The Extractive Industries and Society 4 (2017) 681–697

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The Extractive Industries and Society

journal homepage: www.elsevier.com/locate/exis

Review article

Why do some communities resist mining projects while others do not?

Marta Condea,* , Philippe Le Billonb
a
ICTA, Universidad Autonoma de Barcelona, Bellatera, 08193, Barcelona, Spain
b
Department of Geography and the Liu Institute for Global Issues, University of British Columbia, 1984 West Mall, Vancouver, BC V6T 1Z2, Canada

A R T I C L E I N F O A B S T R A C T

Article history:
Received 7 January 2017 The pace of mineral extraction has greatly accelerated since the mid-1950s, with a major mineral boom
Received in revised form 28 April 2017 taking place in the past decade. Responding to growing demands for more material resources, mining
Accepted 28 April 2017 projects have met with frequent resistance from local communities. Yet, not all communities oppose
Available online 20 May 2017 mining projects. Based on an extensive literature review, this paper identifies and discusses factors
affecting the likelihood of resistance to mining projects by local communities. Case study evidence
Keywords: suggests that dependency towards mining companies, political marginalisation, and trust in institutions
Conflicts tend to reduce resistance likelihood. In contrast, large environmental impacts, lack of participation,
Communities
extra-local alliances, and distrust towards state and extractive companies tend to increase resistance,
Participation
while economic marginalisation, corporate social responsibility activities, remoteness and attachment to
Mining
Resistance place have mixed effects. Systematic assessments of these factors could further confirm patterns of
resistance, clarify the needs for local consent processes, and help inform the creation of ’no-go’ areas for
mining projects to the mutual benefit of companies, communities, and government authorities otherwise
affected by socio-environmental impacts and costly deadlocks.
© 2017 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

Contents

1. Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 682

2. Is resistance to mining increasing? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 683
3. Which factors make some groups resist against mining projects, whilst others do not? .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 683
3.1. Mining project related factors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 684
3.1.1. Geography, environmental impacts and livelihoods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 684
3.1.2. Displacement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 684
3.1.3. Remoteness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 685
3.1.4. Project-driven participation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 685
3.2. Community-related factors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 685
3.2.1. Marginalisation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 686
3.2.2. Mine dependency . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 686
3.2.3. Place and territory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 686
3.2.4. Alliances . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 688
3.2.5. Distrust . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 688
3.2.6. Community driven participation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 689
3.3. Company-related factors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 689
3.3.1. Corporate social responsibility (CSR) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 690
3.3.2. Compensation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 690
3.3.3. Corporate driven participation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 690
3.4. State related factors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 691
3.4.1. Pro-industry state policies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 691

* Corresponding author.
E-mail addresses: mcondep@gmail.com (M. Conde), lebillon@geog.ubc.ca
(P. Le Billon).

http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.exis.2017.04.009
2214-790X/© 2017 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.
682 M. Conde, P. Le Billon / The Extractive Industries and Society 4 (2017) 681–697

3.4.2. Criminalisation of dissent . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 691

3.4.3. Rent seeking behaviour and corruption . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 691
3.4.4. Inadequate planning and implementation .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 691
3.4.5. State-driven participation . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 692
4. Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 692
Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 694
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 694

1. Introduction factors like distrust among local people towards a company or the
state, and the lack of participation by local communities in
The pace of mineral extraction has greatly accelerated over the decision-making processes can be drivers of resistance; whereas
past 60 years responding to the expanding metabolism of societies other factors such as perceived dependency towards mining
consuming more energy and primary commodities (Krausmann companies and some forms of marginalisation hinder resistance.
et al., 2009; Martinez Alier, 2003). The liberalisation of mining laws The concept of resistance can refer to different forms of
and investment codes, financialisation of many commodity opposition and mobilisation. Generally representing a counter-
markets, and historically low domestic interest rates (Arboleda, hegemonic project or conduct (Rose, 2002), resistance includes
2015; Bridge, 2004; Basu et al., 2016) coupled with a decade of high two basic elements: opposition to existing power relations
commodity prices, deregulation, and technological innovations (Hollander and Einwohner, 2004), and action, whether it be
have allowed companies to advance the commodity frontier (Tsing, “verbal, cognitive or physical”. Resistance can be visible and overt
2003; Watts, 2015), moving ever greater quantities of soil and or invisible and covert, often then part of ‘everyday socio-
water (Prior et al., 2012). To extract remaining resources, environmental resistance’ (Scott, 2008). Resistance can also be
companies often go farther and deeper into more ecologically sporadic and anecdotal, or sustained over time and turned into
and sometimes socially vulnerable areas. On many occasions these social movements with organised collective actions backed by
areas are inhabited by communities, many of them indigenous, dense social networks (Tarrow, 1994). Resistance can be pursued
who suffer the burdens of displacement and pollution due to for its stated goals, such as cancelling a mining project, or used by
resource-dependent livelihoods, unequal power distribution, and communities to increase their bargaining power in negotiations,
social inequalities associated with ethnicities, castes, social classes such as blockading a mine construction site to increase compen-
and gender (Martinez Alier et al., 2014). The ensuing conflicts are sation benefits (Anguelovski, 2011; Macintyre and Foale, 2004).
encompassed by a communications revolution that is connecting The term ‘community’ is used here to describe groups of lay people
and making more visible many of these fights (Della Porta and with links to the surrounding area of mining projects, but does not
Tarrow, 2005; Castells, 2013; Kirsch, 2014). Resistance by imply that these groups are immutable, geographically-confined,
communities is an important dimension of the political economy homogenous and cohesive (on the risks of reductionist under-
of mineral extraction (Franks et al., 2014; Gamu et al., 2015), and standings of ’community’, see Agrawal and Gibson, 1999).
one particularly relevant in the shaping of commodity frontiers This study combines an extensive literature review covering
(Exner et al., 2015; Le Billon and Sommerville, 2016; Conde and 224 studies mostly published in refereed journals and directly
Kallis, 2012). It has thus become crucial to understand why considering community-level forms of resistance around mining
resistance to mining emerges. (see Bibliography). The search used Google Scholar and Web of
Not all communities resist, however, and if they resist they do Science, and relied on both keywords – including terms such as
not resist with the same objectives, narratives, and intensity. This resistance, conflict, mining, communities – and cross-citations.
paper analyses some factors that can explain why some groups This was complemented by a direct search in the most relevant
resist whilst others do not. Our objective at this point is not to journals. Most of the studies identified consist of individual case
create a pre-emptive tool to predict whether a project will be studies, and more rarely comparative studies including large-N
conflictive or not, but to inform debates seeking to understand statistical analyses of conflicts and resistance to mining. Although
resistance to mining; why it emerges and grows in some our search was global in scope, it covered only literature in English,
communities, but not in others. As we examine below, some and to a lesser extent in Spanish. Most of the case studies covered

Fig. 1. Cumulative number of new mining conflicts in the world (2000–2016).

Source: EJ Atlas accessed 5 January 2017; Temper et al. (2015).
 M. Conde, P. Le Billon / The Extractive Industries and Society 4 (2017) 681–697 683

Table 1
Factors and potential influence on resistance likelihood.

Factors Resistance likelihood

Decrease Mixed Increase

Project Geography Remoteness X
Community displacement X
Socio-environmental impacts and livelihoods Low-grade ore quality X
Open-pit X
Visibility of impacts X
Participation Project-driven X
Community Marginalisation Economic X
Social X
Political X
Mine Dependency ASM X
Labour and corporate support X
Place and territory Prior-mining activities X
Culture, livelihood & anti-extractivism X
Alliances X
Trust Institutional trust X
Relational trust X
Participation Community-driven X
Company Size and capacity of company Large X
Medium X
Junior X
CSR X
Compensation X
Participation Corporate-driven X
State Pro-industry policies X
Inadequate planning X
Corruption X
Repression and criminalisation of protest X
Participation State-driven X

