonse left because he had been able to “take care of the poor,” whereas “today we are left with nothing.” Another focus group participant referred to Alphonse as a “saint.” After his departure from their umudugudu, “many children had to quit school.”

This radical shift in the appreciation of Alphonse’s marshland management system can be explained by the evolution of access to the swamp after his departure. In 2007, with the transfer of the marshland’s management to a cooperative, the rules of the game determining access to or exclusion from it altered quite fundamentally. The cooperative divided the marshland into plots of approximately equal size and set an access fee (initially RWF 3,000, increased first to 5,000 and then to 6,500). Whereas poorer peasants had previously been able to assert their marshland access rights, the financial requirement imposed by the cooperative now led to the de facto exclusion of many. Several focus group participants described the dire impact of their exclusion in no uncertain terms: “if they do not let us exploit the marshland, we are dead.”

Eugène adopted a very different approach to organizing cultivation in “his” section of marshland right from the moment he returned (in 2003) and reimposed himself as the manager. He set up a cooperative and “motivated” people to work in associations under the umbrella structure in which he served as the coordinateur, or spokesperson. Each association had to concentrate on a particular crop type, in line with the official monocropping policy.^{Footnote 11} In the 2007 research, the focus group participants estimated the number of marshland associations operating under the cooperative structure at around sixty, with members coming from all of the nearby imidugudu.

Access to or exclusion from an association under the cooperative depended first and foremost on finances, as each association was required to contribute RWF 100,000 to the cooperative.^{Footnote 12} Additionally, candidates for marshland plots had to be physically able to cultivate the plot in question. Those suffering from ill health and lacking the resources to pay others to work in their place were forced to leave. Apart from financial and physical resources, eligibility for working the marshland managed by Eugène was a matter of having the right social connections, as this guaranteed access to crucial information. Indeed, some farmers were better informed about the inevitable evolution from individual to collective marshland user rights. In this context, certain participants in a focus group with better-off farmers (June 2007) referred to themselves as “those who were aware of the utility of the marshlands.” They formed associations with a limited number of members early in the collectivization process and received user rights for substantial plots. By the time the other peasants began to realize the importance of forming associations in order to retain access to marshland plots, most of the available land had already been taken. Associations formed later in the collectivization process typically consisted of more members and obtained user rights for smaller plots of marshland. The “early” associations, for their part, were not keen to expand their membership, as they were mainly concerned, according to the focus group participants, with “preserving their plot sizes.”

Moreover, the polarization in respect to marshland access was accelerated by the fact that certain influential peasants (referred to as capitas)—well-connected to local authorities and to Eugène’s cooperative—“bought” user rights to considerable parts of the marshland and subsequently founded an association. Local peasants were obliged to pay high financial contributions of between RWF 5,000 and 6,500 in addition to annual taxes. Several research participants mentioned in 2007 that the way people enter into the associations in “Eugène’s marshland” these days is “a secret.” One participant in a focus group with the umudugudu committee openly accused the association authorities of receiving bribes in the form of tips (pour-boire). Be that as it may, the forming of associations and the distribution of the marshlands clearly had the effect of consolidating or even aggravating existing power imbalances.

Overall, one may summarize as follows: Whereas poorer peasants found opportunities to occupy marshland in periods of “disorganization,” the rearrangement of the institutional landscape with the introduction of new formal policy guidelines had the opposite effect. Initially, the most influential entrepreneurs served as gatekeepers at the interface between the local setting and the outside world. They extracted power from their position and used it to negotiate with external donors and from their sociopolitical contacts with local and higher-level authorities. In the process, they reinforced their position by acquiring greater control over the use and distribution of marshland plots.

The “associational requirement,” in combination with agrarian commercialization policies as promoted by the Rwandan authorities, further enhanced existing categorical distinctions. Better-off peasants were able to buy their way into the marshland. Some peasants with sufficient financial means and the necessary social networks even managed to become intermediaries between Alphonse and Eugène, on the one hand, and the association members on the other. For poorer peasant categories, however, the marshland became yet another political arena in which they ended up “at the losing end of the bargaining process” (the defining condition of poverty, according Bastiaensen et al. Reference Bastiaensen, De Herdt and D’Exelle2005). As such, the introduction of new institutional arrangements and the aggravation of existing power imbalances only added to the persisting inequality among peasants. Elite capture of the opportunities offered by the reforms resulted in the reproduction and reinforcement of structural forms of poverty and existing patronage networks.