are within Latin America, reflecting both higher numbers of mining
conflicts and scholarly coverage for that region. The vast majority
of case studies covered conflicts occurring over the past two
decades. While encompassing a wide sample of the scholarly
literature, this paper thus does not claim to provide a comprehen-
sive review of all cases, studies, or perspectives.
Following a brief presentation of studies pointing at the rising
number of conflicts during the recent commodity boom, we
identify and discuss four main categories comprising 18 factors
potentially influencing the likelihood and escalation of resistance.
We then report on the likelihood of these factors to increase or
decrease resistance, and outline an agenda for further research.
2. Is resistance to mining increasing?
Interest and research on mining conflicts and community
resistance have been increasing during the last decade (Bebbing-
ton, 2012b; Kirsch, 2014; Arsel et al., 2016; Engels and Dietz, 2017).
This growing interest reflects in part the rising number and
prominence of cases of mining-related conflicts, with conflicts
being considered here as a proxy for open expressions of
resistance. Although more research remains needed, this rise in
conflict seems to combine both an increase in the number of
mining projects between 2005 and 2012, and possibly in the
frequency of opposition to mining by affected communities. By
January 2017, the Environmental Justice Atlas (EJ Atlas) had
identified a total of 423 conflicts relating to ’mineral ores and
building materials extraction’, including 290 that had started after
1999 (for a description of EJ Atlas, see Temper et al., 2015). The
temporal distribution of these 290 conflicts suggests an upward
trend in the cumulative number of mining conflicts between 2002
and 2013 (see Fig. 1). The ICMM's (2015) latest report on mining
company-community conflicts identifies a smaller number of
conflicts but relatively similar trend, with an increase in the
number of reported incidents (from 10 to 90) between 2002 and
2012, and a small decrease (to 88) in 2013.
Although not explicitly demonstrating an increase of conflicts
over time, several other studies point to the prominence of mining-
related conflicts among socio-environmental conflicts, especially
in Latin America in the late 2000s (CIEL, 2010; Defensoría Del
Pueblo, 2012; Firpo et al., 2013; OCMAL, 2014; Perez Rincón, 2015).
Reports from Global Witness (2014,2015), show an increase in the
number of environment and land defenders killed across the
world, with 150 out of 908 killings committed between 2002 and
2014 relating to extractive conflicts. Examining 59 mining-related
conflicts involving physical injuries and casualties between 2005
and 2012, Bond and Kirsch (2015) point at the association of
increased occurrences with commodity price spikes. Overall,
resistance to mining projects seems to have increased over the
past two decades, and especially during the second phase of the
last mining boom (2009-2012), along with an increase in
repression against communities.
3. Which factors make some groups resist against mining
projects, whilst others do not?
The contexts in which mining projects take place are major
determinants not only in the push for resource extraction, but also
in the formation of social resistance (Bebbington, 2012a; Le Billon
and Sommerville, 2016). While seeking to avoid over-general-
isations, we aim in this paper to identify some prominent factors
explaining the emergence of resistance in some communities, and
not in others. We specifically explore here the factors relating to
mining projects, to communities, to government authorities, and
to mining companies. As suggested in Table 1, these factors tend to
be recognised in the literature as either decreasing, increasing or
having mixed effect on the likelihood of resistance. We discuss
below each of these factors, with the aim of nuancing their impact
684 M. Conde, P. Le Billon / The Extractive Industries and Society 4 (2017) 681–697
on resistance and to provide concrete examples. We also include a
specific discussion of the role of community participation
processes, contrasting the differences between processes driven
by communities, companies or governments.
3.1. Mining project related factors
The geographic and resource characteristics of mining projects
determine their relative location, the type of mineral extraction
and processing, and the associated impacts projects may cause.
Resource and geographic factors also influence the relative
attractiveness of the mineral deposits to the mining industry
and thus insistence even in case of local resistance, as well as the
importance of local resources to community livelihoods and thus
resistance likelihood. Three major factors include the environ-
mental impacts of the resource project, the overlap of community
infrastructure and livelihood related places with mineral deposits,
and the relative remoteness of projects.
3.1.1. Geography, environmental impacts and livelihoods
The types of projects and magnitude of their impacts are partly
determined by the location, concentration, and technique of
extraction of the minerals. Each mined commodity has different
traits that can determine the process of extraction, the reagents
and techniques used, and in turn the impacts caused. For example,
copper is obtained through flotation, smelting and refining
processes whilst gold and uranium are lixiviated with cyanide
and sulphuric acid (respectively). Whilst flotation is rather
innocuous, smelting can release toxic pollutants to the atmo-
sphere, and lixiviation risks contaminating underground water
sources. Other minerals that do not require ore concentration still
have noticeable impacts; coal mining entails soil removal and
erosion, fly ash and mine subsidence whilst in sand mining, river
degradation and biodiversity loss are widespread. Moreover, new
commodity frontiers tend to have lower grades whilst some
commodities like gold or uranium are found in very low
concentration, having to use more water and reagents, thus
creating more waste per unit produced (Prior et al., 2012).
These impacts can affect the livelihoods and cultural traditions
of local peasant communities, as well as their internal relations
(Bury, 2002; Martinez Alier, 2003; Kirsch, 2001; Perreault, 2013;
Urkidi, 2010). The combination of agricultural dependence and
mining, that is linked to economic marginalisation (section 3.2.1),
constitute a significant factor of resistance, as mining competes
with limited agricultural livelihood opportunities. This is the case
of mining projects located at mid-level altitudes in the Andes
(Haslam and Tanimoune, 2016), where communities still remain
highly dependent on agriculture and husbandry but water and
arable land are already scarce, competing for resources with the
mining industry (Silva-Macher and Farrell, 2014; Bebbington et al.,
2008). Communities tend to oppose a mining project if they locally
feel the impacts. The greater the proximity and visibility of hazards
like dust or acid mine drainage, the more likely mobilisation is
(Conde and Kallis, 2012). For the Yanacocha gold mine in Peru or
the Ok Tedi mine in Papua New Guinea, mining conflicts emerged
when the communities’ livelihoods were being threatened through
water diversions and pollution (Bebbington et al., 2008; Bury,
2002; Kirsch, 2001). With uranium mining, the impacts of
radioactivity are not felt and diseases take a long time to show
explaining why resistance can take a long time to emerge or not
emerge at all (Conde and Kallis, 2012). Özkaynak et al. (2015)
analysis of 346 mining conflicts of the EJ Atlas database also shows
that mobilisation starts due to an actual incident or when local
communities feel the impacts.
The rise of large-scale open-cast mining since the 1960s,
including for coal, has massively increased the impacts and
visibility of extraction, including major disturbances to landscapes
as well as severe damages to the underground and surface
hydrogeology. Based on a statistical analysis of mining conflicts in
several Latin American countries, Haslam and Tanimoune (2016)
find conflict likelihood to be higher for open-pit mining than
underground operations. Although ’In Situ Leaching’ – which
injects reagents into underground deposits and pumps up the
solution- avoids the creation of open-pits, it still entails risk
groundwater contamination (Mudd, 2001).
The magnitude and type of environmental impacts matter
when the project is on-going because less ‘perceived’ or real
disturbances and pollution means less likelihood of resistance.
Also, in response to social demands, environmental safeguards can
be implemented in certain processes (such as smelting), but can be
more difficult to achieve in others (such as lixiviation) (Hilson,
2000). However, prior to the start of a project the technical
processing details might not be a determining factor in the
formation of a resistance movement.
The characteristics of mineral ore bodies can also determine the
size and experience of the mining company that exploits it; low-
grade deposits or complex mineral processing generally require
complex and expensive techniques that only large mining
companies might be able to deploy. This in turn relates to the
experience in dealing with community-mining conflicts or
negotiation; mid-tier or junior companies might not have the
experience or resources to deal with potential resistance or
negotiate with local communities (Dougherty, 2011; Bebbington,
2012b). Finding that mid-tier firms (as well as large firms) are more
conflict-prone than junior firms, Haslam and Tanimoune (2016:
412) suggest that “mid-tier firms may operate mines with large-
scale impacts, while retaining the ad-hoc community management
practices of small firms”. Overall, the relationship between
geographical factors and resistance likelihood thus reflect a
number of intervening factors, including the characteristics of
firms and communities involved.
3.1.2. Displacement
Mining project related impacts can include the displacement of
a whole community to a new location, posing high risks for the
livelihoods, health and social ties of its members. It also generates
stress, insecurity and feelings of inequality both within the most
directly affected community and others in the broader area,
notably as a result of resettlement and uneven compensation
(Ahmad and Lahiri-Dutt, 2006; Downing, 2002). The mining
industry tend to follow the World Bank Group's social safeguards
for involuntary resettlement, which emphasise that resettled
communities should at least be as well off as before in terms of
local production systems and income opportunities (Szablowski,
2007; Owen and Kemp, 2015). The implementation of the
directive, however, has been riddled by conflicts. Not only is the
adoption of the safeguards voluntary (Lange, 2011), but reliance on
a generic framework ignoring specific contexts and relationship
and a lack of community participation in the design and
implementation of the plans often marginalise local people views
and needs (Szablowski, 2007; Owen and Kemp, 2015). Rather than
represent and assist affected communities, the state often
delegates all responsibilities to the company, including for design
and enforcement purposes, an attitude aggravated by an “internal
capacity gap” in mining companies that have to deal with “complex
issues relating to legacy, traditional forms of land ownership,
multiple resettlements, and changed ownership” (Owen and
Kemp, 2015: 486). 'Under-financing' is a key aspect in the failure
of displacements (Downing, 2002). Downing (2002) highlights the
goal should be rehabilitation and not compensation - in itself not
enough to restore previous income and livelihood standards.
 M. Conde, P. Le Billon / The Extractive Industries and Society 4 (2017) 681–697
In artisanal mining, miners can also be displaced to make way
for large-scale mining causing them to resist plans to relocate
them. Hilson et al. (2007) analysis of the government-led “Prestea
Action Plan” in Ghana showed, similarly to the World Bank
directive criticisms, that lack of information and communication
channels with the community as well as lack of assurance of
mining opportunities (livelihood) for the miners gave very little
incentives for miners to relocate. As further discussed below,
community distrust towards government and companies is also
frequently related to the failure of resettlement schemes, with for
example Szablowski (2007) pointing at the San Marcos community
losing its trust towards the negotiators of the Antamina Mine in
Peru when the mine re-appropriated lands previously designated
for resettlement shortly after the first families started to relocate.
Despite its major significance, there remains a dearth of
publicly available research and debates about mining-related
displacement, with most reports being produced by mining
companies that keep them confidential (Owen and Kemp, 2015).
There is also a lack of attention to its gender-specific effects – an
exception are those documented for coal mining related displace-
ment in India, with women losing their role (and status) as
livelihood and food provider, causing health and mental stress
problems, and increasing marginalisation and food insecurity
(Ahmad and Lahiri-Dutt, 2006).
3.1.3. Remoteness
Another geographical dimension of potential resistance to
mining projects is the relative isolation of mining areas (Muradian
et al., 2004). When no population is currently present, occasionally
as a result of previous processes of dispossession or settlement of
nomadic populations, only ‘culture of wilderness environmen-
talists’ might want to oppose its development for conservation
purposes (Guha and Martinez Alier, 1997; Conde and Kallis, 2012).
Yet, if these isolated areas are populated, the communities might
experience a lack of government presence and services making
them develop their own governance structures. This can result in
the defence of what local communities consider as their ’territory’,
as well as in more direct negotiations with the mining companies.
Some authors argue that resistance is more likely to emerge in
remote areas precisely because of lack of effective state presence.
Ballard and Banks (2003) argue that when the state's capacity to
deliver services is limited, communities have less regard to “the
authority and claims of the state” (see also Scott, 2014). De Echave
et al. (2009: 83) and Bebbington et al. (2008) interpret in part the
protests to protect Mount Quilish in Cajamarca, Peru partly as a
consequence of the lack of institutionalised means and actors to
channel and represent the demands of the population.
As suggested by findings from Haslam and Tanimoune (2016),
remoteness in terms of low population density may increase the
likelihood of mining conflict if there is a lack of alternative to
agricultural livelihoods potentially at risk from mining. Remote
areas are also more frequently inhabited by indigenous communi-
ties for whom culture, traditions and livelihoods tend to be
intimately linked to their land, which they often seek to defend
through motives and approaches based on distinct worldviews.
Moreover, relations between remote communities and the state, as
well as a sense of ’citizenship’ (both on the part of indigenous
communities and the state vis à vis these communities), are
frequently embedded in historical relations of marginalisation,
racism and various forms of violence including outright genocide
(Martinez Alier, 2003; Ballard and Banks, 2003; Muradian et al.,
2003; Fox, 2015).
But remoteness is not always or simply associated to the
’defense’ of the land in a supposed ’pristine’ or ’traditional’ state of
being, but rather through attempts to control the forms of
’development’ to take place. In the paradigmatic case of Lihir, a
685
small island in Papua New Guinea, the Lihirians rejected state
control and managed their own negotiations with the mining
company to achieve economic transformation through mining.
Criticisms to their actions range from women's disempowerment
(Scheyvens and Lagisa, 1998) to an apparent weak environmental
and mainly economic motive (Macintyre and Foale, 2004). These
are challenged by other anthropologists pointing instead to the
“complex longings, dreams, and choices” of these dependent
communities (Coumans, 2004; see also Kirsch, 2007). This
bypassing of the government can also be found in other
Melanesian cases such as Porgera and Ok Tedi cases, where
development revenues are controlled by the mining companies
with support of local communities (Filer, 1996), and more generally
with indigenous groups directly engaging with companies through
impact benefit agreements (see, O’Faircheallaigh, 2013; Peterson
St-Laurent and Le Billon, 2015). Muradian et al. (2003) also point to
what they term ‘remoteness dynamics’ whereby prospecting
mining firms favour the location of a project in a remote area due to
the lesser likelihood of facing opposition. Remoteness thus also
needs to be considered in relation to the development oppor-
tunities and promises brought by mineral extraction projects,
which may appear ’too good’ and ’too rare’ for communities to
reject.
3.1.4. Project-driven participation
While our attention to community participation is mostly
focused on decision-making processes over a mining project, the
characteristics of the project deposit and possible modes of
mineral extraction can contribute to influencing the direct
participation of local community members into mining activities,
and in turn levels of resistance (Hilson and Yakovleva, 2007). The
widespread occurrence of large scale mining within or around
Artisanal and small Scale Mining (ASM) targeting alluvial deposits
of high value minerals and metals demonstrate the need of
practical community participation. Mediated through artisanal
miners’ notions of property, legitimacy, livelihood, and develop-
ment, they react to the dispossession by large-scale mining
projects prohibiting or competing with ASM activities, especially if
ASM preceded large-scale mining; with such resistance being
notably deployed specifically to protect or (re)gain community
entitlements over mineral deposits (Geenen, 2014) such as the
mining settlers in Chinapintza, Ecuador, claiming to have been
’invaded’ by a Canadian concession holder (Sánchez-Vázquez et al.,
2016).
In contrast, lease sharing arrangements with artisanal miners
and direct employment in large-scale project – especially where no
community mining existed before – tend to reduce resistance
(Aubynn, 2009); although communities are often divided on these
issues as not all members – and surrounding communities –
benefit from those opportunities.
3.2. Community-related factors
Communities can respond in multiple forms to a proposed
project in their lands. Whilst communities that are politically
marginalised and dependent on external help (or previous mining
projects) might be more willing to accept a new project, those with
strong cultural and spiritual place-based livelihood ties to land will
more likely react against a mining project threatening this
equilibrium, build opposition alliances, and initiate alternative
decision-making processes. However, communities and commu-
nity-level resistance, or lack thereof, are rarely homogenous.
Internal divisions and conflicts between community members are
common, notably between members relying more heavily on their
land and resources (e.g. women), compared to those who might
want to benefit from the mine through jobs or associated
686 M. Conde, P. Le Billon / The Extractive Industries and Society 4 (2017) 681–697