Smallholder Farming Versus Commercially Oriented Large-Scale Agriculture

Both case studies show how a state-engineered project to modernize and professionalize the agricultural sector can provide extensive room for maneuver to elites (be they foreign actors capable of acquiring land concessions or local elites using their brokering role in the collectivization process) to instrumentalize the developmental discourse in order to reinforce their own power base. The resulting polarization takes the form of fundamental social changes through shifts in control over resources (capital) and in the division of labor, as well as in the division of the decision-making power of various socioeconomic categories. The small-scale peasants typically end up in a more vulnerable position, facing additional difficulties in trying to secure access to (marsh)land. This adds to a more general trend whereby smallholder farmers are pushed out of the agricultural sector in favor of commercially oriented rural entrepreneurs operating on a larger scale (Ansoms & Rostagno Reference Ansoms and Rostagno2012; Des Forges Reference Des Forges, Reyntjens and Marysse2006).

Merlet and Jamart (Reference Krishna2009) warn that the impact of such a trend—once fully set in motion—is irreversible. The new agriculture, based on commercially oriented entrepreneurship, will lead to the destruction of diversity in terms of agricultural production systems, ecosystems, knowledge, cultures, and so on. It will result in the gradual winnowing out of family farming (Des Forges Reference Des Forges, Reyntjens and Marysse2006), even when located far from the directly implicated investment areas. Small-scale farmers will increasingly face difficulties in dealing with market and price fluctuations. They will encounter growing problems in trying to secure their land rights in an increasingly competitive land market. It is therefore important to assess the opportunities and risks implied by the new ways of organizing agriculture before engaging in blind experimentation.

In the case of Rwanda, for example, the macroeconomic picture looks rather bright (Ansoms & Rostagno Reference Ansoms and Rostagno2012). On the ground, however, one sees that those peasants who are not able to secure their land rights in an increasingly competitive market for land become part of a rural “proletariat.” They work primarily as agricultural wage laborers in temporary, poorly paid jobs, and they face a daily struggle for survival. The off-farm sector (both rural and urban) is not capable of creating sufficient alternative employment to absorb this growing mass of unskilled wage laborers. As a consequence, the growing competition for and commoditization of land—in combination with limited options outside of the agricultural sector—have a strongly negative impact upon the livelihoods of a large majority of the rural population.

How can the tables be turned in order to protect local livelihoods in an African context of increasing commercialization and commoditization of land? A 2010 World Bank document formulates several policy recommendations, focusing mostly on the combination of enhancing good land management on the part of governments and promoting responsible corporate behavior on the part of investors.^{Footnote 13} Both sets of recommendations can, however, be framed as a way of narrowing the terms of debate.

First of all, the elaborate focus on the promotion of principles for responsible corporate behavior is problematic not only because of its voluntary nature (Borras & Franco Reference Borras and Franco2010); even more worrisome is its implicit acceptance of the fact that an evolution toward large-scale agricultural production systems is unavoidable (White Reference Veltmeyer2010). Indeed, despite its discourse in favor of small-scale farming, the World Development Report titled “Agriculture for Development” also states that “economies of scale in the “new agriculture” often are the key for obtaining inputs, technology, and information and in getting products to the market. As agriculture becomes more technology driven and access to consumers is mediated by agro-processors and supermarkets, economies of scale will pose major challenges for the future competitiveness of smallholders” (World Bank Reference White2007:91–92).

Akram-Lodhi (2008:471) denounces the way in which smallholder agriculture is now declared unviable, after decades of “systematically undermin[ing] smallholders by disinvesting and exposing them to ‘free’ market forces on an uneven playing field.” He criticizes the almost implicit acceptance of the World Development Report that smallholders’ dispossession of farmland will continue and even gain speed. Likewise, Veltmeyer (2009:395) accuses the lead authors of the report of “view[ing] the peasantry by and large as an anachronism, seeking to defend a way of life and an economy that is inherently non-viable.” Borras and Franco (2010:515) argue that the focus on “codes of conduct” for large-scale investors fits into that same view, as it “a priori dismisses the possibility of other development pathway options and ignores the clamor of those who believe that other pathways are possible.” According to Borras and Franco, those alternative pathways—departing from the supposition of a corporate-led transnational capitalistic development model—are based upon a categorical protection of the land rights of poor people.

Another set of policy guidelines in the 2010 World Bank report focuses on the responsibility of government. The document proposes several guidelines to improve the policy, legal, and institutional frameworks for land management. It does not, however, call into question the traditional one-size-fits-all approach to land management (see also World Bank Reference Vermeulen and Cotula2006; de Janvry et al. Reference De Janvry2001) based upon private, formally registered property titles. The market-led agrarian reforms (MLAR) that have been implemented in many developing countries imply the introduction of a system of private, exclusive property rights that are freely transacted on a “willing-buyers, willing-sellers formal land market” (Bryant Reference Bryant1996:1543). The MLAR model foresees only minimal involvement of the state and is opposed to the imposition of any ceilings on land holdings. Altogether, this should result in a self-selection process of the most productive producers; accordingly, productivity and agricultural efficiency should increase (for the main arguments of the MLAR literature, see Deininger & Feder Reference Deininger and Feder1998; Deininger Reference Deininger2003).

In line with the MLAR model, securing land rights has been regarded as a legal issue that needs to be regulated by statutory law allocating official land titles that are guaranteed and managed by central authorities. Formally recognized private property titles are seen as a prerequisite to enhancing rural agents’ incentives for investment and to settling land conflicts that have emerged in a context of institutional confusion (Deininger & Feder 2009). In reality, however, “gaining ‘title’ to land has never been a ‘simple’ recognition of unused capital but has always involved severe social struggles with distinct winners and losers” (Peters Reference Newbury and Newbury2009:1322). These struggles take place in all systems of land tenure—both communal and individual, formal and informal. Therefore, the introduction of a system of centralized title registration should not be perceived as a technical solution, but as a practice connected to social, economic, cultural, and political arenas in which various actors have different power resources (see Borras & Franco Reference Borras and Franco2010).

The fact that many small-scale peasants never register their titles—and in the case of the Rwandan marshes are not even able to make land claims despite their (often intensive) use of the land—has facilitated the emergence of a discourse concerning vast areas of unused land waiting for development through capital injection by private investors, or an engagement by local elites. In the new context of growing competition and commoditization of space (see Zoomers 2010), the already ongoing formalization of land rights—combined with the lack of recognized customary land titles—is opening up an interesting window of opportunity for more powerful actors to negotiate over land rights with the relevant authorities in order to exploit the productive potential of “un(der)utilized” land.

Furthermore, the relevant authorities have a particular agenda in negotiations over land rights. Personal connections between policymakers, on the one hand, and interested large-scale actors or local elites, on the other, may definitely play a role in this respect. Vermeulen & Cotula (2010:914) point out that “when tested within real negotiations, government agencies invariably align with the investor rather than the local land users.” This political economy dimension is totally unacknowledged, however, in the World Bank reports. Indeed, as pointed out by Scoones (Reference Puddu2010), “the World Bank’s hyped report on land grabbing is confusing and disappointing, because its analysis lacks an understanding of what drives investments, what politics surround land deals, and the sociopolitical dynamics shaping livelihood outcomes.”

Whereas the 2010 World Bank report focuses on good land management and corporate responsibility to increase the chances for “host countries . . . to use investor interest to help them utilize the resources at their disposal in a way that can . . . improve local livelihoods” (2010:93), Borras and Franco (Reference Borras and Franco2010) argue in favor of a human rights‒based approach that takes the right to food and the right to land as a starting point. This completely calls into question the current practices of the agro-industrial food establishment and proposes an entirely different agrarian model based upon the productive potential of small-scale farmers. Borras (Reference Borras2008) links this with the idea of “food sovereignty,” a right proclaimed by the Vía Campesina that is based upon the recognition of the potential and capacity of family-based farming.