development projects (Bebbington et al., 2008; Horowitz, 2002, marginalisation can also be linked to increasing dependency from
2012). a mining project once it has started.

3.2.2. Mine dependency

3.2.1. Marginalisation
Communities already immersed in a mining project might want
Marginalisation is often conceived as a process that entails
to keep the links with the company due to their dependency for
different forms of exclusion; through economic marginalisation
jobs, water, energy, revenue or the company's Corporate Social
people can be excluded from the main economic benefits of the
Responsibility (CSR) programs. This is generally the case for those
global economy (Cox, 1987) or through processes of dispossession
mining towns purposely created to house mine workers, where
of resources and land leading to livelihood loss and poverty,
mining companies often seek to maintain or recreate feelings of
making them dependent and narrowly adaptable (Robbins, 2004;
belonging and a paternalistic culture among the resident
Nayak and Berkes, 2010). Haslam and Tanimoune (2016) have
communities despite mechanisation processes greatly reducing
shown that household poverty correlates with increased conflict
the number of people employed by the mine (Scott and Bennett,
risk when communities are neglected in terms of public services.
2015). The mining town of Arandis in Namibia, is one such case
This again is related to the above-mentioned factor whereby a lack
where after 30 years of production decline the town welcomed a
of alternatives to agricultural livelihoods at risk from mineral
uranium rush after a peak in price in 2007 (Conde and Kallis, 2012).
exploitation will exacerbate the likelihood of conflict. However
Jenkins and Obara (2006) warn against the dependency CSR
economically marginalised communities that no longer rely on the
programs create on local communities especially after the mine
land might welcome a new mining project. This was the case of the
closes. This is however not a new topic, in economic geography and
Spitzkoppe community in Namibia, who had been displaced to
labour studies, the concept of resource-dependent communities
semi-deserted land during apartheid and had not developed any
dates back to the 1930s with Innis’ seminal work that was notably
cultural ties or livelihoods that could be threaten by the new
revived in the 1990s (see Randall and Ironside, 1996). This
mining project (Conde and Kallis, 2012). Marginalisation is
literature explores the economic and social resilience of these
widespread in the artisanal and small-scale mining (ASM) sector,
communities, pointing to factors such as the degree of resource
in part due to frequent biases against ASM activities and
dependency, their spatial isolation and their labour-market
communities, inadequate governmental policies, and weak gover-
characteristics.
nance structures (Carson et al., 2005; Hilson and McQuilken, 2015;
The dependency of local communities on the ASM sector is also
Tschakert and Singha, 2007). As we saw before, local ASM
extensively explored. In their analysis of a 3-year campaign of
communities react when they see their livelihoods threaten by
small-scale mine closures in China, Andrews-Speed et al. (2005)
large-scale mining operations (Carstens and Hilson, 2009;
show that most coal mining-dependent towns were abandoned by
Verbrugge, 2016).
their inhabitants in search of work elsewhere or investment was
Political or social exclusion is another form of marginalisation
searched to carry on exploitation. Fisher (2007) in Tanzania, and
whereby people are excluded from decision making mechanisms
Hilson and Yakovleva (2007) in Ghana highlight the role of
(Ballard and Banks, 2003) and the mainstreams of societal
marginalisation and the difficulty to find alternative livelihoods for
interests and power (Robbins, 2004), not having the time and
communities dependent on small-scale mining. The risk of
resources to participate in the formation of discourses or the
dependency in small-scale mining is aggravated for women who
capacity to make their voices heard (Bebbington, 2007; Blaikie and
move from farming to mining in search of a stable income but have
Brookfield, 1987). With deep historical roots (Howitt, 1989; Urkidi,
only access to menial and hazardous jobs with little income
2011; Fisher, 2007) these marginalised groups are generally
revenue (Yakovleva, 2007).
discriminated on the basis of ethnicity or group identity, gender
Even if the project has not started, many communities would
or age (Ballard and Banks, 2003). A marginalised community might
still welcome the development opportunities promised by the
not understand the implications of a mining project opening near
mining company, even at the price of the associated dependency.
them (Conde and Kallis, 2012) and may be more eager to trust the
McNeish (2012), for example, points to the evolving colonial nature
company's promise of jobs and development (Horowitz, 2010).
and “militant pragmatism” driving communities’ leadership to
Similarly, the concept of low ‘self-efficacy’ shows a lack of belief in
seek dialogue and negotiated settlements with the mining
one's capability “to effect change in their lives” contributing to the
company. This is further exemplified in Horowitz's (2012) analysis
“cession of trust to institutions of authority like technology,
of a mining conflict in New Caledonia where the local indigenous
expertise, the state and the divine” (Dougherty and Olsen, 2014: 8).
group Rhé é bù Nù ù negotiated a deal with the mining company
In their survey and interview based research carried out in
leaving the environmentalist groups and regional government
Guatemala, Dougherty and Olsen (2014) show how low levels of
aside. Ali and Grewal (2006) also show how the local community
(self-efficacy) correlate with mining support (and vice versa).
near the Koniambo project in New Caledonia ultimately agreed to
Moreover, internal power hierarchies can create divisions when
an “ownership scheme” that should allow for much of the profits to
community chiefs or Union directors stop the flow of information
stay in the territory. In contrast, indigenous territorialities,
to the more disenfranchised community members, particularly
attachment to land and material or symbolic economy relying
women, undermining the emergence of cohesive resistance
on local resources can originate political claims pushing commu-
(Conde and Kallis, 2012). As such politically marginalised
nities to engage in resistance (Escobar, 1995; Martinez Alier, 2003;
communities may be less likely, at least initially, to resist a new
Liffman, 1998; Rumsey and Weiner, 2004).
mining project.
Whereas social and political marginalisation seem to induce
3.2.3. Place and territory
less resistance than economic marginalisation, these three
Mining projects occur in places. These places are not simply
dimensions are often closely related, with social marginality
’material locations’ but relational spaces embedded with cultural
narrowing social capital to intra-community solidarities and
meanings and emotional significance derived from historical and
political marginality reducing influence over government and
everyday relations between local people and the land, making
the provision of public services, which in turn can increase or
landscapes “special and worth defending”, often through a
perpetuate economic marginalisation, notably as a result of poorer
territorialisation of identities and aspirations (Robertson, 2010:
education and reduced income opportunities. Economic
7; see also Cater and Keeling, 2013; Avci and Fernández-Salvador,
 M. Conde, P. Le Billon / The Extractive Industries and Society 4 (2017) 681–697
2016). Following Escobar (2001) we take place in an empirical
sense, where culture, nature and economy continually interact in
an ever-evolving place-making process with ontological, episte-
mic, and experiential dimensions (see also Cresswell, 2014 and
Martin and Pierce, 2013). Generally occurring at the scale of ’lived
experience’ of resident communities, ’place-making’ processes can
also involve larger spatial scales through extended kinship
relations, ethnicities, or even value systems (Harner, 2001;
Robertson, 2010). In Australia, aboriginal communities were
displaced from their (patrilineal links to) land, developing instead
a “shared identity based on descent and connection to an ancestral
state” where dense social networks have become a new ‘relational
ontology’ for these communities; this shared identity based on
historical connection to their ancestral states can be strongly
activated in the context of mining, either as a strategy to claim
benefits or as a defense of the territory (Peterson, 2015: 495).
Despite the importance of place epistemology in land-use
conflicts; modernity, globalisation and political decisions have
been changing long-standing values and practices of many
communities (Bebbington et al., 2008; Peterson, 2015). This has
highlighted the need for a deeper engagement with ontological
values. What the mining company sees as a resource deposit can be
seen by others as a mountain, an ‘apu’ or a living being (De la
Cadena, 2015). These culturally foundational “figured worlds” are
continually practiced and reworked through everyday life and the
enactment of place (Clammer et al., 2004: 6). Mining projects are
complex processes of transformation. Whereas mining produces
and leaves behind a distinctive landscape often seen as a symbol of
economic decline and environmental degradation, the process of
place transformation often goes beyond a simple process of
environmental disruption and social dislocation. Here the concept
of ruination and its understanding of mining landscapes as
“processes of becoming, not fixed things”, can help grasp a broader
sense of destruction, displacement, and reclamation associated
with mining activities and ’mined’ places (Stoler, 2008: 212;
Gordillo, 2014). As Wheeler (2014: 22) observes, mining vestiges
can “become incorporated into local people's experiences of the
everyday landscape and, as such, play an important role in
understandings of place and temporality”. In this line, mining
communities can develop memories, associations and emotional
attachments with places ‘ruined’ by mining. Through the
exploration of Rankin Inlet in remote Canada, Cater and Keeling
(2013) have found that even though the community is still
suffering from grave environmental impacts after 30 years after
the mine closed, a subset of the community would welcome new
mining development. Harner (2001) analyses the formation of this
coherent ‘identity’ through the case of Cananea in Mexico where a
labour union gained control of American-owned mines and
achieved “hegemonic equilibrium” between “means” (copper
production) and “meanings” (workers’ experiences). When the
neoliberal wave of privatisation occurred, many Cananea commu-
nity members resisted these changes through roadblocks, outside
demonstrations and strikes.
We have also seen how communities have opposed mining
projects and articulated the defense of ’their place’ in several ways:
as a project, as a strategy, and as an alternative to the dominant
extractive development model. Challenging Harner (2001),Larsen
(2004: 947) argues that place identities can “materialise either
through hegemony or as a component of resistance”. Her analysis
of the rejection of outside investments in a resource-dependent
area of Northern British Columbia, Canada, shows how their
“experience of powerlessness” created a “structure of feeling”
(quoting Williams, 1977: 132) through which they positioned
themselves as “regional stewards” in opposition to outside forces.
Li (2000) also describes the process through which place-based
identities are formed by contrasting two locations in Central
687
Sulawesi, Indonesia. She argues indigenous-placed identities are
not “invented, adopted or imposed” but rather are drawn “upon
historically sedimented practices, landscapes, and repertoires of
meaning” emerging “through particular patterns of engagement
and struggle” (Li, 2000: 151). Similarly, and using the case of the
Baguazo in Peru, Acuña (2015) points at the importance of
understanding conflicts from a historical perspective and decolo-
nising interpretations in order to better grasp indigenous political
ontologies. The cultural and emotional significance of place is also
exemplified by the Dongria Kondh in Orissa, India, who oppose a
bauxite mine in the Niyamgiri Hills because the mountain range
not only provides them with life and livelihoods but is also sacred
and worshipped as the “upholders of the Earth and the Universe”
(Temper and Martinez Alier, 2013: 85).
Comparing the role of territorial dynamics in local responses to
mining development through two projects in Ecuador, Avci and
Fernández-Salvador (2016) suggest that a key determinant of
social resistance is the ability of some community members to
bring about a territory-based identity enabling mobilisation. Also
comparing two mining projects, but in Turkey, Özen and Özen
(2017: 256) find that resistance occurred only in the case where
communities were able to draw on pre-established place-based
historical narratives of resistance to foreign invaders and
environmental narratives of critical water supply; thus arguing
that in a context where “local meaning systems are dislocated by
the arrival of [mining companies]”, the availability and popular
appeal of discourses related to a sense of place are critical for local
anti-mining resistance. The importance of territorial cohesion is
also stressed by Penman (2016), who finds in Mexico that larger
and already consolidated peasant communities (ejidos) were able
to deploy more effective means, counter pro-mining narratives,
and gain greater compensation from mining companies than
smaller and more fragmented communities. In the case of
Guatemala, Wayland and Kuniholm, (2016) show that racial
identity and the exacerbating effects of a civil war targeting
indigenous communities has led to greater group cohesion and
community-level mobilisation against resource extraction. A
broader argument is also made about the value of enrolling
cultural idioms as part of the register of resistance, especially as a
bridge between younger activists in search of a connection with
older community members, as suggest by Erb (2016) in the case of
conflict over mining in eastern Indonesia.
According to Escobar (2001) we are being witness to the clash of
two place-making processes; that produced by capital and global
forces, and the cultural construction of place through subaltern
strategies of localisation by communities and social movements.
Several authors explore these resistance-place-making processes;
from livelihood oriented projects with export oriented production
or eco-tourism, as in Intag, Ecuador (Bebbington et al., 2008), to the
recovery of farming traditions and communal land management of
the Diaguita in Chile (Urkidi, 2010). Also emphasising alternative
local governance structures, Parajuli (1996) proposes the term
‘ecological ethnicities’ where groups claiming regional autonomy
are identifying themselves with a distinct ecological region and a
rich ethnic history.
Kirsch (2001) carries out an interesting analysis of the
transformation of place for the Yonggom of Papua New Guinea.
Reflecting the significance of the disruptions associated with mine-
related pollution, remembrance of things past are no longer linked
to surroundings – where things happened – but rather to the
temporality of mining operations and impacts. As such, memories
linked to place-based attachment have, in that case, given way to
chronological narratives related to industrial activities (e.g. when
the mine opened or a certain area was polluted). This does not
mean the Yonggom lost their attachment to place. They embarked
on a process to “recover the concreteness of space [or place] that
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capitalism makes disappear” (Dissanayake and Wilson, 1996: 3
cited by Kirsch, 2001: 262). They strategically rescaled the
movement by forging alliances with activists operating at different
scales allowing the production and defence of locality (Escobar,
2001). Urkidi (2011: 575) through her analysis of the Marlin mine
struggle in Guatemala, points the link between place-based and
glocal strategies: “the community is not just the place of cultural
attachment and revival, but it symbolises a wide sector of the
Guatemalan population that has been oppressed by historical
injustices and racism. The defence of community is therefore also
the defence of a ‘broader community’, making horizontal and
vertical alliances feasible”.
3.2.4. Alliances
The capacity of communities to self-organise and build
alliances with extra-local actors play an important role in acquiring
knowledge, mobilising resources for action, and enabling resis-
tance at a diversity of scales (Keck and Sikkink, 1998; Urkidi, 2010;
Swyngedouw, 1997). As noted by Paredes (2016: 1), the ‘glocalisa-
tion’ of mining conflict involved “on one hand, the globalisation of
communities’ mobilisation against mining, and on the other, the
localisation and fragmentation of these protests domestically.” The
network analysis carried out with the mining conflicts of the EJ
Atlas database confirms the importance of inter and intra-scale
alliances for a successful strategy resistance and the important role
played by national and international NGOs (Özkaynak et al., 2015).
Networks and alliances can form at a very early stage of a mining
project, as in the opposition to the Esquel project in Argentina,
which saw the initial diffusion of information between local and
extra-local actors (such as experts) catalyse the reaction of
communities even before the project has started (Walter and
Martinez-Alier, 2010; Conde and Kallis, 2012). Alliances can also
’jump scale’ and help socially and politically marginalised local
communities to find international supporters.
Through these networks, information is exchanged and
discourses are forged, transformed and merged, shifting between
different scales. We now find local activists groups in the Pascua
Lama conflict speaking about climate change, glacier protection
and wider demands of participation and democracy, whilst global
activists defend the livelihoods of local communities (Urkidi,
2010). Similarly, the excellent analysis of Haarstad and Fløysand
(2007) of the Tambogrande conflict in Peru, showed how local
identity was re-scaled and merged with national identity through
the defence of lemons to cook ‘ceviche’ (a traditional dish) and
democratic and participatory discourses were used at the
international scale. Another example in the opposition to oil
extraction and coal mining is the slogan “leave the oil in the soil,
leave the coal in the hole” that is being used both at local and
national scales in Ecuador, Nigeria, South Africa as well as through
platforms like the Climate Action Network (Bond, 2008; Martinez
Alier et al., 2014). Alliances can help to generate an awareness
about the position of communities within the broader commodity
chain and political economy, allowing them to frame their plights
in terms of global demands for environmental justice, climate or
democratic rights. Such alliances and the narratives associating
individual mining projects with global consumption and pollution
trends, support the hypothesis of an emerging anti-capitalist and
non-Eurocentric struggle articulated with local place-based
demands (Conde, 2016).
Yet, it is not only information and narratives that are exchanged
through these alliances; the diffusion of strategies has been crucial
for the development of several resistance movements. According
to Özen and Özen's (2011) analysis in Turkey, both resistance
movements and the mining companies crucially learned from the
previous conflict what not to do. The excellent analysis carried out
by Walter and Urkidi (2015) of the spread of referendum (or
consultas) to reject mining projects in Latin America points to some
crucial actors and nodes in the creation of these alliances; a priest
arriving in Guatemala who had experienced the Tambogrande
consulta in Peru, regional networks like the Red Muqui in Peru,
documentaries like the one on Sipakapa in Guatemala or access to
the internet. In Argentina, Svampa and Antonelli (2009) link the
increasing resistance against mining projects with two “effects” of
two mining conflicts: the environmental impacts of Alumbrera
Mine causing the “Alumbrera effect” (i.e. greater environmental
awareness) and the successful local and regional territorial
networks of mobilisation and exchange in the Esquel case that
have been now replicated all over the country through the “Esquel
effect” (i.e. more effective mobilisation techniques).
Alliances can also have a decisive role in strengthening the
communities negotiating position; in Tintaya's mine conflict five
Espinar communities signed an agreement with BHP after a three-
year Mesa de Diálogo (dialogue table) negotiation. Despite the
renewed escalation of the conflict after 2011, Barton (2005) and De
Echave (2005) point to the importance of transnational advocacy
coalitions that empowered, trained and organised local communi-
ties. As such both the practices and goals of resistance can shift
over time, with practices involving for example more ’scientific’
evidence or legal arguments, and the goals shifting from
negotiated conciliation to outright rejection. In this regard,
government authorities and mining companies seeking to promote
extractive projects are often keen to see ’strategic alliances’ involve
or being led by the ’right kind’ of organisations and individuals, for
example those who will seek to advance ’constructive’ and ’fact-
based’ negotiations, rather than those taking more ’ideologically-
driven’ positions (McDonald and Young, 2012; Moroz et al., 2014).
This desire to influence the configuration of alliances around
communities, in turn, often translates into selective processes of
inclusion/exclusion, such as invitations to conferences and
dialogue processes, access to funding, legal status, and coverage
by corporate and official media (Richards, 2013). As Kirsch (2014:
3) argues, “[g]iven the efficacy of corporate social technologies in
co-opting and adapting the strategies and discourses of their
critics, social movements and NGOs must continually develop new
approaches to these problems”, but also, as Özen and Özen (2017)
suggest, find pre-existing narratives that will resonate with and
mobilise local communities against mining.
While much attention is often given to national or international
alliances, it is important to note that local level alliances can also be
decisive. In order to catalyse resistance and overcome political
marginalisation, every-day and informal networks play a crucial
role. These can be promoted by churches, NGOs, and student
organisations, what Bebbington (2007) defines as ‘social move-
ment organisations’. As Holden and Jacobson (2009) and
Bebbington et al. (2008) show, the church has been an important
ally for resistance movements in Latin America, having had a
decisive role in Guatemala and Peru.
3.2.5. Distrust
Distrust has emerged as one of the main factors that generate
opposition. There is frequent distrust towards the mining
company, but also towards the state as guarantor of environmental
standards and appropriate revenue distribution, with local elites
’capturing’ opportunities and instrumenting conflicts for their own
benefits, as well as external expertise and hard to understand
science-based findings (Bebbington and Bury, 2009; Le Billon,
2014; Conde, 2014). Although we focus here on the distrust felt by
the communities, distrust is a relational, multi-faceted and trans-
sectorial factor also involving the state and extractive industry,
including perceptions and actions of prior governments and
companies.
 M. Conde, P. Le Billon / The Extractive Industries and Society 4 (2017) 681–697
Walter and Martinez-Alier (2010), studying the Esquel conflict
in Argentina, show how a talk on cyanide use by the future supplier
of cyanide to the mine, motivated university experts in chemistry
to get involved and cast doubts about the quality and reliability of
the information presented. This was combined with mistrust
towards the government's Mining department due to the way the
information regarding the project was disseminated. In the
Tambogrande conflict in Peru, Muradian et al. (2003) point that
despite adopting similar technical language, the experts hired by
the companies and those working with civil society had different
value systems which in turn cast ’expert findings’ in different
lights, thus contributing to diverging views and distrust. A study by
the Centre for National Resource Governance in Zimbabwe of
mining-related conflicts points out that community distrust and
antagonism towards companies and government authorities are
frequently the result of “a crisis of expectation emanating from the
promises given by government when introducing a mining project
to a community”(CNRG, 2015: 28). In the same vein Horowitz
(2010: 625) specifically identifies trust as an important factor in
her studies of Kanak villagers’ response to a new nickel mine in
New Caledonia. She argues that trust was not determined by the
scientific validity of the information provided by the company but
by the affiliation of each villager to either the company or the
protest group that “stemmed from expectations of long-term social
relationships and economic benefits for themselves and for their
community, as well as feelings of empowerment”.
Dougherty and Olsen (2014) research in Guatemala observes
two main ’trust’ narratives, with opposite effects. On one hand,
what they term ’institutional trust’ – in authority, faraway
institutions, expertise – positively correlates with mining support,
and in part reflects low levels of self-efficacy and marginalisation
within the community (see Section 3.3.2). On the other hand,
‘relational trust’ – “exercised when individuals feel strongly bound
to friends, family, and neighbors with whom they share back-
grounds, experiences, and life-stations” – positively correlates
with views opposing mining (Dougherty and Olsen, 2014, 3).
The mining industry is also realising that in order to develop
lasting relations with local communities they have to build and
maintain the trust of communities (Barton, 2005; Commdev, 2008;
Horowitz, 2010; ICMM, 2009; Labda, 2011; Zandvliet and
Anderson, 2009). Moffat and Zhang's (2014: 68) analysis of two
online surveys carried out with communities in an Australian
mining region show that “when community members reported
feeling heard, listened to, and that the company would act on their
concerns, their trust in the company was enhanced.” They also note
that, in these cases, trust of a company by a local community seems
to reflect the quality of contact, rather than the quantity; and that
trust towards a company and acceptance of a mining project are
seriously undermined when impacts are worse than what the
community expected – often a reflection of the miscommunication
or misrepresentation of risks by companies and government
authorities (Hilson, 2002).
3.2.6. Community driven participation
Many local communities aspire to determine what happens on
their land, wanting to receive visibility and recognition of their
rights, they react to a lack of participation or representation in
decision-processes over resource extraction projects, and more
generally about a lack of rights to effectively decide their own
’development path’. Participation can be viewed from three
perspectives: community driven participation, corporate driven
participation (Section 3.3.3), and state driven participation
(Section 3.4.5).
For authors seeking to follow communities’ perspectives,
participation entails not a dialogue with the mine, but communi-
ties’ right to decide over their own practices such as
689
communitarian access to land, organic agriculture production or
democratic decision making processes (Escobar, 2001; Martinez
Alier, 2003; Helwege, 2015). In the study of the Guatemalan Marlin
mine conflict, Urkidi (2011) shows how communities linked local
demands against water depletion and contamination with the
defence of their Mayan traditions and culture claiming “legal
participation rights and the democratisation of decision-making
processes”. This cultural defence was not connected to a specific
place but to the historical grievances suffered by their communi-
ties and culture.
Much of the view on community driven participation is
informed by the Environmental Justice (EJ) paradigm where
participation is directly linked with recognition and can impede
justice as much as “distributive inequities” do (Fraser, 1998: 26).
Linking with the political marginalisation factor, Schlosberg (2007:
28) states that “it is not just that political and cultural institutions
create conditions that hamper equity and recognition, but that
both distributive inequity and misrecognition hamper real
participation in political and cultural institutions”. In their study
of two gold mining conflicts in Latin America, Urkidi and Walter
(2011) observe that demands of participation and recognition from
local communities appear even before distributional demands.
This has not always been the case; in the emergence of the
environmental justice discourse in the US, communities primarily
demanded an end to the social and economic policies that
subjected excluded and poor communities to environmental
hazards. However, Bullard (1990: 101) also notes that “exclusion-
ary and restrictive practices that limit participation of African
Americans and other people of colour in decision-making boards,
commissions, regulatory bodies, and management staff are all
forms of environmental racism.” In EJ literature, participation is
linked to access to fair and equitable institutional processes
managed by the State; it ties together the understanding of unjust
distribution patterns with the recognition of rights and needs of
local communities (Cole and Foster, 2001; Schlosberg, 2007).
Demands stem from the exclusion and marginalisation from
official decision-making processes, with activists also pointing
more broadly to forces such as class, caste, ethnicity and gender as
preventing individuals from fully participating in decisions that
affect their lives (Urkidi and Walter, 2011).
The emergence of consultas or referendums as a strategy to
reject mining projects in Latin America in the 2000s responded in
part to “concerns related to the defence of livelihood, cultural
recognition, territorial control, participation and self-determina-
tion” (Walter and Urkidi, 2015: 11) and increasing repression and
criminalisation of affected communities by government authori-
ties (Laplante and Nolin, 2014; Walter and Urkidi, 2015). The first
consulta that took place in 2002 in Tambogrande, Peru, emerged as
the Peruvian government issued measures to limit public
participation rights and negotiation attempts where failing
(Haarstad and Fløysand, 2007; Bebbington, 2012a). Since then
more than 74 consultas have been carried in six different countries
with communities rejecting extractive projects (Duthie, 2012;
Walter and Urkidi, 2015). According to Walter and Urkidi (2015),
these consultas entail the construction of a new scale of regulation,
whereby local communities defend the local as the legitimate scale
of decision-making on whether a project is to go forward or not. As
such, the proliferation of consultas can be seen as a ’grass-roots’
democratic process of implementing Free Prior and Informed
Consent (McGee, 2009; see also Section 3.4.5).
3.3. Company-related factors
Companies have a major influence with regard to community
resistance as they initiate and manage projects and related
activities, often working within a hybrid governance system
690 M. Conde, P. Le Billon / The Extractive Industries and Society 4 (2017) 681–697
involving host country regulations and their own corporate
guidelines. While companies generally use corporate social
responsibility programs and compensation schemes to prevent
or reduce resistance by communities, these programs can backfire
when poorly designed and implemented. Corporate driven
community participation can also fail to address the communities’
motivations and incentives for resistance; especially if companies
mostly see such participation as an ‘education’ exercise for
communities, or as a way to ‘negotiate’ a rapid implementation
of the project.
3.3.1. Corporate social responsibility (CSR)
In order to build trust and in response to the increasing number
of community conflicts, and their potentially high costs (Franks
et al., 2014), companies have been developing a set of policies and
strategies that can be collectively encapsulated under the
corporate social responsibility (CSR) umbrella. These programs
range from the use of cleaner technologies, improved communi-
cation strategies (both with communities through for example
improved grievance mechanisms, and externally with the publi-
cation of regular corporate CSR information), as well as better
distribution of benefits to local communities through development
projects (OFaircheallaigh and Ali, 2008; Himley, 2013; Jenkins,
2004; Yakovleva, 2005). The myriad of publications on how to
improve community-company relations recommend meaningful
community participation (Barton, 2005; Commdev, 2008; Hor-
owitz, 2010; Labda, 2011; Moffat and Zhang, 2014; Zandvliet and
Anderson, 2009), capacity building (Bamat et al., 2011; Boelens
et al., 2010; De Echave et al., 2009; O’Faircheallaigh, 2013;
Schilling-Vacaflor, 2012; Vieyra et al., 2014) and third party
involvement for conflict resolution (Bamat et al., 2011; Padilla
et al., 2008). Rogge (1996) shows how a legal educational program
for communities in Ecuador's Oriente oil-rich region increased
their confidence and awareness of their rights. Also widely
recommended is the use of social community mapping allowing
for the identification of all stakeholders, environmental services
and other cultural and religious activities (Herbertson et al., 2009;
ICMM, 2013; O’Faircheallaigh and Corbett, 2005).
Criticisms to CSR initiatives however abound; they range from
their voluntary and non-enforceable nature (Fulmer et al., 2008),
the lack of representation of all members of the community
leading to internal community conflicts (Jenkins and Yakovleva,
2006; Newell, 2005) and the opacity of the agreements achieved
(Sosa and Keenan, 2001). Several studies of CSR programs for
mining projects in Guatemala (Dougherty and Olsen, 2014),
Ecuador (Warnaars, 2012), Ghana (Hilson and Yakovleva, 2007)
and Kenya (Abuya, 2016) suggest that programs are in many
occasions not well designed, increase rather than alleviate the
communities’ hardship, and can trigger conflicts when CSR
projects are delayed or not implemented. Gilberthorpe and Banks
(2012) show how CSR weaknesses stem from the companies’
emphasis on meeting global ‘performance standards’ instead of
aligning their programs to the needs of each social context
advocating for the need to have greater community engagement.
Indeed one of the major criticisms of CSR is the lack of meaningful
community participation (Bebbington et al., 2008; Emel et al.,
2012; Ruwhiu et al., 2016, see Section 3.6.1 too). As shown in the
Tintaya mine in Peru (Anguelovski, 2011) or the Lihir mine in Papua
New Guinea, protests and mobilisations occur each time the
community has a demand or wants to enter in dialogue with the
mine. Mining companies can manage these conflictive situations
through grievance mechanisms that should be accessible to all,
culturally appropriate and accountable (ICMM, 2009). However in
practice, according to Kemp et al. (2011) review of 12 companies’
grievance mechanisms, there had been negligible attempts to alter
power imbalances between companies and communities, and only
partial attempts to facilitate dialogue. Lack of effective responses to
complaints is also due to the lack of leverage and communication
between the community-relations staff and other departments
(legal, operations, environment) (Kemp and Owen, 2013).
The context in which CSR programs are developed; with poorly
designed and implemented CSR activities potentially increasing
frustrations and distrust, can constitute a source of further
resistance, especially when they follow confrontational events
during which a company had lost its legitimacy (Warnaars, 2012).
With the ever-increasing exchange of information across net-
works and alliances, communities are frequently questioning the
merits of the extractive ‘development’ model, their lack of
participation, and the CSR and compensation schemes brought by
the mining companies.
3.3.2. Compensation
Conflicts over compensation due to land or resource losses are
common claims behind contestation to mining. Arellano-Yanguas
(2011) analysis of Peru's mining conflicts shows that most
originate due to “people's sense of grievance regarding previous
land transfer agreements”. Communities demand the “fulfilment
of promises” by the mining company, as well as a greater share of
the profits as compensation for local resources and livelihood loss
(Barrantes, 2005). This is the case too of the Yonggom in Papua
New Guinea, who in the court case against BHP were being made to
choose between ‘development’ and the ‘environment’. Given their
dependency on the mine after years of exploitation and pollution,
they were demanding compensation for environmental damages
as well the economic benefits of keeping the mine open (Kirsch,
2007). In New Caledonia, inadequate compensation was also one of
the main motives for resistance to mining according to Ali and
Grewal (2006).
In many occasions, however, communities do not want to be
compensated. Linking with the initial factor of environmental
impacts, Avcı et al. (2010) analysis of opposition to the Mount Ida
mine in Turkey show that 81% of them rejected the compensation
schemes offered due to concerns about environmental risks and
lack of trust in state institutions and technology. Moreover,
compensation largely depends on the accounting of the economic
benefits a piece of land can generate. This economic valuation
generally disregards the variety of valuation languages communi-
ties can posses. For the Dongria Konhd, the Nyamgiri hills Vedanta
wants to mine are sacred; the resting place of the god Niyam Rajah.
The incommensurability of values is further aggravated by the fact
that “poor sell cheap so that the ‘lost’ opportunity cost is greater for
foreign tourists who can ‘bid higher’ for forest services, in the
process reproducing unequal access to public goods” (Temper and
Martinez-Alier, 2013: 82).
3.3.3. Corporate driven participation
Mining companies view participation as part of the processes
through which the community engages in negotiations with
them. Beyond regulatory requirement for community participa-
tion, or at least ’consultation’, corporate-driven participation is
also motivated to obtain a ’social license to operate’ from the
community (Owen and Kemp, 2013). In both cases, this is about
reducing the risks associated with inserting a corporate project
into a particular place through the enrolment of the ’community’
as a legal entity to be consulted or as a social entity to be
convinced. Literature on industry recommendations suggest
transparent dialogues as well as early stage and genuine
involvement of local communities in decision making processes
so they can decide which development programs they want to
pursue – for example through company sponsored cattle or
 M. Conde, P. Le Billon / The Extractive Industries and Society 4 (2017) 681–697
agriculture projects (Banks, 2013; Caballero-Anthony, 2013;
SUNPFII, 2008; Sawyer and Gomez, 2008). Criticisms related to
a lack of genuine community participation abound; Baker and
McLelland (2003) expose the poor integration of First Nation
people in the decision-making process of the environmental
assessments carried out in all three cases analysed. Similarly,
O’Faircheallaigh and Corbett's (2005) analysis of 45 negotiated
agreements with indigenous communities in Australia finds that
in most cases their contribution is non-existent and only in a
quarter of the agreements the industry is required to address the
proposals of the Aboriginal landowners. One of the main reasons
for this poor participation is the lack of bargaining power
communities have prior to the start of the negotiations, notably in
relation to the various levels of control over land and the different
powers that these legally provide for communities to negotiate, as
seen in Australia and Canada (O’Faircheallaigh, 2008). On a
similar vein, Szablowski (2002) exposes the unequal power
relations in the World Bank's participatory involuntary resettle-
ment policy with expert-led consultations and minimal input
from local communities.
3.4. State related factors
States have a critical role with regard to community resistance,
but this role is often articulated around the relative absence of the
state as a representative of affected communities and as
environmental steward, and its selective presence as the ’sover-
eign’ authority over resources and public enforcer of corporate
entitlements. As discussed below, the extractivist development
models and pro-industry policies promoted can go in hand with
the criminalisation of dissent, corrupt behaviours, and inadequate
planning and implementation. State-driven community participa-
tion that is not based on Free Prior and Informed Consent
principles can increase community distrust and give further
ground for resistance.
3.4.1. Pro-industry state policies
The role of the state in the formation of resistance has
traditionally been linked to its role as custodian (and de facto
owner) of subterranean resources, as attractor of investment for
resource extraction through policies of economic liberalisation, as
well as a decision-maker, facilitator, and enforcer of regulatory
processes (Bridge, 2004; Campbell, 2009). Yet, the state has
generally sided with the industry, and often played a role in
increasing resistance. The multiple dimensions and variegated
effects of the state and political apparatus on resistance – from the
relations between resistance and electoral cycles, the fairness and
integrity of the bureaucracy and judiciary, or in response to the
intensity of state repression – deserve close attention (Martin and
Pierce, 2013).
Extractivist logics and policies often derive from the legacies
of predatory colonial political economies and growth-driven
developmental models (Engels and Dietz, 2017). Renewed and
transformed through the neoliberalisation of many economies
in the early 1990s, extractivism drastically accelerated with the
rise of Asian-led demand and commodity prices at the turn of
the new millennium. Even left wing and indigenous-based
governments seeking alternative developmental models have
found it hard to achieve resource nationalism (Kohl and
Farthing, 2012), let alone escape extractivism, giving way to
’neo-extractivist’ approaches selectively entrenching mining
activities (Burchardt and Dietz, 2014; Villalba-Eguiluz and
Etxano, 2017). Extractivist rationales, in turn, have often
dispossessed local communities of their livelihoods, including
at times small-scale mining, and increased the likelihood of
691
resistance (Arsel et al., 2016; Vélez-Torres, 2014). Studies on
Peru, for example, suggest a link between post-structural
adjustment extractive policies, community resistance and social
conflicts. Taking place within the context of greater but
contentious and highly fragmented democratisation that
followed the end of the civil war and fall of the Fujimori
regime in the late 1990s, the interaction of political and fiscal
decentralisation schemes with an extractive investment boom
resulted in conflicts between central authorities, local political
competitors, and communities (Arce, 2014; Arellano-Yanguas,
2010, 2011).
3.4.2. Criminalisation of dissent
Both progressive and conservative governments have not only
generally demonstrated a pro-industry bias, but have also shown a
growing intolerance to social resistance against extractive projects
through increasing use of repressive measures, the criminalisation
of protest and the prosecution of leaders in resistance movements
(Bebbington and Bebbington, 2011; Martinez Alier et al., 2014). The
Latin American Observatory of mining conflicts (OCMAL, 2011)
analyzes two regional processes of criminalisation occurring in
Andean countries (Chile, Brazil, Argentina, and Bolivia) and
central-American (Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador) targeting
not only local leaders and authorities but also technical assessors
and external organisations. Focusing on the case of Honduras,
Middeldorp et al. (2016) demonstrate that the closing of
progressive legal reforms at the national level following a coup
in 2009 has relocated opposition to mining down at the
community level, with brutal consequences for community
activists facing a hardening of repression. Andreucci and Radhuber
(2015) show in their analysis of Evo Morales’ government in Bolivia
how the government co-opted and demobilised the main peasants’
union confederation and two of the largest indigenous organ-
isations, favouring instead mining cooperatives that support an
extractivist model. This type of responses and the tense (but real)
alliance between the state and the mining companies cause in
many occasions rent seeking behaviours and corruption.
3.4.3. Rent seeking behaviour and corruption
The effect of the state towards greater resistance is exacerbated
when bureaucrats and politicians have vested interests in
extractive projects, either directly through equity shares or
indirectly through electoral funding and bribing (CNRG, 2015).
More generally, resource wealth can motivate, entrench and
reward corrupt practices, notably because of the large scale of
revenues involved, the long-term impacts of contractual arrange-
ments, and the discretionary power of government officials. In
turn, corrupt practices undermine revenue collection through
embezzlement and the awarding of unfair contracts biased
towards corporate interests, as well as facilitating illegal exploita-
tion and tax evasion (Kolstad and Soreide, 2009; Le Billon, 2011).
Corrupt earnings can insulate ruling elites from the demands of
society, while government tolerance for corrupt practices can
undermine their legitimacy, thereby reducing accountability and
trust (Cheng and Zaum, 2013; Le Billon, 2014). From this
perspective, corruption undermines government capacity and
effectiveness, resulting in the suboptimal delivery of public goods
and the erosion of ’institutional trust’. Finally, corruption can
exacerbate socio-economic inequalities, environmental impacts,
and political tensions; a major concern in countries where legacies
of civil war and authoritarianism deepen a vicious circle of public
distrust, resistance, and repression (Le Billon et al., 2016).
3.4.4. Inadequate planning and implementation
Several authors contend that resource rents and corruption in
extractive economies are not linked with persistent poverty or low
692 M. Conde, P. Le Billon / The Extractive Industries and Society 4 (2017) 681–697
economic growth, arguing instead these problems are related to
political and policy decisions in the extractive sector (Lay et al.,
2008; Robinson et al., 2006). Whilst Norway has been successful in
using revenues for social democratic benefits other countries like
Bolivia, with a weak administrative capacity, has limited ability to
invest in ways that will promote diversified development (Kohl
and Farthing, 2012). In Peru the investigation carried out by The
Ombudsman to explain the increased number of extractive
conflicts in the country also highlighted the poor performance
of the state. They pointed at the weak environmental regulations
(e.g. low environmental standards) and enforcement, as well as
poor participation mechanisms (e.g. with the reduction of the time
frame to present allegations to the EIAs) (Defensoría del Pueblo de
Perú, 2007). At the local level, Arellano-Yanguas’ (2011) analysis of
the distribution of the ‘canon minero’ (mining revenues) exposed
the lack of capacity of local governments for the inefficient
allocation of resources that generated frustrations and local
conflicts.
The resistance of Artisanal and Small-scale miners, associated
with a risk of livelihood loss and displacement, is generally related
to governments’ planning failures. Many workers were pushed into
the informal gold mining sector as a result of loss of jobs and
increasing poverty associated in part with the Structural Adjust-
ment Plans of the 1990s (Hilson and Potter, 2005). In sub-Saharan
Africa and parts of Latin America, rigid and often inadequate ASM
policies, often combined with corruption and lack of enforcement,
have discouraged many artisanal and small-scale miners from
pursuing legalisation and formalisation, thereby aggravating
inequalities and insecurity for miners (Fisher, 2007; Teschner,
2012; Hilson and McQuilken, 2015; Vélez-Torres, 2014).
3.4.5. State-driven participation
The state has a major role to play in community participation,
notably through ensuring that communities are adequately
informed and consulted, and that their perspectives and decisions
are duly taken into account by companies. In practice, the
regulations and institutions guaranteeing the effective participa-
tion of communities are frequently inadequate and below the
standard of Free Prior and Informed Consent (FPIC). FPIC was
initially thought to be only a duty of the state because it derived
from the ratification of the UN Declaration on the Rights of
Indigenous Peoples and the International Labour Organisation
Convention 169 calling for states to ensure consent from
indigenous communities. FPIC has arisen globally as one of the
Fig. 2. Simplified classification of factors as hinders or drivers of resistance.
most important models to ensure community involvement in
decision-making processes of extractive projects, yet communities
claim this is often ignored or misapplied. There is no definition of
what FPIC means or what the process must entail, as well as no
clarity on what constitutes “consent”, not necessarily implying the
binding power of community decision-making (Owen and Kemp,
2014: 92; Goodland, 2004; Jahncke Benavente and Meza, 2010;
Rodriguez Garavito et al., 2010). In fact, the ‘consulta previa’ usually
promoted by governments does not entail the need to gain consent
from affected communities (Rodriguez Garavito et al., 2010).
Procedurally, the application of FPIC in the Philippines
presented problems ranging from insufficient information and
education on the FPIC process itself, to recognition of false leaders,
bribery and coercion (Oxfam America, 2013). Drawing from
experience in mining projects in Peru, Schilling-Vacaflor and
Flemmer (2013) point to the importance of the impartiality of the
institution in charge of the design and implementation of the
consultation process, and the need to reduce power asymmetries
through the improvement of negotiation capacities. In this regard,
there is a tension between the promotion of these principles
through their adoption by industry as a form of corporate social
responsibility, and the need to ensure that they remain enshrined
in law and enforced by the state (Rodhouse and Vanclay, 2016). For
example, the ICMM and international financial institutions are
pressuring the industry to implement a watered-down version
known as “free, prior and informed consultation” leading to “broad
community support” (WB, 2005, emphasis added). This has been
heavily criticised by organisations like the World Resources
Institute (WRI, 2007), arguing that these initiatives may preempt
legal adoption of FPIC, and that consultations failing to resolve a
community's reason for opposition or achieve consent will provide
little assurance against potentially costly and disruptive conflicts.
Moreover, such watered-down participation processes will negate
the most important demands of these communities: to have a say
in the development path they want to follow.
4. Conclusions
Whilst some of the factors identified are hinders or drivers of
resistance, some of the factors can be both, depending on context
and how they are played out by actors in a mining conflict (see
Fig. 2).
Dependency towards extractive companies and our reading of
political marginalisation stand as hinders of resistance. The
 M. Conde, P. Le Billon / The Extractive Industries and Society 4 (2017) 681–697
dependency of workers and mining towns whose livelihoods
depend on the mining company to subsist point not only to less
likelihood of resistance but also even union action to keep the
company afloat even when the corporations have no more interest
in keeping it open. The term marginalisation can be elusive. Poor
communities economically marginalised can resist a project if they
lack alternatives to livelihoods that could be threatened by the
project – or welcome it if they have no alternative livelihood.
Political and social marginalisation – which is closer to a sense of
isolation from the mainstream of society – is less examined in the
literature but still prevalent in many of the communities facing a
new mining project; meaning they lack an understanding of what
the project will entail as well as the capacity to engage or
participate in the formation of discourses of resistance. Although
both types of marginalisations tend to be linked together, the
likelihood of conflict will depend on how each variable outplays in
the communities affected (e.g. the degree of historical political and
social marginalisation vs. the degree of livelihood dependence and
alternatives).
The geography of the project, including the characteristics of
the deposits and commodity type, define in part the type of mining
and impacts caused to the environment and to communities and
can have a mixed effect on resistance. Mining in the unpopulated
desert of Namibia, for example, is likely to cause less resistance
than mining in the headwaters of several river basins in the
populated area of Cajamarca, Peru. This extreme example high-
lights the importance of population density and the geo-
hydrological structure of a region. Communities in remote regions
can act more independently from the state, choosing either to
negotiate directly with the mining company to accrue most of the
benefits at local level (like the Lihirians in Papua New Guinea) or to
reject a mining project (like the Intag community in Ecuador) due
to the strong attachment to land and livelihood dependence
indigenous and local communities can have in these regions. The
resource type and extraction process can also determine if the
impacts are felt by the community, which in turn can react to
denounce them and resist the mining project. Place is also in this
blurry area; whereas some communities’ place-making processes
can lead to emotional and cultural attachment to mining
landscapes favouring present and future mining developments,
other communities enact place through everyday cultural and
livelihood practices and/or through a process of defense of place
and resistance to a mining project. These place-making processes
can also be localised at different scales through cross-scalar
alliances.
Whilst external organisations can have a crucial role as brokers
of community-company agreements, alliances and networks can
also allow communities to share and co-produce new knowledge,
strategies and narratives that combine local placed-demands with
demands of rights, including indigenous rights, territorial rights,
human rights, ancestral rights, rights to live in a clean environ-
ment. Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) programs can also
have this opposite effect. If started early with good communication
channels with the community they can forestall resistance.
However, when poorly designed or implemented, resistance can
emerge or increase at later stages of the project, especially when
communication channels fail, communities are not obtaining what
they thought they negotiated for (e.g. ’education’ rather than
simply a school building without teacher) or the impacts of the
project start to be felt or are greater than expected. Moreover, the
spread of CSR critiques might also increase the likelihood of
resistance as communities are becoming more aware of the faults
of this corporate strategy, as well as the socio-environmental
impacts mining can entail.
Socio-environmental impacts are clear drivers of resistance;
many projects are being resisted before they start because
693
communities have learnt – through networks and alliances – of
the impacts they cause to their livelihoods. Once the project has
started however, resistance is likely to start if impacts are felt,
causing distrust in the company's capacity to operate without
impacting their livelihoods. There is not only frequent distrust in
the companies’ remedial actions and the scientific knowledge
manufactured to justify their extractive activities, but also in the
CSR programs and ‘development projects’ they promote. Given the
close ties between the state and the mining companies – and
increasing repression and criminalisation of resistance – there is
also distrust in the state as a guarantor of environmental
protection and adequate management and distribution of rev-
enues. Economic marginalisation coupled with lack of alternative
livelihoods if these are affected by a mining project further
exacerbates the likelihood of conflict. There is also a lack of
effective channels for community participation on important
decisions regarding their own development path. Falling under the
environmental justice paradigm, communities want to have a say
in their own future and use their own local decision making
mechanisms. This, however, contrasts with the cursory and
inconsequential participatory processes still frequently used by
mining companies and governments. Resistance, from this
perspective, closely relate to the crucial right of communities to
decide, either through their own decision mechanism such as
consultas or through a more formalised FPIC process, if an
extractive project is to go forward or not.
Better understanding community-level resistance to mining
could benefit from additional research. First, more studies are
needed on the internal perspectives of government authorities and
mining companies on resistance, and the specific roles played by
various actors within government and corporations (see Welker,
2014). This, in turn requires greater access to often confidential
information and ’embedded’ research within government agen-
cies, risk consultancies, and mining companies. Second, the
increasing criminalisation of dissent by the state and the
repression of resistance by mining companies deserve more
attention as they influence heavily on the evolution of resistance
movements. Third, there remains a limited knowledge of the
micro-politics and psychological dimensions of conflict escalation,
which could draw on literature and methodological approaches
from anthropology, sociology, psychology and political sciences.
Using similar methodologies, there could be more research on the
transformative process of communities engaged in resistance that
aim to achieve alternatives to current extractivist-based develop-
ment models. Forth, more comparative work is needed, which
could combine a more systematised review of existing cases, a
medium-N comparative case studies approach based on the
relative importance of well-defined factors and processes, and a
large-N statistical analysis operationalising a sufficient number of
variables.
This analysis of resistance likelihood factors is not intended to
find a path of least resistance but to aid in a better understanding of
the complex and intertwined reasons why communities resist, and
the roles played by communities, companies, states and project
characteristics in this resistance. Clarifying the concept of ‘consent’
in FPIC and company-led processes, and understanding the
political marginalisation of some communities or the will to
participate in decision-making processes regarding their own
future, could help ensure fair and efficient local consent processes
or their appropriateness. Identifying strong attachments to place
and reliance on the land could help inform the creation of ’no-go’
areas for mining projects, to the mutual benefit of companies,
communities, and government authorities likely to be negatively
affected by socio-environmental impacts and costly deadlocks.
694 M. Conde, P. Le Billon / The Extractive Industries and Society 4 (2017) 681–697
Acknowledgements
Marta Conde wishes to thank Giorgos Kallis for providing the
opportunity and the seminal idea to present an early version of this
article at the SOAS workshop ’Political ecologies of resource and
rent extraction’ that took place the 30th of November 2015. I also
want to thank Joan Martinez Alier and Mariana Walter for their
support and helpful comments. We also wish to thank John Gamu
for his research assistance. This research was supported by the
project CSO2010 21979 of the Spanish Ministry and the Canadian
International Resources and Development Institute (CIRDI).
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